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[candiedchoso]

HEAVY METAL LOVER (SG)

Synopsis: You're childhood best friends with Satoru Gojo, who you've been avoiding ever since he got into a motorcycle accident. When your mutual friends force you to go to his birthday party, feelings arise, and clothes come off!

Pairing: Gojo x Reader

Content (MDNI): Biker!gojo, Scar!jo, childhood friends to lovers, gojo did almost die in a motorcycle accident, physical rehab, reader mentions being afraid to see gojo's lifeless body, but he's not dead, gojo is battered up (scar!jo), pwp if you squint for the first five hundred words, body worship, they're both pervs hk, p worshiping, p slapping, slight marathon if you also squint, idiots in love, filthy and i mean filthy dirty talk, fingering, creampies, man-handling...i think that's it

Word count: 10.2k...i got carried away. sue me.

A/N: I haven't published fan fiction in YEARS, mind you, but this one TikTok that talked about Scar!Jo being Biker!Jo, after an accident, and i just had to write it.

It was rare for you to hate anything. It was even rarer for you to hate anything related to your friends.  You strongly disliked the way Toji would kick his feet up on your coffee table whenever he was over. You were agitated by how nitpicky Geto was whenever everyone went out to eat. You were irritated by the loud scream Yuji and Choso let out after they splashed you with water at Nanami’s last summer party. 

You hated Gojo’s motorcycle. You downright despised the unnecessarily loud, clunky, piece of metal death machine that Gojo so happened to still proudly (stupidly) love. Your dislike for that motorcycle really started when he first showed up to your place at nine at night to pick you up for Shoko’s thirtieth birthday party. You walked for fifteen minutes out of the neighborhood before Gojo finally convinced you to get on, and you absolutely despised it. You especially detested the way your legs wobbled, both feeling so unsteady because of the motorcycle, and also from having to grip Gojo so hard that his cologne still hadn’t fully detached from your mind.

However, the biggest reason you hated that motorcycle was that it almost cost you your best friend. It’s been months since you got that call from Geto telling you Gojo was in the hospital because of a motorcycle accident. Apparently, it was pretty bad; he had been unconscious from the amount of blood he lost. Surgery was inevitable if he survived, and by Shoko’s words, it was a miracle that he did. Now every time you see a motorcycle, a pit of disgust builds inside of you, and it takes every part of your rational mind not to bash the thing apart outside of a random store. So, as is normally the case, you silently seethe throughout the day until it’s been so long you just get over it, though a motorcycle wasn’t always necessary for that to happen.

“So are we going to talk about it?” Shoko’s words confuse the hell out of you. It must be obvious the way she sighs, and Geto laughs without looking up from his phone, probably texting another girl. “Are you going to continue to sit there and pretend like you don’t know what I’m talking about?”

“So, I actually have no idea what you’re talking about?” Another bold-faced lie to two of the people you care about the most.

“Oh, c’mon, Y/N. Next week, not ringing any bells for you?” You retrace the days until you’re hit with an upcoming December 7th. Now Suguru's smugness makes sense. Instead of admitting that you know what they’re talking about, you slump back into the couch and pick the next best option— playing dumb.

“Hmmm, nope. Nothing’s coming up.” That finally pulls Geto away from his phone, and Shoko puts her unlit cigarette down, to just deadpan. Their stares linger long enough for you to finally give in with a sigh. You couldn’t ignore his existence forever. “Yeah, I know.”

“We’re throwing something for him. You should be there.” That uncomfortable pit in your stomach opened up again. It had been months since you last saw Gojo. You didn’t even see him when he was in the hospital; you couldn’t bring yourself to. Seeing him all managed up, tubes sticking out of him, face uncharacteristically unresponsive to you made you nauseous, but not seeing him all that time made seeing him now harder.

“I don’t think either of us wants to see each other, or else we would have by now.”

“You don’t want to see him for some reason, but he wants to see you.” Suguru’s words hit the dead center of your armor, stinging you a little.

“He asks about you all the time,” Shoko adds, another stinging sensation.

“It’s honestly starting to get annoying.” You can’t help but laugh at Geto’s words. If anyone was being forced to put up with Satoru, it’s Suguru. They’d been best friends for what felt like a lifetime. You’d know, you and Satoru had been friends for an actual lifetime. You remember when Suguru Geto first became friends with Satoru, after all, Satoru practically forced you two to get along. You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t missed your shared obnoxious best friend. 

You’d actually be doing more than lying, whatever is worse than lying. That's what you’d be doing if you said there wasn’t a Satoru-sized hole in your life. 

Anyone in their right mind would miss their childhood best friend. Especially if they beat the odds against dying, but that feeling of seeing Gojo— stupidly walking around, talking, and somehow taking all the space when doing so, laughing loudly with no regard for volume—felt wrong. All you could imagine is his lifeless body on the operating table, and a bunch of words you wished you had said hanging on your lips. If you’re being honest, that’s the reason you won’t see him. You were too much of a coward to admit you were madly in love with your best friend, and after surviving, you don’t think you could hide it from him anymore.

If he didn’t feel the same, it might kill you on the spot. To know that the person you loved more than anything got the chance to live again, and you can’t be there because of something as potentially one-sided as feelings, was too much. The lump in your throat builds, and you’re blinking back tears, realizing the two other people in the room were watching you struggle.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea. He’s probably mad that I haven’t seen him, and I don’t blame him. Why would he even want me there?” Shoko sighs and turns around with a simple "whatever," but Suguru keeps his eyes on you, unmoved by your words.

“This is his first birthday after almost dying, and all he wants is to see you. I’m not saying you have to stay long, but…” His phone vibrates in his lap, a loud buzz filling the room and cutting him off, “…give the guy a proper goodbye if you’re set on not seeing him anymore. He deserves it.” With that, he hops up off the couch and answers whoever is on the other side of the phone.

You hate Suguru Geto so much. You hate how good he is at reading people and getting under their skin without all the information. However, you’re sure that he knows that you’re head over heels for his best friend. Which makes you standing inside of Satoru’s house dressed up, and almost about to pass out, even more sinister on his part. Shoko had warned you it was a surprise party, but you didn’t think sitting in Satoru’s place without him would make you feel so nauseated.

 It was almost the same. The same art that you put up on his living walls still held in place, the couches you fell asleep on way too many times to count, even the busted KitchenAid mixer that Toji had gotten (stolen) from his ex (situationship) still sat on the polished marble counter—a perfect capsule of time, unmoved by the months of change in Satoru’s life.

You wondered if he had stayed the same?

“Nanami just texted me! Everyone in position!” 

For those few minutes of you hiding alongside Suguru and Shoko, you felt the anxiety at its peak. Palms sweating profusely, heart about to break your ribcage, breathing rapid enough that it makes Shoko pull you towards her. Calming you down slightly enough to force a smile on your face when the lights come back on and scream surprise. For a moment, you forgot that you hadn’t seen your best friend in months until your eyes looked past his familiar white hair. His ghostly pale skin is covered in deep beige scars. They litter his body, one after the other, past his black top, and you assume the rest of his body.

That accident was written all over him. Seeing him didn’t make you as sad as you expected. It made you angry, angry at yourself for making him go through this change by himself. That anger almost completely takes you over before your eyes bounce to his— the same blue eyes that always make your breath catch. Gojo could never hide what he was thinking. The look of utter shock caught in his eyes pointed directly at you. He looked like he saw a ghost, and just as you were getting ready to say something, Haibara moved forward with his specially decorated birthday hat.

The party moved on as normal, or as normal as a party could while you’re actively dodging the host. Especially, after he stared you down whenever the group sang Happy Birthday. You managed to avoid the birthday boy at his own party. The getaway plan was even better. You’d go to the garage to grab another case of beers for everyone before saying goodbye. Fortunately for you, no one was nearby to see you sneak into the dark room. Clumsily, you look around trying to find the switch, praying you don’t accidentally open the garage door, before finding it.

Instead of your sweet ticket out of the party, you’re met with a motorcycle. Satoru’s motorcycle, specifically. In absolute pristine perfect condition. Something about seeing the motorcycle made you livid. Why the hell would he keep something like that around?

“If you were planning on never speaking to me again, I highly recommend not coming to my birthday party at my house.”

The words immediately freeze your anger into fear. Your heart drops to your feet when you turn to be met with a clearly very pissed-off Gojo. Arms crossed his broad chest, making him only look wider. Unlike most other people, Satoru's eyes get brighter when he’s angry, pissed, or irritated. Right now, two piercings, cold blue eyes stared down at you, locking you in place. You scramble for words to say, looking around for anything that could help you before you see it again, and your anger comes back.

“You still have the motorcycle?” The words come out with more bite than you mean, but right now, you really want to scream at him for being so reckless. He scoffs before laughing, almost maniacally.

“Are you kidding right now? You avoid me for months, and the first thing you have to say is some smart remark about the motorcycle? Seriously Y/N? No, how are you? No, are you okay? No, I’m sorry that I ghosted my childhood best friend during the hardest part of his life?!”

He’s right. You know he’s right. Anyone in their right mind would’ve cussed out. Screamed in your face, kicked you out of their home, and told you never to see them again. Yeah, that stupid motorcycle pissed you off, but he’s more right now.

“Gojo…”

“No! I’m not done.” He closes the door behind him. The music of the party muffled, leaving only you two truly in the moment. “You didn’t call. You didn’t text me. You didn’t let me know if you were okay. I’ve been up for months trying to get as much information about you as possible without crossing the random wall you put between us, Y/N.” He was beyond angry; he was livid. 

“Gojo-“

“Do you know how awful it feels to have to learn how to walk again, all while worrying if the most important person in your life is okay? For the first person you think of when you wake up from almost dying, to not want anything to do with you?”  His bright eyes start to redden with tears. Satoru was always sensitive, something you’ve always loved about him. “Every day, part of me hoped you would come through that hospital door, and every day you didn’t. My first friend, the last person I’d expect not to show up, did!”

“Gojo.”

“Why are you here now?! Why, after all this time, did you show up here? Especially if you were going to leave before I could say anything to you. If you were going to leave, haunt my fucking house and me, then you should’ve never come.” His voice cracks at the end, and that’s when he finally looks away from you. He’s right, you should’ve never come to his house or this party. You should’ve been a better friend. You should not have fallen in love with him. He was so upset with you in a way he had never been before; it felt like it was eating you alive. He shouldn’t be crying on his birthday. He should be laughing, making others laugh, annoying everyone in his general vicinity, being the Satoru Gojo you had the opportunity to fall in love with over the years. 

You hadn’t even noticed your own tears building before they dropped. Throat tightening, you struggle with what to say. So you settle for the easiest option.

“I’ll leave.” 

“No.” His head whips around, as if the two words startled him. “Not until you tell me why you disappeared?”

“Gojo.”

“I deserve to know why my best friend of almost three decades decided to stop talking to me for no apparent reason.” The misty-eyed stare between you is strong. Neither of you is backing down in silence for what feels like an eternity. Somewhere in between his anger and frustration, a pleading look flashes across his face. He needed the truth, and you were too scared to admit it. The words taste like bile just thinking about them. “Y/N please. You don’t have to stay. We don’t ever have to speak again. Please tell me.” The words come out so sweet, sweeter than you deserve, and it finally makes you snap.

“I couldn’t- I couldn’t look at you like that. I didn’t know how I could ever look at you as lifeless. No one wants to see the person they’re in love with barely grasping onto life. I didn’t have the courage to face you, and I couldn’t see you again without telling you that I’m in love with you. I couldn’t take it knowing I’d lose you after you got a second chance, because I can’t help but love you, Satoru. I know I’m a coward, and you deserve a much better best friend, but if you want an answer. I’m scared that knowing how I feel will make you not want to be around me, and I just can’t take that.” 

You’re a mess. The makeup you had on definitely was ruined. The anxiety of the confession burns through your body, followed by the lightheadedness of the relief. If you don’t get out of here soon, you’re definitely going to pass out.

“You’re in love with me?” All you can do is nod.

“I’m so sorry-” Satoru cuts you off. More specifically, his lips are what cut you off, and it takes you a full second to register that Satoru Gojo was kissing you. When the second did register, you’re quick to follow through. Hands finding his chest, and slowly up to his hair. His lips taste like whatever fruity seltzer he’d been drinking before, but they were as soft as they always looked. Slowly, but surely, the anxious and timid kiss grew needy and feverish. Somehow, your back is pressed against the fridge, and you’re clawing at both his shirt and hair. Satoru’s no better; his hands are focused on keeping you close, but his foot kicks your legs apart enough to slot his thigh right against you. Lips locking slower and messier each time, both of you practically out of your mind.

A loud thud is what pulls you away from the rather starving man in front of you. You don’t realize how desperate you were for air until you see how heavy you’re breathing. Satoru just kissed you. You two just made out. He has you pressed against his fridge because you two were making out. Sixteen-year-old you is probably somewhere losing her mind right now.

Before you can question what that noise was, Toru is pulling your face back towards him. He’s holding himself a few inches away, close enough that if you could lean and close the gap, you would, but far enough for Satoru to keep you back.

“You love me?” The question barely comes out above a whisper. You attempt to nod, but his hand keeps your head from moving. “Uh uh. I need you to say it.” His words are quick, but soft, like he’s afraid to break the moment with his need to hear you say the four simple words, so you do.

“I love you, Satoru.” His brows scrunch together like the words almost hurt him. “Are you okay with that?”

“What do I have to do to keep you here?” Maybe it’s the blood coming back to his head, but his question catches you off guard. 

“Huh?”

“What do I have to do?”  he repeats, “to make sure you don’t stop loving me, Y/N?” You can’t help but laugh at how ridiculous he sounds.

“I could never stop loving you, Satoru.” His eyes finally open to meet yours. He obviously was both amused and upset by your answer.

“Just tell me anything. I need you not to leave again. It’ll kill me.”

“Gojo. That’s not funny.” You try to move back to emphasize your seriousness, but the now warm stainless steel presses back against you.

“I’m not joking. I can’t have you leave again. I’ve been waiting since the day I met you for you to tell me you feel the same. If you leave me now, I don’t think my body can withstand that. So please.” Your eyes widened. 

Gojo loves you back.

He’s been waiting on you this whole time, as you had. Two idiots dancing around the fact that you both were hopelessly in love with the other. You’re so happy you could cry, and the tears do start to come, but Satoru squeezes your jaw, pulling your attention back to him.

“Tell me what I need to do to make sure you don’t leave me again.” You try to think of anything, but you keep drawing a blank, until that stupid hunk of metal shines over Satoru’s shoulder. Your entire body freezes up, and you feel that irrational anger coming back.

“Get rid of the bike. That thing almost took you from me.” He looks behind him briefly before snapping back to you.

“Deal.” Before he can open his mouth to say another word, you’re putting your lips back on his, dragging him back to you. Just like a perfect match, it feels like second nature to kiss Satoru. He knows just where to put his hand without getting into deep water. Just a row of deep, slow kisses, until you go to pull him closer and he does the same. Leaving you to grind harder than expected on his thighs, a pathetic moan tumbling out of you. Satoru breaks the kiss, bright blue eyes peering down at you in shock. 

“Sorr-” His hands drag your bunched-up dress across his thigh again, forcing another breathy moan out of you. 

“You sound better than I could’ve ever imagined, and I’ve imagined a lot.” He does it again, this time flexing this strong muscle, making you fall forward in a shudder.

“Tell me what you’ve imagined?”

“Oh, my god.” The heat between your thighs builds as you gleam under Satoru’s gaze and shamelessly ride his thigh. “This. Turning you on. Making out. Making you feel good.” The way his soft lips lightly trail down your neck, kissing between the confessions. It’s dirty and pulls another moan from you. Grinding down on his thigh shamelessly harder this time. “Making you cum for me, and just for me. Over and over, just like how I’m going to now.” 

It’s pathetic how much you’re chasing your own orgasm, but the high of the confession is lighting every nerve in your body on fire. He smells good, he tastes good, he feels good, and he’s all yours. As if he reads your mind, he presses his thigh into you, practically lifting against the fridge. 

“Tell me you love me.”

“I love you, Satoru.” You pant, eyes rolling back in your head, at a particularly rough drag. “I’m so close. Oh my-”

He snaps his thigh from you, and it practically hurts. You chase the feeling of the rough denim material, only for him to press your hips into the fridge. Pulling you into a sloppy kiss, tongues lazily meeting, almost your dying protest. You try to get his attention even though you could barely focus, by pulling his hair, but it just makes him moan unashamedly, hands squeezing at your waist. When he finally pulls away, his eyes are so low you’d think he was high if it wasn't for the obvious blush across his face or the swollen, spit-covered lips. He stares at your eyes, slowly bouncing between your lips and your eyes, questioning something.

“I was so close.”

“I know. I heard.” You’re sure your blush is now matching his. His chest shudders with anticipation. “Can I ask you a big favor?” At this point, you’re convinced you’d do anything for this man.

“Yeah.”

“I’ll get rid of the bike if you get on it.” Scratch that. You’d do anything but get on Satoru’s once highway ticket to death. 

“No.”

“Y/N-”

“No! I’m not letting you take me out on a ride. I hate that stupid bike.”

“We’re not going out. I just-” His eyes avert from yours, looking up at that garage ceiling. Are his ears turning red? “-I just want you to get off on it.” A beat of silence passed, and then another. By the time the fourth passes, Satoru closes his eyes and swallows in obvious embarrassment.

“What?” How the hell does one get off on a motorcycle? Let alone one that tried to kill your best friend?

“It would be in park! You wouldn’t have to go anywhere, but here. It’s a thing I’ve had for a while, and I dunno...” He rambles on and on before he finally looks back at you with an absolutely hopeless look in his eye. Past the point of pleading, this is his entire ego on the line. 

“Is it something you really want?” He nods before the sentence ends. You think long and hard about it before looking in his eyes and sighing. You’re just as hopeless as he is. “Fine, but don’t be hurt when this doesn’t end up working.” His entire body lights up with a new vigor, arms wrapping around you and lifting you easily over the bike. You knew Satoru was strong, but he lifted you like it was nothing, which shouldn’t be possible after all his body had gone through.

You’re pressed against the metal head of the bike, thanking your earlier judgment that you wore a skirt. Satoru looks like he’s about to explode from just staring at you sitting on the damn thing. He swallows hard again—it’s kinda cute. His eyes are locked on where your panty-clad cunt is meeting the cold black metal.

“Satoru?” You squirm at the intensity of his stare.

“Right, m‘sorry. You have no idea how long I’ve thought about this. I thought it would never happen.” His eyes finally look at yours, softening when he sees the worry in your eyes. “If you don’t want to do this, you don’t have to.” You mull it over for a second before letting the fear creep in. 

“No. I want to do this for you.”

“Jesus, don’t say that.”

“But I do. I want to recreate every little fantasy you have about me locked away.” Satoru shuts his eyes and drags a hand down his face, bringing a cocky grin to your face. You’ve always liked teasing Toru. He shakes his head in some form of restraint before narrowing in on the start.

“If you’re uncomfortable at any point or want it to be over, you tell me, and I’ll toss the thing to the curb faster than you can blink.” He’s serious, and it is sweet enough to warm your heart and ease your nerves, but you can’t help but giggle at him. “You ready?” You give him a small nod, and the engine revs, filling up the garage. 

Your question about how one gets off on a motorcycle gets answered as soon as the metal rattles against your swollen clit. Immediately, your body slumps forward.

“Oh my god-” The vibrations are so strong, you know your entire body is shaking with the bike. It feels so good. It feels even better when you lift your eyes to see Satoru staring down at you like you just set off his world. Another strong vibration has you loudly moaning. There’s no way you’re not going to cum fast. “Satoru, it's so good.” 

“Yeah?” You nod, unable to say anything that’s not an incoherent mess. How you two can hear each other over the loud ass engine is a miracle you’re not going to question. This stupid motorcycle is pushing closer to an orgasm than you’ve been able to bring yourself to in months. The harsh shift of the metal against your clit is too much; you’re too sensitive, forcing you back searching for some reprieve, but Satoru is quicker. “Nuh uh. Don’t run from it, baby.” 

Oh, he’s an evil son of a bitch. Hands forcing your hips to grind hard into the rapidly shaking metal, leaving you with no escape. You reach out to grab his wrist, hoping it would alleviate the pressure, but it doesn’t. 

“Want you to cover it, baby. Need you soaked so I can lick you clean and give you another one. So I can get you wet all again when I sink into that pretty pussy, and make you cum all over again.”

“Wan-ahh to fuck me, Toru? Oh fuck!” He smiles and wipes the thin line of drool you have yet to notice.

“Yes. More than anything. I think I can cum from just thinking about it. I’ve gotten off more times than I can count.” If you were in a better state of mind, you’d probably ask him why, but instead all you can say is—

“I’ve gotten off you, too, Toru.” It’s rushed, and there was definitely some kind of curse word thrown in there, but it works. Satoru’s ears are burning red, and his mouth is gaped open, hands slowing their motion to a teasing rhythm. “Ngh- All the time.”

“Tell me more.” His words are just as quick as yours. “Y/N, please tell me more.” You’re trying so hard to focus on him and his words, but the way Satoru keeps pushing you into the vibrations is making you want to tip your head back and ride out the feeling that’s starting to cool in you. One of his hands holds your face, forcing you to look at him.

“I- I think about you touching me, Toru.” It’s all you can manage.

“Like how I am now?” You nod, or nod as best as you can in Satoru’s grip.

“Think about how good your hands feel when you touch me. H-oh, how- they’d feel better in me.”

“Want to know what I think about when I’ve gotten off to you?” You’re quick and eager to nod. “When we were sixteen, the first time I ever saw you in a real swimsuit, I wanted to lay you on my bed and eat you out until you were begging me to stop. I think I fucked my hand raw to the thought of it.” Your eyes widen at the confession. You’re sure there’s a huge sopping mark on the metal, from how wet you were.

“I still had braces-”

“And they were cute. You’ve never not been beautiful. There’s never been a moment when I haven’t thought you were beautiful.” What? The rush of emotions fills you, almost over-taking the lust-hazed brain you had. The tears in your eyes are becoming more out of the random sincerity, than the overwhelming pleasure between your legs. 

“You think I’m beautiful?”

“Yes.” He’s quick with it. Mouth dropping right on your pulse point, and dragging his way to your ear. “Always will. Thought you were beautiful the first time I met you. I thought you were beautiful when you gave me that pity dance at prom. I thought you were beautiful at graduation. I think you’re beautiful now, riding my motorcycle in an inch of your life, and I know you’ll be beautiful when I take you upstairs and fuck you full.”

Everything is too much. His cologne, the sweetness of his words, the filth rolling off his tongue, the battering of the shaking metal against your clit. It’s no surprise when your vision starts to go white.

“S-Satoru. I’m gonna-”

“Yeah? You want that?” You’re nodding dumbly, as to be expected by now. “Baby, you’re dripping off the bike.” Were you? Oh well. “Gonna let me clean you up with my tongue before I take you inside and show you everything I’ve wanted to do to you for years?”

“Oh my god, Satoru.” Your hand flies on the bike onto one of Satoru’s forearms for leverage. Nails digging into his skin so hard that it would surely leave marks.

“I know, baby. Just say yes for me. You can do that, c’mon.”

“Yes-fuck. Yes! Please.” His face lifts from your ear, blue eyes focused on your face in just enough time to watch you fall over the edge. Eyes rolling back, mouth hanging open, surely nothing but obscenities and Satoru’s name coming out. You don’t know if you’ve ever cum this hard in your life, but it just won't stop. It’s probably embarrassing how pathetic you look on Satoru’s bike, the same bike that you hated for so long. That now you probably hate just a little bit less.

By the time you’re coming down, the motorcycle is off, and Satoru is peppering sweet kisses up the side of your neck. The sweetest of words leave him that are barely being comprehended. His face finally comes into view again, albeit a little hazy.

“You did great, baby.” That signature Satoru smile was there again, pointed at you. It felt great, almost better than that insanely strong orgasm you just had. You hadn’t realized just how desperately you needed a Satoru Gojo smile aimed at you until you finally got it again. The music inside the house cuts through the moment.

“Satoru, the party-” His hands leave your face, swinging your body towards him before he drops to his knees. 

“It can wait.”

“Satoru-”

“I distinctly remember someone telling me I have a mess to attend to, and from the looks of it, I got a lot to clean up.” Curse Satoru and his height. There’s no way any normal man could get on his knees and still be taller than his bike, but Satoru Gojo has never been normal. His slow kisses up your still quivering thighs make you also want to forget the party. Hell, if you could make everyone in this house disappear right now, you would.

“Everyone is inside.” He leans in closer, with another sloppy kiss.

“I’m aware.” His breath tickles the inside of your sensitive thighs.

“Everyone wants to celebrate you.”

“They’ll want to celebrate me later.”

“Satoru, it's your birthday.” You hate the way your voice wavers.

“I’ll have other birthdays, but since it’s my birthday, why don’t you let me have my gift?”

“Be serious.” Satoru’s eyes flicker up to yours, a look so stern it snatches the air out of you. He is being serious.

“If you don’t want to do this, I will walk away right now, happily. I’d never make you do something or do something to you that you don’t want, but I’m not leaving unless you and you alone don’t want me.” The intensity in his voice makes a shiver go down your spine. “Because right now, Y/N, I couldn’t care less about this damn birthday party.” 

That throb in your heart gets mistranslated somewhere down in the pussy, because you’re practically inching your lower half closer to Satoru’s face, forcing him to be face to face with your soaked panties. 

“Fuck, you’re soaked.” Satoru’s eyes glistened over as he'd just seen something amazing. Before you can say anything, he pulls your legs closer and further apart before slotting his face right against your core and taking a deep inhale. Only to let out the most pathetic moan ever. “And you smell so good. Wonder if you taste just as good?”

You practically jolt at the long drag of Satoru’s tongue against your covered pussy. The sensation was almost too much; you’re still so sensitive from your orgasm from just a few minutes prior. Here he was eating you out through your panties like a madman.

“T-Toru!” Your body tenses at the unabashed groan he lets out, against you. When his mouth latches against your clit, sucking the sensitive bud, you damn near scream his name out. Your hands find their way into his messy white locks, tugging harder than you meant to.

“Haa— do it again.” Oh, Satoru was overly freaked out. His sharp nose catches your clit perfectly, long tongue stuffing itself into your core through the cloth, sure enough, your hands are pulling Satoru’s pale hair again, earning yourself a pathetic moan from him. 

“T-Toru, are you, shit- gonna take them off?” Without a word, he yanks them down like he’s crazy. The fanning of hot breath against your core makes you twitch. He pulls away slightly enough before dragging two fingers through you; the loud pop of your wetness is almost deafening against the muffled music. You watch him gather your sex all down his fingers, watching your previous orgasm damn near run down his wrist before he drags his eyes to yours, and puts the fingers in his mouth.

Your jaw unhinges at the sight. Satoru Gojo is lapping at his fingers, greedily sucking and making out with them. Pale skin flushed, eyes so hazed over they could be mistaken for black, moaning like a porn star over the taste of your pussy. His other free hand comes down to palm himself over the jeans that seem way too tight for him, eyes rolling back. It was almost like he was alone, but it was you he was tasting. It was downright pornographic and depraved, and it was severely turning you on. Your body is turning into a furnace from how hot the scene made you. 

This would be an image that would stick with you forever.

“Fuck you taste perfect. You are perfect.” Is he…pussy drunk?

“Satoru…are you okay?”

“Yes.” He pops the digits out of his mouth. “Gonna be better after I eat this pussy, and get her all ready and stretched for me.” Satoru’s mouth is back on you before you can do anything. If his hands hadn’t already locked your legs back into place, you surely would’ve fallen off the bike.

Satoru was starved. Lewd slurps fill the air enough to make your ears hot in embarrassment and pleasure. Satoru could’ve sworn he was in heaven.

That he ever actually got out of that hospital bed, and died right there on the table, but the very real sounds of your pretty moans, the feeling of your twitching legs around his head, the addictive taste of your wet cunt, it was all too real to be fake. So much better than all the filthy fantasies he had stored in his head for years. If the perfect rough drag of his scarred lips right before they latch to your clif again didn’t get you, then the feeling of his fingers pressing against your opening will.

“Toru, I’m s-so sensitive.” If he heard you, he didn’t say anything, instead letting out a high-pitched, muffled moan against your core that has you shutting your eyes. When those pretty fingers you’d always wished were in you instead of yours were, it takes everything in you not to ride them, as the work past the ring of muscle, stretching you so good.

Satoru is so close to cumming his pants. You’re just as fucking warm and wet as he knew you’d be, and it’s driving him insane. Well, he’d already gone insane when he watched you cum on his bike, eyes rolling back with his name on your swollen lips. If he were any less of a man, he would’ve gotten it on camera and watched it over and over again, have it etched into every part of his body until his wrist snapped in half, every fleshlight he owned was battered, and his dick fell off.

Squelch.

Squelch.

Squelch.

You had the nosiest fucking pussy, and it was making him weaker with every push of his fingers that you cunt greedily swallowed.

“Satoru, you eat it so good.” Had you even meant to say that? No, but Satoru was both so happy and angry when you said that. Happy because you couldn’t keep yourself together enough to keep those inside thoughts inside. He was eating it good; he had been practicing for this day since he found a stray thong you accidentally left at his dorm years ago. He put it on a Fleshlight and taught himself how to eat your pussy. Making his jaw ache until he knew that he’d have you crying out for him to stop because it was too good. Almost cumming in his pants the first fifteen times. 

Now that’s why Satoru’s angry. All those fantasies don’t live up to the real thing. He could only imagine what you would say to him in those moments, but you’re here in real life, saying all the dirtiest words he could’ve prayed for. He knew how not to cum in his pants when practicing, but the real thing, oh, it was too much. Which is why he practically sobs into your soaked core, mouth, and fingers, desperately picking up speed to hide the way his hips pathetically fucked up into the tip of dangling foot for any kind of pressure like some ravaged animal.

“Hnng-ah fuck! Are you b-breathing?” Satoru Gojo couldn’t care less about air. He could go back on a ventilator for all he cares. He needs to make you come as soon as possible. His tongue circled your clit, desperate to hear those tantalizing sounds leave you. You were practically dripping down his wrist. When his long fingers graze that sweet spot, that’s when it unravels. “Satoru, I’m gonna-” You try to pull him away, tugging at his hair only for him to smack your hand away and push even further into you. 

He needed to make you cum more than anything right now, and he’ll be damned if you don’t cum on his face after he worked so hard.

“So good, so good, so good, I’m- cumming. Satoru, I’m gonna-” Right over the edge you went again. This time, with so much intensity, you think you actually do black out. Satoru doesn’t dare let up, his eyes roll to the back of his skull, watching the thin line of drool hang from your lips as your head tilts back. Wet patch in pants growing as stream after stream of cum leaves his weeping cock right as your foot presses down in uncontrolled pleasure. Obscenely loud, moans escaping you both like you’re getting ready to fuck on camera. 

It takes you, silently begging, and both of your hands to get Satoru to come off your poor, battered pussy. Neither of you says a word, just desperately staring at one another, breathing heavily. Satoru’s face is almost completely red except for the beige scars that almost look pink against his skin. Eyes low like eating, you put him in a daze. The entire lower half of his face is soaked, soft lips puffy and glistening, just begging to be kissed. Though you’re not fully down, after waves of your orgasm are still hitting you, you can’t help but lick your lips.

“Don’t.” Satoru’s voice is hoarser and deeper than it was when you two first walked in here. Something about him was laced with lust and want. It sent sparks down your body. He sounded so fuckable.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t lick your lips like that. Don’t look at me like you’re starving for me. I can’t-” He takes in a shuddering breath like he’s barely holding on before he pops up. One hand pulling you by your throat for a kiss, making you taste yourself on him, and damn, do you both taste good. Satoru’s hands are the only reason why your wobbly legs haven’t given out from underneath you.

Sloppy kisses that end with loud smacks, an inappropriate amount of whining, and the need to touch everything you could. The scene was enough to make someone look away in embarrassment. You two are stuck on each other, obsessed even. You pull away when the air supply runs out, shivers going down your body. 

Have you ever been this turned on? The answer is obviously no. Even fantasizing about Satoru wasn’t enough to get you like this. Satoru has that effect on you.

“I can't resist you.” Seems you have the same effect on him. He can’t help but get a couple more small kisses in before trailing down your face again. “Are you okay?” Satoru’s voice is soft; it's almost sickening.

“I can barely feel my legs.” He laughs, eyes crinkling at the end. He’s still your Satoru.

“That’s a problem.”

“I know, how am I going to walk back in there without looking stupid?” Without so much as a grunt (or a warning), you’re being lifted off your feet, body held bridal style with no ease.

“Nah, I mean you shouldn’t be able to walk at all. Guess I got to fuck that mobility out of you?” Your hand swats his chest like an impulse. Cheeks feel as if they could turn red. He makes quick steps to get inside, but before he can open the door, you stop him. 

“Everyone is still inside.”

“Then they’ll get out.” He says it like it's obvious.

“Satoru.”

“I’m serious. They’ll either get out, or they’ll hear us. I don’t care about them right now.” He’s insane. That accident took all the common sense out of his head.

“Sat-” It’s too late, the garage door flies open, and you close your eyes, hoping the dark lights hide your ruined makeup, disheveled dress, and loose ponytail. The music doesn’t stop, neither does Satoru, but he does laugh.

“You can open your eyes; no one is here.” What?

You do open your eyes only to be met with the fact that a single soul is in the house. Not even any on the balcony like they were before.

“Wait, does that mean-”

“Now we really don’t have to be quiet.” Satoru doesn’t even pay attention to the empty room, circling the apartment to find his bedroom. He doesn’t even bother closing the door behind him, making quick strides with you in his arms before he gently tosses you on the bed. He’s almost immediately taking his clothes off, blue eyes almost glowing in the darkness of the room. Satoru practically rips his black shirt off his body before he goes for the belt.

“Wait.” His eyes widened in fear, halting immediately. “Can I take them off?” You think the question might’ve killed him because he stares at you in shock before nodding his head like an idiot. He’s rushing over to the side of the bed, and he has to hold his smile back when he watches you struggle to balance your weight on your knees.

Yeah, he needs one more round.

The moment you get your hands on the belt, it’s over. Heat zaps down Satoru’s spine. As crude as it sounds, he’s never had you this close to his dick before. He doesn’t know just how long he’d last if you were even to stare at it long enough. Before he can bring himself to tell you to stop, you’re already pulling his pants down, damp boxers on display.

“Did you-”

“Yes.” He answers embarrassingly too fast. 

“You got off eating me out?” That blush creeps up Satoru’s neck all the way up to his ears.

“Yeah, I’ve gotten off from your perfume lingering in my bed.” He hadn’t meant to say that, but it makes your jaw unhinged enough to flash another sinful image through Satoru Gojo’s head. Making him visibly twitch.

“You’re such a perv, Toru.” The words are meant to be mean, but in all actuality, you’re not any better. The number of times you’ve gotten off to his cologne being stuck in your passenger side seat belt is one too many for you to admit. You shift closer, planting a kiss on his tip through his boxer, making his hips buck into your mouth.

“Don’t.”

“You can get a taste of me, but I can’t get a taste of you?” You drag your tongue across his print and the damp patch, watching his mouth drop slightly, a coy hum on your lips. “That’s unfair, don’t you think?” Toru nods dumbly, body unconsciously leaning into you. “Can I go down on you, Toru? I’ve thought about it so much.”

“Yes. Fuck yes, please.” Satoru knows this is a bad idea. He cannot cum again before he has sex with you, but as he made clear earlier, he can’t say no to you. So when you pull down his boxers only for his dick to smack right against his stomach pulling a weak moan from him, he just prays he has it in him to pull you off before he comes down your throat.

“Toru-” You’re in utter shock. Satoru’s dick is big. Not just big, it’s humongous, he’s fucking hung. No wonder he was so arrogant all the time; he had the size to back it up. “You’re so big.” There’s enough lubricant from his previous orgasm for you to stroke him comfortably.

“Fuck, you can’t say that.” He twitches in your hand as you let the spit from your mouth dribble down his oh so sensitive, bright red tip. He was so cute under your hand, slightly bucking up into your hand unknowingly. 

“But you are, and it’s so pretty.” Satoru Gojo loved to be praised. Any person with working eyes could tell you that. “Need to taste it.” You don’t let him say anything before you kiss the tip, earning a soft whimper from him. 

So he does whimper? Good to know.

One torturous, slow lick after the other has him clenching his fist by his side until they look like they’re going to pop. When you finally take him in your mouth, every thread in him snaps. Hands find purchase around the back of your head. He was right, you guys don’t have to worry about being quiet anymore. He’s practically moaning like a bitch in heat at every bob of your head. You’re not much better, loud slurps filling the room if it’s not your own pathetic moans around him. 

“Shit! I’m- you feel so good-ahh. Hnng- please don’t stop.” Like you would ever, Satoru Gojo has you wrapped around his finger just as much as he’s wrapped around yours. You’re practically dripping all over his sheets at every thrust, gagging a moan every time he tip hits the back of your throat. Spit spilling at the corners of your lips like the Satoru only slut you are. Watching his eyes roll to the back of his head, his chest rise at a sharp breath, the way your name rolled off his tongue. It was breathtaking being the one to make Satoru Gojo fall apart like this.

Just a little more, and he’ll cum down your throat just the way you wanted. Your hand that was absent mindedly drawing rough circles on your clit, moves to cup his spit-covered balls, fondling them gently. The change made Satoru stop with a particularly rough thrust to your throat and rather loud broken whine. One hand gripping your hair with a tight lock, and the other holding your throat in place. His tilted head comes back down, his chest erratically heaving as he gives you an almost pained look.

“Don’t do that.” It’s quick, and thought it didn’t sound as assertive as it was meant to be you pause befoe pushing your luck, moving your hand again, which makes Gojo thrust forward again, a loud gag coming from you, your hand constricting your throat. His other hand knocked yours away. He looks almost lost, torn as he works your throat over him. “I’m not cumming anywhere that’s not inside of you. If you do that, I’ll cum all over your face and waste all of it. We wouldn’t want that now?”

Satoru was so close to coming that the corner of his vision started to turn fuzzy. If he hadn’t stopped when he did this night might’ve taken a different turn. Mouth still full of his cock you shake your head no, eyes hazed over in your own lust. He painfully removes himself from your mouth, cussing himself out internally the entire time. It’s taking everything in him not to pull your warm, wet, hot mouth back over here and fuck it raw. 

“Take the dress off.” You scramble to pull the dress over you, moving to the middle of the bed and tossing it somewhere into the abyss. “You’re so good for me, baby. I love it.”

“Yeah?” Oh yeah, you’re gone. Who wouldn’t be looking at Satoru’s perfect body, even if all scared up, he’s still undeniably sexy. “You’re so good for me, Toru.” His weight shifts the mattress as he makes his way over to you. 

“I always want to be good for my girl.” His hands grab your ankles, pulling you. towards him. “Need to fuck you good.” That fucked out look on his face is all you see before he’s pushing your hands into the mattress for another sloppy makeout. You could kiss Satoru forever. His tongue knows just what way to lock with yours in the most lewd way, like he was made to kiss you. He pulls back, grabbing the base of his dick, which his hand could barely fit around.

He slowly glides his jerky cock through your wetness, making you both twitch. Saying nothing but watching it slip through and gather more lubricants, the tip hitting your abused clit so sinfully it made your jaw drop.

“She’s so messy.” You couldn’t care less what he was babbling about right now. You just needed him to put it in already.

“Stop teasing Toruuu.” You whine only to get a cocky grin from him. He was letting up, picking up the pace, to watch you squirm. 

“You want it that bad-oh.” All that squirming managed to slip the tip in, stopping you both. The smile is wiped clean off his face. Instead, one of awe replaces it as he watches himself fuck the same inch into you, sensitive head trapped between your warm, gummy, wet walls. “You- you- feel so-”

“Yeah, bet it would be better if you actually fucked me.” His eyes meet yours with a hard glare. 

“Count.”

“What- oh my god.” Your mouth forms a ‘o’ as he sinks more into you.

“Count. C’mon, my smart girl can tell me how. How many inches are in her right?”

“T-Two.” 

“There we go.” He pushes in more, holding back on his bodily urges that are telling him to quit with all the teasing, but he can’t.

Three follows with four, five with six, and by the time you’re at the last two inches, you’re practically shaking. There’s a line of drool hanging from Satoru’s mouth like he’s gone completely brain dead, eyes not disconnecting from where you two meet, like he’s hypnotized.

He is hypnotized.

“Just two more, baby.”

“Eight-ngh Satoru, please. I can’t!” Your body burned at the stretch. No one’s been as big as Toru.

“No. You can.”  You let out a high-pitched whine when he finally bottoms out.

“Nine! Fuck Satoru, I’m so full.” Those words bounce off deaf ears. Satoru is falling off this plane of existence; the only thing keeping him grounded is the clench of your core around him, sending shivers down his spine. When he doesn’t move, you call his name, only to hear a muffled moan into your neck. It takes pulling him out of your neck to see what’s happening, finally.

He’s so fucked out he’s not comprehending right. His blue eyes are crossed in pleasure, line of spit rolling down to his thick neck, shaking body completely flushed red.

“Pussy so good. It’s gonna kill me.”

“Toru, I need you to move.”

“I can’t. Need a second. It’s too good.”

“Toru, please, I want you to fuck me. Need you to fill me up.” It’s those words that put Satoru out of his daze, or at least his body out of its daze. His hips roll into yours with a sinfully quick pace. His hands roam your body, trying to find something to feel. 

“Want me to cum inside?” He grumbles in your ear with another fast snap of his hips. “Want me to fuck you full?” You nod as best as you can, mouth hanging open with pathetic noises coming from you, and another lewd squelch comes from you. “I think this pretty pussy wants that too. Just listen to her.” 

Nothing but the nasty wet smacks filling the room makes your ears burn. 

Plap, Plap, Plap.

“She’s practically begging me to pump her full of my cum. She’s so good. She’s so fucking addictive. So much better than anything I’ve used.” You’re half paying attention to him. More focused on how deep his dick is in you. Every thrust feels like the air is getting snatched from you in the best way. Besides, you’re not too far behind him in sounding incoherent.

“Toru, it’s so deep-ngh. I-hic” Were you crying? “Fuck don’t stop. Please don’t, don’t, don’t.”

“Wouldn’t fucking dream of it. Your pussy is so good to me, you’re so good to me.” One of his hands comes down, forcing your legs to wrap around his shoulders. “I need to fill you. Need to fuck you good. Need it. Need it. Fuck I need it.” The new angle, the stretch, the pressure, it has you seeing stars, and when Satoru hits that one spot, your entire body tenses. 

Something’s different.

“Oh my god, Satoru!”

“Right there?” He whines out, head reeling back every time he hits that spongy spot inside. You nod, fat tears rolling down your body, it’s almost too much, but before you can even think about Toru’s already pinning your hips. “Don’t you dare think about running from me. Waited too long for this, for you.” Each bed shaking brutal smack brings you closer, but something is different. 

More intense, it’s deeper. It makes your entire body tremble. 

“Sssatoru I- something feels-” 

“Nuh-uh. That’s not my name.” Fuck he’s hitting it so good you may not be able to tell him. Your back is starting to arch in, tasting your release, which makes your vision come in and out.

“Baby! Something’s different! I’m-” Your cut off entirely by the smack of Satoru’s fingers against your clit, making you jolt in pleasure. You’re so close.

“Don’t call me that. That’s not what you call me. You want to cum, you want me to fill you up so good you’ll be dripping me for days? Then you call me by- FUCK-” Your cunt clenches around him, making his head pop from your ear to the air, making him look at you. He’s just like you—unfocused eyes, pathetic moaning, completely fucked out and pussydrunk to your dickmatized. “You-you call me by my name.”

“T-t-t-” You’re right there.

“C’mon, be good for me and say it.”

“Toru! I’m gonna cum. I’m gonna-” His fingers come down in a harsh rub of your throbbing clit, and you’re gone. Your warning is a faded memory of the past, as the tremors of your orgasm take over. Vision completely gone, ears ringing, in what is the strongest orgasm of your life, given to you by none other than your childhood best friend.

“Oh, my god.” Satoru watches you spray the entirety of the sheets beneath you, his hand, lower stomach, and most importantly, his cock. Never in his wildest dreams did he think watching the girl he loves the most squirt all over would happen, but when it does, it hits him like a bag of bricks. Making him cum so hard he slumps forward, letting out the most pornographic cries, eyes almost shut as he watches his seed mix in with your cum, and it sends lightning down his spine. “It won’t stop.” He doesn’t know who he’s talking about, but you still haven’t stopped. He fucks you through it, almost losing his fucking mind doing so, house full of sounds that would surely get him a noise complaint.

When you both come down from the mutual orgasms, neither of you dares to move an inch. Both of you are still shaking too hard to be fully conscious. It’s only when that tear hits your stomach that you start to come back. Satoru’s head is down, in shoulder trembling just like you.

“Toru?”

“Don’t move. I can’t- don’t move, please.” He sounded so weak, it damn near made your heart clench. “Listen, baby.” You almost yelp at the overstimulation when Satoru gives a few weak, shallow thrusts. A popping squelch rings through the room. “Sounds so beautiful.” 

“Satoru, come here.” He doesn’t hesitate, meeting your lips one more time, with the shakiest and sweetest kisses of the night. He gently pulls out, and you groan at the big loss. Missing the fill now that it’s gone. How were you ever going to get anything done now that you know what sex with the love of your life feels like? His head falls to your shoulder, making sure to keep his weight off you. It’s silent for a little while, you two bathe in the post-sex afterglow, until the question in the air rings too loud in your mind. “So what does this mean for us?”

“Don’t ask such dumb questions.”

“I’m serious-”

“I am too. You’re not going anywhere, Y/N. Whether that's you being my girlfriend or, preferably, my wife, you’re here to stay. I’m here to stay. We’ve spent too much time avoiding the obvious to be picky about what we are now. We’re in love. Simple.” His arms sling around you, pulling you closer. The warmth of his body felt grounding.

“I love you, Toru.” You declare for the umpteenth time.

“I love you, Y/N.”

It’s your phone that wakes you up from your deep sleep with your boyfriend(?) at what had to be noon. 

“Satoru.” You grumble against his chest, refusing to open your eyes.

“Ignore it.” He makes no effort to move. The ringtone faded for all of three seconds before it blares up again, making you sigh.

“I got it.” He pulls you against him again, weakly trying to hold you back. “Toru.”

“Fine.” He rolls over, allowing you to crawl over him to grab the blaring phone, but not before smacking your ass as you bend to do so. You shoot him a dirty look, and he shrugs. “What? It’s great ass, and it’s mine.”

“Yours?”

“Yeah, baby, that’s my ass, that's my pussy, that’s my heart, you’re my girl.” You have to bite back a smile at his words. The thought of finally being Satoru’s girl makes your chest all fuzzy.

“So does that mean that’s my dick and my heart?”

“You know it. Now I highly suggest you answer that phone, or else I’ll show you what else your dick can do.” You scoff, but it’s clear by the way your nipples perk up that you’re turned on. Satoru pulls you on top of him, pressing his half-hard dick against your bare cunt. Disregarding who can hear you two, as he kisses down your bare body. You press the accept button before you have half the mind to ride him and show him what his pussy can do.

“Hello?”

“Oh. My. God.” Geto and Shoko’s voices flood the other side of the phone. “This was better than we could’ve imagined.”

“What are you two going on about?” Satoru looks up at you through his pretty lashes, a confused look on his face.

“We called Satoru, not you.”

Oh.

Oh.

“Please tell me you two have finally sorted things out. I was plastered by the time Geto was kicking everyone out of the house.”

“I think they did more than just sort it out. I’m never touching that motorcycle again.” Your jaw drops in horror before Satoru grabs the phone from your hands.

“You two really need to get a life.” You make out the words “dumbass” on the other end of the phone. “Uh-huh. Anyway, I got some time to make up for. I'll talk to guys later.” He tosses the phone to the other side of the bed, pulling you closer to him. “Good afternoon, baby.” You giggle at his antics, heart swelling with joy. Everything feels perfect.

“Good afternoon, Toru.”

A/N: I wrote this over the cycle of two ovulation cycles...no regrets! I'm hella rusty too, this might be a mess potench. Also, this wasn't proofread... so my bad!

Plagiarism is NOT allowed.

[healmydesires]

I wanna be your provider

❥ pairing: sugar daddy/ceo!sylus qin x assistant!reader

❥ summary: “She has spent three years loving a man she cannot have. He has spent three years wanting a woman he won’t allow himself to reach for — until the day he decides, quietly and without hesitation, to reach anyway. What neither of them realises is that they’ve been finding each other all along. She just doesn’t know he’s the one on the other side of the screen yet.”

❥ genre: fluff + angst + smut (18+ mdni)

❥ word count: 50K+??? (I am insane and not normal about sylus <3)

❥ status: ongoing - march 2026

❥ warnings/tags: sugar daddy!sylus, alternative universe, ceo!sylus, yearning/longing, sylus is 39 in this, assistant!reader, sugar baby!reader, power imbalance, eventual boss/employee relationship, idiots in love, mild hurt/comfort, emotional/sensitive!reader, very long fic, banter, sylus the rage baiter. mutual masturbation, sexting, size difference. reader is shorter than sylus. reader is always audhd coded in my writing but anyone can read it. sylus is soft for reader, flirting/teasing, inexperienced/virgin!reader. dry humping, grinding, loss of virginity, unprotected sex, piv sex, soft!dom sylus, just in overall soft!sylus. sub!reader, vaginal fingering, oral (f!receiving), multiple orgasms, creampie, overstimulation, size kink, full on daddy kink… I mean… it’s a sugar daddy au. so… <3, oral fixation, breeding kink, praise kink, pet names (kitten. sweetie. sweetheart etc.), multiple sex positions, pleasure dom!sylus, aftercare. mc loves the color pink a lot.

⟶ a/n: HIIIIII here I am with a new fic. as of the moment I am writing this it's still a wip. this fic is probably gonna be over 60k words. either way I still wanted to share the post on tumblr already. I always wanted to write a sugar daddy au BUT didn't find inspiration until RECENTLY. so in the lads server I'm in they are currently doing a 'kink bingo'. it's a little event that writers can participate and write a story around a certain trope. I went with sugar daddy 🤭💖 I said I wasn't gonna write for a while but what can I say… sylus brainrot. he's literally my muse. EITHER way. I hope you enjoy this story. 🥺💖 for anyone wondering… this is how I imagine sylus his build. either way I never know how to write fic in a short format so enjoy another lengthy fic from me again! also because I don’t wanna post it in parts you’ll have a sneakpeek on tumblr but to read the story in its full length you’ll have to head to ao3. thank you and I hope y'all love it as much as I loved writing it! 💘 title inspired by the song 'provider' by sleep token. (I don't normally listen to that type of music but my bestie leah recommended me this song for the fic) 💕💕💕 ps: for anyone wondering… this is how I imagine sylus his build. (without the blood and scratches) 🤭😋🤤🥵🥴🫠😵‍💫

this goes without saying, but if you don’t like it don’t read it <3

AO3 • masterlist

New York City does not care about your feelings.

This is something you’ve made your peace with over the years — the way it moves around you without slowing down, all noise and glass and cold wind off the Hudson in the early mornings when you’re walking the four blocks from the subway to Linkon Tower, coffee cup in hand, trying to remember if you forwarded that document last night or only dreamed that you did. The city asks nothing of you emotionally. It simply expects you to keep moving.

You are, in this way, well-suited to New York.

What you are less well-suited to — what you have been quietly, privately, catastrophically less well-suited to for approximately three years now — is being in love with your boss.

The elevator opens on the fifty-third floor.

You are fine.

“Good morning.”

His voice reaches you before you’ve fully stepped through the glass doors of the executive suite — low and unhurried, carrying the particular warmth he reserves for very few people, and you are, for reasons that keep you awake sometimes, one of them. Sylus is already at his desk, as he always is, as he has always been every single morning in the three years you’ve worked for him, because the man apparently does not sleep like a normal person. The Manhattan skyline stretches silver and pale behind him through the floor-to-ceiling windows. In the early light, he looks almost painterly — silver hair, dark suit, those red eyes lifting from the document in his hand to find you the moment you walk in, the way they always do, like he has a sense for you specifically.

Like he was waiting.

“Good morning,” you say, and you are very proud of how normal your voice sounds.

“How was the commute?” He asks it with genuine interest, setting his document down, which is one of the things that got you in trouble in the first place. The way he actually listens. The way Sylus, who runs a multi-billion dollar enterprise from this office and commands rooms full of people who are intimidated just by his posture, always has time to ask how your commute was.

“Cold,” you say, unwinding your scarf. “The L train decided this morning was a good time to have an existential crisis.”

“The L train always does that.” He tilts his head slightly. “You should have taken the car.”

“I’m not taking your car to work, Sylus.”

“You could.”

“I know I could. I’m choosing not to.” You drop your bag at your desk and pull out your tablet, already scrolling to his schedule. “It makes me feel like a kept woman.”

The silence that follows is approximately one beat too long.

You look up. Sylus is watching you with an expression you can’t fully decode — something that passed through his eyes too quickly, smoothed back over by the composed, unreadable surface he wears most of the time. The corner of his mouth curves.

“Heaven forbid,” he says mildly, and goes back to his document.

You turn back to your tablet and breathe.

Three years, you remind yourself. You have survived three years of this. You will survive today.

｡ ₊°༺❤︎༻°₊ ｡

Here is what three years has taught you about Sylus:

He takes his coffee black, no sugar, too hot for comfort, and he drinks it while standing at the window with Manhattan spread out below him like something he’s quietly fond of. He is pathologically early to everything and has zero patience for people who aren’t, with the single exception of you — for you, he simply comes to find you, appearing at your workspace door with that unhurried patience, as though waiting for you specifically is a different category than waiting in general.

He reads physical documents even though everything could be digital because he thinks better with paper in his hands. He keeps the office two degrees warmer than the building standard because he noticed, in your first winter working for him, that you were always cold. He has never once mentioned this to you directly. You figured it out yourself, six months in, when you checked the building’s climate control records out of sheer curiosity, and you had to sit with that knowledge quietly for a long time afterward.

He is privately, genuinely funny — not the performative wit he turns on in meetings, but something dryer and warmer that surfaces only in the quiet moments, usually aimed at you. He reads in at least four languages. He grew up far from here, far from any of this, and there are moments when something in his expression goes distant and careful and you sense the geography of everything he’s built between himself and whatever came before.

He has never raised his voice at you. Not once. In three years of high-pressure deadlines and impossible situations and the particular chaos that seems to follow a man of his ambition, he has never directed anything at you that wasn’t measured, and considered, and — underneath its careful composure — surprisingly kind.

He is also tall — unreasonably, almost absurdly tall, the kind of tall that means the rest of the world simply exists lower than him — broad-shouldered, white-haired, and red-eyed, and standing next to him, which requires you to tilt your head back at an angle you’ve gotten quietly used to, makes you feel both very small and, inexplicably, very safe.

This is the problem.

This is the entire problem.

｡ ₊°༺❤︎༻°₊ ｡

“You have the Meridian Capital call at nine,” you say, following him into his office with your tablet. This is another part of the choreography — the morning briefing, where you trail after him and he listens without looking at you directly, which you have learned means he’s paying the most attention. “Board review at eleven. You have a lunch block—”

“Clear it.”

You glance up. “You specifically asked for that block last week.”

“I know what I asked for last week.” He settles into his chair, leaning back in that easy way of his, long legs stretched under the desk. Even seated, the man is an unfair amount of presence. “Book somewhere for lunch instead. Somewhere quiet — not the Meridian district, I’ll have been on a call with those people for an hour and I’ll want a change of air.” His eyes come to you, and they’re soft in the way they sometimes are when it’s just the two of you and the morning is still early. “Somewhere you’d like. You choose.”

You pause. “You want me to choose.”

“Is that not what I said?”

“You’re very particular about restaurants, Sylus.”

“I’m particular in general,” he concedes. “But I trust your taste.” A brief pause. The softness in his expression doesn’t waver. “Lunch for two, somewhere you’d like. That’s all.”

You look at him for a moment too long — which you do sometimes, which you’ve been doing for three years, and he always holds the look, always lets you, like he has nothing to hide and all the time in the world, which is terrifying because it makes you feel seen — and then you nod and look back at your tablet.

“I’ll find somewhere,” you say.

“I know you will.” He picks up his pen. “You always do.”

｡ ₊°༺❤︎༻°₊ ｡

The Meridian call runs long, as you predicted, and you have reorganized two schedules and soothed one very anxious junior analyst by the time it wraps. Sylus emerges from his office at eleven-oh-three, jacket on, expression still and composed from the professional armor he wears in those spaces, and crosses directly to your desk.

He sets a cup of tea down at your elbow.

Your tea — your specific order, the one you’d mentioned offhandedly to him eight months ago and apparently never needed to mention again — brewed at the temperature you like, with the little paper sleeve because the cup gets hot.

“Your eleven o’clock moved to eleven-fifteen,” you tell him, not trusting yourself to acknowledge the tea directly, “which means you have twelve minutes, and also I found a restaurant — it’s on the Upper West Side, French-American, supposed to be very quiet on weekdays—”

“Perfect.” He’s reading something on his phone, already walking, and he pauses at the edge of your workspace and glances back.

“You barely ate this morning.”

You blink. “I ate some cereal. How could you possibly—”

“You have the look,” he says, simply, like this is a perfectly reasonable thing to say. “The one that means you ate something that technically qualified as food and decided it counted.” The faintest curve of his mouth. “It doesn’t count.”

“It absolutely—”

“Book a table for twelve-thirty.” He’s already moving again, unhurried, like the conversation is entirely settled. “I’m not signing a single thing until I know you’ve had a real meal.”

Then he’s gone, moving down the hallway toward the boardroom, and you’re left staring at the empty doorway with your mouth still open and the faint, traitorous warmth of being known so precisely by someone spreading all the way up to your ears.

You close your mouth.

You book the table and then pick up your tea.

It is perfect.

You are in so much trouble.

｡ ₊°༺❤︎༻°₊ ｡

The restaurant he lets you choose is a small place tucked between a bookshop and a dry cleaner on West 74th — French in its bones but soft around the edges, the kind of room that smells like butter and old wood and feels completely removed from the city outside. You’re not sure how it stays so quiet in Manhattan. Maybe it exists slightly outside of time.

Sylus ducks slightly to come through the door.

He does this — accommodates the world’s architectures with a patient, practiced ease, as though he accepted a long time ago that most spaces weren’t built for him and has made his peace with it. You notice this more than you should. You notice the way he instinctively adjusts when he’s close to you too — angles himself, shortens his step, never makes you feel like the difference in your heights is anything other than simply the way things are.

The host seats you at a corner table. The light is golden and low.

“This is nice,” Sylus says, and he means it. You’ve gotten good at knowing when he means things.

“I thought you’d like it.” You unfold your menu. “It feels like somewhere you’d eat if you didn’t have to perform anything.”

He goes still for just a moment. Then, quietly: “That’s a very accurate read.”

“Three years,” you say simply.

Something in his expression moves — warm and careful at once, like he’s handling something he doesn’t want to drop. He looks at you across the small table, and in the golden light of this room outside of time he looks different than he does in the office. Younger, almost. Softer. Like the thing he usually holds back with both hands is closer to the surface.

“You’re distracted this week,” he says eventually. Not an accusation — an observation, offered gently, the way he offers you most things. “You hide it well. But I know your face.”

Your heart catches.

I know your face. Said like it’s simply a fact, something true and uncontested, filed away somewhere in him.

“I found something,” you say, because you can never not tell him things, in the end. He does something to your defenses — doesn’t dismantle them, exactly, just makes you feel like they’re not necessary with him, which might be worse. “An apartment. A loft.” You look at your water glass. “I’ve been dreaming about my own place for years. You know how New York is — I’ve been in the same sublet since I moved here, and it’s fine, it’s always been fine, but it’s not mine. Nothing in it is mine.” You smile, self-deprecating. “I walked past a listing last weekend. A loft in the West Village — high ceilings, big windows, exposed brick. There’s a little terrace that looks out over the rooftops and I just — I stood on the sidewalk and looked at it for a long time.”

Sylus is watching you with his full attention — the specific quality of stillness he gets when you’re saying something he wants to remember. His hands are folded on the table. He’s not eating. He’s just listening.

“It needs renovation,” you continue, quieter now. “A lot of it, still. Which is part of why the price is—” You exhale. “The price is a lot. More than a lot. My savings are good, I’ve been careful, but between the listing and the renovation costs it’s just—” You shake your head. “It’s not realistic right now.”

A long pause.

“Tell me about it,” Sylus says.

You blink. “I just—”

“Not the numbers.” His voice is gentle. “The place. Tell me about the loft.”

Oh.

Oh.

You look at him. He looks back, patient and entirely serious, and something in your chest aches in a way you don’t have good language for.

And so you tell him — the arched windows and the way the afternoon light would fall across the floors, the exposed brick that runs the whole length of the far wall, the little wrought-iron terrace barely big enough for two chairs and a plant but somehow perfect, the ceiling height, the bones of it. The way you’d stood on that sidewalk and seen, with a clarity that surprised you, exactly what it could become. What it could be. You tell him all of it, more than you meant to, more than is probably professional over a two-person lunch that you’re already trying not to read too much into.

Sylus listens to every word.

When you finish, he’s quiet for a moment. There’s something in his expression that’s gone a little careful.

“What’s the address?” he says.

You study him. “Why?”

“Because you’ve just described the place you want most in the world,” he says, very simply, “and I’m interested in things that matter to you.”

The ache in your chest deepens. You look at him for a long moment — this man who runs a company from the fifty-third floor of a Midtown tower, who is a decade older than you and a foot taller than you and should by any reasonable accounting be the most intimidating person in your life, and who instead feels, in moments like this, like the safest one.

You give him the address.

You don’t know what he’ll do with it.

You just know, the way you know most things about Sylus, that he’ll do something.

｡ ₊°༺❤︎༻°₊ ｡

The afternoon passes the way good afternoons in the office do — with a steady rhythm of tasks and small exchanges, the comfortable back-and-forth that you’ve built between you over three years like a language that only the two of you speak fluently. He stops by your desk at three to ask if you want anything from the coffee cart downstairs, which he would never do for anyone else, and brings you back a hot chocolate without commenting on it. You catch him at five-forty-five standing in the doorway of his office watching you finish up for the day with an expression you aren’t supposed to have seen — unguarded, quiet, something in it that sits low and warm in your stomach for the whole subway ride home.

It doesn’t mean what you want it to mean, you tell yourself, earbuds in, Manhattan rushing past outside the windows.

He’s just kind. He’s kind to you because you work for him and you’ve earned it and that’s all it is.

Forty-three blocks uptown, Sylus stands at his office window with your address on a notepad in his hand and thinks, for a very long time.

Then he sits down at his desk.

Opens his laptop.

And begins to type.

｡ ₊°༺❤︎༻°₊ ｡

read the rest on ao3 <3

[wickedbubbles]

I solo’d all of this in one day. I’m not kidding when I say this is ABSOLUTE CINEMA. 🥳

[rubyys-domain]

[THE MASTERLIST]

when FIRELORD ZUKO takes a liking to AVATAR AANG'S mysterious new BRIDE.

TORN BETWEEN TWO ROADS ! — aang x reader x zuko

PLOT. republic city is finally at peace, and katara allows herself to hope that maybe now, after everything, she and aang can finally become something real. but when aang returns after eight months, he isn’t alone. he comes back with you at his side, introducing you as his wife. suspicious yet helpless, his friends do their best to welcome you, even as nothing about this sudden marriage makes sense. but while everyone else keeps their distance, one person doesn’t. and perhaps Zuko gets a little too comfortable with the avatar’s new wife.

CHARACTERS. AANG and ZUKO.

WARNINGS. 18+, mdni, smut, angst, takes place 10 years after atla, age gaps. reader is 21, dark themes, sexual assault, mentions of rape (not aang or zuko dw), established relationship, yearner aang, infidelity, depression, mentions of suicide, fem reader, atla spoilers, no spoilers for legend of aang, not canon compliant to legend of korra, wip.

masterlist

CHAPTER ONE

WARNINGS. 18+, mdni, angst, takes place 10 years after atla, age gaps. reader is 21, established relationship, fem reader, atla spoilers, no spoilers for legend of aang but follows the characters, not canon compliant to legend of korra, not proofread.

CHAPTER TWO

WARNINGS. 18+, mdni, angst, takes place 10 years after atla, age gaps. reader is 21, established relationship, mean sokka (no hate for him please, i am just a bitch hahah), little arguing (lowkey fight), fem reader, atla spoilers, no spoilers for legend of aang, not proofread.

CHAPTER THREE

WARNINGS. 18+, mdni, angst, some 'arguing' with zuko, takes place 10 years after atla, age gaps, reader is 21, established relationship, fem reader, atla spoilers, no spoilers for legend of aang, not proofread.

CHAPTER FOUR

WARNINGS. 18+, mdni, smut, angst, hurt with comfort, small argument (i don't think it even counts), penetration sex, no protection (do they even have protection?), my own version of plan b used, pregnancy talks, slightly insecure reader (regarding katara), takes place 10 years after atla, age gaps, reader is 21, established relationship, fem reader, atla spoilers, no spoilers for legend of aang, kinda proofread.

CHAPTER FIVE

WARNINGS. 18+, mdni, angst, implied sexual assault, fight with zuko, zuko is kind of a prick ngl, protective aang, takes place 10 years after atla, age gaps, reader is 21, established relationship, fem reader, atla spoilers, no spoilers for legend of aang, not proofread.

CHAPTER SIX

WARNINGS. 18+, mdni, angst, blood, stab wound, cauterization, lots of fire, a little tension, takes place 10 years after atla, age gaps, reader is 21, established relationship, fem reader, atla spoilers, no spoilers for legend of aang, not proofread.

CHAPTER SEVEN

WARNINGS. 18+, mdni, slight panic attack, a very bad injury (not detailed), takes place 10 years after atla, age gaps, reader is 21, established relationship, fem reader, atla spoilers, no spoilers for legend of aang, not proofread.

CHAPTER EIGHT

coming soon...

[nottellingofname]

For My Caleb ⋆⭒˚｡⋆✈

Ge ge could eat mei mei for lunch!

You’re curled up on the couch with Caleb, his warmth seeping into your side as you both watch a mukbang show on TV.

Your legs are draped across his lap, his strong fingers working mindlessly at your calf muscles while his eyes remain fixed on the screen.

It feels normal, domestic—as if the past week never happened, as if he hadn’t reduced you to a trembling, wet mess just hours ago.

“This one’s good,” Caleb murmurs, his thumb pressing into a knot in your muscle that makes you bite your lip. “See how she arranges everything before starting? That’s dedication.”

You nod, watching the woman on screen meticulously organize her feast—steaming bowls of ramen, platters of dumplings, side dishes in perfect formation. Her long nails tap against the ceramic as she explains each item in detail.

Caleb’s hands slide higher, working up to your knee, then your thigh.

The movement seems unconscious on his part, his attention fully captured by the show. His fingers knead and press with just the right pressure, finding tension you didn’t know you were carrying.

It‘s been like this all day—casual touches, lingering glances, as if he’s constantly checking that you’re still there, still his.

The mukbanger on screen lifts a tangle of noodles high above her bowl, the broth dripping in golden rivulets back into the ceramic.

She slurps them with theatrical enthusiasm, her eyes closing in exaggerated bliss as the soup splashes against her chin.

“God, that looks good,” Caleb says, his voice roughening slightly. “Should we order something like that for dinner?”

But you barely hear him. The sight of her lips wrapped around those noodles, the slurping sound amplified by the microphone, has triggered something in your memory.

Suddenly, you’re not seeing the woman on screen anymore—you’re seeing Caleb’s face between your thighs.

Heat floods your cheeks as the memory crystallizes. Caleb tasting you. All of you. Even your...

The thought makes you squirm slightly in your seat.

He’d said you tasted sweet, but you hadn’t believed him. How could you, when part of what he’d tasted was your piss?

Caleb’s thumb presses into a tender spot on your inner thigh, jolting you from your thoughts. His eyes remain on the screen, but his touch feels more deliberate now, his fingers working higher.

The mukbanger slurps another mouthful, making exaggerated sounds of enjoyment. “Mmm, so good, so delicious,” she moans, and the sound is so close to sexual it makes your skin prickle.

What did I taste like? The question bubbles up from nowhere, insistent and demanding. You try to push it down, embarrassed by your own curiosity, but it won’t go away.

Caleb’s fingers travel higher still, massaging the sensitive flesh where thigh meets hip.

His touch is innocent enough—he’s been massaging you like this for years, a habit born from your complaints about sore muscles after classes when you were younger.

The mukbanger lifts her bowl to her lips, drinking the broth directly. “The flavor is so rich,” she says, licking her lips. “Like nothing else in the world.”

Your mouth goes dry. That’s what Caleb had said about you—that you tasted sweet, perfect. But he must have been caught up in the moment. No one could possibly enjoy the taste of... that.

The question sits heavy on your tongue, demanding to be asked. You glance sideways at Caleb, studying his profile.

His jaw is relaxed, his eyes half-lidded as he watches the screen with absent interest, hands still working your muscles on autopilot.

He looks so normal, so everyday Caleb, that it’s hard to reconcile this image with the hungry, desperate man who’d licked his fingers clean after touching you this morning.

Before you can lose your nerve, you nudge him with your knee.

Caleb jumps slightly, his head whipping toward you with startled eyes. For a split second, tension radiates from him—the instinctive reaction of a soldier to unexpected contact—before recognition softens his features.

“What’s up, Pips?” he asks, his hands stilling on your leg.

You open your mouth, then close it again, suddenly shy. The question feels too intimate, too weird, even after everything you’ve done together.

Caleb’s eyes dart to the TV, then back to you, misunderstanding your hesitation. “You want something like that?” he asks, nodding toward the screen where the woman is now slurping another mouthful of noodles. “I could order from that new ramen place on Eighth.”

You shake your head quickly. “No, it’s not that. I’m not hungry.” At least, not for food.

His eyebrow arches, curiosity piqued by your obvious discomfort. “Then what is it?” When you don’t immediately answer, he shifts on the couch, turning to face you more fully.

His hand slides from your thigh to your knee, squeezing gently. “Hey, you know you can ask me anything, right? What’s bothering you?”

“It’s stupid,” you mutter, dropping your gaze to your lap.

“Nothing you want to know is stupid,” he counters, his voice softening into that tone he uses only with you—patient, encouraging, like he has all the time in the world for your questions. “Come on, Pips. What is it?”

You bite your lip, fingers fidgeting with the hem of your shirt. Caleb waits, his thumb rubbing small circles against your knee, a gesture meant to soothe that only heightens your awareness of his touch.

“You promised,” you finally say, still not meeting his eyes. “You said there was nothing you wouldn’t tell me or teach me.”

His expression shifts, something dark and hungry flashing behind his eyes before he masters it. “I did promise that,” he agrees, voice dropping lower. “And I meant it.”

The mukbanger on screen laughs, the sound jarring in the sudden tension between you. Caleb reaches for the remote without looking, silencing the TV with a click that feels final, momentous.

“Tell me what you want to know,” he says, and it’s not quite a request.

You take a deep breath, gathering your courage. It’s just a question. A weird, embarrassing question, but still just words. And this is Caleb. Your ge ge. The man who’s seen all of you—literally—and still looks at you like you’re precious.

“Okay,” you whisper, heart hammering against your ribs. "Caleb... what did I taste like?”

The question hangs in the air between you, your voice barely above a whisper. You can’t believe you actually asked it, that the words escaped your lips.

Heat blooms across your cheeks, spreading down your neck as you force yourself to meet his gaze.

For a moment, Caleb just stares at you, purple eyes widening slightly, mouth parting in surprise. It’s rare to catch him off guard like this.

His grip on your leg tightens fractionally. A muscle jumps in his jaw as he swallows, processing your question.

“What did you taste like,” he repeats slowly, not quite a question.

His voice has dropped half an octave, taking on that rough quality that makes your stomach flutter.

You nod, not trusting yourself to speak again. Now that the question is out there, you feel ridiculous, childish.

But you need to know.

Caleb’s eyes narrow, studying you with such intensity that you want to look away.

“Why do you want to know?” he asks finally, head tilting with genuine curiosity.

The words tumble out before you can stop them. “I know you said I tasted sweet, but I don‘t believe you. You weren’t thinking clearly.” Your fingers twist in the fabric of your shirt. “I mean, I peed on your bed, Caleb. That can’t have tasted... good.”

His expression turns serious, almost academic, like he’s considering how to explain a complex topic to a student.

“You think I lied to you?” There’s no accusation in his tone, just quiet inquiry.

“Not lied exactly,” you hedge, squirming under his steady gaze. “Maybe... exaggerated? In the moment?”

A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “You think I was too caught up to notice what you actually tasted like?”

“Something like that,” you mumble, wishing you’d never brought it up.

Caleb shifts on the couch, turning more fully toward you. His hand slides up your thigh to rest on your hip, the touch casual but possessive in a way that makes your breath catch.

“You really want to know?” he asks, and now there’s a hint of something playful in his expression, a teasing light in his eyes. “The full, unfiltered truth?”

“Yes,” you say, lifting your chin slightly in defiance. “I want to know exactly what it was like.”

He hums thoughtfully, his thumb tracing small circles against your hip bone. “It‘s an interesting question, actually. Not many people stop to analyze the experience in such detail.”

The approach surprises you. You’d expected him to brush it off or make a joke, but he seems genuinely engaged with your query, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world to discuss how your bodily fluids tasted on his tongue.

“Let me think about this properly,” he continues, gaze drifting upward as if searching his memory. I want to give you an accurate answer.”

His deliberate pause stretches on, and you realize he’s dragging this out intentionally, enjoying your discomfort, your anticipation.

“Caleb,” you prompt, nudging him with your knee.

His eyes snap back to yours, a smile playing at his lips. “Getting impatient?”

You roll your eyes, trying to play it cool despite the heat burning your cheeks. “If you don’t want to answer—“

“I do,” he interrupts, his hand tightening on your hip. “I’m just trying to find the right words. It’s not something easy to describe.”

His expression grows thoughtful again. “It’s like explaining color to someone who’s never seen it, or music to someone who’s never heard it. The experience is... multi-sensory.”

The way he’s treating this—with such consideration, such seriousness—makes your embarrassment begin to fade, replaced by genuine curiosity.

“But if I had to put it into words,” he continues, voice dropping lower, “I’d say you were mostly tangy. Sharp, but not unpleasant. There was a hint of bitterness from the pee—“ He says this without flinching, as matter-of-fact as if discussing the weather. “—but it wasn’t strong. Your body was well-hydrated, so it was diluted.”

Your face burns hotter than ever, but you can’t look away from his eyes, which have darkened as he speaks, pupils dilating slightly.

“And your cum,” he says, the word rolling off his tongue like something precious, “that was sweet. Not sugary-sweet like candy, but... potent. Rich. Like honey but more complex.”

His hand slides from your hip to your stomach, resting just below your navel. The touch is gentle but possessive, his palm hot through the thin fabric of your shirt.

“There was salt too,” he adds, his gaze never leaving yours. “From your sweat, from your skin.”

His thumb brushes back and forth across your stomach, the movement hypnotic. “It’s like... have you ever tasted something that felt like it was doing you good? Not just delicious but nourishing? Healing?”

You narrow your eyes, ready to call bullshit on Caleb’s flowery description.

Medicine that could cure anything in the world? That’s laying it on a bit thick, even for him.

Your lips part, skepticism ready to spill out—when Caleb’s face suddenly contorts.

Without warning, he coughs loudly, directly in your face, the sound startlingly sharp in the quiet room. You feel the tiny spray of saliva hit your cheeks, and for a moment, you’re too shocked to react.

“What the hell, Caleb!” you sputter, shoving at his chest with both hands. The intimate tension of moments ago shatters, replaced by indignant disgust. “That’s disgusting!”

Caleb rocks back with your push, but instead of apologizing, his face twists into an even more exaggerated grimace. He coughs again, louder this time, one hand flying to his throat in a theatrical gesture.

“Sorry,” he wheezes, not sounding sorry at all. His lips twitch, betraying the laugh he’s fighting to contain. “I think I’m—“ Another hacking cough cuts off his words. “—coming down with something.”

You can’t help but laugh at his ridiculous display, even as you wipe your cheek with the back of your hand. “You’re such a child. Cover your mouth!”

Instead of heeding your advice, Caleb launches into a full-blown coughing fit, each hack more dramatic than the last. He pounds his chest with his fist, eyes watering with the force of his performance.

“I think—“ He pauses to release another theatrical cough. “—I might be dying.”

“Stop it!” You‘re laughing now, unable to maintain your outrage in the face of his absurdity. “You‘re not dying, you’re just disgusting.”

Caleb slumps against the couch, the back of his hand pressed to his forehead like a Victorian lady with the vapors. “No, this is it. The end for me. Tell Gran I loved her chicken soup. Tell the squadron my last thoughts were of proper formation flying.”

You roll your eyes, shoving at his shoulder. “You’re impossible.”

“Impossible to resist, you mean,” he corrects, breaking character for a second to flash you that cocky grin before doubling over in another fit of exaggerated coughing.

Each fake hack grows weaker, more pitiful, until he’s just making soft wheezing sounds. Slowly, deliberately, he begins to lean toward you, his substantial weight pressing against your side.

“What are you doing?” you ask, trying to maintain your stern expression despite the laughter bubbling in your throat.

“Too weak,” he gasps, slumping further until his head rests on your shoulder. “Can’t... sit up... on my own.”

His weight increases gradually as he lets more and more of his body collapse against yours. Despite his lean build, Caleb is solid muscle, and soon you’re struggling to hold him upright, pinned between his body and the arm of the couch.

“Caleb!” you protest, pushing ineffectually at his chest. “You’re crushing me!”

His only response is another pathetic cough, his face sliding from your shoulder to the crook of your neck. His breath is warm against your skin, raising goosebumps along your collarbone.

“Need... medicine,” he mumbles, voice muffled against your neck. “Dying man’s... last request.”

The theatrical coughing gradually subsides, replaced by something else—a deliberate inhale, his nose pressed against the sensitive skin below your ear. He’s sniffing you, you realize with a start, drawing in your scent with slow, deep breaths.

“Are you... smelling me?” you ask, torn between laughing and recoiling.

“Mmhmm,” he hums, the sound vibrating against your throat. He inhales again, more deeply this time. “You smell so good. Like sunshine. And happiness.”

His nose traces a path from just below your ear down to your collarbone, each breath tickling your skin.

“That tickles,” you protest weakly, squirming under his weight.

Caleb responds by nuzzling closer, his stubble scraping lightly against the sensitive skin of your neck.

Another fake cough, this one soft and directly against your pulse point, followed by an exaggerated sniffle.

You can’t help the laugh that bubbles up from your chest, your hands coming up to push at his shoulders. When he doesn’t budge, your fingers find his hair instead, tugging gently in reprimand.

“You’re the worst patient ever,” you tell him, still pulling at his dark strands.

The moment your fingers tighten in his hair, something changes. Caleb goes very still against you, his breathing shifting from exaggerated wheezes to something deeper, more controlled.

When he speaks again, the playful wheeze is gone, replaced by a low rumble that you feel more than hear.

“I think I might need more of that medicine.”

His words vibrate against your skin, and you freeze, fingers still tangled in his hair.

“Medicine?” you repeat, your voice embarrassingly high.

Caleb pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, his own dark with renewed hunger. The fake illness is gone, replaced by something far more genuine—a need that burns in his purple irises, turning them nearly black.

“Your taste,” he clarifies, one hand coming up to trace your jawline with feather-light fingers. “The cure for anything that ails me, remember?”

Your mouth goes dry at his directness, at the naked want in his expression.

“You’re not really sick,” you point out, trying to regain some equilibrium.

Caleb’s smile is slow and deliberate, the corner of his mouth quirking up in a way that makes your stomach flip.

“No,” he agrees, his thumb brushing across your bottom lip. “But I want the medicine anyway.”

His gaze drops to your mouth, then lower, making his meaning unmistakable. The hand not occupied with your face slides down to rest on your hip, warm and heavy with promise.

“What do you say, Pips?” he murmurs, leaning in until his lips hover just above yours. “You want to be my healer right? Make me feel alright?”

Caleb’s voice is low and persuasive, his breath warm against your lips. His hand slides from your hip to your thigh, squeezing gently.

“Come on, Pips. You’re curious too, aren’t you? Want to see if it tastes different now?”

There’s something hypnotic in his tone, in the steady pressure of his fingers against your flesh. His purple eyes hold yours, refusing to let you look away as he makes his case. “Just a taste. For medical purposes.”

A laugh bubbles up from your chest, breaking some of the tension. “Medical purposes? Is that what we’re calling it now?”

His answering smile is wolfish, predatory. “I’m a sick man, Y/N.” His thumb traces small circles on your inner thigh, each pass bringing him closer to the junction of your legs. “Only one cure in the world for what ails me.”

If you’re being honest with yourself, you’re curious too. Curious if it will feel as good as last time, curious what his mouth will feel like on your bare cunt.

“Okay,” you whisper, the word barely audible.

Caleb’s eyes widen slightly, as if he hadn‘t expected you to agree so easily. “Yeah?”

Instead of answering, you reach for the waistband of your pajama pants. Your hands tremble slightly with a combination of nerves and anticipation, but you don’t stop. In one fluid movement, you lift your hips and push the soft fabric down your legs.

Caleb’s breath catches audibly. “Pips—“

You kick the pants away, leaving you in just your t-shirt and a pair of simple cotton panties—pale orange with a small bow at the front. Nothing fancy or seductive, just everyday underwear that suddenly feels incredibly revealing under his heated gaze.

Before you can second-guess yourself, you shift on the couch, leaning back against the armrest and spreading your legs in invitation.

“Is this what you wanted?” you ask, your voice steadier than you expected.

Caleb doesn’t answer. He seems frozen in place, his eyes fixed between your spread thighs where your panties do little to conceal the shape of you.

A muscle jumps in his jaw as he swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing with the motion.

You’ve never seen him like this—speechless, almost dazed. Caleb, who always has a quip ready, who’s never at a loss for words, stares at you like a man hypnotized.

A thin line of saliva connects his parted lips, and you realize with a jolt of something like pride that he’s literally drooling at the sight of you.

“Ge ge?” you prompt, suddenly uncertain in the face of his silence.

The familiar endearment seems to break his trance. His gaze drags up from between your legs to meet your eyes, and the raw hunger you find there makes your breath catch.

“You,” he says, voice rough as gravel, “are going to be the death of me.”

Before you can respond, he’s moving, crawling up the couch toward you with predatory grace. His large hands wrap around your ankles, sliding up your calves in a slow caress that leaves goosebumps in their wake.

He positions himself between your spread legs, his broad shoulders forcing them wider to accommodate him.

“So beautiful,” he murmurs, his hands continuing their journey up your legs to your thighs. “So perfect for me.”

You watch, breath quickening, as Caleb lowers himself onto his stomach, his face level with your knees. His eyes never leave yours as he presses a kiss to one kneecap, then the other, the touch feather-light and achingly tender.

“Been thinking about this all day,” he confesses, kissing his way up your inner thigh. “About how you taste, how you feel on my tongue.”

Each press of his lips sends a tiny shiver through you, building anticipation as he works his way higher.

His palms slide under your thighs, lifting them slightly to give him better access, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh in a way that’s sure to leave marks.

When his mouth reaches the crease where thigh meets hip, you can’t help the small sound that escapes you—part anticipation, part plea.

Caleb smiles against your skin, a flash of teeth that’s almost feral before he continues his journey, now kissing down the center of your body.

His lips brush over your lower belly, just above the waistband of your panties. He takes his time, mapping the terrain of your body with his mouth as if committing it to memory.

Finally, his mouth hovers over the front of your panties. You can feel his breath, hot and damp through the thin cotton, raising goosebumps across your skin. He pauses there, looking up the length of your body to meet your eyes once more.

“I want to remember this,” he says, his voice rough with desire. “The way you look right now, spread out for me. So brave. So perfect.”

Before you can respond, he lowers his head, pressing his nose against the center of your panties and inhaling deeply.

The sound he makes—a groan that seems torn from somewhere deep inside him—sends heat rushing through your veins.

“Even better than this morning,” he murmurs, nuzzling against you through the fabric. His tongue darts out, tracing a line up the center seam of your panties. “Already wet for me.”

You hadn’t realized until he mentioned it, but he’s right—there’s a dampness gathering between your legs, your body responding to his attention with eager anticipation.

“Taste me,” you whisper, surprising yourself with the demand.

Caleb’s eyes flash with approval. His hands tighten on your thighs, and then his mouth is on you, open and hot through the thin barrier of your panties.

His tongue presses against the fabric, seeking the shape of you beneath, licking a broad stroke from your entrance to the sensitive bundle of nerves at the apex.

You twitch beneath him, caught off guard by the pleasure that spirals outward from his touch. Your thighs tense, instinctively trying to close against the overwhelming feeling, but Caleb holds them firmly open, his strength easily overpowering yours.

“That’s it,” he encourages between licks. “Let me make you feel good. Let me have my medicine.”

You don’t know where this sudden bravery came from—this willingness to spread yourself before him, to demand his touch.

Maybe you’re ovulating, hormones making you bolder, hungrier.

Or maybe it’s just Caleb, the way he looks at you like you’re the answer to every question he’s ever had, the way he touches you like you’re something precious.

Caleb’s arms snake around your thighs like vines, pulling you closer to his mouth with unexpected strength.

His hands slide beneath your ass, lifting you slightly off the couch to give himself better access. His eyes close as he presses his open mouth against your center, no longer just tasting but devouring, making out with your covered pussy like it’s the last meal he’ll ever have.

“Oh,” you gasp, the sound high and breathy as his tongue works against you through the thin cotton.

The wet heat of his mouth seeps through the fabric, creating a strange contrast of sensations—the softness of his tongue, the slight roughness of the cotton, the building pressure of his insistent mouth.

Caleb growls against you, the vibration sending shivers up your spine. His lips move against your covered folds, sucking and licking with increasing hunger.

The cotton of your panties, already damp with your arousal, grows saturated under his attention. You can hear the wet sounds of his mouth working against the fabric, obscene and thrilling in the quiet room.

His saliva mingles with your own moisture, creating a soaked patch that clings to your flesh, revealing the shape of your folds through the now-translucent material.

“Fuck,” Caleb mumbles against you, the curse muffled by your flesh and fabric. “So good, Pips. So fucking good.”

His hands tighten on your ass, fingers digging into the soft flesh as he pulls you even closer, grinding your center against his face.

The pressure makes you cry out, your back arching involuntarily as pleasure spirals outward from where his tongue presses against your clit through the soaked barrier.

Time seems to slow as Caleb loses himself in the act, his world narrowed to the taste and feel of you against his mouth.

He alternates between broad strokes of his tongue that cover your entire center and focused attention on your clit, sucking it through the fabric with pressure that makes your toes curl.

Something changes in his rhythm, his movements becoming more deliberate. He pulls back slightly, just enough to look at your panties, now dark with moisture and clinging to every contour of your intimate flesh.

“You taste different,” he says, voice rough with desire. He leans in again, this time pressing his nose directly against your center and inhaling deeply. “Sweeter. Stronger.”

You blink down at him, confused by the observation. “What do you mean?”

Instead of answering, Caleb dives back in, his tongue tracing the outline of your labia through the wet fabric.

He moans against you, the sound vibrating through your core, his eyes closing in apparent ecstasy.

“It‘s like...” he pulls back again, licking his lips as if savoring a fine wine. “Like everything about you just got turned up. More intense. More you.”

His eyes open, fixing you with a stare so hungry it makes your breath catch. “And so fucking sweet. Like honey but... sharper. More potent.”

You don‘t understand what he’s talking about, but the way he’s looking at you—like you’re some rare delicacy he’s discovered—makes heat bloom in your cheeks and between your legs.

Caleb inhales again, his nostrils flaring as he takes in your scent. Something shifts in his expression, a dawning realization that transforms his features into something almost predatory.

“You’re ovulating,” he says, and it’s not a question but a revelation. His pupils dilate further, nearly swallowing the purple of his irises. “That‘s why you taste different. Why you smell so good.”

Caleb’s breathing grows more ragged, his hands tightening on your flesh as if he’s fighting to maintain control.

“Your body’s getting ready,” he continues, voice dropping to a register you’ve never heard from him before—something primal and raw. “Ready to be bred. To be filled.”

The words sent a pulse of heat directly to your core, your inner walls clenching around nothing as your body responds to his voice, his words.

Caleb seems equally affected by the realization.

Something wild flashes in his eyes, a feral hunger that transforms his familiar features into something almost animalistic.

Without warning, he grips the sides of your panties, and instead of sliding them down your legs, he bares his teeth and tugs.

The fabric stretches, then gives, tearing slightly at the seam as he pulls it away from your body with his teeth.

He works the panties down your legs with a combination of hands and teeth, his movements urgent and clumsy with need.

When he finally gets them off, he doesn’t toss them aside. Instead, he holds them up, examining the soaked crotch with naked fascination.

You watch, transfixed, as he brings the wet fabric to his face, pressing it against his nose and inhaling deeply. His eyes close in apparent bliss, a low groan rumbling from his chest.

“Fuck, Pips,” he murmurs, opening his eyes to look at you through the tangle of your ruined underwear. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

Before you can respond, he opens his mouth and sucks the saturated crotch of your panties between his lips.

His eyes roll back slightly, his expression one of such intense pleasure it’s almost painful to witness. He sucks at the fabric, drawing out your taste with obscene slurping sounds.

Without the barrier of your panties, the air feels cool against your wet flesh, raising goosebumps across your skin.

“I’m getting cold,” you complain softly, though the heat building inside you contradicts your words.

Caleb’s eyes snap open, focusing on you with an intensity that makes your breath catch.

For a moment, he looks torn, clearly reluctant to part with the soaked garment in his mouth. Then, with visible effort, he pulls the panties free, giving them one last, lingering look before folding them carefully and tucking them into the pocket of his sweatpants.

“Saving those for later,” he explains, his voice a low growl that sends another shiver through you—this one having nothing to do with the temperature.

Before you can process the implications of that statement, Caleb is moving again, returning to his position between your legs.

But this time, there’s no barrier between his mouth and your flesh, nothing to mute the sensation of his hot breath against your exposed center.

His large hands slide beneath your thighs, pushing them wider as he settles on his stomach, your pussy splayed out before him like a feast he intends to devour completely.

“Keep yourself open for me,” Caleb commands, his voice rough with desire. His hands slide from your thighs to your knees, pushing them wider. “Show me all of you.”

When you hesitate, unsure of what he means, his gaze darkens. “Your pussy, Pips. Spread your folds for me. I want to see everything.”

With trembling fingers, you reach down, placing your hands on either side of your center. The position feels obscenely vulnerable—holding yourself open for his inspection like some kind of offering.

You’ve never touched yourself like this before, never examined your own body with such deliberate attention. The unfamiliarity makes your movements clumsy, uncertain.

“Like this?” you ask, voice small as you part your outer lips slightly.

Caleb’s breath catches, his eyes fixed on your fingers. “More,” he instructs, the single word tight with restraint. “Show me everything, baby. Don’t be shy.”

Swallowing your embarrassment, you press your fingers deeper, spreading yourself fully beneath his hungry gaze.

The cool air hits your exposed flesh, making you shiver. You can feel how wet you are, your arousal gathering in slick droplets at your entrance, threatening to spill onto the couch beneath you.

In the harsh afternoon light filtering through the curtains, you can see everything—and so can Caleb.

Your pussy is swollen with arousal, the delicate pink flesh shiny with your wetness. Your opening pulses visibly under his stare, clenching around nothing as if seeking his touch.

Your clit peeks from beneath its hood, engorged and sensitive even to the slight breeze of Caleb’s exhales.

“Perfect,” he breathes, the word reverent. “So fucking perfect.”

Your fingers quiver with the strain of holding yourself open, with the overwhelming vulnerability of being displayed so completely.

No one has ever seen you like this—spread wide, exposed to the light, every secret part of you revealed for inspection.

Caleb seems transfixed by the sight, his eyes darting from your entrance to your clit, mapping every fold and crease with his gaze. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, a unconscious gesture that makes your core clench again.

“Caleb,” you whisper, his name half plea, half question.

Something breaks in his expression—the last threads of his control snapping visibly as hunger overtakes him. Without another word, he dives forward, no longer able to resist the temptation you present.

The first touch of his mouth against your bare flesh draws a cry from your throat—sharp and surprised despite your anticipation.

Without the barrier of fabric, the sensation is overwhelming, his tongue hot and slick against your sensitive folds.

Caleb wastes no time with gentle exploration. He attacks your pussy with the desperation of a starving man, his nose nudging against your clit as his tongue circles your entrance.

His hands wrap around your thighs again, gripping hard enough to leave marks as he holds you open for his feast.

“So sweet,” he mumbles against you, the words vibrating through your core. “Fucking delicious.”

His tongue flattens, dragging up the length of your slit in a broad stroke that collects your arousal. You watch, transfixed, as he pulls back just far enough to visibly savor your taste, his eyes closing briefly in apparent ecstasy before diving back for more.

The sight of his dark head between your pale thighs, his mouth working eagerly against your most intimate flesh, is almost as arousing as the physical sensation.

His technique shifts, becomes more focused as he learns your body’s responses. When a particular flick of his tongue against your clit makes you gasp, he repeats the motion, cataloging your reactions.

Just as you’re growing accustomed to the rhythm of his mouth against your folds, you feel a new sensation—pressure at your entrance, firm and insistent.

Caleb’s tongue, you realize with a jolt of surprise, is pushing inside you. The intrusion is foreign but not unwelcome, your body yielding easily to his probing muscle.

You’ve never felt anything like it—the strange, slick pressure of his tongue wiggling deeper, tasting you from the inside.

“Oh god,” you breathe, unable to tear your eyes away from where his face is pressed so firmly against you that you wonder how he can breathe. “Caleb, that’s—“

He doesn’t respond verbally, just pushes his tongue deeper, curling it upward in a way that makes your thighs tremble.

The muscle is strong, more dexterous than you would have imagined, massaging your inner walls with determined strokes.

Each thrust of his tongue sends new waves of pleasure through you, building a pressure at the base of your spine that feels both familiar and more intense than what you experienced this morning.

His nose continues to bump against your clit with each movement, adding another layer of stimulation that makes coherent thought increasingly difficult.

The sensation is too much, too good. You release your grip on your cunt, your hands flying to Caleb’s hair instead. Your fingers tangle in the dark strands, tugging perhaps harder than you intend as pleasure overwhelms your coordination.

Caleb groans at the pull, the vibration traveling through his tongue and into your core. Far from discouraging him, your grip on his hair seems to spur him on. His tongue withdraws only to plunge deeper, fucking into you with increasing urgency.

Unable to close your thighs against the overwhelming sensation, you find yourself moving in a different way—lifting your hips to meet his thrusting tongue, grinding your clit against the bridge of his nose. The movement is instinctive, your body seeking more of the pleasure he offers.

“Don’t stop,” you plead, the words barely recognizable through your gasping breaths. “Please, please don’t stop.”

Your hips move with increasing urgency, rubbing yourself against his face with abandoned need.

Some distant part of you wonders if you‘re being too rough, if you’re making it hard for him to breathe, but Caleb shows no signs of discomfort or desire to pull away.

If anything, his grip on your thighs tightens further, encouraging your movements as his tongue continues its relentless exploration of your depths.

You ride his face without shame now, chasing the building pressure that promises relief. His tongue feels impossibly deep inside you, touching places you didn’t know could be reached, while his nose provides steady pressure against your throbbing clit.

Caleb’s rhythm suddenly falters, his eager movements growing erratic. He pulls back with a gasp, chest heaving as he desperately sucks in air.

His chin and lips glisten with your arousal, his eyes still dark with hunger despite his obvious need for oxygen. You whimper at the loss of contact, your body strung tight on the edge of release.

“Don’t stop,” you plead, trying to guide his head back between your thighs with your grip on his hair. “Please, I’m so close.”

“Just need a second,” Caleb rasps, voice rough from exertion. He rolls his shoulders, tilting his head from side to side. The motion produces an audible crack that makes you wince in sympathy. “This angle is killing my neck.”

You hadn’t considered the mechanics of what he was doing, how uncomfortable it must be to lay on his stomach, neck craned upward for so long. Guilt mingles with your frustration, cooling the edge of your desire.

“We can stop if you—“ you begin, but Caleb cuts you off with a sharp look.

“I didn’t say I wanted to stop.” His tongue darts out, licking his lips as if savoring the taste of you that lingers there. “I just need a better position.”

Before you can suggest alternatives, Caleb moves with sudden, decisive strength. His hands grip your hips, and in one fluid motion, he falls back onto the couch, dragging you with him.

You barely have time to register what’s happening—the room tilting, your body moving through space—before you find yourself straddling his chest, facing his feet.

“Caleb!” you gasp, disoriented by the sudden change. “What are you—“

He doesn’t answer with words. Instead, his hands slide to your waist, lifting you as if you weigh nothing at all.

For a surreal moment, you‘re suspended in air, knees no longer touching the couch, entirely supported by Caleb’s strong grip.

Then he’s pulling you backward, positioning you directly above his face.

“Wait,” you stammer, understanding dawning as he guides your knees to either side of his head. “Are you sure this is—“

Again, he doesn’t let you finish. With firm pressure, he pulls you down until your core makes contact with his eager mouth.

The new angle sends a jolt of pleasure through you, sharper and more intense than before. From this position, your weight presses you more firmly against his tongue, deepening the contact in ways that make your breath catch.

“Oh,” you breathe, the single syllable inadequate to express the sensation. Your hands fly out to brace against his thighs, steadying yourself as he resumes his feast with renewed enthusiasm.

His hands slide from your thighs to your ass, palms cupping each cheek firmly. You feel his fingers dig into the soft flesh, kneading and squeezing as his tongue works against your entrance.

Then, without warning, he spreads you wider, thumbs pulling your cheeks apart to expose you completely.

The cool air hits places that have never been exposed before, making you gasp with embarrassment and unexpected arousal.

“Caleb,” you whimper, torn between pulling away and pressing closer.

His response is a muffled groan against your flesh, the vibration traveling through your core. His tongue plunges deeper from this angle, aided by gravity and the leverage his position provides.

The sensation is overwhelming—his tongue somehow reaching parts of you that felt untouchable before, massaging your inner walls with firm, deliberate strokes.

Most shocking of all is the feeling of his nose, now pressed against the sensitive pucker of your asshole.

The unexpected contact makes you jolt forward, a startled sound escaping your throat. Caleb‘s hands immediately tighten, holding you firmly in place as his tongue continues its relentless exploration.

Far from being put off by this most intimate contact, Caleb seems to delight in it. His nose nuzzles against you deliberately now, adding pressure that sends confusing but not unpleasant sensations spiraling through your lower body.

Your fingers dig into his thighs, seeking stability in this maelstrom of new sensations. His sweatpants provide little cushioning—beneath the thin fabric, you can feel the hard muscle of his legs tensing with each movement of his mouth against you.

With your other hand, you grip the back of the couch, trying to anchor yourself as pleasure threatens to sweep you away.

Your thighs begin to shake with the effort of maintaining your position, muscles burning as pleasure coils tighter and tighter.

Instinctively, you shift your hips, seeking more direct contact where you need it most. The movement drags your clit against Caleb’s chin, the light stubble creating a friction that sends sparks shooting up your spine.

“Yes,” you gasp, repeating the motion with more purpose. “Right there.”

Caleb seems to understand immediately. His hands guide your movements, encouraging you to grind against his face at the angle that brings you the most pleasure.

His tongue withdraws slightly, focusing instead on flicking against your entrance in counterpoint to the rocking of your hips.

You find a rhythm that works—sliding forward to drag your clit against his chin, then back to feel his tongue press inside you. The combination is devastatingly effective, each circuit bringing you closer to the edge.

Sensing your building pleasure, Caleb adjusts his approach yet again. He flattens his tongue, extending it outward from his mouth like an offering.

The invitation is clear, and you take it without hesitation, positioning yourself so that your clit makes direct contact with the hot, wet muscle.

The sensation is electric—more intense than his chin, more precise than his nose had been. You rock against his outstretched tongue, using it as a platform to pleasure yourself.

His hands never leave your ass, continuing to spread you open, but he allows you to set the pace, to find exactly what you need.

You ride his tongue with growing confidence, the initial awkwardness of the position forgotten as pleasure builds to a crescendo.

Your movements grow more urgent, less coordinated as your focus narrows to the point where his tongue meets your clit.

“I’m close,” you warn, voice breaking as tension coils at the base of your spine. “Caleb, I’m so close.”

Caleb’s moment of surrender is brief. Just as you teeter on the edge of climax, his arm wraps around your waist from below, the muscles in his forearm flexing with sudden strength.

The grip is iron-tight, controlling, a reminder of the physical power he usually keeps carefully leashed. With this leverage, he takes back control, forcefully guiding your movements against his face.

Your autonomy vanishes in an instant—you’re no longer riding his tongue by choice but because he’s holding you there, dictating the pressure and pace with unwavering authority.

“Caleb!” you gasp, startled by the sudden shift. Your hands scramble for purchase, one gripping his thigh while the other clutches the back of the couch.

He doesn’t respond except to tighten his hold, using his considerable strength to lift you slightly before pulling you back down onto his waiting mouth.

The firm pressure against this most responsive part of you draws a strangled cry from your throat, pleasure so intense it borders on pain shooting through your system.

“Oh god,” you whimper, thighs trembling as Caleb repeats the motion, lifting and pulling you down again. “That’s too much, I can’t—“

But Caleb isn’t listening. His arm locks around your waist, holding you firmly in place as his free hand spreads you wider, exposing every intimate part to his hungry mouth. You feel his lips shift, moving higher, and then—

The wet heat of his mouth closes around your clit entirely, sucking the sensitive bud between his lips with gentle but insistent pressure.

The sensation is so overwhelming, so unexpected, that your mind goes blank, your vocabulary reduced to a single, keening cry that doesn‘t even sound like your voice.

Caleb suckles at your clit like it’s a pacifier, applying rhythmic pressure that sends shock waves of pleasure radiating outward.

It’s a different sensation from the licking and rubbing before—more concentrated, more intense, building pressure that feels like it might shatter you from the inside out.

His lips form a seal, creating a gentle vacuum that makes your hips jerk involuntarily against his face. The arm around your waist tightens further, holding you steady for his ministrations, refusing to let you escape the overwhelming pleasure he’s inflicting.

Just when you think you can’t bear any more, his technique changes again. His lips release your clit only to latch onto your outer labia instead.

The feeling of him sucking your folds into his mouth, applying pressure to flesh that’s never received such attention, draws another startled gasp from you.

He alternates between sides, sucking first one fold then the other between his lips. The tugging sensation is foreign but undeniably arousing, blood rushing to the delicate tissues as he manipulates them with his mouth.

Then, to your shock, you feel the gentle scrape of teeth—not biting, just holding, pulling the sensitive flesh with the barest hint of pressure that walks the line between pleasure and pain.

“Caleb,” you moan, no longer sure if you’re begging him to stop or pleading for more. Your thighs quiver uncontrollably, muscles burning with the strain of holding this position and the onslaught of sensation.

His response is to suck harder, his mouth working your flesh with increasing urgency. There’s a desperation to his movements now, a frenzy that wasn’t there before.

Through the haze of your pleasure, you remember his earlier observation—that you’re ovulating, that your taste is different. The thought that your body’s natural cycle is driving him to this state of abandon only heightens your arousal.

You can feel him inhaling deeply between sucks, drawing your scent into his lungs as if he could absorb you that way too.

His grip on your waist shifts, becomes somehow more possessive, more primal. The arm holding you grinds you down harder against his face, as if he’s trying to crawl inside you through sheer force of will.

The pressure builds rapidly, a tight coil of heat at your center that winds tighter with each pull of his lips, each press of his nose against your clit.

Your breathing becomes shallow, your vision narrowing until all you’re aware of is the point where his mouth connects with your pussy and the tension threatening to snap inside you.

“I’m going to—“ The warning dissolves into a wordless cry as the tension finally breaks. Your orgasm crashes through you with unexpected force, your inner walls clenching rhythmically around nothing as waves of pleasure radiate outward from your core.

Your body convulses, hips jerking against Caleb’s face without any conscious control on your part. His arm around your waist tightens further, holding you firmly against his mouth as he works you through the peak.

But unlike before, Caleb doesn’t slow or stop when your climax begins. If anything, his movements become more insistent, his suction increasing as if determined to draw every last drop of pleasure from your trembling body.

What started as ecstasy quickly tips toward overstimulation, your sensitive cunt protesting the continued attention.

“Too much,” you gasp, pushing weakly at his thigh. “Caleb, stop, it’s too much!”

He either doesn’t hear or chooses to ignore your plea, continuing his relentless feast as if unaware that your climax has come and gone.

His lips and tongue work against your oversensitive flesh, drawing out aftershocks that border on painful in their intensity.

Desperation lends you strength. You plant your hands on his thighs and push yourself up and away from his devouring mouth, breaking his grip around your waist.

The sudden absence of contact leaves you shaking, every nerve ending still firing with residual pleasure.

For a moment, you stay there, hovering above him on trembling limbs, your chest heaving as you try to catch your breath. Caleb’s eyes open, meeting yours with a gaze so dark and hungry it makes your heart stutter despite your recent release.

His face is a mess—chin and cheeks slick with your arousal, lips swollen from his enthusiastic attentions.

With careful movements, you shift away from him, settling back on the couch beside his form. Your legs feel like jelly, muscles weak from exertion and release.

Caleb sits up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he eyes you with a satisfaction that borders on smug.

“You okay?” he asks, voice rough and low.

You nod, not trusting your voice just yet. Your body feels simultaneously boneless and hypersensitive, every brush of air against your still-exposed lower half sending tiny shivers across your skin.

Caleb reaches into his pocket, pulling out the panties he stashed there earlier. With deliberate movements, he uses the fabric to wipe his face, cleaning away the evidence of your pleasure from his skin.

You watch as he examines the now-doubly-soaked garment, turning it in his hands with apparent fascination. Then, to your shock, he opens his mouth and stuffs the entire bundle of fabric inside, cheeks bulging slightly as he sucks on your panties like they’re a piece of candy.

His eyes meet yours as he does this, challenging, unapologetic. After a moment, he removes the panties, now darker and wetter than before, and carefully folds them before returning them to his pocket.

Before you can formulate a response to this bizarre but strangely erotic behavior, Caleb reaches for the remote, increasing the TV volume as if nothing unusual has happened.

The mukbang show resumes, the woman now enthusiastically devouring a platter of dumplings.

Caleb shifts on the couch, positioning himself beside you. His hand finds your bare thigh, traveling upward until his thumb rests against your still-sensitive pussy.

The touch isn’t demanding or insistent—just present, his thumb making small, idle circles against your flesh as his attention returns to the screen.

“This is a good episode,” he comments, as casual as if he hadn’t just devoured you with animal hunger minutes before. “She’s trying that new place on Fifth Street. We should go there sometime.”

You stare at him, bewildered by his ability to switch from feral to normal so quickly. Yet his hand remains between your legs, thumb still tracing lazy patterns against your core, maintaining that connection even as he acts as if you’re just watching TV together like any other day.

Exhaustion suddenly washes over you, the intensity of your orgasm combined with the emotional whiplash of the afternoon leaving you drained.

His arm comes around you, pulling you closer to him. His thumb continues its gentle exploration between your legs, more soothing than arousing now, like he’s playing with a fidget toy—something to keep his hands busy while his mind focuses elsewhere.

“Rest, Pips,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “I’ve got you.”

As you drift toward sleep, his thumb still idly circling your center, you can’t help but wonder what other things Caleb might want to teach you during his month home. And why, despite the strangeness of it all, you find yourself eager to learn.

Comment to be tagged!

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[nottellingofname]

i think i was ovulating when i wrote this so i kinda projected that onto our beloved y/n HAHAHA

[girl-wnder]

Batfam Fic Recs

updated 4/26/2026

Jason Todd

Just Us Two: Damian loves intruding on your and Jason's alone time.

Third time's The Charm: The two times Jason almost told you he liked you, and the one time he finally did.

Baby Came Home: After you lose your powers while trying to take down a partnership between Lex Luthor and Penguin, Jason and you confront your deepest fear — being each other's second choice. When the rest of the batboys lock you in the Batcave, though, the confession becomes inevitable.

How Can We Go Back to Being Friends: You hook up with your best friend, and now you don’t know how to act around each other.

Damian, You Are So Psyched: Damian came home from school yesterday acting off, so now it's your goal to cheer up the distant little boy.

Don’t Judge a Book by Its Leather Jacket: Jason has been telling himself he's visiting the little coffee shop at the end of the block for its cheap coffee, but it's his only way to see the cute barista every day and quote "Pride and Prejudice" at her until she falls for him.

Don't Judge a Book by Its Leather Jacket (sequel)

Not what you think: Jason went snooping and thinks you're cheating on him. Good luck explaining yourself!

A shear disaster: Your boyfriend is acting suspicious and won't take off his helmet.

Guilty pleasures: You cheat on your boyfriend, Jason, with the Red Hood.

Unexpected Guests: Damian finds out you're dating Jason.

Rough Night: Your secret relationship with Jason is accidentally revealed the morning after a rough night.

The Babysitter: After being hired to babysit Damian Wayne, you end up putting a masked intruder in a chokehold, only to realize you’ve just tackled his older brother, Jason Todd.

Making an Ass of U & Me: Jason didn’t mean to keep your existence secret from his family. At first, it was for his and your own protection more than anything; his double life wasn’t just for any average person after all. But, even after the whole marriage and settling down thing, he may have just forgotten to mention it.

Careless Accidents: You get hurt, and Jason’s pissed.

So This is Love: You show each other what love is supposed to be like (4 in 1)

The Gift of Truth: After figuring out that your boyfriend is Red Hood, you struggle to figure out a way to tell him you are aware of his “nightly activities.” When Jason finally introduces you to his family a week before Christmas, you are presented with the perfect opportunity to tell him

Pride & Prejudice: When you first meet Jason Todd, he seems to be nothing more than an entitled asshole, but as the seasons change, you begin to realise maybe you were wrong about him.

Good With Kids: You never really had an opinion on your colleague Red Hood, that is until you walk into him interacting with some kids.

The Investigator: The Batfamily discovers Jason's been hiding a long-distance relationship with someone who might be even more terrifying than Batman himself.

Are You Dating My Teacher: Bruce decides to cash in a favor that Jason owed him, and now the Red Hood- the most ruthless vigilante of Gotham- is chaperoning his youngest brother’s field trip to the zoo.

Who Do You Love: You're hopelessly in love with your classmate, Jason Todd. And you just so happen to be quite good friends with Red Hood. drunk one night, you admit you have feelings for Jason to your vigilante friend, not knowing the man behind the mask is the man you're in love with.

When She Sees Me: Your best friend Dick Grayson took you to one of Bruce's galas a while ago. When Dick finds out his brother has a crush on you, he decides to play Cupid.

Blah Blah Blah: Jason is angry after watching Wuthering Heights. You are horny watching him get angry.

Cover Blown: You and Jason cannot stand one another. Unfortunately. you both go undercover as a married couple, and that should'nt change things between you two... right?

La Vie en Rose: The four times Jason wildly preferred you over everyone else.

Kiss or Miss: A quiet Saturday at the shooting range becomes anything but when Jason decides hands on help is the best kind.

Can I: It’s your last year of university and Jason Todd has been in your classes, plotting on you. You’d promised yourself you’d make the most of this year, go to more parties, finally lose your virginity, and step out of your comfort zone, while Jason steps into yours.

Glad It Was You Prove It To You Hit Me

The Magic Words: You’ve been urging to tell your boyfriend that you love him and you finally do.

Ice Skating With Jason: Ice skating, jealousy, and accidental confessions... what could go wrong?

Random blurbs Old habits Revealing Secrets I'm still right though Jason accidentally reveals he has a soon-to-be fiancée Interrupted Dates First Time Shy (but experienced) Jason and his freaked-out (but inexperienced) girl Jason Todd who makes everything in your home kiss Random Headcanons My pretty, pretty girl Collar Jason has a wet dream while you’re trying to wake him up

Dick Grayson

Sweater Weather: Dick just wanted to have lunch with his best friend, but he didn't expect you to show up in some other guy's sweatshirt.

The Light Behind Your Eyes: A week spent at Dick’s apartment leads Damian to discover what unconditional love looks like.

Hard to Impress: Dick Grayson can't seem to make you swoon, no matter how hard he tries, until he finally does

The "She's With Me" Is The New Gaelic Shrug (sequel)

Easy lovers: After a series of dates, dick finds himself desperate and decides that tonight will not end until he gets to walk home with a kiss from you.

Miraculous partners: Basically, a "Miraculous Ladybug" plot between you and Dick.

Territory, Marked: Damian makes an unexpected friend at the dog park, and when his older brother tags along one day, he takes a little too much interest.

Dinner Was Not Served: Dick had one goal: to seduce his girlfriend. He forgot the part where he should check for unwanted guests first and narrates his plans in very, vivid detail.

Stakeout at Table Nine: Dick Grayson just wanted a normal date. No suits. No masks. Definitely no Batkid stakeout at a fancy restaurant. Too bad his siblings brought disguises, drama, and a front-row seat to his love life.

Lightning Strikes Twice: Nightwing accidentally develops feelings for the anxious woman whose rescue has become part of his regular nightly routine by this point.

Whatever You Say Teach: Damian gets in a fight at school, and his favorite teacher has to set up a meeting with a parent or guardian. Bruce Wayne is away on a mission and Alfred isn’t picking up the phone, so Damian’s eldest brother has to attend a parent teacher conference. Only to find out that he has history with his little brother’s English Lit teacher.

His Person: You and dick have been close friends for years now, and that's all it would ever be, but after he snaps and upsets you, things change.

Random blurbs Take him back, please! Revealing Secrets Interrupted Dates

Damian Wayne

Near: He hates contact, except apparently when it’s you he’s inching toward.

Nepo Vigilante: After your parents die, you inherit their legacy as vigilantes, reluctantly stepping into a life you never asked for. Bruce takes you in to honor a promise to them, pairing you with Damian, whose cruelty and perfectionism push you to your limits, until one day, fed up, you choose to train with Tim instead, sparking Damian’s outrage.

When The Spite Dies: You were expected to quit after Damian Wayne’s first vicious insult, but fueled by spite, you stayed— only to end up hopelessly attracted to the despicable man and vice versa.

When The Spite is Desire (sequel)

The Heart Remembers: Damian's short-term amnesia from a concussion causes complications when he refuses to believe the break-up ever happened—and his missing memories dissolve all defenses and unravel the true depths of his undying devotion for you.

The Only Exception: Getting a list of everything Damian hates, you feel self-conscious about ticking the boxes in that list—and try to fix that, not knowing that you’re Damian’s only exception.

Animal Interests: Damian’s father drags him along to an old acquaintance's house for intel, only to find that her teen also has an interest in animal rescues. In other words, she has a rescued panther as a pet

Random Blurbs Interrupted Dates Damian Wayne and Reader Get Domestic

Tim Drake

If I Was Your Boyfriend: Tim Drake had his eyes on you from the very first week of the semester. So now he’s praying for your (ex) boyfriend’s downfall, because God forbid a man openly plots to have you for himself instead.

Dairy Queen Closes in 10 Minutes: You broke up with Tim a year ago. Too bad he still thinks of you as his. Too bad everything he does reminds you that you are.

Random Blurbs Interrupted Dates

Bruce Wayne

The Wrong Man’s Wife: The Justice League members think Batman is in love with Bruce Wayne's wife.

Like Real People Do: Bruce's wife goes missing, and the media and family are both in shambles. Bruce grows colder as the family tries their best to find her. To try and cheer him up, they find old video diaries from the couple’s early dating lives and witness a new side of Bruce.

The Watchtower's Worst Kept Secret: The Justice League suspects something is happening between Batman and Bruce Wayne's wife.

Seven Smacks: Bruce Wayne was a stubborn and fiercely independent man, which meant that his children were too. Unfortunately for you, that meant that scolding one of them was practically a moment to scold both.

The Bat's Wife: Some members of the league are still surprised by the way the Dark Knight's wife looks.

Oh, It's... Gold: Bruce made a small mistake on a gift he gave you, and everyone judged him for it.

Random blurbs Revealing Secrets

[mindfulmesses]

rebloging so i don’t lose this!!!

[fushitoru]

in another life, i would make you stay a gojo satoru (fix it) series

pairing ⸺ reincarnated!gojo x reincarnated!reader

summary ⸺ you are a sorcerer, married to your husband who bears the burden of being the strongest. firsthand, you watch the love of your life fall apart, the world burdening him until, finally, he dies at the hand of sukuna. as you watch him through the broadcast, you blankly volunteer to be nextand you die, praying to whatever merciful god out there that, in another life, you and satoru get the happy ending you both deserved— until you wake up from your dream, gasping.why the hell was your dream so vivid? you were some sort of magician? with a smoking HOT husband? and why the fuck does the guy that's ten minutes late to the first day of lectures look EXACTLY like him?

warnings ⸺eventual smut fluff and angst (the holy trinity), hurt/comfort, reincarnation fic, basically you and gojo have a miserable life in canon and get reincarnated into a modern au where i fix everything and give you the romcom you deserve, canon typical violence, jjk manga spoilers, mentions of blood and injury, major character death, fem reader implied

masterlist

01 ⸺ What a Weird Fucking Dream

the first day of your semester is precendeted by a very odd dream involving sorcerers and a hot ass husband. which you then see in lecture (3.7k)

02 ⸺ Note to Self: Don't Call Random Guys your Husband (soon!)

[kamislop]

walking in on roommate!touya watching porn send tweet 18+ MDNI!!!

it’s been a long day. classes were excruciating, that jerk who came in over your shift was rude as fuck and you almost said fuck it, but you really do need the money and can’t risk getting fired; you did spit in the dude’s coffee, though.

when you come home and greet “hello” into the void, no one answers, so you assume touya - your roommate - is either still busy with class or at the gym with keigo (not with tomura because the most training the guy gets in is for a fortnite tournament). his door is closed, so you don’t even bother checking.

you just go through the motions of unwinding: unpack your bag, get a fresh pair of pjs out of the closet and head to the bathroom to take a long relaxing shower. with your playlist playing loud enough over the sound of the water stream, you can’t hear anything else.

touya’s had a long fucking day. he woke up to a myriad of texts from his shitty dad which he didn’t bother reading and two missed calls from “hookup blonde #3” at 3am (he immediately blocked the number). none of his classes were interesting enough for him, not when he knows he’s going to ace every exam without even trying, and in hindsight, he guesses enrolling in a faculty of his father’s choosing wasn’t that terrible. at the gym, keigo chewed his ear off about whatever he had already tuned out by then.

yeah, touya’s life was soooooo hard.

and you were the problem.

you see, from the moment you’ve moved in with touya, you’ve been a real big pain in the ass. but it’s not because you’re a bad roommate (he’s never seen you leave a dirty spot anywhere), or a bad person, or anything bad someone might think. no, you’re perfect. and that is not okay.

because touya just seems to get hard every fucking time you’re around. even when you’re doing the most mundane thing like cleaning the kitchen counter or hum along the opening music of your favorite show when you’re watching TV— he can’t take it. the only thing he can do is hole himself up in his room and jerk off enough times to be normal and bear existing in the same space as you.

you must think he’s an asshole - which frankly, he is - but it’s not like he can simply say “hey, you make me so horny i either cum 4 times in a row or i’ll have to check myself into a mental hospital”. yeah, not exactly gentlemanly of him. he’s also thought of releasing this restlessness with somebody in his roster, however, the last time touya had a girl in his bed while you were on a night out with your friends he ended up calling her your name…whoops?

the moment he steps into the apartment, he knows he’s fucked. he’d gone through the day almost on autopilot because of how pent up he was, and he can barely think straight when he hears the water running. just thinking about you taking a shower, droplets clinging to your skin where his tongue should be instead. he can’t take it.

and in the heat of the moment, he forgets to lock the door.

you didn’t mean to peek.

you were fresh out of the shower, and in the short journey from the bathroom to the kitchen - in nothing but a flimsy towel wrapped around you - you noticed touya’s bedroom’s door was ajar. then came the unmistakable sounds. flames erupted all over your body, a yelp escaping your lips when you catch a glimpse of touya’s—

“y/n?”

shit. shitshitshitshitshit.

with your back pressed against the wall and a hand clammed over your mouth, you hope he won’t notice. that he’ll think he’s just imagined it, and goes back to…whatever he was doing so you can skedaddle and leave him undisturbed. you'd just have to find a way to forget everything you’ve just witnessed.

“i know you’re there.”

his voice sounds different. you’ve never heard him like this. it’s deep, like when he’s fresh out of bed, but it carries an edge that says ”you’re in trouble”.

the only thing you can do is take a deep breath and take a tentative peep once more. “y-yes? i’m sorry, touya, i-i didn’t mean to…i didn’t even know you were home,” you squeak, hand shaking as you hold the towel flush to your chest. “i won’t interrupt you again, i’ll just go—”

“come watch with me,” he cuts you off. you can’t see his face, you don’t dare to open the door any further, but you can imagine it. “you were already watching anyway, so might as well get a closer look, no?”

“was not!” you protest, but it comes out weak. he has the nerve to chuckle. “c’mon, pretty, don’t make me get up to come get you. i mean of course, i won’t do anything you don’t want to, but the offer’s up.”

his words hang in the air for a beat too long. “are…are you dressed?” you ask meekly. “of course i’m dressed. i’m horny but i’m not a perverted creep,” he taunts. not that much of a perverted creep, he thinks. but you don’t need to know that.

he almost backtracked immediately when he saw you slip into his bedroom with only that flimsy towel around you, instead letting a grin stretch over his face. a predator locking eyes with its prey. “pretty,” he murmurs under his breath, icy blues watching you approach the bed.

“this is so stupid,” you grumble. “and you watch porn on your laptop? get on with the times, dude.” touya snorts, shrugging his shoulders. “i’m gonna have to need glasses if i squint my eyes too much to look at my phone. if anything, it’s for my health.”

you shake your head, but your gaze keeps flicking between his tented sweatpants and the paused frame on his laptop. it seems pretty basic and vanilla - boring ass man, you think - with the guy fucking the girl in doggy on the couch, her knees on the armrest while he’s standing.

“you look disappointed?” his voice brings you back to the ridiculous situation you’ve gotten yourself into. “no, it’s just an average watch for an average man, i guess.”

touya drags a loooong look over your figure, not only admiring your figure but also observing your body language, those micro-movements that give you away. he presses play. you wince when the video resumes suddenly, the actress’s pornographic moans (no pun intended) filling up the room.

the laptop rests in touya’s lap, slightly angled towards where you’re idly standing next to his bed, like the idiot that you are. why the fuck are you even here? this is—

“enough,” you tighten the towel around you once more, clearing your throat. “i don’t know why i agreed to this, i don’t know why—”

“you’re wet?”

you’ve already taken two steps towards the door when he asks that, and it takes every ounce of will in your body to not roll your eyes at him. he raises his eyebrows, waiting for an answer. “well?” he urges. “there’s nothing wrong with it, y’know? we’re humans, we get turned on by this, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. so, are you wet?”

you don’t even give yourself the time to think before you reply. “why don’t you come and find out?”

the laptop toppled down the bed from the sheer hunger he lunged himself at you with. you barely have any time to register your back hitting the wall, your towel falling to the ground as touya drops to his knees for you. one of your legs is thrown over his shoulder, and his face is buried in your cunt.

“o-oh fuck!”

“you’re not wet…you’re mmm- drenched,” his words are almost drowned by the lewd slurps he's drawing out with his mouth, tongue lavishing your soppy pussy like this is his last meal. in all honesty, it might as well be, because touya would die a happy, fulfilled man after getting a taste of you.

“touya…touya- fuck, s-slow down!” you keen, hips bucking into his ravenous maw. his lips close in around your clit, already puffy and flushed, wrenching the most pathetic mewl from your chest. “slow down? slow down?” he says like it’s a blasphemy. purposeful fingers dig into the plush of your ass, tugging you even closer.

it’s maddening. your brain has long short-circuited, pleasure overtaking any rational function. you’re grateful, because otherwise you would be wondering just how did you get into this whole predicament, with your obnoxiously hot roommate eating you out against the wall of his bedroom. never in your dirtiest late-night fantasies of him would you have fathomed this.

“shit, you’re so sweet,” he mumbles against your folds, flat tongue licking stripe over your slit, slow enough to make you chase after him with a long moan. “aht, aht,” touya tuts, giving your ass a warning squeeze. “giving me all that attitude…you’re gonna behave now.”

you want to object, but all you can manage is a bratty whine. you can feel him grinning against you. his free hand brushes over your inner thigh before a long digit circles your wet hole. touya could tease you a little longer, until you’re crying and begging for him, but he’s waited far too long to have you like this he might be even more impatient than you.

his middle finger slides right in, followed by his index only moments later when he doesn’t find much resistance. your walls suck him in so deliciously he groans at the thought of just how good you’ll feel around his cock.

“touya, please—” you gasp, back bowing away from the wall in a perfect arch when his wrist flicks just right, digits pumping against the bullseye of your g-spot with scary accuracy. he unlatches from your cunt only to look up at you with those sapphire eyes and that smirk, and if you were any more coherent, you’d be furious at how pretty he looks with his chin glistening in your juices.

“are you gonna cum? pretty girl’s gonna cum all over my face, hm?” he teases before diving back in, taking your clit in his mouth with a sloppy french kiss, driving you right over the edge. you cum with a shrill of his name, fingers lodged in his snowy hair, keeping him glued to you. he works you through every peak, until your legs are jelly and he has to keep you upright before you collapse.

touya stays kneeling on the floor a while longer, watching you with some dumb adoration you don’t quite register, still trying to recover from the powerful orgasm. in the midst of your afterglow, you glance down at him. “what now?”

“what now?” he echoes, gently niblling your thigh. “since what i was watching got you so worked up, it’s only fair we recreate it now, don’t you think?”

yeah, he wasn’t letting go of you anytime soon.

┊┊a/n. yeah i know i've already written something similar but IDCCC it's my ovulation and i decide the smut to write. also this was supposed to be much shorter? idk what happened i got lost in the cocky bastard touya banter sauce ++ it's so fricking late if there are any typos pls live with it IT'S ALMOST 2AM GOODNIGHT.

────⋆୨♡୧⋆────

@ kamislop || masterlist ◦ Ko-fi ◦ commissions ◦ requests ◦ taglist

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©kamislop 2026, do not copy, translate or upload my works without credit, do not use for AI training

[bbunisre]

DRIVE ME INSANE! — ryomen sukuna

SUMMARY ★ he believes you don't matter to him. just one more annoying fangirl. showing up to his races, being obnoxiously chatty and your flirting—god, does it end? sukuna dreads you. however, he starts reciprocating, as a joke, of course! until it doesn't feel like a joke anymore and he wants nothing but you on his side.

PAIRING ★ streetracer!sukuna x fem!reader

CONTENT WARNINGS / GENRES / TAGS ★ smau w/ written chapters, smut, angst, sukuna is a lot older than reader, older brother to choso and yuji, he was in jail for getting caught racing LOL, nsfw/vulgar jokes like allll the time, inumaki talks (UNFORTUNATELY), sukuna playing w her feelings, he is toxic!

NOTE ★ i don't know too much about street racing, so if i make mistakes pls lmk!!

PROFILES: YOU THE BIRTHDAY CAKE | FUTURE COUGARS & MILFS

01: WHAT SHALL I RENDER?

02: LET'S ALL MOAN

03: 15 UNFORTUNATE SIGNS YOUR HUSBAND DOESN'T LOVE YOU ANYMORE

04: START LINE (1.1K)

05: LIKE YOU RUMPELSTILSKIN

06: SEX TAPE

07: NICE ASS (0.6K)

08: I HAVE TO CUM

09: WHO GOT CHLAMYDIA?

10: S[HE] BE[LIE]VED

11: THE DAY OUR FRIENDSHIP DIED FOR 3 SECONDS

12: THE POEM INCIDENT (0.9K)

13: MR EMOTIONALLY CONSTIPATED

14: MY BAD (1K)

15: ASS CONNOISSEUR

16: RIDING WITH THE ENEMY (0.7K)

17: TAKE IT LIKE A GOOD BOY

18: LIKE A MIRROR

19: SLAP HIM SILLY! (1.5K)

20: WHO IS HE?

21: FILLER

22: DELIVERY

23: HORNY (written)

24: HMMM IDK YET

25: GOOD LUCK CHARM (written)

26: GOT YOUR GIRL!

27: DIDN'T WANNA SEE U ANYWAYS

28: FIX YOUR SHIT

29: WRITER'S BLOCK (written)

30: YOU STRESS ME OUT (written)

more to come!! (est. 32 chapters)

FIRST TAGLIST (CLOSED) @b4tm4nn @love-d-luxe @in-aa @kurtcobaingirlie @hannahzg8 @goopzzz @therealmikeross @izakyun @jjkslvt @strwbrrysatoru @kmhsjy @honeysilkdawn @moonmintedx @charlisflyingangell @4rm-the-mf-concrete @chiizuyu @colortheoryrocks @chosoissohotugh @getosuguwife @cl3xr @satorugooner @cosmosspace @marija4674 @snowstriper101 @wqsrs @arithemod @yanelis-world @ehcilhc @ilunita13 @b9nii @ilovetoes @mo072806 @vampshxde @deeeeexx @hushkuna @salad85 @dabi-vakarian @marscars237 @ejk31 @lxne-moon @iluvmegumiiiii @emluvsgetou @tsnmmhrz @mxchiii @akiw0 @blu3berryies @whaddupbaby @kagstobioisthelightofmylife @ackermanandsukuna @gothicbeastgirl 

AUTHOR'S NOTE ★ this has been sitting in the drafts for too long RELEASE EM!

[madamechrissy]

˚⊹♡ Fade Out ♡⊹˚

It's your ten year high school reunion and there's just one person you're don't want to see, your first love - Satoru Gojo. He was the football captain, you were the cheerleader, it was that high school love that consumed you, only for it to all fall apart when Satoru broke your heart. Even after all these years, you still resent him for it, you hate him, in fact - so how do you two end up in the backseat of his sports car!?

˚⊹♡ pairings- ex bf! gojo x reader

˚⊹♡warnings- a little angsty, past emotions, high school sweethearts, you were a cheer captain and he was an allstar player, flashbacks, idiots in love, insecurities, teasing, mutual pining, longing, oral ( f receiving) fingering, squirting, riding him in the backseat, love confessions, happy ending <3

this one just randomly popped into my head out of nowhere, comments/rbs always appreciated if you enjoy! Wc- 7.3k

Art creds right here!

Ten years - it's been ten years since you saw him, your first love, your first kiss, the first everything.

High school reunion and truly the two of you look the same, he's a little buffer, his shoulders are broader, perhaps his jaw has sharpened ever so slightly - but it's undeniably him and you. Satoru Gojo - the top football player in the school and you - the pretty cheerleader who was always with him.

On him, near him, on top of him in the front seat of his sports car, smacking your head and giggling as he fucked up into you, stretching you out on his cock. He'd been sweet that first time, even as you all snuck around and parked in the middle of nowhere, even with the cramped confines.

Yet he'd been there - kissing you deep, messy and slow, pumping you up and down that veiny length as you took more and more from him, kissing you with his tongue ring clicking against your teeth. You'd whined out, desperately arching for more, shattering and fluttering your eyes shut.

The memories heat you up as you stand there across from him, trembling with your thighs pressed together, nails pressing into your palms, seeing him catching up with all his friends. He'd gone to university, but you'd gone out of state, and that was when it had all fallen apart.

The pain is there, lingering, eating at you - yet those feelings linger, the first love, the youth you all had where you couldn't get enough of each other, just for it all to end.

When those eerie blue eyes catch you across the room, however, he's not smirking, not laughing and shoving his friends, no he's got them locked on you now. Suguru and Nanami pause, peering over at you, then at each other, as you turn and rush to grab a drink.

You can't even stand to be in the same room with him after ten years.

You run into Shoko and Utahime, they give you a hug and the three of you throw back a shot, laughing a bit as you catch up with them.

“You two together, hmm?” Your lips twitch up in amusement, they look at each other and then kiss. “Stop that, you’re making me jealous!”

“Have you decided to stop being into men?”

“No I wish,” you pout and lean back, letting Shoko grab you another shot. “It’s been nothing but hell.”

“Another shithead?” Utahime asks, frowning a bit.

“Yeah, but it was three years…” You shake your head. “I shouldn’t talk about it, I’ll cry again, and I am not crying with Gojo at this party.”

“Ah, Gojo,” Utahime makes Shoko laugh. “What, I can’t stand him!”

“He’s not that bad, just an idiot,” she grabs her pack of cigarettes and starts smacking them on her palm, raising a dark brow as you look over at him, turning quickly when he catches you staring.

“You still have it bad, all these years, sweets?”

“No! Shoko!” You cover your face and shake your head. “Never again, I haven’t even spoken to him.”

“In ten years?” Shoko asks, surprise clear on her features.

“No, I’ve not even been in the country for five years, but he never reached out to me, and neither did I, aside from when his parents were sick and it was on the news. I did write to him, but he just… hearted it. I’m sure he had a lot going on.”

And that fucking hurt, that you couldn’t even comfort him, that you knew he faced a fuck ton of responsibilities now. Yet all these years Satoru hearted one of your photos, and reacted to the only message you sent – you swear the heart must have been a misclick, too.

It hurts so bad, that you were too stubborn to reach out in the darkest times, that he wouldn’t leave your memories. Sure – it faded, you went and got your master’s degree, you went abroad, now you’re back home, though, and you couldn’t help but wonder if you’d run into him somewhere. Yet, Satoru had been doing a lot of traveling himself this past year.

You’d know, you stalked his IG.

How pathetic after a decade to still want to know about him, but there was nothing to be done – since the breakup you’ve been even more so thinking of him.

Of how nothing ever felt like him touching you, him inside you, him looking at you the way he did. Yet it’s always overshadowed by the fact that you never heard him say those words, just three words that you craved so badly as a young girl. Even now, the words that spill from your lips never feel the same as that confession.

“He takes care of the company now, I think that’s hard for him.”

“He’s still just a dick,” Utahime says to Shoko, she laughs and shakes her head at her. “Sorry, but he is.”

“You two always hated each other,” you muse, peeking again to see him walking over. “Shit!”

“I’m… gonna smoke,” you gasp and Shoko grabs Utahime. “Outside… bye, baby!”

“You brats!” You hiss as they laugh and rush out, you tense as you smell his goddamn cologne the closer he gets.

Bergamot.

It was so distinctly him – even when he had none of it on, his smell on clean skin just did something – especially with raging hormones as a teenager. You clench your thighs just inhaling him, trying to ignore his very presence, but he’s already standing next to you, murmuring your name.

“Gojo.” He raises a brow, he’s just gotten hotter, his jaw is so cut it’s unfair, his blue eyes peeking at you.

Suddenly you’re nervous, tugging at your dress – you’re not eighteen anymore, your tits don’t sit up quite like they did, your hips widened, you’re just… different. And Satoru looks the same, if not more cut.

You become conscious of everything, almost holding your breath as he takes you in, smiling at you. His girl you’d seen him with was a fucking actress, you’re just a small town girl, nothing glamorous. Surely he wanted-

Why do you care what he wants?

Why is he sending you spiraling just coming near you?

“What do you want?” He sighs at that, the cocky grin off his face, easing back when you push at his chest just a bit, hand pausing before you tug it back, staring down into your drink.

“That’s the greeting I get, sweetheart? After a decade?”

“Should just smack you.”

“I’d probably like it,” you snort and roll your eyes, making his tentative little smile come back, sitting next to you. “Can’t I get a hi?”

“Hi,” you narrow your eyes now. “And bye.”

“God you’re mean,” he leans close, lips brushing against your ear, your heart hammers in your chest. “It’s hot on you.”

“You’re so full of it,” you lean back and sip your drink, narrowing your eyes at him. “As if you don’t have a girlfriend or five.”

“Yeah, no,” you raise a brow. “I was engaged, but that was over as of… let’s see,” he calculates in his head. “A month now.”

“Oh,” you frown, looking down at your own finger, the little change of color where the band once was. “Me too, but like two months.”

“Shit, I’m sorry,” you shrug a bit, seeing his eyes dart to your finger.

“He fucked my former best friend – and she got pregnant.”

“What!?”

“Yeah,” you throw back the rest of your wine, shaking your head. “Go ahead, laugh at it.”

“Why would I fucking do that?” You look at him and feel your heart pound in your chest at his face, at how he looks at you in that moment.

Fuck you missed him, didn’t you?

“You were mean then,” you whisper, and he falters, looking down, hurt clear on his features. “So mean to me at the end.”

“I know that,” it kills him to think of then, how upset he had been that you weren’t going to his university, the sheer upset of you moving, the fear of how desperately in love he was already.

He never even got to tell you.

His parents were pushing him to marry even back then, and it was anyone but you – a pretty middle class girl wasn’t up to ‘their standard’. It had killed him to try to keep up with that, but even so he never wanted to lose you – though he was scared shitless by what he felt for you, by the sheer obsession he had.

Even ten years ago he was searching for you, pictures of you where you’d moved, trying to keep tabs – fuck, last year he saw you with that fiance and almost got sick from it. His fiance was just someone his parents pushed enough, and with him having to take over their place soon, he’d gone along with it.

It’s not like he could ever love anyone after you.

There was nothing like what he felt, countless women underneath him, on top of him, bent over with their asses arched, but nothing came close to the breathless way he held you, how your lips brushed together. He wondered often if it was because you were his first love, you were so many of his firsts, no he wasn’t a virgin, but he didn’t do all the things you two did before you.

Before that it was awkward, fumbling around, he’d usually been so nervous he’d let the girls take the lead, but everything about you made him want to – the way you fell apart when he learned to eat pussy with every flick of his tongue on you. You didn’t know that, of course, he ended up being sort of a prodigy at it rather quickly.

Satoru may have been a jock, but he was also very much a nerd at heart, so he studied it all extensively – porn wasn’t even for jerking his cock, it was to learn how to make you squirt. It was to make his girlfriend feel good.

Satoru was good at making you cum.

Yet he failed in so many other areas of your relationship – royally failed, especially that day you said good bye at the airport, and he was so very fucking hurt by you. It rushes through his head – and is if he is on the same wavelength –you say it softly.

“That day at the airport, I can’t forget that,” you shake your head. “Call me petty, a ten year long grudge holder, I agree.”

“You’re not…” He trails off then, cupping your face in a way he shouldn’t.

How does Satoru remember your scent still? After a decade it’s as vivid as ever, the scent that if he even caught a whiff of it he’d search for you, even now.

That’s what scared him the most – how obsessed he was then.

How hopeless in love he was, and scared of getting hurt – only to hurt you.

*****

Ten years ago

You were trembling, tears streaming down your face – you get it, why Satoru didn’t think long distance could work, some fucking promise to be friends, but staring at him now has you furious. You see him holding back, his own eyes glassy with unshed tears, fists clenched at his sides.

“You’re happy I’m going far away,” you whisper, clutching your luggage as he glares.

“I’m not fucking happy, what?”

“You are,” you laugh then, swiping at your cheeks, hating those trails that revealed just how upset you were. “Why’d you take me here? To make the break up more permanent?”

“I don’t want to…” He didn’t want to lose you, it’s on the tip of his dumb ass eighteen your old brain to say it.

– I don’t want to lose you. –

Yet those words never spill – he just cups your face, thumb brushing a tear away, looking into the face of the girl he’s terrified of. He’s scared to feel it all, to lose you to someone, to be put under all that pressure to marry and cause you more pain. Then he didn’t truly know how to handle it.

“Wanted to feel better by saying goodbye?”

“We were friends for years before this,” he desperately cups your face, leaning low as the rush of people walk past you all, headed toward their flight, and the attendant is making her announcements. “I just want what’s best for you, how would us being across the country ever going to be okay?”

“I’d have made it work,” you had shut your eyes, tugged him close by his letterman’s jacket, the one you used to wear all the time after you both went on dates. He’d wrap it all around your shoulders, enveloping you in that scent, the warmth. Now it’s a cruel joke to have it underneath your fingers.

“I’m your first boyfriend, what if you…” He had swallowed down that bile in his throat at the thought. “What if you regret only being with me, what if you wanted more experience?”

“You think that?” You asked, lost in his eyes, unsure how he thinks you’d ever want a boy but him. “No, I-”

‘Boarding flight 111 now, five minutes to board.’

You curse, turning to leave when he slams his lips down on yours, and for just a moment you’re done for, you’re melting in his arms, hands slipping up his chest as he presses you right against one of the pillars, uncaring of who walked by. You meet his kisses, exhaling and letting his tongue slide in, the familiar barbell dancing on the roof of your mouth.

His hands are firm on your waist, pulling back and looking down at you. “I’m doing this for you.”

You glare then, shoving at him. “For me!? Leaving me?”

“You’re the one leaving!”

“No, I’m going to college, you’re the one who won’t try! I can’t believe I let you kiss me again!” you rush off and he grabs your wrist, you jerk back and glare up at him again. “I’m done. Satoru, just let me go – don’t hurt me more.”

“I don’t want you to-”

“You don’t know what you want,” he lets your wrist go, his own eyes glazing over with emotion, pretty even under the harsh lights of the airport. “You don’t get to tell me what I’ll want in the future, you don’t get to decide that for me, and you sure don’t get to tell me that this is ‘for my own good’. It hurts, and you have to deal with that.”

“Please, just,” you can’t. You can’t fall into his arms, how would you let him go? “Just keep talking to me, keep-”

“It’ll kill me,” you stepped forward and tiptoed then, kissing his lips softly, tasting the salt of both your tears. “It’ll kill me to have to talk to you when I can’t have you.”

“Sweetheart-”

“I love you,” he faltered then, you’d not said it because he hadn’t, but there was no stopping it now. “I’ll miss you, Toru.”

You rushed off before he could say anything, tears hot down your cheeks, Satoru had rushed to catch you, but you were…

Gone.

*****

“I shouldn’t have broken up with you,” you pause, leaning back in shock. “Though now you’re probably glad I did.”

“You… you’re… saying sorry?”

“Is it so surprising?” He rubs the back of his neck, you’re in shock clearly. “Guess so, I wasn’t one to admit I was wrong then.”

“Why do you say you shouldn’t have?” He sips his own drink, eyes shutting for a moment. “You feel bad how it happened?”

No, Satoru knows he’ll never feel that way about anyone – and a decade of loneliness has only made him regret that shit more. He could have three babies with you by now, have given you anything you wanted – he stalks your pages, he knows you work constantly, and he loves that. But another part of him wishes you didn’t have to, that you were taken care of.

You’d probably smack him and call him a misogynist for that shit, and he loves that about you.

He still loves that girl from high school, the woman sitting here with her face just a bit more defined, with her tits so soft and pretty looking, hips he bets would feel so good to grab as he bent her over. Thighs that he has to touch, they just look too smooth with whatever shimmery lotion you put on them.

He gives into the urge, fingertips brushing on your skin, eliciting a shaky little breath from your lips, your eyes catching each other. “Yeah, you could say I feel bad about how I did it. I never said…”

He’s not really gonna apologize is he?

“Shh,” you put a finger to his lips, he smirks a bit. “Don’t make me like you, Toru.”

“Toru, fuck, been forever since I heard that,” he grins all dopey and cute, taking your wrist in his hand, long fingers wrapping it. He presses a little kiss to your fingers, a gesture he used to do forever ago, pausing as it feels too natural.

“I don’t want to like you.” He nods a bit, thumb brushing over your knuckles, eyeing the place where that ring was.

“He was an idiot.”

“Yeah?”

“I’d know, I’m a big fucking idiot,” you laugh a bit, nodding. “Don’t agree with me!? Brat.”

“Well, you are,” you sigh then, he nips your finger hard with his sharp ass teeth, and Shoko and Utahime walk back in, watching you both.

You have the eyes of your entire graduating class on you both.

Satoru and you, the perfect couple – that perky cheerleader and the star player, voted in the yearbook to be the best couple in fact, most popular, the best looking, you name it. You and Satoru won so many they had to give them to other people – and all for what?

To hate looking at your yearbook?

To look at how happy you were?

“Do you ever wonder…” He eases your hand down now, but he doesn’t let it go. “If it was just the first love, the hormones, the high school puppy love?”

“Puppy love…” You’ve never even heard him say that word – love. Though he means it differently, it gets you. “I guess everyone’s first love is kind of epic.”

“Nah, not really,” he sips on his drink, a little droplet clinging to his lips, one of his thighs brushing against yours and you barely hold back a gasp at the contact. “I haven’t found many people that had… what we did.”

“A toxic ass relationship, nasty breakup?”

“That was some of it,” he admits, heart racing like he’s some inexperienced boy and not a grown man – you just make him feel that way.

“Yes I wonder,” you sigh, admitting it finally. “I wonder if it was hyped up in my head, if the nostalgia and the… pain of you breaking up mess with me more. All the what ifs.”

“I hurt you.” It’s a quiet little statement.

“You hurt me, and I hated you,” he looks down where your hand brushes on his thigh, covering it with his huge one. “You were a dick.”

“I know, I just-” you lean forward and kiss him before you can stop yourself, making him tense up, his hand on the small of your back tugging close as he relaxes into it, exhaling against your lips. You pull back with a little dazed look, lips glossy. “What did I do to deserve that?”

“I was trying to see if that’s what it was,” you whisper softly. “Puppy love.”

“Ah,” he tilts your chin up, kissing you again, your earrings fall back, brushing the side of your neck as he tugs you close until your ass is half off that barstool. “We should see, yeah? If it’s just nostalgia.”

“Yeah just for um… closure,” he laughs a bit, and you glare. “Closure and I’m horny and single.”

“I’ll take it,” fuck he’d take any of you. “For true nostalgia we should…”

He’s kissing down the side of your neck, your eyes flutter closed as his mouth leaves a wet trail, his tongue flicking over your racing pulse. You cling so tightly, it’s hard to let go, whining out and arching your hips, thankful there is loud music reverberating all over.

Satoru heard it, though, leaking pre and pulsing from your taste, your scent, the softness of your skin.

Fuck he can’t ever do this and hope to be ‘normal’.

But there was no way he didn’t take one night with you.

“Should what?” You murmur, biting down on your lip when he gently nips behind your ear, your nails cling to his jacket tightly.

“For old times sake, I’d say we go to my car,” you laugh then, shaking your head as he pulls back, kissing your lips again. “Lemme drink your pretty little cunt up again, finger you till you squirt all over my new seats.”

Fuck.

Fuck him, really.

“In your car? Are we in high school?” He looks around and you laugh then, shaking your head. “Fine, but I’m not as flexible, I haven’t tumbled since college.”

“I bet you still are,” he teases. “Used to fold you right in-”

“Now.”

“Now?” You hop down with his help, turning and just walking. “Wait!”

It’s moments and you all are devouring each other, stumbling against the cool brick wall outside as the night air brushes against your skin, you’re shivering as he walks you to his car – by walking, that meant him carrying your ass, cock pressing your needy cunt as your thighs wrap his hips.

The car is nicer than his in high school – a fancy ass Audi – you aren’t one to know anything about cars, but the damn thing looked like it was exactly what Satoru would drive. The expensive leather hits your senses as he slides you in, your mouths are all over each other, needy and desperate.

"Missed this," you almost don’t believe it, that he ever could, his teeth nipping at your bottom lip before trailing his mouth down your jaw. "Missed you."

“You don’t…”

“No?” You sigh, shaking your head as Satoru shifts, maneuvering you both until you're lying back across the wide seats, his body covering yours, an even heavier weight than you remembered, pinning you down with his hand on your wrists, his mouth claiming yours in a bruising, possessive kiss.

It's a tight fit even with how surprisingly big the interior is, the cramped space reminding you of every stolen moment you had in his old car, sneaking before curfew, fuck you two would ditch school and go drive in that car, you’d lay your feet in his lap and just let him drive you around with the tops down. The memory of his smile, of his laugh, of his kisses all come together as he captures your very breath.

This isn't the sweet, messy kissing of teenage versions of you and Satoru – this is pent up need, a decade of frustration poured into a single, desperate kiss, his hands all over you, huge palms taking you over. Satoru’s tongue is delving in and out of the hot recesses of your mouth, tongue gliding right along yours, the click of his tongue ring against your teeth shooting every bit of memory back.

God you remember when he pierced it.

You remember him buying that vibrating tongue ring so he could eat your pussy out – and oh, he did it every time he could, no one has made you feel that way since, no one could figure your body out like him. The nostalgia hits as much as the need, the pleasure, your nails digging into the corded muscles of his shoulders over his dress shirt.

“Need more,” you whisper out, pausing then as he looks at you under his lashes. “Just tonight, right?”

He doesn’t say anything – as if he’d take only one night and be fine with that.

"Fuck, I've thought about this so often it’s pathetic," he laughs out without humor, hands slipping up your hips and bunching that little dress up your hips.

“You thought of me?” You ask, and he stares at you then – swollen lips all pretty and glossy in the night, ruining him.

You don’t think he remembers?

You don’t think he regrets it all?

He kisses you softer, nipping a plump lower lip between his sharp teeth, drinking up your little gasp. "Thought about this mouth, this body, the way you used to squirt all over me."

“Satoru…” You shake your head, moaning softly when he tugs your neckline down, hands squishing your pretty tits. “You don’t mean it.”

“No?” You shake your head, eyes rolling back in your skull when his tongue swirls around your nipple ever so slowly, tongue ring flicking that sensitive peak. “You think I forgot you, huh?”

“I know you did, ah!” His fingers find you, sliding your panties aside and swiping up and down in that mess. “Toru…”

“God please,” he’s plunging them inside you, she clamps right down, spasming as he finds that spot he remembers in those tacky walls, watching your face as he presses over and over. “Call me that again.”

“Sh-should call you dickhead,” he laughs breathlessly, curving those fingers again so that your head smacks back, almost hitting the handle in the car door, he kisses your lips as he fucks his fingers into you, the stretch making you ache. “Ngh!”

“Tight as ever, god, how…” he marvels as he plays with your cunt, all pretense gone when he looks down at you, breaking the kiss, breathless from you. “I’ve thought of you an embarrassing amount of times.”

“Don’t say it,” you sniffle just a bit. “I can’t handle it.”

“The truth?”

“I can’t believe you thought of me too…” You trail off, emotional even as you are soaking wet and needy, Satoru keeps kissing down, lower, lower, feeling his breath against your skin makes you jolt. “You didn’t.”

“I did, sweetheart, I missed this so much, the sounds you make… how soaking wet you got,” he’s running his thumb on your clit, gauging your reaction, shoving your thighs even higher. “How pretty you looked when you fell apart f’me.”

“You can’t remember,” he sighs and watches you get closer, getting you so, so close until he knows it’s not enough. He’s shoving you up, damn near folding you in half. “Ah! Toru I can’t bend like that?!”

“No?” he murmurs, big hands gripping your thighs bruisingly, pushing them up and apart, you blink a bit, gasping when he’s licking the trails of slick from your inner thigh, inhaling your cunt and bumping your clit affectionately almost. “God, your scent drives me fucking crazy, why do you have to smell s’good?”

“Do I? I – ah! Satoru, what are you…" He places an open mouthed kiss on your messy, dripping entrance, peeking up at you. “You’re um…”

“I’m starving,” he teases softly, kissing it again, you feel that pleasure shoot up your body until you’re dizzy, weak from it, so exposed to him when he tugs those panties further aside, on one side of those puffy lips. “Prettiest pussy I’ve ever fucking seen.”

“No…”

“Yeah, and I’ve seen alot,” you glare and he chuckles, resting his hands on those knees and flicking his tongue to gather the drops of arousal falling down between your slit. “What, ya jealous?”

“No!?” Yes.

“No?”

“No,” he smirks just a bit and then he folds you in half, those broad shoulders pressing against the backs of your thighs, forcing your knees to your chest, your dress hopelessly shoved up.

“See? Still a cheerleader,” you want to laugh but you’re smushed.

“I so am not, ah!” You're completely exposed to him then, utterly vulnerable in a way that makes you nervous.

“Relax,” he says then, softly, peeking up at you and kissing your inner thigh. “If you want me to stop, just tell me. It was enough I got to kiss you again.”

You falter, that boy you fell in love with – the sweet, nerdy one? The jock who was also an entire nerd? Goofy and yet ultimately serious Satoru Gojo, leaning his head against your inner knee, nuzzling you damn near. You’re weak then, as every feeling you’ve shoved down for over a third of your life comes back full force.

“We can go back in, or just look at the stars,” he eases up, and sees how nervous you are. “You’re so beautiful, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I’m not in high school now,” you whisper, he eases up your body then, brushing your cheek and shaking his head.

“Neither am I, sweetheart.”

“Yet you look even better-”

“You’re even sexier, even prettier than the first time I saw you,” you kiss him again, lost in his every kiss, his every touch, afraid that he’ll just disappear, clinging to him so tightly you don’t know if you can ever let go. “You are.”

“You haven’t seen me all naked…”

“I wanna,” he grins and you giggle, even as he’s kissing up your cheeks. “I wanna see every part of you.”

God you can’t take it – it feels just like that first date all over again. “Yeah?”

“Mhm,” he slides your dress up and off you then, breath catching as he takes in your body – you’ve only gotten sexier, it’s so evident when he just looks down at you, folded in half in his damn car and the prettiest thing he’s seen.

You cover yourself a bit then ease your hands off, breasts rising and falling as Satoru looks at you, his gaze heating you up before his fingers can touch. “You’re seeing all of me.”

“I am,” he grips a tit and squishes it in his hand, that familiar barbell flicking an areola, having your back arch in the cramped confines of the car, still humming softly underneath you. “Is it bad if I say I jerked it to your IG?”

“Satoru!” He’s chuckling now, grinning all big as you smack at him. “We were having a touching moment!?”

“Yeah I know,” he’s back down between your thighs, shoving them high and sighing.

“Did you really?” His lips curve up in amusement, watching your slick pussy drip down.

“You love that, huh?”

“No!?”

Yes.

“How often?” He’s laughing now.

“I’m not tellin’ ya, no way.”

“Hmmph,” he’s too gone then, every bit of this moment the very thing he’s searched for.

He could have had it.

He’ll think of that later, the hot regret of letting you go, of being young and dumb and then too fucking stubborn, for now you’re his, underneath him, looking up in that way that you used to – like he was the very stars in the sky. The ones peppering the sky overhead and shining through that little sky light in his car, illuminating your pretty body for his gaze.

“A lot. Happy?” He whispers, you just bite your lip, not answering, letting his lips graze your entrance once more.

“Satoru!” Your eyes roll back in your skull, pleasure shooting as the tip of that tongue swirls your clit lazily, like he’s got all the time in the world.

"Look at this pretty little cunt," he breathes out softly, feeling your slick coat his tongue, lapping another filthy stripe achingly slow. "Still so fucking perfect.”

“You d-don’t have to…”

“S’perfect,” he whispers, holding back what he truly wants to say.

Mine.

You’re not his, he can’t get possessive and psychotic, even when faced with your winking hole and the soft give of your thighs underneath his fingertips. He buries his face in you, his mouth hot and messy as it drinks up every bit of those juices your pussy is pouring, lavving a broad, flat stripe up your slit and slurping you up, eliciting the prettiest whines for his ears.

“Mmm, that’s it,” he whispers, flicking his tongue on your clit and groaning as he parts those lips. “She’s jumpin’ all around, fuck… look at her.”

You cry out, your fingers tangling in the soft white strands of Satoru’s hair, only for him to place them on your thighs, looking at you in that way only Satoru Gojo can.

“Hold ‘em up f’me,” he’s slurring, mouth just full of that messy cunt, swallowing it as he watches you do just that. “Good girl.”

Fuck him.

Fuck him truly and completely, for what those damn words do to you, how they have you a needy mess for him. He groans at the sight of your manicured nails pressing on the back of your thighs, the vibrations rushing on your pretty pussy, and then his tongue is inside you, fucking your hole as if he’s never forgotten how.

“Toru!” You’re quivering, thighs threatening to close, he breathes , that barbell smacking your spongy spot over and over, with the same intensity he used to use with his cock.

Your first time with him flits through your mind, he’d made sure to lick your pussy for thirty minutes, even then he’d been worried he’d hurt you – even then he’d eased into you, watching your every movement. That Satoru and this one merge – the jock and the cheerleader now gro business people.

But you’re still just the two of you.

He's lavishing every crevice, every bit of your cunt like it’s worship – his tongue, his lips, the sharp edge of those fangs of his scraping against your clit just making you scream out, weak from it. He bites it again, groaning as your juices spill over his mouth, his chin, down his neck.

Satoru wants to drown in you.

"You like that, huh?" he murmurs, pulling back just enough to speak, his chin glistening embarrassingly with how much you’re gushing. He swirls two fingers down it, raising a thin white brow. "Like me eating this pussy?”

“Yes… ah!” He’s curving his fingers up, rutting his cock along the leather seats, dying to bury it inside you.

“Missed this, didn't you? Missed my tongue on you?"

You can only nod quickly and let out a pathetic little moan, wishing you could play coy or tease – but how can you, when he’s taking you over. One hand pumping fingers into you, his tongue finding your clit again, sucking it into his mouth with a mean little hum, and the cold metal of his tongue ring just flicking.

“Toru! I’m so… I’m…”

He pulls back and sighs.

You’re so beautiful like this.

“Cum for me,” he says softly, curving up one more time, and you shatter for him, peak crashing into you so hard you see stars – ones that aren’t the ones hanging in the sky. No, they’re right behind your eyelids, pussy spasming as moans escape those lips that hold you in that kiss.

Satoru eases back, curving his fingers a few more times, every slide sensitive. “Please…”

“Please what, baby?” He whispers – he hadn’t called you that since the last time you saw him, brushing your hair back and kissing you, your juices spilling into your own mouth with a push of his tongue.

“Need you.”

“I’m here-”

“Need more,” he pauses, blushing a bit and making you giggle. “What, you think I don’t want more?”

“I didn’t know,” he trails off now, sitting up and dragging you on his lap, undoing his zipper as you’re on your knees, head smacking the ceiling, Satoru chuckles and puts his hand right over it, sighing. “You want my cock inside you?”

“You’re such a jerk,” he grins now, running his hands down your waist. “You gonna make me say it?”

“Nah but it’d be fun to hear,” he frees his cock, watching the blush dance across your cheeks when faced with his pearly pink cock, thick and veiny, leaking all that white. You gather some and swirl it on your thumb, sucking it off. “God…”

It’s moments when he’s got you positioned on his cock, slamming you down in one mean stroke, filling you so full you feel him everywhere – in your stomach, so fucking deep your cervix hurts. But fuck you want it, you want more, but he holds you down for a moment, hands brutal on your hips.

“Fuck, don’t move yet,” he barely bites out those words, looking up at you underneath that fringe of lashes, breaths coming in short pants, fogging up all the car windows. “Please, baby. Hold on a sec.”

“Feel good, Toru?” You tease, he glares and bites your shoulder. “Ah! Sharp t-teeth…”

“Jus’ stay here for a minute,” he’s mumbling against your skin, exhaling at the feeling of your pussy wrapping around his cock. “You’re so warm, so tight… god you feel s’good…”

You’re holding there, cunt gripping him so tight he’s gonna bust, and he was not doing that after ten damn years. He has stamina now, he can’t bust inside you in one minute – has it even been a minute!?

“Wanna move, please,” you’re damn near whining, wriggling as he pins you even more firmly. “Toru!”

“You’re bratty still,” he murmurs, lifting you up and slamming you back down, that mess of slick pouring all over. “You want me to cum in three pumps?”

You blush then, realizing that one key thing – he’d never cum inside you, the two of you were careful to make sure it never happened. “I um… inside me?”

“Only if you wanted… god imagine breeding your cunt,” you suck in a breath as his hands press into your hips. “Breedable fucking hips, bet you’d have so many babies for me.”

“Babies!?”

“God yes, bet you’d give me three, hah…” he’s fucking lost it now, fucking up into your cunt, your head smacks his ceiling, your hand up to brace yourself as he begins to move, feet planted on the floor of the car, cock gliding in and out of your mess even faster. “Sorry baby.”

“Sorry? You’re psychotic, j-just once,” he holds you down and runs his thumb on your clit then, watching your eyes flutter closed as you cum again, this time milking him. “Ngh!”

“So beautiful, fuck,” he’s looking right at you with those blue eyes, your arms wrap his neck, letting him lift you up and down him, huge hands just using you, you’re quivering around him, cunt squelching in the backseat of that car, his lips slamming on yours and drinking down your whines.

You hear the faint noises of the party with your ringing ears, his thumb brushing faster, your tits bouncing right in his face. “Breed k-kink tracks for you…”

He chuckles, grinning up at you, painting those pretty patterns until you’re overstimulated, thighs twitching on either side of his hips, the open leather belt pressing on your heated skin. His lips are swollen when his tongue runs across them, as if to catch any lingering juices he can, his brows drawing together as he gets closer, cheeks flushed pink in the dark.

“Should I pump you full? Hmm?” Your answer is to roll your hips, making his own eyes shut, those fluffy lashes sweeping across his cheeks. He’s pinning you down, slipping that thumb in between your lips and letting you suck as his cock twitches. “I used to jerk it to your cheer pictures b-before we w-went out…”

“Toru, you freak,” you’re breathless, struggling to take that stretch, whining out as his veiny length brushes your walls, white pre kissin’ your cute little cervix with every pump. “You did?”

“Yeah,” he’s full of confessions, you guess, but that one has you blushing, even mid fuck, giggling a bit until he slams hard, your head falling back. “You love it.”

“Cum inside,” he moans – you don’t have to tell him twice – cock pumping your hole full, so much your walls are just coated, those puffy ropes flooding you. “Ah!”

You’ve never been so full, his warmth rushing in hot and sticky as you kiss him desperately, needy, shaking as your teeth click together, your mouths messy and dripping saliva. It’s filthy, the sounds of your whines mixing with the squishing and clicking of his cock pumping impossibly more, his moans filling your mouth, tongues dancing along each other as his cock keeps twitching.

“F-fuck…” He’s whimpering in your ear as he holds you tight, burying his face in the crook of your neck, arms wrapping your waist as he bucks his hips up and fucks more cum inside you. “God I love you.”

“Wha-? Huh?” You must be fucked out and hearing shit, you barely blink any sense into yourself, as he pulls back, looking at you and sighing.

“I should have said it then, not let you leave thinking…” He swallows now, cupping your face with one hand, thumb slipping across your cheek reverently. “That I didn’t.”

“You can’t… I didn’t… you…” You’re trembling now as it all hits, breaths mingling as you hardly hold back. “You did then?”

“Of course I fucking loved you, how couldn’t I?” You kiss him then, tears slipping down between your mouths, salty on his tongue as his hand slips up the curve of your spine, the two of your hearts racing in your own ears. “I never stopped.”

“Don’t say that…” You pull back now, hands on his wrists. “That’s impossible, it’s been t-ten years and… you don’t know me now, and…”

“Do you still love me?” He asks, voice breaking, still intimately joined with you, easing you off and eyeing the mess that pours, sighing. “Fuck I shouldn’t ask that.”

“Yes,” he blinks a bit, looking up in shock as you go back to sitting on his lap, cunt pouring him right back down on his cock. “I never stopped loving you, even though I hated you, too. I hated you so much for so long… but I never quit loving you, Satoru.”

“I hated me too, s’okay,” you shake your head. “I did, for being so dumb. For letting you go – pushing you away.”

“We were so young, Toru… so young.”

“There was all that time we could have had this,” he sighs now, nose brushing yours, looking into your eyes with utter devotion. “I can’t let you go again. I can’t let this be once, this? I’ve never felt anything close to you.”

“I know…” you’re kissing again, forgetting about anything else, and soon you’re in Satoru’s pretty penthouse, fucked out after he’d lifted you right up on that glass, so many stories up.

After he’d ate his cum out of you, and you’d lapped your pussy off – after your friends started texting you both, making sure you’re all right since you two had disappeared. After Satoru orders you food, and the two of you are laughing in bed, and you’re in one of his big shirts, does he bring out that jacket, making you pause.

“Toru…”

“This was yours,” he exhales and throws it over your shoulders, tugging the lapels closed and kissing your head. You’re all flushed and pretty, your hair a tangled mess, that mascara long gone, swallowed by that letterman’s jacket. “You’re so beautiful like this.”

“I get to keep it this time?” You tease, but the emotions are rushing still, tummy fluttering as you toy with the snaps, the familiar scent bringing you right back.

“It was always yours.”

He was always yours.

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[chuuren]

what are you willing to do? - C.K. ✩ˎˊ˗

SYNOPSIS — Helping the quiet TA, who shrinks himself down to avoid taking too much space, come out of his shell.  You’re slowly understanding why he thrives in an environment where he’s told what to do — and he shows you why he’s hesitant to be in charge.

TAGS — MDNI (18 + only)  nsfw. work contains explicit sexual themes and content. piv. Gentle Giant!Choso, Dork!choso, overly freaked out!reader. Nerd!choso, SIZE KINK, sub to top(M), Switchy. rough. making out. couch sex. lifting. mutual masturbation. Changing positions. Missiònary. excessive use of sexual innuendos, dacryphilla, inconsistent writing (?). Choso will do anything you ask. PWP. Teasing, Degradation (both). pet names. crack.fluff. reader is nice to him obv. but freaked out.

WC: 14k — art by k4eny on twt

a/n: Hello blog, IM VERY HAPPY W THIS ONE and i promise to not leave u high and dry! this is highly inspired by an augustinthewinter audio (im a #freak) — Also what if I release my drabbles HEH

75%

The score read on your last mock test for your Historiography class. Your worst subject for the semester by far. Next week was going to be your midterm. Now, since your professor, Mr. Gojo, knows his students a little too well, he facilitated a surprise mock text to see how much you all understood the lessons. 

A chorus of curses and groans start filling up the classroom with each student receiving their results as they’re handed out. 

“…Now I can assure you, if you guys are worried about scoring higher than each other, it won’t matter because theoretically almost all of you failed.” 

Another set of groans and a little bit of laughter comes from the class. You’re back to looking down on your paper, flipping through the pages to check every question and each correction out of habit, noting down what you have to improve on. Then you stumble upon the last page with the words;

 Feel free to ask for help :)  You smile, knowing exactly who wrote this without them being in the room. You look up to double check and you’re right, it was just your prof still going on about Khaldun or something — you tune him out to make way for the giddy feeling rushing through your stomach.

Usually you’d hate for people to offer help when you’re forced to do something you were unprepared for, taking the sentiment as a passive aggressive version of getting called incompetent but this time, you ponder while rereading the sweet little note in green ink— of course he used green ink to avoid students from being discouraged — and it's one of those times your stupidity has done you some good.

It’s an hour and a half later when class ends, people filing up to leave the doors of the lecture hall when a voice calls out to you. 

You smile at your professor, a little strained, but it’s okay, you tell yourself, you expected it. You walk up to him, bag on your shoulder, unzipped because you rushed down. You’re still smiling when you’re there, already preparing for what he has to say. 

The smile falls and you sigh, “I know that look.”

He’s standing with his arms crossed, dark shades balanced on his straight nose, looking down at you with nothing short of paternal disappointment. “Yes, and you shouldn’t be too familiar with it either. Seventy-five? really? I thought we were talking recommendation letters last week, turns out you’re barely passing my class?”

You swallow back, not really knowing what to do so you kinda just stand there awkwardly, waiting for him to air out his worries. “I know it's like, a little weird to put this much pressure on you but c’mon kid, you’re looking at being the next assistant after Choso to help your resumé right?” 

You nod, still not saying anything, but you can’t deny how you perk up when you heard his name. 

Your professor pauses briefly mid rant after spotting how you only met his eyes when he mentioned his current TA’s name, a light bulb flickers on in his head. 

He squints, “You’ve been familiar with each other, correct?”

“Yes, sir.” You’re quick to reply, stopping yourself from physically gulping out of nervousness. 

“He been showing you the ropes bit by bit?” he mutters, uncrossing his arms and leaning over the desk. 

“Bit by bit, yes.” You echo, unable to reply without being scared of saying the wrong thing to tick him off.

“And…” He feigned thinking about it, fidgeting with he pen in his hand and tapping the butt end of it on a thick stack of paper. “…He’s also helping with lessons to keep your grades up?” 

You say nothing, keeping your mouth flat and shut. You peer up at him, and shake your head slowly, “No sir.”

He tsks, standing up to his full height. “It’s not necessary but  you’re aware there’s an average for you to keep up just to become a TA right? We wouldn’t want students biting off more than they could chew.”

You nod once more, though this time, a lot more fervently. “I—yes, sorry. I’ll-“

“Get to it, yeah.” He finished for you, tucking his hands in the pockets of his slacks. He waits for you to move, watching how you’re still standing there and waiting for him to also tell you to move. You’re so alike, he thinks. 

He nods upwards, dismissing you. You thank him while you’re already turned your back, eagerly making your way to your next mission.

Gojo watches the door swing inwards from the impact of your departure, a smile in his tone when he mutters to no one, “That’ll give her some motivation.”

You’re rushing to your next class now, given the fifteen minute grace period you were granted had now been shaved down to ten, no thanks to your professor, forcing you to take two steps at a time when making your way to the other side of the building. 

You’re looking down at your phone, deleting and retyping a message in your instagram dms. It’s when you pass the stairway that an unexpected force uncontrollably comes on to you. You thud against it, breathe caught, hand tightly clutching at your phone. You stumble on your steps, holding onto the closest thing you feel for. You don’t fall, you don’t even come close to the ground, but your knees certainly felt like they couldn’t carry you.

Because here you stood against a very worried, very tightly holding you, Choso Kamo. Your mind blanks, your class just a few doors away, forgotten. Unintentionally, a small smile spreads on your face. 

“Hey, I was—“ He laughs nervously, “I was looking for you.” His hands wrap around your nearly limp arms, almost covering the expanse of it, yet held at a respectable position.

“You okay?” He tilts his head down to meet your eyes, a look of concern etching back on his terribly handsome face, he swallows thickly and you watch his adam’s apple bob decorating his thick neck.

 He takes a second to peer back at the stairs, then back to you before he realizes how his grip still clutched on you. “I’m sorry.” He pulls his hands down at his sides, unsure of what to do with them. “I was about to-“

“-Me too actually.” Cutting him off, you couldn’t help but smile even wider, uncaring if you looked too excited. You raised your phone, “Was about to send a dm but I got class in like,” You flip the screen to face you, “two minutes.” A pinch of apprehension makes its way to you but you push it back. 

His eyes widen behind his rectangular frames, lenses making them appear bigger than they actually are.  

“Really? Shit, “ He cursed, regretful,  “I don’t have class anymore so I could just wait out—”

“Sit in with me?” It comes out of you before you could stop it. “—or not.” You quickly add, retreating. “I could just go and email you.”

“No—I mean, Of course. Yes. Me, I’ll go.” He smiled with a toothy grin, ignoring how you said email instead of your socials in hopes you won’t bring up how he stuttered over his words.  You’re caught off guard and before you know it, he’s already making his way to the door without even being sure which class it was. 

He’s reaching for the handle when you stop him, “Oh, next door, please.” He nods bashfully, adjusting the strap of his comically small backpack on himself and apologizes under his breath. He follows you inside, you push, prying the door open. His palm flat against the wood, effortlessly holding it for you both. 

Luckily your professor hadn’t been in class yet, so you  weren’t spotted as the only late comer (technically no, with company, you weren’t.) The class was sparsely filled as it was only part of your minor and this schedule wasn’t as popular, so you could basically sit anywhere. You scan over the room, and you spot some seats at the very front. You’re about to take a step forward when you realize you’re being a little rude. 

“Where d’ya wanna sit?” You ask, head tilted up with a smile. You try to ignore the gleefulness that comes with the idea you’re gonna be seated next to him. Again, you push this feeling down, knowing it’s completely unprofessional and straight up childish. Though conversely, what you feel for him is not in the slightest, childish. 

“Back, definitely.” He answers a little too fast, blinking to check with you. “If you want.” He adds. 

He’s so polite, you could just die. 

You find comfortable seating by the right side of the class, second to last row and close to the back per request. This classroom was a little smaller, so distance from the whiteboard wasn’t really an issue.

You’re listening to your elderly professor repeat instructions about a future assignment and knowing he’s just going to be posting the guidelines, you just tune him out again, distracted. You have to learn to stop doing that.

But you’re shamelessly peeking at the side, Choso’s writing something down, you watch his face as he continues without a care in the world, back hunched down to get closer to the papers maybe, tongue poking the inside of his cheek in focus. You look down at what he’s writing when he flips the sheet over, the sound of the paper is quiet amongst the loud hum of the air conditioner.

 He’s checking something, a test again? You wonder if yours is there. Something catches your eye, he’s even writing down notes in the side for each correction. Maybe he’s also writing notes of encouragement for others. You don’t wanna wanna act all sensitive but something in your chest dampens. A lick of disappointment knowing you weren’t just given a little extra effort.

You shift in your seat, suddenly aware that you completely distracted yourself again and let your overactive imagination take over. You bite your cheek, brushing off the disappointment and sit properly on your seat. It moves the entire table though, you moved a little too roughly. Choso backs up in his chair, the commotion throwing off your professor in his fruitless discussion.

You gasp before immediately turning to check on your hard of hearing professor. He mumbles some incoherent complaint but you don’t wait to think and just apologize, “Sorry,” and it’s hopefully enough to divert the attention from you both. 

Choso grunts, “No—sorry, my chair was too loud.” He pulls the long, shared desk back with one pull of his hand, before hunching to go back to work. There’s already a furrow in your brows at the apology, and you’re staring at the side of his face, his hand behind his full, overgrown hair, expression mirroring your own except towards his papers. 

You adjust back, only this time you’re a bit farther, scared he’ll probably sense you’re being a little invasive. So you keep your eyes up at the projected screen and let the silence pass, the light sound of the ballpoint scratching paper on the smooth surface of the table and your teacher murmuring mix behind the stupid thoughts interfering and prodding at your composure. 

You made this unnecessarily awkward, eyes looking back down on the paper without trying. You’re still kinda curious what he’s writing down. He’s writing down notes to the side, red pen and all— red pen and all?

You do a double take, your uncontrollable, imposing, borderline deluded thoughts returning back to their place in your hopeless brain. Did he use a red pen for everyone or green? He used green earlier, definitely. What the hell? Why does it matter?

“Can I help you?” The inner monologue in your head ceases at the question. You glance up at him, a crooked smile on his face, dimple gracing his features. He waits for you to say something, you process how it's a little close to a tease. You’re unable to say something and end up nodding.

He smiles, achingly sweet and sincere, still waiting for a response. You blank out, unable to think of a proper fake answer in time. 

A last flick of your gaze at the paper outs your thoughts, he looks down at them. “If you’re looking for any of your own, this isn’t your section’s.” He assures, trying to fill in the silence you were so talented in bringing out in your conversations. 

You giggle out of pure giddiness, unable to hold it in as you act like a school girl and not a college student. It’s probably so strange to him that you’re acting this way  — internally reprimanding yourself is your only avenue for self control at these moments. You hope he doesn’t think the same way. “No um, you’re so focused on writing nice notes for everyone and marking every point.“

He smiles wider, eyes turning into pretty crescents. He shakes his head once, sitting back on his chair, and finally not slouching. Your stomach flips noting how he occupies more than half the seat. He scratches his neck, eyes flicking back at the papers for a moment before meeting yours, then averting again. 

“I don’t think…” He leaned over to read the name on the paper, “…Inumaki, T. thinks my detailed corrections, or rather critiques are very nice, nor the rest of section Z26.” he mumbled the last part, adjusting the collar of his pull over.

“critiques?” You inquire, unconsciously leaning to his side of the desk, closer so you could read them too. Choso hopes you can’t feel the warmth on his cheeks radiating right now. 

He nods his head a little too quickly, despite not being able to see him from where you were. He’s dizzy with the scent of your floral shampoo under his nose, heady and pulling. “Yes, just to help with,” he falters again, your bare arm brushing against his own, clothed one when you point at a certain part of the paper while reading, knees hitting under the table when you’re closely looking down on the sheet. “With the, the uh, future tests yeah-”

Choso watches your lips move but he doesn’t hear what comes out. Right now, he’s pushing away such un-utterable, uncalled for thoughts when his view is your head over what would be is his lap, only being separated by this rickety table. It only gets worse when you shift your eyes at him, wide and up at his tired onyx ones, only now his are a little wider too, something past friendly reflecting in your before averting back down the white sheet.

You’re still reading the paper, taking in the info for each question. “Oh,”

He snaps out of his daze, immediately taking notice of your blank tone. “What’s wrong?” 

You’re processing the words on the essay type test he’s checking and you realize you’ve never seen this kind of test before. “Y’know, now that I’m reading this, I don’t think  we’ve answered this activity yet.” A beat, and Choso flips the paper down.

“Right, that’s probably not good,“ He places a spread out hand over the papers, sheets mix on top of each other, disheveled and disorganized, one nearly falling off the narrow table.

You’re already laughing, “You’re so clumsy,” your hand stopping one of them from flying out of place. 

“No, you probably shouldn’t look at that too-“

“Relax, I don’t have the photographic memory to copy each answer. As much as I wish I did.” You mumble the last part, tucking the papers into an organized pile, facing outwards. “See? No cheating for me.” 

Choso fights the smirk that inches his way under the skin of his cheeks, nodding to you. “I appreciate your integrity.” You return the look on his face except with the stack in your grasp right now, it reflects its white canvas like a soft light on your skin, a sweet warmth overcomes him. “I never told you why I was looking for you.” 

You place the sheets separate from his pile of unfinished work. Pursing your lips, you make a noise of acknowledgment. “Oh, I was thinking the same thing. I didn’t know how to approach you ‘cause it was kinda embarrassing.” 

“Embarrassing how?”

For a while, you contemplate how to make yourself sound less pathetic, trying to amp up how to sound flirtier without breaching whatever boundary of the title you held to him. You wanted to play safe, for now.

“Like to ask for help, I bet it's as funny as someone asking a stupid question since you probably didn’t have to do any of that when you were in my year.” You don’t have to confirm with him whether or not it’s true, Choso’s going straight to a master’s after graduating this year. You’ve been hyping yourself up to ask him out for a while, knowing that he’ll most likely drift from you as a friend with the work that comes with finishing one. 

You truly weren’t looking for any kind of college relationship or even a fling, knowing such places bring unnatural levels of attraction to people who lack self identity, and if you’re being honest, college made you question that part of yourself when you first began.

 Ergo, you focused on yourself for your first year to second. Now, you’re in your third year’s second semester and people are thinking about their thesis and fellowships.  And here you were only starting to make career moves for your future in your third year. 

But you digress, circling back to how all that led you to meet Choso. Someone you’ve made acquaintances with last year during an exhibit at the school’s anthropology museum. Yes, you had an anthropology museum — Jjk technical college was not cheap.

His hair was a tad shorter back then, guiding a bunch of first years through the new exhibit, excitedly discussing some bones and energy. The glint in his eyes was bright and he was wholly unfiltered, charmingly gauche. You had tried to pose a question at the time, wanting to entertain him out of definitely just pure curiosity for Bioarcheology, but second guessed yourself and never approached him again. 

Until, it was that same year you found out he had been the TA for the professor you were aiming for next year (as a second year college student), and you found out he was resigning as the teacher’s assistant from a friend of a friend, and how Gojo had been already looking for a new one early on because Choso was that competent.

You want to say that maybe you joined just because professor Gojo was someone you highly look up to in the field of history research and will grant you a killer recommendation for a future career — which you know he will— there’s an underlying feeling where you also can’t deny that the idea of how it brings you closer to Choso made the position all the more appealing. 

So this year, when Gojo read your CV and decided to accept you out of the many (3 applicants, one was an irregular student, the other a nepo baby), and encouraged Choso to start training you by now, it was like fate realigned itself to bring you closer to him.

Sort of.

Now he was in front of you- beside you, and casually replying with, “ I don’t mind spending my free time with you—tutoring and stuff.” He offers, completely unaware how he gets your stomachs in knots and your heart feels like it's trying to rip out of your ribcage. 

“Really?” You ask too eagerly, he nods for extra reassurance. “It’s just, Historiography just isn’t something I’m good at but I’m also I find it interesting but it’s also really hard but— I also want this.” You size him up,  towards his side of the table. “Y’know, this.” 

He‘s about to point at himself, before looking at the papers and something clicks in place. “Checking papers on top of your thesis, dropping them off at Gojo’s office at 8 am, and getting death stares when I come across his students?”

You nod, almost even more eager, “Absolutely.”

“You’re perfect then.” He says, no hesitation whatsoever. You were eating it up and he was completely unaware. You giggle, heat rushing to your face.

You almost forgot how talking came easy with Choso. It was refreshing to meet someone you could hold a conversation with without feeling like you had to perform all the time, or wonder what to amp up or tone down. He had his intimidating moments at first, like being overqualified for a TA and the unmistakable height, or when you’re overthinking how to impress him and you don’t truly act yourself —  but those impressions crumble effortlessly when you recognize him for his sincerity and obsession with the academe. 

Choso can’t help but let a chuckle bubble in his throat, smooth and rich like a creamy cup of strong coffee. He’s analyzing your face, the apples of your cheeks are out with how wide you smile, he made you smile like that. The fact sits comfortably in his chest. He’s staring at your lips, maybe he can get away with it as him just looking down to your height, the few times he feels his own acted as an advantage for him. 

“…any reason you use green?… Choso?” He blinks, and he’s back in the classroom and you’re now holding your own head with your palm, waiting for him to answer. 

The back of his neck is hot with the thought you could probably notice him zoning out. “I like,” he searches your eyes, hesitating, and then, “I like green, so.” He nods, trying to rationalize his plain answer to himself. 

You’re squinting, “Cool,” nothing behind your tone, just the air that still manages to sit awkwardly between you two, suddenly the old scribbles in the storage part of the desk was so interesting—

“And it's good for not like…” He swallows back his nerves, heart pounding in his ears. “I didn’t wanna discourage students.” 

The admittance runs like oil down your back and you feel like you’ve hit him dead center in what you wanted to hear. “Right,” You look around, a false pretense of thinking in your expression, “So… why the red?” You ask curiously, pen in your hand scratching off the old paint under the desk in anticipation.

He paused like a deer caught in headlights, licking the dryness of his lips. Staring down the sheet of paper, yes it’s red indeed, he thinks. His lips part, you watch the smooth, glossy sheen of it move against the light. “I guess I have a favorite class.” He coughs, feigning the ease he was currently lacking with each word he carefully chose to speak.

Despite the urge to egg him on, you leave it at that, your bravery for the day already expended. You know if you continued you might say something a little irrational, and you’re also afraid to jump his bones too quickly. Though you’re pretty sure he could still hold you up if you tried.

Class ends anti-climactically, your professor waving your class off with a less than interested parting. You’re out of the classroom, Choso following behind when, “So, when do you wanna start? I’m free after class tomorrow and it’s the weekend. I don’t mind staying longer.”

You’re following his pace as you walk through the hallways of your building, aiming for the exit but you’re thinking about what happens after. You’re not fully sure where you’ll end up once you part. Do you just go? He stayed with you the entire boring class, (obviously the only reason why you want to stay longer and none other in particular) surely there must be something you have to do in return.

You’re nearing the exit and you can’t help but feel like you’re letting something slip if you go past the doors without making your thoughts known, “I have this thing with my best friend tomorrow, this is not a very good look for me— I promised I’d do this qualitative interview and—“

He’s quick to reply, “Oh yeah, I totally understand—“

Shit, okay you were not seizing the moment correctly. “You should come with me.” You turn over to him, unable to stop yourself.

Choso all but freezes, “What?”

Okay, no going back now, smacking your lips together before going for the kill. “—With me. Yeah, we could hang out and,” Could you still back out? No. 

“Just, maybe study after? like we could study like… for the,” So much for not wanting to jump his bones, “…whole night.” You can’t look at him any longer, eyes scanning back the outside that now surrounds you. The noises of campus and the lamp posts are bright, projecting a warm white over you. But all this is not enough to comfort you from the trepidation finally shaking your brain.

You watch as Choso’s pale cheeks start to tinge into a flushy pink, eyebrows raising behind his glasses.

 “Oh, okay, yes. Okay!” He nods taughtly, though willing.

You pause, “Okay?” trying to check if he’s serious.

“Sure.” You’re both standing opposite his body, shocked with what you’re hearing from the other as much as you were shocked from the words leaving yourselves. 

A beat passes, leaves rustle, and amidst that you’re silently hoping it won't matter how you didn’t think this through fully. “Five o’clock sound good?”

***

It was a steady, calm-ish afternoon, your best friend Miwa was sat in front of you, laptops laid out on the table. She’s writing down notes and closing up her recording software and you’ve been fixing up your hair, clothes, and picking lint off it. You find a loose thread on your shirt when, “Hey,” You look up, alert. Miwa’s squinting at you, blue hair cast in a warm yellow from the mid-afternoon sun. “You good?”

You’re finger quits picking at yourself, “What? Yeah,” eyes flitting back to the pesky string sticking out of the hem of your top. 

There’s a hum coming from in front of you, “You sure? You’ve been so fidgety this entire time.”

“I am not fidgety.” You say, fidgeting. A sigh comes out of you, and you lean back on your chair, hands coming on top of the arm rests. “You really okay with me bringing Choso?”

At this, Miwa’s lips curl into a smirk. “I knew it.”

Your eyes flick over to the side in thought, then back at her sly expression. “What do you know?”

She’s sitting up from her hunched posture over her laptop, and drinking from her cup of her almost lukewarm coffee, shrugging with her eyes still locked on yours.

Your thumbs come up from the arm rests, “What is it?”

She clears her throat, placing the mug on a coaster. She looks back up, a smirk still planted on her face. “Just that I didn’t know that he was your crush,” she expects you to reply, but you’re still waiting for her to elaborate. “Y’know, Choso.”

“I don’t have a crush on him!”

She squints, “Okay so we’re lying today.”

“It’s merely admiration— and some attraction at most.”

“That’s literally what a crush is based on.”

You’re blinking at her, feeling caught. You bite your tongue, knowing that your best friend out of anyone should be able to catch you in a lie. Or even a truth you lie to yourself about. You speak up, “Well?”

“Y’know I love you.” She starts.

“Oh no.” Dread seeps into your stomach, and you know if she starts somewhere along the lines of sugar coating, the following was about to be some bland truth coated around maybe an even bitter core inside.

“I like Choso! He’s been your friend for a while and I’ve never talked to him but he sounds really devoted to his work, maybe goodlooking, he’s smart, and he’s nice—“

“What would Muta think…?”

She chuckles, softening at the thought of her own boyfriend. “No, I just wanted to keep an eye out for you too when I say this.” She pauses, trying to find a way to word this as pleasantly as possible. “Cause you know how girls talk…”

You latch onto that last part, stomach churning in suspense. “Not really, I don’t.”

She stops herself from cackling at your nervous expression, “I just heard he’s always…nice.” 

“What’s wrong with that?” 

“Like too nice? I guess…it’s really hard to explain babe,“ She cuts herself off, sensing your growing apprehension. She observed how your hands are rubbing on the expanse of your cup, and bringing it to your lips to avoid saying something. She quiets down her tone, now kinda shy about mentioning it. She leans a bit towards you, “Like… in bed, y’know?” 

You sputter in your mug, feeling unwelcome liquid scratch your throat. Miwa’s eyes widen when she watches you cough, eyes turning watery. “Ooh gag reflex, that’s not coming in handy.“

“Fucking shut up-“ You’re coughing still and she’s laughing uncontrollably now. “—I did not expect that.”

She’s wiping the corner of her corneas with a finger, “I—I’m sorry I just had to bring it up.”

You’re more composed now, eyes looking up at the clock, it’s ten minutes to five, and you’re trying to relax. 

You don’t exchange looks with Miwa until a short moment passes for you to think. 

“So have you thought about what it would be like?” You’re back to meeting her eyes, a silent exchange between you both. Miwa smiles at you, lowering her voice and putting a finger up to her ear like an agent, “Then I’m glad to relay information.” She’s giggling when you throw a tissue at her.

You’re already standing out of your seat and making your way to sit beside her. She motions her hand for you to come nearer, both turning your heads when the door chime rings and someone enters, calming down when it’s just some delivery person. You relax, side eyeing her. 

Miwa inches closer, “Okay so I’m friends with this senior from my org and she had a friend who was seeing Choso, sort of? Anyways I mentioned once that you were replacing him and that you’re a little into him, sorry.” You’re beckoning her to continue, not caring much for the last part and nodding along. 

“Anyways, it was like a one night stand thing and — don’t get me wrong I’m not trying to spread rumors or judge,” Another pause, and you’re already on the edge of your seat. 

“Well? Go on,” You pull her in, arms tangled and clutching her, knee jittering. 

“I heard he was kinda scared in bed? Like maybe he has a phobia or something.” Your knee stops, and you’re now confused, “It’s just kinda odd ‘cause the guys like a unit, right?” a crease forms between your brows. “Maybe he’s like… a power bottom?” she whispered, tone serious.

You’re nodding, taking in the information with actual consideration. “Possibly,” You’re fully facing her now, “Y’know…he is a TA.” 

It’s Miwa’s turn to be confused, struggling to find the correlation. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

You fight the expression trying to pull on your lips, you nibble on the skin then let go, “I’d say he’s good at being told what to do.”

Miwa’s eyes widened, before adding, “Tell me when you find out.” A second where you’re both quiet and then you’re being shook by the shoulders, both of you squealing and chortling in your corner. It would be no surprise if you’ve caught the attention of other customers with your commotion. 

She quits with the shaking, now smoothing over the fabric over your shoulders for messing up your top. “So what are you gonna do about it?”

You can’t help but entertain your imagination, “I mean I think I’m too conscious to be playing around too much.” Your friend nods along, supportive. Past these exciting thoughts, it was all a front for the feelings you struggled to word out, “I really like him, Miwa.”

She parts her lips but as if on cue, another chime from the door rings once more. He stood by the entrance for a brief moment, barely scanning the vicinity when he locked eyes on you, a cheeky grin lighting up his face. 

***

“—I think they never made any real contact.”

“No, that’s definitely up for debate.”

Miwa watches your back and forth, pen in hand. Choso decided to be part of her research sample as well, given that he’s already here, he should make use of his time. And he didn’t mind, he liked helping out. 

If only he could actually speak and answer the questions without you guys debating every time one of you made an opinion on something vaguely related to Miwa’s research topic.  At first it was good, your opinions can be added too but now she’s running out of space in her storage with how long this unintentional joint interview was going.

“Okay guys, the interview questions are about historical revisionism. While I do see the correlation, how did we end up in Egypt and…?”

“Ancient Mesopotamia.” Both of you say,  completing her sentence. 

“I can elaborate.” Choso suggests, clearly unable to read between the lines of Miwa’s inquiry.

She stretches in her seat, her legs feeling cramped up with the lack of movement all this time. “Y’know what, I’ll hold you two to that. But first, let’s take a break!” It’s not even a minute until she’s out of both your and Choso’s sights, on the way to the restroom, pen and recorder left on the table. 

“Y’know, I don’t think she likes me that much. I also think she’s too nice to tell me that.” You’re in the middle of cracking your neck until you’re moving your attention to him.

“Don’t worry too much about it, I think she just isn’t up for hearing any more strong opinions on exported textiles.”

“That’s if they were truly exported—“ You shove his arm, and he’s laughing at your face, not even moved from the push. He’s pretending to rubbing his bicep in feigned hurt, lifting his arm in the process, almost flexing. You try to ignore how they felt so hard under your fingertips. You check him out unintentionally, taking notice of how the hem of his layered shirt hangs enough to show the lower part of his stomach. Out of respect, you look the other way.

You swallow thickly, ears hot. “I think I’ll get another snack. Want anything to eat?” You’re already standing up and off the chair, limbs wobbly from the long period of time you spent sitting on the deep arm chair.

There’s a sudden burst of noise coming from the entrance of the café, very loud and boisterous. You can’t help but let your jittery self get distracted, there stood an entire group of men, looking like they just got off practice. You’re wondering why one of them looks vaguely familiar, but there’s a body blocking your view out of nowhere with what you realize is Choso’s chest. 

There’s an odd, slightly frantic look in his eyes you haven’t seen on someone as easygoing as him. “Um, how about I go with you?” 

You’re looking up at him, a little skeptical on why the sudden change of tone, but agree anyways. 

You’re in the short line along the display and point out pastries that you could try when a voice calls out to the person beside you. “Cho!”

It’s easier for you to check where it’s coming from as Choso was in front of said voice. You recognize the pink hair from the group coming in earlier. He’s about 2 inches away from being as tall as Choso, hair damp like he just came from a shower, and a sports bag was strapped across him. 

A pat on his shoulder signals your dark haired companion to turn, seeing a sight he’d been trying to avoid earlier. Of course he had to be the one ordering for his group. 

“Hey man,” Choso greets, strained, a guard visibly coming up around him. 

“What’s up, you don’t say hi to family anymore?” The sentiment, although on paper sounded sweet, in reality was like a taunt. Something you don’t wanna dissect to avoid reading into it too much. “Who’s this?”

You peer over at both of them, their attention now on you. Still unable to read the room, you focus on Choso to see how he wants this to play out. He steps in for you, “You know her, I mentioned the TA thing like a while back. She’s a friend, though she is replacing me.”

 He gestures to the pinkette’s side, introducing him. 

“My brother by the way. Same year though.” 

Sukuna nods at that and smiles, canines showing. He reaches out with his hand, and you meet it halfway. “Ryomen Sukuna.” Huh, he’s not a Kamo.

“Pleasure,” You’re squinting your eyes, there’s something a little unsettling about him that you can’t place, but you’re not trying to jump into that. 

 “I didn’t know Choso had any siblings — ones on campus, no less.”

You let go of his large, callous hands, moving an inch closer to the cashier when the customer before you has their turn to order. “Have 2 terms to catch up with and I don’t really see this one around either ‘cause I did training camp in Barcelona last semester.”

You nod in acknowledgement. Silently, you’re comparing them, unknowingly looking back and forth between him and Choso a little too obviously. 

“We don’t look related do we?”

 Before you could defend yourself, a dry chuckle beats you to it. “We get that a lot.” He squeezed where his hand was planted on Choso, who visibly tenses. “Different mom, same dad. He doesn’t take after him though, if you’re worried—“

“Alright, I don’t think she wants to know about that.”

“Speak for yourself,” You laugh nervously, trying to ease the tension you could feel multiplying tenfold. He pats Choso’s shoulder before bringing his hand down to the side, not before looking at the side of his brother's face as he semi-whispered, “At least one of you doesn't have their panties in a twist.”

“I would if I were wearing mine.” A very long, awkward silence overcomes all three of you. That is until a nearly genuine smile breaks out of Sukuna’s angular features. 

“Ha, what the fuck,” He mutters in amusement, “You’re both weird, that’s cute.” A dry chuckle eases the anxiousness you were struggling to place the source of. Though at the cost of your own dignity.

The line to the cashier moves, it’s yours and Choso’s turn now. He’s first to leave his brother’s side, not even bidding him a glance as he moves past you. “Nice meeting you,” you voice out, still on edge, Sukuna just nods in acknowledgement. 

***

It’s around 6:40pm  when Choso walks you to your apartment outside of campus. There’s a slight tension in the air that you’re struggling to bring up, it’s been there for the remainder of your meet up, not having said a word since you’ve left the café. You’ve been trying to make a move and talk to him but he’s had his eyes on the ground this entire time, rarely up, and definitely never on you. 

He was about to walk in the pedestrian lane when you tug on his backpack. He’s caught in the pull, looking up to the red walking signal reflecting on the road. He walks back to stand next to you, still not saying a word. “What’re you thinking so hard on?”

For a moment he turned his head to you, a little too quick to not look like he wasn’t anticipating you to bring it up yourself. He looks ahead once more when you’re walking now. “I’m sorry about earlier.”

You start to feel a little guilty for not clarifying sooner, wondering if this entire time he thought he should’ve apologized for something he couldn’t control.

“It’s alright, it wasn’t unpleasant for me.”

He almost laughs at that, “Right, and I was jumping for joy.”

The air shifts, it’s not so tense anymore, just between that and uncertainty directed at something else entirely. “I felt really dumb earlier.” He adds, looking back down on the pavement. “I couldn’t say anything to make him leave us alone.”

You’re a few blocks nearby to your place, walking a little ahead of him so he could follow you now. 

“Again, it wasn’t that bad. You don’t have to apologize.” Once more, silence fills the space between you both and it feels like you’re unable to remove this weight you feel affecting your interaction.

Now you’re both looking at your feet as you wait for cars to pass the street you’re crossing and for the timer to finally get to zero. Your foot is stepping over a dry leaf to fill in the lack of communication, the sound crunching in the quiet in a loud, distant manner.

“I just kinda get made fun of for acting like this—weak.” You crane your neck up to meet his eyes, and you’re right to think he’s still looking down. “It’s just annoying how even until now it’s expected of me to bite back on others ‘cause I look like I should.” 

There’s a furrow in his brows, and he’s tightly clutching on the strap of his bag. “Like I’ve accepted that, sort of.  I’m already conscious of it— but maybe people like to pick on me when it's obvious I’m not gonna do anything.” 

You’re making another turn together, he’s leading with the path he’s familiar with and you follow, his words don’t falter. “Maybe ‘cause it makes them feel less small or some shit — I don’t know.”

After processing the words that left him, it brought you back to your conversation with Miwa. How you laughed about his past history with women and how you basically gossiped about his insecurities. Guilt swirls in your stomach, realizing this might just be a little worse than you treated it to be. You keep quiet, deep in your own thoughts, letting him say what he needs to.

“And of course my own brother is like that too.” He rants, tracing back to the behavior he displayed earlier. “He’s my brother and I love him, yes. But frat guys could be such dicks, y’know? I was like his first practice hazing dummy lite…in a way.”

You nod, acknowledging him. “Right, right.” You’re turning to the street ahead of yours, just about a block away now.

“It’s hard to not let those insecurities take over.” He groans, “I spent so much of my life trying to make my best first impressions, and I feel like it backfires on me with the wrong people—I hate that.” He’s scratching the back of his head. “Sometimes I just wish I looked normal. That way I wouldn’t literally feel like the elephant in the room.”

At that, you turn almost as if you’d heard the worst take in your life, brows scrunching. “Normal?”

He shakes his head, “Yes, normal. Like I can wear normal shoes and sit on couches normally.”

“I like that you’re not.” You say, insensitively. “I mean you’re not not normal. But I like…it.” You slow down, trying to backtrack on what you just let slip. 

He’s blinking down on you, a look of surprise etched on his slowly flushing face. “…Why?” 

Your breath is caught in your throat, not knowing how else to explain it.  No going back. Remember? 

 “I feel safe, even if you don’t…bite back. And on top of that you’re kind. I think that matters a lot.” 

Choso stares at you like you just grew a tree on your head, but in truth, he’s just trying to tone down his elation. “Really?” He asks dumbly, already cursing himself in his head for looking like he wants to hear you call him that again. Safe.

You dip your head, agreeing once more. “I’m a girl so I may be a little biased but if I were also a little taller, I wouldn’t have to deal with some idiot guys trying something on me, and I could also defend myself easier.” 

“Oh yeah—Yes, that's totally different from my problems.” He clarified, trying to catch himself from sounding ungrateful. You watch the way his expressions shifts from blank to stressed and bite back a smile. “There’s obviously people with worse problems than being bigger than a doorway.” He’s looking down and pushing his glasses up, almost ashamed. 

You turn to the road leading up to your street, your apartment just at the end of it. “Is that like 6’3 or…”

“Huh?” He meets your inquisitive eyes, “Uh, just a little more.” He replied, shying away from your stare. You’re thinking about all the objects that could possibly match up to Choso’s figure. 

“Those chillers they got in 7’11?”

“Hm, nope. Like 2 inches more, maybe.”

Your stomach does a flip you had to ignore, “You’re lying. Six foot six?”

“Without shoes, yes.” He nodded, met with you side-eyeing him. “Well you’re free to go with me to my annual checkups and see.” He defends, a smile finally appearing on his face at your skepticism.

You squint, stopping yourself from looking too excited with the many, unbecoming thoughts storming your brain. “I’ll hold onto that.” 

Shortly after, you find yourself standing in front of the building to your apartment. “I’m sorry about dumping all that on you, It was a lot.” He looks around before letting out a barely there sigh, “I’ll get going now—“

“Are you forgetting?” You look back and Choso’s standing stiffly, feet planted on the ground. “We’re…studying, remember?”

Choso’s throat bobs at your sly tone, convincing himself there is nothing behind it.  “You did a lot today I just thought we were tired—“

“We don’t have to study then.” You’re looking around and thinking to yourself before landing back on his face, “I mean you came all the way here, you could come up and have some tea?”

The notion has his chest puffing out to regulate the way his heart started beating like its pounding from behind his sternum. He doesn’t say anything, his eyebrows raise behind his glasses, his usually sleepy eyes now wide. He nodded and let out a strained, “Okay.”

***

The door to your apartment swings open with a loud creak. The lights switch on, a warm white cascades from the ceilings. 

Your keys make a clinking noise against the ceramic jewelry tray you leave on the dresser by the entrance. The door is wide open, you feel Choso trailing behind a couple steps away. 

He’s standing kinda stiffly, “Do I take my shoes off or—“

You’re shaking your head, stepping aside to let him in. “My neighbors are kinda sticklers for people who leave their shoes outside in the halls.” He walks past the doorway, head craned down. It’s supposed to look like he was trying to avoid getting hit by the frame of it, though he’s only finding a way to hide his face naturally.

He picked his head up when he heard clanking from the kitchen which meant that you were inside. “I hope you’re not allergic to pollen? I like to put honey in mine.” You ask, your voice still clear as the space isn’t big at all, but in his head it’s distant. He’s trying to calm himself down, taking in your apartment. 

It’s small, kitchen tight and you’ve no space for a table. You use the counter as one, your bed, desk, and sofa all in the same space. However, the lack of furniture made it wide, the “living room” taking the least space with just a little coffee table and the tv on the floor as the only decor. 

“You didn’t say anything so I didn’t add any honey.” He finds himself turning on his feet when he’s met by your figure, coming from the kitchen with two— red and yellow —mugs. You hand him the yellow one, he  takes it with a ‘thanks’. You make a move to sit on the couch, trying to get cozy. Choso’s still standing, sipping on his cup awkwardly.

“You can sit if you want.” Choso’s eyes flick over to you. You realize he had shed his bag on the entrance, still it looks like something is weighing on him.

“I’m okay, I might launch you out of it—“

“Sit with me.” You pat the spot beside you on the couch, your fawn-like eyes up at him. 

It turns his legs into jelly. Thoroughly convinced, he sits beside you, trying to be as careful as he can so the side of the couch doesn’t sink to his weight too much.

He winced at the audible sound of the springs under the cushions, “Sorry.” 

Quietly, you assess him. How stiffly he sat, how much of the seat he took up despite keeping himself at the edge of it. If he sat back, would his knee brush against yours? Though you feel a little bad for taking advantage of his reactiveness towards you. However, something deep inside you is undeniably excited with the thought. 

On the other hand, Choso feels like he’s watching himself act in third person, deliberating what part of his body he should move next to not look too obnoxious or stiff. He doesn’t know if he should just let the silence pass till he runs out of tea, or maybe till it turns lukewarm. You shift in your seat, he feels your gaze heavy on him. You don’t say anything, you just stare at the side of his face. His throat bobs.

He looks over to you for a split second and meets your eyes, you raise your brows at him, a smirk growing on your sweet face. 

An anxious laugh bubbles from his throat, the tips of his ears tinging red. “I think you’re aware of how you’re making me nervous.” 

You couldn’t stop the way the smirk spreads into a wide smile. “I was thinking of how to get you to talk, is all.” You tilt your head to the side, checking out how the light from your room lamp makes his jaw seem sharper. His hair nearly fell on his shoulders, built and perched with his elbows on his knees, posture a little hunched, but he still sat taller than you. Nothing short of tempting in your eyes.

He follows your gaze, “What?”

“You’re also thinking of something.”

His brows pinch, he hates how good you are at prodding at him when he clearly doesn’t know what to say. “I’m always thinking.”

You nod, “And still, you haven’t said anything since we went up.”

Choso pauses his already stiff self. You place your mug down, crossing your legs on the couch. He brings his attention back to you but you’re already intently looking at him. He flinches back.

Sighing, “What do you think I’m thinking about?” You purse your lips, shrugging at his question. He shakes his head, a smile fighting its way on his face.

 “Then I’m happy you only brought me here to drink some tea.” A roll of his eyes comes out of sarcasm, reaching for his own mug on the table, stretching his arm out. 

He’s about to pull his hand back when your smaller one lands on top of his. The contact would have made him drop the glass into little pieces if it weren’t for the coffee table underneath. He lets down the cup, missing the coaster you laid out. 

“That’s my mug….” You point at the red cup in his grasp, yours. You let the words linger like the pads of your fingers on the back of his hand, “Hm, you’re really warm.”

He blinks, unable to ground himself back to reality because maybe, maybe you’re trying to make a move on him. He’s unable to look into your eyes, 

“Uh,” He falters, the warmth on his cheeks multiply and spread out when you inch closer, the warmth of your own body makes him feel like he’s overheating. 

“How else could I get you to go up with me?” You say, goading another reaction out of him. 

“I-I mean you could just ask and…I wouldn’t say no,“  You’re closer to his face now—too close. But you’re still not looking at eye level — not close enough. 

“I think I’ve done a lot just to be around you, Cho.” He almost melts at how the stupid nickname his brother calls him sounded so good coming from your honeyed lips. Choso gulps, audible and embarrassing in the silence of your apartment. 

He started off this conversation on the edge of the couch, somehow it feels like you’ve backed him into it.

“Y’know, the TA stuff, asking to study—do we look like we’re studying now?” Your arm skates over his hand, up his arm, the touch leaving goosebumps in their wake.

You watch how his jaw all but clenches at the feeling, a newfound confidence makes you unbelievably giddy, driving you to push more. “But I wanna know for me,”

He feels like he’s running out of breath before he could utter a word when your palm lands up on his hard chest, feeling for the erratic thumping of his heartbeat underneath the fabric of his shirt.

Your head is craned up, lashes bat at him, “What are you willing to do?”

He’s looking deeply into your eyes, searching for the answer to your question, not realizing how his neck is craning down at your height in return. Several beats pass — he feels a tug on his shirt and then he’s closing the distance between your lips. 

He whines on the soft, wet skin, sucking gently, eyes falling shut. His hand finds your cheek, the other reaching for your side when you tangle your arms around his neck. The pace is hungry yet fervent, tugging and melting against the other. You pull away slowly, lips parting from each other wetly. You’re smacking your own lips before smiling up at Choso, giggling. 

His eyes are hazy, glasses crooked out of place. His hands are covering your back and smoothing over your clothes, “I can do anything— whatever you want.” 

If you weren’t already grinning wide enough, now you’re fully Cheshire-like. Pushing yourself closer towards him, “Anything?” He nods eagerly, you’re pulling him in, hungry. 

His hand is on the back of your neck now, holding. There’s something about his touch that feels like it’s keeping you together without feeling too possessive. Caring with a dash of hesitance. One you’re looking to break through tonight.

Your lips travel down his neck, leaving hot, lingering kisses along his throat. “Oh, mmh-“  He bites his lip immediately after nearly letting out the low noise from chest, eyes shutting when you find the particularly sensitive spot on his neck. You feel his fingers dig rougher on your hips, you’re on your knees now, determined to cover every inch of him in your touch. Your weight falls on him when he tugs you, the hands planted on his shoulders squeeze out of instinct.

“You good? I-I didn’t mean to, ah—“ He tried to move his head away from your persistent lips, but a shiver that runs through him stops his actions. You’re sucking on his skin, humming proudly, undettered from your little slip. His hands brush down your sides, they plant themselves lower on your waist.

You plant kisses all the way back to his chin then meet his lips again. You’re eye level, a sinister glint in your eyes. You stick your tongue out, half lidded gaze and staring right at him — brushing the wet, pink muscle along Choso’s bottom lip, teasing. Heat rushes on his face, blood rushes on his crotch. You’re killing him.

You suck on the pink flesh, tugging then letting go, he’s pulling you in closer by the back of your neck. He wants you on him,  mind unable to decide how — just everywhere is fine. You drop your palm down between your bodies and on the garter of Choso’s sweats, feeling for the hardness underneath.

He hissed as your fingers brushed what would be his shaft, “Um, sorry, can we make out a little I think…” He holds your head closer to his face, breaths mingling as you catch them. “I’ll get less hard— nervous, I think. Sorry,” You hummed in agreement before landing back on the flushed skin of his mouth, quieting him down with your lips.

You giggle against him, chasing as he squirms, palms settling on his shoulders. You pull off him with a peck, feet planting back on the carpeted floors.  Choso now sat far into the couch, slacked with legs spread. His mouth parts as you start undressing, stripping off into your underwear. 

He sizes you up and down, taking in your soft, bare skin, your strapless bra and cotton panties under the warm lights of your apartment. It elicits a heavy throb under his pants. Choso’s breathing feels uneven and the air grows thinner when you settle back on the couch, only now between his spread out legs.

 You’re steadying yourself, his hands find a place on your warm, now bare skin. You smooth over the wide expanse of his chest, then land on his neck, even warmer than you. “This okay?” You ask, to which he only replies with a nod. 

You’re about to lean into him when he reaches for his glasses, but you stop him before he tries to pry the piece of metal off. “They stay on.”

His breath catches in his throat, stomach dipping. A part of him he’s not quite sure whether he wanted to acknowledge, liked when you tell him what to do.

 He lets his hand fall, you adjust the rims on the bridge of his nose. “You’re so pretty.” You’re holding his face with both hands, tilting it upwards to you. A lopsided grin appears on his face at the comment, eyes shying away and down from your face and to the body on him.  

“Thanks- Thank you,” He replied poorly. His palm skated from your waist and to your back, laying above the clip of your bra. His lips are caught between his teeth as he takes in the feel of your skin against him, he looks up. “You’re awfully pretty as well.”

He was never good at expressing himself,only with what he was sure of. But this was new, you pushing, him taking, it was all new. But he meant every word he said to you. He leaned in to catch your lips against his. Fuck, if only you could tell how much he meant it.

He’s slotting his tongue in between your parted mouth, leaning further in and you’re falling back, but he’s catching you — keeping you to him. You work together smoothly, as smooth as silks rubbing against each other. You clutch on to him tightly as if he’ll slip if you don’t. You taste like jasmine tea and he’s wondering if the sweet taste is from the honey or just you. He’s holding you by the neck and pushing your back into him. 

You finally move to settle on his lap, the kiss unwavering so you’re first to pull away, “Choso—“ He catches the sound of his name in your mouth, chasing, taking, and taking. There isn’t any place on your body that isn’t covered by him, your arms, your back, your legs in between his that caged you. You moan at the thought against his greedy tongue,  entirely consumed. But you’re impatient and already wet, the fabric of your panties has been riding up for the last 10 minutes. So you squeeze his arms weakly, but it’s enough for him to let air flow between you.

“Shit, Sorry—” He’s frantic and searching your eyes, but he’s met with your hazed out ones and your swollen, drooly lips. He wiped the corner of it, chest heaving. “I need to— you’re driving me insane,” He chuckles, deep and uncertain with how true the fact felt. He’s brushing your hair back gently, “I’m sorry,” he lets go of you as you’re pulling away.

You’re upright now, letting your feet back down. You’re bending over to his lap, palms resting on his spread out limbs, “You need to make it up to me,” You’re once again reaching for his sweats, the imprint of his shaft taking form at the side. He gently lays his hand on your wrist.

 “Are you sure?” His eyes are wide, pupils dilated, the frames of his glasses are now on the tip of his nose bridge. But there’s a wave of genuine uncertainty blanketing his expression.

You’re blinking up at him, “Why wouldn’t I be?”

It’s a tangled knot in his chest, one bundled in embarrassing moments and unsuccessful hook-ups. He stuttered over his words,

“Just that before I’ve-“ he pondered if he should risk you laughing at him, but you’re expectantly looking into his eyes, and your hands are already on his lap, a little more and you’d be right where he’s aching for you. “I’m scared of making it…unpleasant?” 

His hand rubs up and down your arms, you’re tuning him out and thinking of how you should go about sitting on him. He continued to ramble on, “Um, like I’ve been told it was…“

“Too big?” You ask, attention now on him. Externally you’re collected, stating it like a remark. But internally you know it’s a fact. You feel a little bad thinking about it but now you’re piecing together your earlier conversation on what Miwa’s friend’s friend might’ve been complaining about. 

Choso all but nods, eyes scanning your room as if that would keep yours away from him. “I could just help you, y’know. We don’t have to—“

You’re turning over and maneuvering his hand out of his lap, sitting on his thigh. For a moment, you’re a little hesitant, hovering. “I mean I’d like it if we did, but I’m also…” His words trail off, holding your hip and securing you on his lap, unbothered as your weight settles on one thigh. He clears his throat, “I’m okay with, um,  anything.”

You’re leaning into him, on your side, hand trailing underneath the hem of his shirt, grazing his clenched abdomen. He jolts, causing you to jump in your seat. Your eyes widen for a moment before relaxing, hand skating lower under the garter of his sweats with a simpering grin on your face. You’re kissing his cheek, gentle and slow as your hand palms over his hard, covered cock.

He’s watching your move under the fabric of his gray sweats, feeling your smaller fingers squeezing and rubbing the base of it. It hurts, he thinks. In a way that something stings and feels good at the same time. You’re squeezing at his tip when he throws his head back on the couch, groaning loudly. You take the opportunity to mouth on his neck again. 

“Can you please— Can I please take it off?” He asks politely, but the grip on your hip feels anything but. You hum, still licking at the expanse of his neck. 

You’re pulling his pants down with his help—mostly him just taking it off himself, desperate and aching. He’s bare from the waist down now when you settle back on his thigh, sweats and boxers discarded on the floor. 

You’re now shamelessly gawking at his erection bouncing against stomach, slapping against it. The warmth of your hand catches him off guard, finally making contact skin to skin. You tug on the shaft, immediately taking notice of how your fingers struggle to close around it and were squeezing on accident.

“F—oh, god. ” He rests his head on your shoulder, sweat building on his forehead. You start moving your hand up and down, already slippery from how he’d been oozing in his boxers the entire time. He’s quiet behind you, save for the heavy breathing on your skin. You go faster. “Your hand’s so tight,” it comes out in a whimper. A wet, mouthing sensation can be felt on your shoulder, he’s biting your skin to muffle himself. But It doesn’t work, his throat lets loose with each reaction.

 His eyes roll up from your shoulder when he feels you lean forwards and away from his chest, cock twitching when a wet glob of spit drips on him from your tongue.

You’re both watching your hand work up and down, bringing both onto the shaft, he’s cursing as you go faster. 

You’re throwing your other leg over his thigh, straddling him in reverse, before resting back on him. Choso's hands come up to hold you under your knees, keeping your legs apart. He watched as the movement stretched the fabric, pussy still clad in underwear, drenched and barely covering it. But he can’t help but peek lower, your hands exclusively paying attention to his erection. 

You joke, “It’s like I'm jerking myself off.”

A deep chuckle rumbles from his chest, the vibrations thrum against your back and you turn them into moans as you suddenly go faster. “Sucks though, I can’t feel it.” 

You’re unable to see his expression behind you, but you can hear how his moans are muffled between his teeth, “You’re s-so eager.”

You reveled at how shaky he’d sounded. “One of us has to be.”

And then a strange noise akin to the tearing of fibers can be heard from below. You gasp as it happens in front of you, hands slowing its ministrations. You realize you’re watching him rip your underwear, exposing your wet, shiny pussy. “Hey—“

 He’s adjusting himself from under you, bringing his other hand under your thigh, your legs tugged higher as he starts rubbing right on your clit. 

He’s rough and accurate on where he wants to touch you, deliberate in his movements.  He’s quick but he isn’t rushing either, his only motive was to get you to falter in his stead as you were doing just the same.

Your voice shrinks into breathy pants, the slick sound from your poor clit syncing in with each, “Ah, ah, Cho—“

“You’re making me so, so hard, baby—” You’re both an obscene sight to behold, playing with each other, spread out, grunting or whimpering. Both sloppily still trying to let your lips tangle with each other despite the inconvenient position. Both a mess, your tits spilling out of your bra, and his glasses all fogged up. 

You grind into him, “Feels so good,” rubbing your juices on the cock you’re jerking with now one hand, coating his chubby length. Your body felt like it was on overdrive, moving your hips up and down as you clenched on nothing, gushing freely. 

You’re biting your lip as your hips grow erratic, brows pinching and your abdomen clenches on itself. “I-I’m close.”

Choso lets a groan escape,“Fuck, really?” realizing he’s making you come first. It’s a miracle he’s held off this long, he wonders if he’ll hold up if you let him inside. The thought makes him move your hips on his cock, assisting you as you use him to get yourself off. 

He doesn’t know if he’s breathing so hard because he’s getting tired or because he knows getting your clit rubbed nudges you a little closer to the edge when you start to get louder. He breathes against your ear, “Come on me, please.” He’s mumbling now, less at you and more to himself.  “I wanna see you cum on me, please, please—”

Your legs begin to shake in his hold, fighting to shut close but the grip under your knees forces you to come with your legs spread wide, pussy making a show of spasming against Choso’s cock, voice breaking as you whimper. “That’s it baby, that’s it,” 

Choso is completely enamored, the sounds of your high pitched whines in the air was like music to him, the way you writhe against his body was this entrapping dance. He couldn’t keep his eyes off you.

He notes how you were still in your bra, he whispers something about it, but you’re just nodding your head with your eyes shut, riding it out. Then he’s unclipping the strap with one hand, the fabric falling off and releasing your perfect tits.

You then relax your back to him, twitching still. But then he’s thrusting his erect cock up between your folds, the stimulation starting to make you wetter again, your breath can only catch up so fast.  You’re attempting to lift your hips with a squirm.”Gi-give me a sec—”

Choso quickly lets your legs fall to the side and pauses, sitting up and moving your head to face him. “Shit- we can stop here,” he assured, breathy and worried. “I didn’t mean to, I was just looking at you. You looked-” So fucked out, “I’m sorry.“

“Sh-shut up,” You look away and Choso stiffens under you. Was he too rough? Before he could even utter another apology, you spoke, “I’m fine, I just need to— breathe.“ 

He watches you quiet down from underneath you, he’s rubbing your thighs comfortingly. “I am sorry,” The silence lingers, only getting tenser with each beat that passes.

And then you start chuckling — at nothing in particular. Your breathing slows down, and you look back to check on him. He looked so worried, brows pinched and his lip jutted out. A lazy smile breaks into your features, leaning down to catch him in a chaste kiss so he wouldn't see the expression on your face. “I liked it, okay?”

His breath hitched in his throat when you spoke against his lips, “Yeah?” 

You’re nodding, smile now exposed. You kiss him again, powerless against his sweet lips. He relaxes, hand coming up to the back of your head. “I wanna-“ A kiss, “Fuck you now,” A slower kiss, “Please.”

He’s backing up to read your face, reassessing. Within the silence, something passes between you two. Amidst the air that smells of sex and vaguely of tea, there’s this mix of warmth and uncertainty—and whether or not to dive in it — that lingers in between. 

He’s nervous under your gaze, once again, looking for a way out of your eyes that traps him so effectively like no other. He’s looking down at his still, very much, erect self. “I don’t have a condom.”

You’re thinking to yourself before you reach for the side table of your couch, scrambling for a box you kept there in case.

Choso’s scrambling to rip the plastic off before fishing for one packet. “I’m not really sure if it would fit so, maybe just try it,” You remark as you’re being maneuvered out of his lap and on the side of the couch. He fumbled with the rubber a couple times, pulling it down before it snapped a little too tightly on his girth. He tugs it down on him until a tear starts spreading on the side of the translucent material. 

“I’m sor—“ He hissed as it snapped against his skin, “See I can’t even fucking…I don’t think this is quite right—” He’s cursing to himself, obviously a little sexually frustrated. For someone his size he still managed to look somewhat like a defeated puppy. 

You’re tugging the broken thing off, relief blooming in his chest but it’s short lived as he’s reminded of how he might not even have sex with you anymore. “But no, we really don’t have to.”  He says, discouraged. 

“You can fuck me raw, I’m on the pill.” He internally groaned, pulled back out of his head. You just had a way with your words. 

He does a complete 180, eyes widening, shifting from beaten to optimistic. He reminds himself to curb his excitement though, slowing down. “You can be on top—set the pace?” You’re already moving to sit on his lap.

He’s nodding his head at you, and finally rips his shirt off himself, now completely naked. You’re staring down at him, licking your lips at the sight of his milky skin and toned chest. He pulls you out of your thoughts, voice small and distant. 

“I’ll pull out, yeah?” He’s swallowed back thickly, more of reminding himself to do that. “Just be slow okay? I didn’t prepare you that wel—um,"

His voice trails off when you’re already lining yourself up with his reddened tip. “A little at a time—Oh,” You’re already sinking down, unrepressed. 

The stretch is long and constant, to the point it feels like you’re rethinking how fast you jumped on this, except you remember you’re already lowering yourself very carefully. 

Your jaw hangs open in a silent scream when you get past the head, sinking lower, your walls throb against his member. You’re bracing yourself with a palm, Choso’s chest is covered in sweat and heaving. “You’re so—‘s really tight, oh fuck you’re so warm,” He whined out, unable to complete a sentence.

He’s leaving a trail of hot, open mouthed kisses on your neck and then back on your lips to keep your mewls at bay. You’re kissing back, he’s only half way in when you start moving. Choso’s breaths turn ragged against yours, pulling you closer to him. You catch your breath, “It’s stretching me out so much, Choo-” You whine, slowly rolling your hips.

He’s squeezing your waist before trailing his hands down your ass, “You’re doing good, you’re doing really good.”

He’s looking down at your progress, struggling to tell where you ended and he begun, now nearer to the base of his cock. He throbs inside you. “Fuck, a-are you okay?” He’s looking back up at your face, taking in your lips, bitten and swollen under your teeth. 

He lets out a shaky whimper, “You’re taking so much.” His eyes finding their way back to your hole swallowing him. “So good, baby.”

You tuck your feet over his thighs for leverage, pulling off his cock slowly then sinking back down, and back up. You repeat the motions, torturously slow, your slick creating this lewd noise from each rock of your hips as you go deeper. Choso’s hands are on your thighs, weighing you down but he’s really holding back from actively pushing — still you’re sinking, taking more. 

You start to bounce, struggling to hold yourself up with your palm on his chest, the slight sting of the stretch dulling out to a deep pressure. It’s a lot easier now, you go even faster with the help of your growing arousal slicking up his cock. Every touch you leave on each other now feels highly sensitive, your tits pressed against Choso’s hard chest, his hands squeezing on your ass for dear life. You’re left unable to keep up conversations or teases to each other now, heads completely in a different space. You're left babbling incoherencies as your tingling nerves derail your focus, the only thing clear was to go after what felt good. 

But you falter, your knees slowing as they start to ache but you push yourself further, desperate, taking even more of Choso’s length. You find yourself losing balance and lean over, panting. You lift your hips, then let your ass fall back into his lap, a strained mewl leaving your throat, “I-I need help. I need you, Cho—need you t’a fuck my pussy,” 

He groans out at how high your voice got, fresh from its suppressed whines. “Okay I’ll help,” He’s quick with his hands, holding you by the globes of your ass, and pulls you up. He bites back a noise, hearing and feeling your tight pussy gush and clamp on him as he lifts until it’s just the tip. “s’ okay if I thrust a little?” He whispers against your ear, growing desperate as his cock pulses in anticipation. You nod fervently in his neck, arms circled around him. “Okay baby, I’m gonna. I’m gonna help this pussy- fuckkk” 

It’s noisier now, from your skin, sticky and slapping against each other, to your gasps turning into moans against each other’s open mouths. Choso’s now taking all the work, lifting your ass and bringing it down to meet his aching cock even faster than you could have. He starts meeting your pussy half way, thrusting up wards and it knocks the wind out of you.

Moans spill out of you with each thrust up, breaking and then bursting out of you. You’re clinging to him, bodies impossibly close, skin rubbed up against skin. “You’re so fucking loud, honey—do you like it?” His groans turn into grunts with how he’s physically exerting his body, on a mission to see you break apart on top of him.

You reply with a noise of acknowledgment, barely audible amongst the slapping and heavy breathing. You’re body feels hot all over, from inside and out. He’s deep enough inside you in places you didn’t even know was possible to go that far in, and the best worst part is you haven’t even reached the base of him yet. A new objective makes itself known in the part of your brain that still functioned, a dimly flickering idea. 

“Ch-choso can you, ngh—“ You’re bringing your face out of his neck to face him, but he’s still busying himself with his thrusts, “I want you deeper, c-could you do that f’me?”

He’s letting out a high pitched whine he when lets you down, about to throw his head back when you catch his lips in yours, tugging on his hair and pulling roughly.  “You’re stronger than me Cho, c’mon. Make me cum on your big cock—“

He groans, planting his feet on the ground, before you know it you’re up in the air, now standing. You cut yourself off with a moan, both of you do —sighing out when he lifts your ass up before dropping you on his painfully hard cock. “You’re so filthy when you talk, y’know that?”

It feels like he's all the way to your lungs when he finally bottoms out in you, which would make sense since it feels like you aren’t breathing anymore. You cry out once more, wiling your eyes and muffling the noises in his neck, biting down. “Are you crying?” He asks, concern prodding between his excitement, but the thought manages to make it’s way to his cock, fucking you on him rhytmically slow and deep. You let out a choked sob, “Fuck you’re crying—not even going that fast.”

“Then g-go faster,” You managed to voice out between moans, your hips wiggling in his grasp. He groans in response, kneading your ass to stop you from getting ahead of him.

“You tell me if it’s too much- just, you have to tell me a-alright?” You’re clenching on him, still trying to bounce. “Shit, Okay.” 

The slower sounds of your skin slapping each other turn into rapid, sharp sounds. Choso grunting from each thrust, now fully unrepressed. In seconds, the image you’ve crafted of him as this shy, hesitant boy, crumbles. You’re fully moaning out now, his cock nudging deeper and repeatedly in that spot that triggers your insides. “I’m so full, fuck-“

He’s hiccuping his moans out, turning into whimpers as he pumps you up and down even faster, his nails digging into the meat of your ass. “You’re taking me so good baby,” He’s thrusting up when he lets you fall on his cock midway, his muscles forgetting to strain. “Fuck, take it, take it—“ 

He dives in against your lips, tongue invading your whimpering mouth. You try your best to kiss back, eyes nearly closing while he’s drowning you in him. You’re clenching on his cock a lot tighter now, his balls drenched in your arousal, slapping against your other hole from the impact of his motions.

“I think I—I’m gonna cum-“ You pull away from Choso who lets out a breathy moan, licking your lips to chase yours. You’re falling limp against him, hips rendered useless when he’s already fucking you on a pace outside of your own stamina. 

Your insides are pulsing around his member, your moans growing even louder. Choso’s deep enough into you when he feels his cock twitch, “I need to pull out—“ You’re immediately protesting, letting out noises of disapproval. “No, no baby I’m gonna cum if you—“

“I don’t care.“ Fuck. Choso holds himself back, his pre-cum oozing out makes your sopping hole even more slippery at the thought of filling you up to the brim.  He’s thinking of ways to keep himself from cumming right this very second when you’re already so fucked out and desperate, high up in your own head.

His dick twitches again and he’s biting his lip, slowing his carry on your body til you’re stopping altogether. Before you could say anything else, he’s pulling out and placing you on the couch, lying down. You’re complaining, spreading your legs as much as the cushions on your side could let you. 

Choso’s holding his cock, squeezing at the base to calm himself down but he opens his eyes to your gaping, hungry hole, presented to him like an offer, “C-cum inside me, Cho,”

His resolve breaks within a blink of an eye, already laying above you and wrapping your legs around his waist. You feel like crying out of joy when he finally makes his way inside, thrusting slowly and hissing from how tight you still are. “I need to be on top of you, I need to—“ He mumbled, eyes already hazed out and clambering for satiation.

He topples over you as he finds his balance, now setting a newer pace from earlier, caging you with his body while his thrusts grow even faster.

The sensation is much more different now, a stretch added with the forces of his thrusts now fully landing on you.

He’s watching every twist of your face and moan spill out. Scanning your body downwards while he lays a palm on your lower abdomen, “If I cum inside you’re gonna bulge right h-here, d’ ya want that?”

You’re squealing against him when he presses down, his cock nudging where he’s digging his fingers from the outside. Your walls flutter against his member, sucking him in and pulsing wetly. Choso’s grunting against you, hips growing faster as he watches your eyes get even more hazy and your face twisted.

Your eyes are rolling back when he starts rubbing on your clit, already impatient with wanting to feel your pussy tighten impossibly around him.

He’s whispering incoherencies to you, face on your neck when he pulls back his hips and pushes back in deeply as he continues rubbing you. 

You cry out, shuddering against Choso as the coil in you snaps, holding onto his wrist as your legs secured against his ribs.

He lets out a shaky moan, pumping faster when he chases his orgasm while you ride yours out on him, bodies grinding up against each other intimately. 

A curse lets you know that he’s finally reached his climax, thrusts growing slow and deep while pumping you full of his sticky cum.  Your eyes are glossed over, your throat sore from your own voice when he’s riding out his high, panting and leaving kisses all over your face. 

Your chests are pumping against each other,  both catching your breaths. Your hand finds its way to his face, turning it so he could look back at you. His cheeks are red and his glasses were no longer on him, probably losing them from how much you’d been switching positions. 

You’re brushing his hair from his face, tucking a long strand onto his ear. Your body still feels like it’s on fire but it doesn’t compare to how even after all that, his stare on you still makes your heart skip a beat. You let out a breath, gathering yourself.

 “What do you think?” His eyes scans over your face, “Better than coming up to study?”

Choso shifts on his elbows as he’s laying on top of you.“Yeah that was…” He takes a moment to think of a better way to describe it, a smile spreading on his face. “Really good.” He settles with honesty instead.

He’s thumbing over your shoulder, a hundred thoughts trying to materialize themselves in his still mushed up brain. “I’ve never done it like that, before I mean.“ 

He’s looking up to meet your eyes, and you’ve got a glow emitting from you, drawing him in. He hesitates for a moment but then, “And you? How’d you feel?”

You huff out a soft chuckle, realizing how ironic this all was. How you’ve still managed to not destroy the awkwardness that came with affections even when you’ve skipped over to, well sex. Choso waits for your answer, something swirls tight in his chest, uneasy but still patient. 

You’re brushing back the hair on his scalp, taking in how much less guarded he looks without glasses. “Yeah, I feel…safe.”

He smiles, that knot in his chest untangling. To no surprise, he finds the thread it’s bundled from may be connected to you. “Yeah?”

You nod, smiling, “Yeah.”

©chuuren all rights reserved. do not copy, plagiarize, translate , or modify any of my works. i only post and interact on tumblr and ao3. do not put this in ai.

[kamiflix]

me after reading the list of tags and seeing all of my favorite words:

[luvzayne]

not my name! 

synopsis: how he reacts when you call them by their full name in front of other people character/s: xavier, zayne, rafayel, sylus, caleb x f!reader (separate) warning/s: none!  note/s: my favorite one has to be zayne and sylus' im ngl i had so much fun writing this

xavier: 

you should’ve known that dating the notorious quiet, handsome man in the association would be an open invitation for your coworkers to pry and get answers for the questions they always had but never dared to ask. 

how could they? whenever they talk to xavier, he replies with one-word answers, worse, sometimes he just stares as if the question was the stupidest thing he has ever heard. and honestly, that idea wasn’t far-fetched. 

having you as his partner and girlfriend only solidified the association’s curiosity about xavier. 

“i don’t think he’d care.” simone mutters as she bites another mini sandwich from the snack display. 

tara shakes her head as if trying to convince her to change her mind. “he can’t not care! right?” she turns to you as you tilt your head in confusion, not catching majority of the conversation, too caught up in a mini staring contest that you and xavier had from across the room. 

“what?” 

“how do you think xavier would react to being called by his name.” you furrow your brows at tara’s question, not exactly getting it. 

“nothing? it’s his name…” “no, not his name but his name-name.” 

in all honesty, tara lost you. but you urged her to explain that couples usually dislike it when they’re called by their given names rather than a pet name. 

and now that you’ve thought about it, you didn’t think that you’ve ever called xavier by his real name. 

with tara’s devilish grin, you almost felt bad for wanting to test it out, after all, no better time than the present, right?

“i bet twenty that he doesn’t care.” simone wagers, you almost scolded her, if not for tara’s enthusiastic counter with a fifty. 

your gaze flits towards xavier who was already approaching the three of you with two drinks in hand. 

he smiles softly as he hands you the flute of champagne. you gave him a grateful smile, the words slipping out of your lips almost in a foreign way. 

“thank you, Xinghui.”

you could see the way xavier’s smile twitches. he does not respond; instead, he wraps an arm around your waist. 

“are you having fun, star?” you nod before turning back to your friends whose expressions differed from triumph to devastation at the immediate turnout of their bet. 

“mm!” you nod, a smile on your face as you lean over to his warmth. “i was just telling simone and tara how much my Shen Xinghui treats me well.” 

xavier swoons at the my but not so much what came after. 

“ah. i see.” he tightens his grip around your waist before he gestures towards the open balcony, in the guise of fresh air. 

you bid your friends a wave goodbye, tara looking like she was trying her hardest not to laugh and simone already counting the bills in her wallet to slap on tara’s waiting hand.

once you and xavier were on the clear, he pulls you into his arms, his face buried on the crook of your neck. 

“did i do something wrong? i’m sorry.” xavier says softly against your skin, tickling you slightly. 

you giggle, pulling his face away to see a pout on his lips. 

“what do you mean, Xinghui?” his pout deepens. 

“i don’t like that name.” “what do you mean? it’s literally your name.” 

“yeah, to others, but not to you.” xavier says as he holds you tighter against him. 

you conclude that it was the end of your little prank, as you explained the bet that your friends made. xavier huffs as he mumbles at the crown of your head. 

“i’d rather you call me lumiere.” 

“really?!”

“no.”

zayne: 

when zayne told you that his parents were going to visit, it was safe to say that you spent the entire day ensuring that your home was welcoming. you and zayne spent time cleaning and redecorating your shared space. 

the doorbell rings, and for a moment, you thought it was his parents who arrived an hour early, but to your surprise, it was only the deliveryman for the patisserie you ordered from. 

knowing that althea and jace rarely spent time in linkon, you wanted to ensure that they could try new delicacies, so you ordered linkon’s finest macarons, and as a bonus, you bought them their favorite tea as well. 

you placed it on the kitchen countertop and forgot about it, thinking that you could easily plate them once they arrived. you failed to notice the curious doctor who approached the box after you left. 

althea and jace arrived right on time, you greeted them with a smile as althea hugs you, complimenting how beautiful you had grown from the last time she saw you, while you led them to the couch. zayne sat on the opposite sofa, engaging in small talk, blushing slightly as his father coos about how chubbier his cheeks are and how healthier he looks. 

“i’ll prepare some tea.” you excuse yourself as you walk to the kitchen to steep the tea. 

once it was finished, you put the teacups on the tray as you walked back to the living room, where they were. 

“oh! zayne, could you pour out the tea? i’ll go get the dessert,” you say to your husband, who freezes for a split second. 

“no need, darling,” zayne says as he makes a move to stand up. “i can get it; you should sit down. you’ve done enough,” he says, coaxing you to sit down. you shake your head, stopping him from standing up. 

“it’s okay, zaynie, i’m already standing up, just sit down and catch up, i’ll be right back.” you say, giving his cheek a swift peck, hearing his mother coo at how domestic the two of you were. 

you went back in the kitchen, humming slightly under your breath before it stops as you opened the box ofdesserts. 

there were only six macarons left. you ordered eight.

your jaw drops at the only answer as to why two were suddenly missing. without saying anything more, you plated the remaining macarons before carrying it back. 

you can see zayne’s back as you walk, slightly tense as he tries to keep up with a conversation with his father. 

“Li Shen.” zayne jolts as you say his name, you can’t see his exact expression, but judging by the way althea was biting her lip in amusement and jace was already grinning, you know that he knows that he’s in trouble. 

“yes, dearest?” zayne answers, his hand on the teacup as he takes a small sip, trying to act unbothered. 

“why are there only six macarons?” you walked slowly, placing the plate in the middle of the coffee table and facing him, crossing your arms.

zayne blinks slowly, you can see the small gulp he took. 

“perhaps the patisserie made a mistake. we can contact them after,” he says in a calm tone. 

you raise a brow. 

“you have crumbs at the corner of your mouth, Li Shen.” his eyes widened before he put the teacup down, wiping at his mouth, trying to get rid of the evidence, but the four of you know it was too late. 

althea laughs at the display, patting her husband affectionately on the arms. 

“this reminds me of when we caught our little zaynie sneaking for the cookie jar when he was young, right jace?” jace nods, a stifled laugh leaving his lips. 

zayne looks down in embarrassment. you clicked your tongue softly before sitting beside him. 

“i told you the desserts were for your parents!” you whined softly as you took one of the macarons, slicing it and eating it, stabbing another bite for zayne. 

he unashamedly takes it. 

“i apologize, my love.” he was not sorry at all. 

althea and jace only look at the two of you, amused. yet, happy that their zaynie truly found love. 

you reached down absentmindedly towards zayne’s teacup, only for you to flinch. 

his teacup was frozen solid. 

you looked at him who avoided your gaze, before clearing his throat. 

“i’d argue that the frozen teacup is your fault.” zayne says, immediately regretting it as you glared at him. 

“what was that?”

“i said that you are sweeter than any macaron i have ever tried.” 

sounds about right. 

rafayel: 

rafayel has been working on a painting for the last three hours. well, that’s how long it seemed to you because you’ve only been in his mansion for three hours. you knew he was painting for longer, given that it looked like it physically hurt him to adjust his posture. 

“raf, take a break,” you say gently as you place a hand on his back. 

he looks at you with a smile on his face. “in a bit, cutie! i promise. i’m about to invent a new color.” you rolled your eyes at his quip, yet let him do it, you wouldn’t have been able to pry him off anyway. 

the sound of a doorbell ringing takes your attention off your boyfriend, who seems to have the idea of ignoring the sound. 

“don’t worry, cutie. it’s probably thomas.” rafayel waves it off. you sighed and walked towards the door. 

“you know, he wouldn’t be as overbearing if you stopped ignoring him,” you retort. 

“no, cutie. he’d lock me up in his basement to keep painting if he could.” 

you paid his response no mind as you opened his door, awaiting to see thomas’ brunette hair and stressed-out expression. only to be pleasantly surprised when you see the shade of rafayel’s hair greet you. 

“talia! what a surprise.” you say, greeting her as your eyes flit downwards, seeing the luggage at her feet. “oh! let me carry those in, please come inside. i didn’t know you were visiting.” you hurriedly grasp her luggage, then usher her in.   

talia thanks you with a smile on her face, giving you a gentle laugh as you fussed over her. 

at this point, you were flustered. you did not know that rafayel’s aunt was visiting; had you known, you would’ve made a greater effort in getting rafayel to clean his own home. it was in no means ready to cater to a guest. 

“ah, really?” talia asked, genuinely surprised. “i thought rafayel might’ve told you. but then again, rafayel easily forgets things.” 

you smiled, nodding, still giving her your best host-like smile, while inside your head, you were already scolding your boyfriend in your mind. 

“--just like how he forgot to pick me up from the airport.” “what?” 

you couldn’t help but cut talia off as your eyes widened. you looked over to the painter who was still stuck in his own world, as if his only remaining family member wasn’t standing in his house. 

“Qi Yu.” 

rafayel freezes in his action, the paintbrush dropping from his hand for a split second before he sharply turns towards you, who looks back at him, unamused. 

your arms were crossed, a glare on your face as you stared him down. 

“...yes, my cutie?”

you give him an unimpressed look before raising a brow. rafayel seems to have noticed the additional presence in the room as his eyes widened. from under his breath, you could hear him mutter a curse. 

he immediately straightens, ignoring the kinks in his back that screamed at him from the sudden movement, before he walks to where the two of you were, his arm rising to wrap against your waist, only for you to dodge it in an obvious way. 

“cutie–” 

“you didn’t tell me that talia was visiting!” you say, exasperated. “and how could you invite her here when this place is such a mess! she came all the way from varona and this is what you greet her with?”

rafayel rubs a hand behind his neck, sheepish. “i forgot.” 

“really, Qi Yu. you forgot.”

rafayel flinches as you use his full name; that action spurs talia to let out a laugh at the banter. 

“i have seen rafayel be summoned by his father using that name, and he does not even bat an eye, yet…” talia smirks as she interlocks her arm with yours. 

“i see my nephew has a weakness.” 

rafayel would’ve found a way to refute, really, he would, but his face was burning and his lips were formed into a pout as he saw you visibly soften at talia’s assurance. 

“no need to worry about me, dear. i’ll make myself at home in the guest room.” talia pats your arm once before she wheels in her luggage towards the relatively tidy guest room. 

when talia was gone, you looked at rafayel with a blank expression on your face. 

“cutie…”

“so, let me get this straight.” you interrupt him. “you ignore me for three hours even though you invited me to your house. you forget to pick up your aunt from the airport and you forget to tell me so i can prepare to accommodate her, and now all you can say is cutie? really, Qi Yu?”

rafayel wraps his arms around you, pulling your front flush to his chest as he whines. “cutiee—” he buries his face onto your hair. “i’m sorry. please never call me that again.”

your lips twitch, secretly having fun with his reactions. 

“Qi Y—” “cutiee. stooop.” rafayel whines as he nuzzles his face onto your neck. he sighs as he pulls away, a pout still on his face. “i promise i’d take better notice of my schedules.” 

“and?” 

“and?!” rafayel echoes back, offended that you didn’t take the bait before he collects himself. “and i’ll treat you and talia to an expensive dinner tonight.”

“good.” 

rafayel pouts. 

“you can be so mean sometimes, cutie.” 

“really, Qi—” “stop!” 

sylus: 

sometimes, you curse yourself for being competent. at first, you thought that showing guts in the hunter’s association would bring you more respect and dignity. 

in reality, it just thrusts you on more missions that make you question if the salary was justifiable. 

you were so tired, you just got back from a week-long mission. 

you just wanted to rest in sylus’ arms and whine about how the association was wringing you dry and look at him in appallment once he suggests quitting your job. you know, the usual. 

as you ride your motorbike to the N109 zone, you can already imagine the conversation. you smiled softly to yourself as you approached the heavy doors that seemed to readily open to you. 

you walk towards the main hall, brows furrowing as you hear luke and kieran throwing out profanities and the sounds of controllers clicking. 

you push open the door to see luke, kieran and, surprisingly sylus, on the couch with their vr gear on. you see the tv playing a racing game that you vaguely remember playing. judging by the twins’ response, you assumed that sylus was in the lead. 

as much as you would’ve loved to join in and have a little game night, you were tired and wanted nothing more but to be held by your lover.

seeing sylus be so unguarded and oblivious to your arrival, you couldn’t help but time your entrance, once you see sylus seconds away from the finish line, you cleared your throat as you loudly called out. 

“Qin Che.” 

luke and kieran freeze as if they were the ones being called as they ripped out the vr gear from their faces, looking like deer in headlights. sylus also takes his off, albeit slower, as he takes in your figure. a look of surprise and longing in his expression.

you had your arms crossed, a blank expression on your face as you stepped closer. 

almost immediately, you see the twins skedaddle past you, dropping their gear and leaving sylus sitting on the couch. 

“ooooooo, dad’s in trouble!” you hear luke tease, and a sharp smack! right after, as kieran urges him to move faster, the door slams shut. 

an offended caw resounds in the room, you turn around to see mephisto banging itself on the door, wanting to get out as well. you bit back laughter as you see the door open for just a sliver before a gloved hand– you’re assuming luke, reaches out to pull mephisto by the wing, an indignified squawk leaving the metal crow’s beak.

the room was silent, save for the video game’s background music, to which sylus shuts down. 

you walked over to him, who sat there waiting for your next move. 

without another word, you sat on his lap, your face pressing against his chest, hearing the way his heart was beating significantly faster. 

“welcome home.” sylus says as he wraps his arms around you, breathing in your scent. 

“your heart’s beating really fast.” you point out, voice muffled by his chest. you pull away slightly to look up at sylus who immediately presses a kiss on your forehead. 

“well. it seemed like a certain kitten hissed at me unprovoked,” sylus said as he affectionately ran his fingers through your hair. 

“all because i called you by your name?” 

sylus chuckles as he presses another kiss to the crown of your head. 

“sweetie, you underestimate the power you have over me.”

caleb: 

you really shouldn’t have agreed to be caleb’s date at their high school reunion. hell, he shouldn’t have even bothered going. 

the day could’ve been spent with the two of you cuddling in comfortable clothes on your sofa, but no. caleb thought it would be a good idea to show you around the DAA. 

which wasn’t what was happening as his former classmates whisked him away. you stood off to the side, a frown on your face, arms crossed over your chest. 

caleb promised you that he’d be back in five minutes. it’s been thirteen minutes, and there was no sign of him ending the conversation. good thing that gideon was right beside you, keeping you company, as he only arrived a few minutes ago.

“your boyfriend sure is popular, huh?” gideon teases as he nudges you with his elbow. 

“too popular if you ask me,” you mumble under your breath, eye twitching as yet another former classmate approaches him. 

gideon snorts under his breath. “he’s always been popular, not even your scrunchie on his wrist managed to ward off the girls at the time.” you huff at that, eyes zoning in on the girl by the corner of your approaching caleb. 

it was irrational, you’re well aware of that, but enough was enough. 

‘caleb is mine.’ the jealous part of your mind screamed. 

“Xia YiZhou!” 

for a split second, you can feel the tension in the room drop, and everyone in the room freezes. caleb immediately turns to where you were standing, smiling sheepishly.

“coming, honey!” caleb walks briskly to where you were, but you gave him the cold shoulder. 

he tries to pry your arms away from your chest as he attempts to coddle you. 

“you said five minutes, Xia YiZhou.” you say, turning away from him. from the side, you can hear gideon stifle a laugh as caleb’s face drops at your words. 

“pips, you know—” “five minutes. you said.” you glare at the way caleb’s lips twitched, you knew the bastard was fighting a smirk. 

“is my pipsqueak feeling bored–” he reaches up to playfully pinch your cheek, but you dodged his hand before walking away. 

“damn dude, good luck.” you hear gideon say as you exit the venue. 

caleb follows you, letting you walk three steps ahead. you walk by the school’s open garden, feeling the breeze pass your face.

“go away, Xia YiZhou! i don’t wanna see you.” you hear caleb chuckle from behind you, and all of a sudden, he’s right beside you, flinging an arm around your shoulders.

“what’s got my baby apple upset, hm?” you huffed, reaching for your opposite shoulder to pull his hand, only to feel his palm sweating. 

and caleb’s palm only ever does that when he’s nervous. 

you fight the grin that threatens to escape your face. however, caleb already caught sight of it. 

“ah, i see. someone just wanted my attention.” you rolled your eyes, dropping the facade. 

“there were too many girls trying to talk to you.” you huffed. “it’s like they don’t know you have a girlfriend!” you squint your eyes, accusatory. 

“unless you told them you didn’t have one.”

“hey now, pipsqueak.” caleb flicks your forehead softly. “even if they didn’t know, i’d let them know. no need to be jealous,” you huff, turning around. 

caleb couldn’t help the chuckle that leaves his lips as his arms snake around your waist, pulling you flush against him. 

“i’m all yours, pipsqueak.”

“Xia YiZhou, you dummy!”

caleb only smiles against the back of your head, finding your little tantrum cute.  

“yeah, yeah. your dummy. i know.”

mentally, he was already planning all the ways he could get you to call out to him affectionately once more.

note/s: omg two uploads in one day that's craaaaaaazy lmao i hope you enjoyed this one <3

[dark-night-hero]

Imagine a zombie apocalyse au ft. Caleb.

Imagine the first thing that caleb ever said to you was, "Duck!" Followed by a gunshot seconds later, loud and violent and too close. You barely managed to throw yourself down before something behind you collapsed with wet, rotten sound against the pavement. And for one horrible second, all you could hear was ringing. Then came your breathing. Sharp, panicked and painfully human.

Imagine you stayed crouched on instinct, fingers gripping the rusted pipe you had been using as a weapon, heart beating so violently on your chest that might as well burst through your ribs. Then a pair of boots stopped in front of you. "You good?"

Imagine the way you looked up slowly. The stranger standing there held a pistol loosely in one hand like it weighed nothing at all. The sunlight caught briefly on the barrel before he lowered it. There he was, tall, broad shoulder. Dark jacket streaked with dirt and old blood. A rifle strapped across his back. Alive. Which honestly felt stranger than the gun. because by then, months into the apocalypse, you had gotten used to seeing more corpse than people. The dead were predictable, people weren't.

so Imagine, you stared at him silently. The walker behind you twitched once on the ground, half its skull missing. "If you said yes too fast," The stranger continued casually. "I'm gonna assume you hit your head." That made you blink. Then looked at the dead walker, then back at him. "...I had it handled." He snorted immediately which made you feel somehow offended. "No you didn't." "I did." "It was literally reaching for your neck." "It was under control." "Sure."

Imagine the way you narrow your eyes as he grinned. And somehow, soomehow that irritated warmth in his expression felt more dangerous than the walker ever did. Because people who still smiled like that in the apocalypse? Were either crazy, or the kind of people that made you forget that the world ended. Both were dangerous. So as the stranger crouched beside the corpse and started checking its pockets, you stared at him.

"...What are you doing?" "Looking for cigarettes." You looked at him like he was joking. Then he actually pulled out a crushed pack from the walker's jacket. "No fucking way." "See?" He said proudly. "Today's a lucky day." "You're digging through a corpse." "Adaptability is important." "That thing literally tried to eat me." "And now it's donating supplies. Circle of life." You barked out a laugh before you could stop yourself. And the sound startled you more than him.

because Imagine, you genuinely couldn't remember the last time you laughed. So as the stranger looked up immediately his pruple iris met yours as his eyebrows lifting slightly in surprise before his mouth curled into a softer grin. "There." He pointed at you. "That." "What?" "That face, keep that around." He stood up again, slipping the cigarette into his pocket. "Means you're still human." Human, huh. You almost forgot what that felt like.

Imagine you should have left after that. Really. Because that was the rule now. Don't trust stranger, don't stay in groups too long, don't tell people where you sleep, don't get attached. Attachment got people killed. You learn that early. The world ended, and suddenly everyone became capable of terrible things. You had seen people abandon family members to save themselves. Seen strangers kill each other over canned food. Seen a man beat another man for a half-empty water bottle.

Imagine the dead were monsters because they had no humanity left. The living were monsters because they still did. So yes, you absolutely shouldn've left. Instead, you found yourself sharing canned goods with a stranger inside an abandoned laundromat while rain hammered the roof overhead. "So," He said through a mouthful of food. "You got a name?" You hesitated and he noticed. "Fair." He admitted with a small nod. "I could be a serial killer." "In the apocalypse?"

"Timing's rough, I know." "...You could rob me." His eyes flicked towards your backpack. "You own exactly one pipe wrench and three crackers." You narrowed your eyes at him. "You checked my bag?" "It was open." "You're an asshole." "And yet," He pointed at himself dramatically. "The asshole saved your life." You rolled your eyes and he laughed again. God, he laughed so easily. Like the world wasn't rotting around him. Like death wasn't waiting outside every door. It made no sense. "What's your name then?" You asked eventually. "Caleb." He said, offering a hand. You stare at it suspiciously for a full three seconds before finally shaking it. And his grim was warm, stead, and real. "Nice to meet you." He said. And weirdly, it sounded genuine.

Imagine traveling with Caleb happened gradually. Not because either of you asked. It just... Happened. The first few days were temporary. Then temporary became a routine. You scavenged together, ate together, slept in shifts together. And somewhere along the line, surviving stopped feeling like a lonely thing which honestly scared you more than the walkers did. Because dependence was dangerous and Caleb was dangerously easy to depend on.

Imagine he knew things, too many things. How to siphon gas without swallowing fumes, how to identify infected water, how to reinforce doors properly, how to ration food, how to move quietly through buildings. And most of all, guns. And god, he sure knows how to handle guns like they were extensions of his body.

"You're holding it wrong." You glare at him for where you stood, in the middle of an empty parking lot. "I'm holding it." "Barely." "I hate guns." "You'll hate getting eaten more." You groaned framatically while he stepped behind you. "Relax your shoulders." He instructed. His hands adjusted your stance carefully with warm palms and gentle pressure. Suddenly, you become aware of how close he was. "Don't lock your elbows." "You sound like an old man." "You shoot like one." You scoffed. Then immediately nearly lost control of the recoil after firing.

Imagine the way Caleb burst out laughing. "Oh my god- your face-" "Shut up!" "You looked personally betrayed by physics." "I hate you." "No you don't." And the terrifying thing was, he said so confidently like he already knew. And maybe he did.

Imagine that night, Caleb talked. Not constantly, but enough. Enough to fill the silence that used to suffocate you when you were alone. He told stories while cleaning weapons, while checking maps, while sitting beside weak campfires. Sometimes it was stupid stories, sometimes it was the embarrasing ones, sometimes it was stories about her. Pips. You never learned her real name at first. Just that nickname.

"She used to steal my hoodies constantly." Caleb muttered once while staring into the fire. "Then deny it while literally wearing them." You smiled faintly. "She sounds awful." "She is." But his expression softened immediately after saying it. And god, that look. You noticed it every time he talked about her. Like his entire face changed without him realizing. "She hates vegestables." "She talks in her sleep." "She gets lost in grocery stores somehow." "She cries during movies but acts like she doesn't." "She's tougher than people think."

Imagine every single story sounded precious coming from him. Not because of words but because of the way he said them. Like he carried her carefully even in conversation. And you, you listened quietly while something ugly and aching slowly grew inside your chest. Not anger, not jealousy exactly. Just... Awareness. Awareness that you were temporary. That Caleb has somewhere to go, someone to find. And you? You were just the person walking beside him until he got there.

Imagine in one particularly cold night, the two of you sat on top of an abandoned convenience store roof. The city stretched dark around you. No lights anymore, no traffic, no life. Just empty buildings and the distant groan of walkers wandering through the streets below. And Caleb sat beside the fire cleaning his knife carefully. The orange light flickered across his face. And you tried not to stare but failed iserably.

"This someone you keep talking about," You said eventually. "What would you do if you find her?" Caleb looked up immediately and the expression on his face, it genuinely startled you. Not angry, worse, he was certain. "Nah," He said quietly. "Don't joke like that." His tone remained light. But something underneath it wasn't. "She knows how to survive." He continue after a moment. "Pips is smart. Stubborn too." A small smile tugged at his mouth. "Probably yelling at people somewhere right now."

"I see." You nodded slowly and silence setteled again. The cold wind drifted across the rooftop. Then, "What would you do if you find her?" That made him smile properly. Soft, unthinking, in love. And it hurt embarrasingly bad. "Find somewhere safe." He said. "Heard rumors about a secured place. N109 zone. Well protected, functional power, and farms too." "Sounds fake." "Probably is." You huffed quietly. "But if it's real," Caleb continued, eyes flickering toward the dark skyline. "I'd take her there." Her. Not us.

and Imagine, really, why would it be us? You weren't anything. Not officially. Not emotionally. Not in the way that mattered. The two of you were just survivors sharing road because surviving alone was harder. So why did you chest ache every time he smiled like that over someone else?

"Wait-" You stared at him increduloudly one afternoon while scavenging an airport hangar. "You were an actual pilot?" "Yep." "You're lying." "I'm offended." "You said aviation school." "I graduated." "No way." Caleb looked unbearably smug. "You wanna see my license?" "You carried your pilot license through the apocalypse?" "Well now you're making it sound stupid." "Because it is stupid." He laughed so loudly it echoed through the hangar in which you did ended up laughing too.

Imagine there was never a single quiet day with Caleb around. He filled spaces effortlessly. Sometimes with jokes, sometimes with stories, sometimes with sheer existence alone. And slowly, dangerously, you started building routines around him. Waiting for his voice in the mornings, listening for his footsteps, sleeping easier during his watch shifts. Like your body itself had started believing Caleb meant safety. Which was the dumbest possible thing you could do during apocalypse. Because safety wasn't real anymore. And neither was forever.

Imagine then you found her. No, she found him. It happened near an abandoned medical checkpoint outside the city. You remembered hearing running footsteps first. Then a weak voice. "Caleb..." The reaction was immediate. You watched as Caleb froze so suddenly beside you that you nearly walked into him. And then he was moving. Fast, faster than you had ever seen him move before. And the girl stumbling towards the checkpoint looked half-dead already, sweating, shaking, varely conscious. But the second Caleb caught her. You understood something. Oh- that's her. Because you had never seen him look at anything the way he looked at her.

Imagine it wasn't relief, not happiness either. It was something deeper. Like finding oxygen after drowning. "Pips." He breathed. The sound of it almost made you look away. She collapsed against him almost immediately. And Caleb held her so carefully it made your throat tighten. You stood there awkwardly holding your rifle while realizing something horribly pathetic. You never stood a chance.

Imagine, MC was sick, not bitten, at least you didn't think so. But she burned with fever badly enough that even touching her forehead for a second make your palm feel hot afterward. Her breathing came unevenly, weak and shallow, and every now and then, her body trembled hard enough that Caleb had to tighten his hold around her to keep her steady. And you... You did not ask questions. In apocalypse, poeple stopped asking questions a long time ago.

so Imagine you kept moving. "Left." Caleb muttered while checking the bloodstained map in his hand. "There should be a maintenance corridor." You glance down the dark hallway. "Should' is doing a lot of heavy lifting there." "Have faith." "I had faith once, then society collapsed." That actually made MC laugh weakly against his chest. A tiny sound, something so fragile. Caleb immediately looked down at her like she has hung the moon. "You still with us, Pips?" "Mhm.." God, that look again. You turned away first.

Imagine the facility was massive. Some kind of old evacuation site connected to an abandoned research building near the edge of the city. Suspicious as it way sound with the amount of military trucks still littered the parking lot outside, rusting quietly beneath overgrown weeds and dried blood stains. And inside, it smelled worse. Rot, mold, old death. The deeper you went, the quieter it became and somehow, that was worse than noise.

Imagine your flashlight swept across overturned hospital beds and scattered papers on the floor. And every now and then, you caught movements behind reinforced glass doors. Walkers, trapped inside rooms. Their dead fingers dragged slowly against the window as you passed. Stratch, stratch, stratch. MC flinch weakly at the sound making Caleb adjust her closer instinctively.

"You okay?" "Cold..." Your eyes flicked towards her. She was shivering now despite the fever. Not good, not good at all. "We need to stop soon." You said quietly. Caleb nodded grimly. "There should be a rooftop access point somewhere above us." "Please tell me this place has the aircraft." "If the rumors are right." You sigh. "Again with the rumors." "Hey, rumors are all we got left nowadays."

Imagine the first sign something was wrong came from the silence. No walkers, none. Not in the hallway, not behind doors, not banging against walls. Nothing. You slowed slightly. "Sooo.." You murmured. "EIther we got lucky-" "Or it's worse." Caleb finished immediately. "See? That. That's exactly the kind of optimism I hate." A faint grin tugged at his mouth. Then- click. You froze.

"What was that?" MC whispered weakly. Your flashlight lowered slowly towards the floor. A wire. Thin, nearly invisible, connected to a rusted can near the wall. Your stomach dropped. "...Fuck." caleb's expression hardened instantly. "Don't move." Too late. Because somewhere deeper in the building, there was a clang. Then another, then another. Metal crashing violently against metal. Your eyes widened. "No, no no no-" A siren suddenly screamed alive overhead. Red emergency lights flooded the hallway instantly.

and Imagine then came the sound. Groaning, hundreds of them. From below, from above, from inside the walls themselves. "Oh you have GOT to be kidding me." You hissed and the building erupted. Banging, screaming, bodies slamming against the doors. Walkers flooded into the hallways from every direction. "What the fuck did that trigger?!" You shouted. "Probably an emergency lockdown system!" Caleb barked back. "WHO THE FUCK BUILDS THAT?!" "THE GOVERNMENT?!"Fair enough. "Move!" You snappened immediately.

Imagine the three of you started running, your boots slammed againstthe floor whie red lights flashed overhead violently. Walkers poured from stairwells and broken doors, drawn by the siren echoing throughout the facility. One lunged from the side and you buried your knife in its skull without slowing down. "Straight ahead!" Caleb yelled, MC coughed hard against his shoulder, trembling badly now. "Caleb-" "I got you." God, even now, exhusted and terrified, his voice soften for her automatically. And you hated how much hearing that hurt.

Imagine the stairwell was chaoes, bodies crowded below, rotting hands clawed upward through gaps in the railing. You nearly slipped on blood while forcing your way higher. "Door!" You shouted and Caleb kicked it open, hard. The three of you stumbled into another corridor breathing heavily. Then stopped, your stomach dropped instantly. "...No." The hallway was packed with walker. At least fiftly, or maybe more. The emergency lights painted them in horrible flashing red as they turned slowly towards the sound of you. Dead faces, open mouths, clouded eyes. Then they started coming towards your way.

"Run!" You slammed the door shut immediately while Caleb shoved a cabinet against it. Bodies crashed into the other side violently, the metal groaned. "Window!" You shouted. "No jump." Caleb snapped after one glance, "Too high." The room itself looked like some kinf of old administrative office. No exits, no escape. Only another hallway leading deeper inside the facility. And somewhere above, a helicopter waited. So close. You could practically taste freedom. Then MC made a small broken sound. You turned immediately. Her condition was getting worse, sweat drenched her skin completely now. Her breathing came shallow and uneven and she looked barely consious against Caleb's chest.

"We don't have time." You muttered. "I know." The door behind the cabinet shook violently. BANG, BANG, BANG. Wood splintered as more frowls filled the hallway outside. You started pacing automatically, brain working too fast. Think. Think. THINK. "There." MC whispered suddenly. You followed her shaking hand towards a map hanging crookedly on the wall. Your eyes narrowed. "...Maintenance bridge." Caleb looked too. "It connects to the west wing." "Which connects to the rooftop acccess." You finished.

Imagine the way relief flickered briefly across his face, then disappeared. Because noth of you saw the problem immediately. The bridge crossed directly over the main atrium, where the horde was gathering and thousands of footsteps ehoed below already. Draw by the sirens, by you. "...Shit." You whispered. The door cracked loudly behind you. One dead arm shoved partially through the splintering wood. MC looked close to passing out completely now. And Caleb, Caleb looked terrified for the first time since you meet him. Not for himself but for her. You saw it clearly. The desperation, the fear, the helplessness. And somehow, that hurt more than anything. Because even at the end of the world... Even now, he loved her so much.

Imagine the west wing was falling apart. You could feel it in the walls. Every few seconds, the building groaned somewhere deep beneath your feet like something enormous was twisting inside its bones. Dust drifted constantly from the ceiling. Pipes screamed while metal shrieked in the distance loud enough to make your teeth ache. The whole place sounds echausted. Like it had been dying for a long time and only now decided to collapse properly. And honestly? You understand that feeling.

Imagine the way you shoved another cabinet against the stairwell door while Caleb checked the corridor ahead. "Clear." He whispered. The hallway beyond flcikered under failing emergency lights, everything painted in unstable red. Old blood stained the walls in long brown smears. Abandoned luggage littered the floor alongside military bags and overturned stretchers. People ran here once, you could tell. The evidence of panic still remained everywhere.

Imagine MC coughed weakly behind you and Caleb immediately turned around. "You okay?" She only hum in return, but you could easily tell that she wasn't. And Caleb, the panic in his eyes everytime he looked at her. You noticed it more now. The way he adjust his grip instictively whenever she trembled, the way his voice siften automatically around her, the way exhustion disappeared from him whenever she needed something. And you looked away first, because there were some things you could survive easier by pretending not to see.

Imagine the rooftop access was close, that was the cruel part. So close. Only one more connecting hallway between you and the emergency ladder leading towards the helipad. Only one hallway. But unfortunately, it was also the exact direction the walkers were coming from. You heard them before you saw them. That horrible collective sound. Dragging feet, wet groaning, bodies colliding endlessly into each other. Too many, far too many. The emergency siren overhead still blared intermittently through the building, distorted and dying. Every scream of the alam pulled more dead things inward like a beacon.

Imagine the hallway ahead opened into a wider terminal junction, and beyond it, the maintenance access leading toward the rooftop. And you almost laughed when you saw it, because of course, of course the only escape route sat directly behind a moving wall of corpses. "Fuck." You breathed quietly as Caleb followed your gaze before immediately saying, "No." You looked at him. "You don't even know what I'm gonna say." "I know exactly what you're gonna say." The walkers shuffled closer in the distance. You counted automatically. Thirty, maybe forty or more.

Imagine, the corridor itself was too narrow to fight through. Too loud, too cramped. One gunshot would bring the entire damn building down on top of you. You look to your side and see MC swayed weakly against Caleb's chest. "We can still go around." He muttered quickly. "There is no around." "We find another route." "And waste how much time?" Your voice came out sharper than intended. "Look at her Caleb." His jaw tightened immediately because he knew. MC's condition was getting worse by timme. Even standing looked difficult for her now. She needed medical attention immediately. Not later, not tomorrow. Now.

Imagine another distant crash echoed through the building as you could tell the walkers stirred louder, closer. Your brain started calculating instinctively. The distance, noise and movement patterns. If something loud pulled the horde sideways, even briefly, there would be enough time. Not too much, but enough. And just then, your stomach dropped before you can even fully formed the thought. Because you already knew, there really wasn't another option. Not dramatic sacrifice, not heroism. Just math. A simple, horrible math.

Imagine, if nobody distracted them, all three of you died here. That made you swallowed hard before quietly saying. "I can pull them away." "No." Immediate and sharp. You almost smiled despite yourself. Still stubborn. "Caleb-" "No." "We don't have enough ammo." "We fight through." "We won't make it halfway." "We try anyway." "Then what?" Your voice cracked sharser this time. "She collapses? One of us gets grabbed? You know how this ends." "We don't know that." "Yes we do!" Your voice echoed harder tha intended through the hallway and the walkers immediately stirred louder, closer. Shit.

"Caleb." You whispered roughly. "This isn't a movie." "I know that!" "Then stop acting like there's a magically another way out of this!" His breathing turned uneven. Angry. Panicked. "No." He said again, quieter this time. "I'm not letting you do that." And something painful twisted in your chest hearing that. Not because it fixed anything, but because it didn't. Reality stayed cruel no matter how badly he wanted otherwise. "You're not letting me?" You repeated softly. "You know what I mean." "Do I?" "Don't do that right now." "Do what?" "That thing where you act okay with this!"

Imagine you stared at him and there it was. Fear. Raw, ugly and despirate. Not anger. Fear. Because Caleb already understood what this could mean. Your throat tightened painfully. The walkers slowly crowded deeper into the junction ahead now, bodies pressing together beneath the red emergency lights. The deads were moving patiently towards you. MC whimpered weakly against Caleb's chest. That sound alone nearly shattered the entire argument apart. You close your eyes briefly then you looked back at him. "She needs you alive."

Imagine the words tasted bitter. Not because they weren't true but because they were. Caleb looked away sharply for the first time. Like hearing it out loud physically hurt him. "We can all make it." He muttered and you almost laughed. Not cruelly, just tired. "You don't even believe in that." Then there was silence. A heavy one, because he didn't. So as the building groaned violently again around you. Like somewhere below, another barricade finally gave out and that sound alone made your stomach drop. No more time. That was it, this was the movement.

Imagine the way you stepped closer before your courage disappeared completly. "Hey." You muttered softly. Caleb looked at you immediately and God, that expression. Exhausted, terrified, desperate. Human. And suddenly you wanted something horribly impossible. One more night around a campfire. One more stupid argument. One more morning hearing him complain dramatically about canned food. You wanted more time. But the apocalypse didn't care what people wanted. It never did.

"I promise I'll make it to N109 zone." You said quietly. Something in Caleb's face cracked instantly. "Don't say it like that." "Like what?" "Like you're saying goodbye." Your chest ached so badly it almost made you angry. Because none of this would've been easier if he treated you carelessly. Instead, Caleb made surviving beside him feel dangerously close to living. And maybe that was crueler. "I'm not." You lied softly. "You better not be." The words came out rough. Almost shaking. And your eyes burned suddenly. God. Why now? Why did everything have to hurt now?

Imagine the walker were close enough now that you could hear their teeth snapping. You checked your gun quickly, not enough bullets. Not enough time. "Listen to me carefully." You said. "Once I move away from the hallway, you run straight for the ladder access." "No." "Caleb-" "No." "You hate to." "I said no!" His voice cracked violently this time. Then MC stirred weakly again between you both. "Caleb.." She whispered painfully and that broke something in him immediately.

Imagine you saw it happened. Her. You. Reality. All colliding together at once. His grip tightened around her while he looked at you helplessly. And somehow, that hurt more than if he chose easily. "You need to come back." He said suddenly. The words hit so hard you forgot hwo to breathe for a second. "What?" "You hear me?" His voice shook now. "You need to come back." The horde surged louder down the corridor. Closer. Then even closer. You forced yourself to breathe again. "That's not really something I can guarantee." "Yes it is." "Caleb-" "I'll wait for you."

Imagine the way your throat burned instantly. Why would he say things like that? Why now? You looked away first. Because if you kept staring at him like this, then you might stay. And then all three of you would die here. "Ten minutes," You whispered roughly. "If I don't make it to the hellpad yen minutes after you get there. Leave." "No." "Yes." "I'm not leaving you behind." "You have to." "No!" "CALEB!" That shout cracked violently between you. Even the walker react to it immediately. Your breathing turned ragged.

"So what?" You hissed. "You stay? Die with me? Is that your plan." His silence answered enough. Your chest physically hurt, because some selfish, ugly part of you almost wanted him to say yes. Wanted proof that losing you would matter. But then MC coughed painfully against him again. Then there was reality. Always reality. You soften immediately. "Please." You whispered this time. "Please don't make this harder."

Imagine the way Caleb stared at you like he was trying to memorize your face. Then slowly, painfully slowly. He reached for the chain around his neck. The one with dog tags, and that stupid little apple charm. The one you had seen him touch absentmindedly during quiet nights. Seen him hold it while talking about home. About flying. About survival. His fingers shook slightly as he prssed it into your palm. "Return it when we meet again." Your throat tightened instantly. You curled your fingers around it carefully. "...Fine." "You promise?" You swallowed hard. "...I promise."

Imagine, the deads were close now. Close enough that you could smell it. The blood, rot and wet decay. You stepped backward slowly. Raised your gun. Then looked at Caleb one last time. "Come to think of it, I never actually told you my name, didn't I?" That made him pause. "It's (Your name)." You smile at him. "And just you know. You're cool as fuck, Caleb." And for a stunned second, he laughed. Small, broken, disbelieving. Then you watched his face crumpled immediately afterwards. "Please." You heard him whispered again.

and Imagine, you almost stayed. Like, really almost stayed. But then the horde turned the corner and your body betrayed you. You stepped into the open hallway and screamed. "HEY FUCKERS!" Every dead head snapped towards you instantly. The entire horde shifted. Towards you and away from the ladder. Exactly as planned. So as your heart hammered violently and as adrenaline flooded your veins so hard your hands shook.

"That's right." You breathed shakily while backing away slowly. "Come get me." Behind the walkers, you saw Caleb hesitate. Of course he did. He was still looking at you instead of running. "NOW!" You shouted. He still didn't move. "CALEB!" That finally broke him. And you watched him grip MC tighter before sprinting towards the ladder access while the horde chased after your voice. And that was the moment when relief hit so hard it nearly made your knees buckle. It worked. Holy shit, it actually worked. But then the dead started moving faster, so you turned and ran.

Imagine the way the corridor slammed against bloodstained floors while walkers poured after you endlessly through the site. You shoved over stuffs, kicked open doors and made as much noise as possible. And while every instinct screamed at you to hide, you just kept drawing attention. Because if even a few broke away and notice Caleb and MC. It would be over. So you ran louder, harder, faster. When a walker lounged from the side corridor. You shot it instantly and the gunfire exploded through the building. More groans answered immediately.

"Oh you've gotto be kidding me..." You almost laughed at yourself as the now were coming from ahead too. Great, fantastic. You swerved sharply into another hallway while your lungs burned violently. Your legs already ached from exhaustion. Too many days running, too little food, too little sleep. The apocalypse slowly ate people before the walkers ever touched them. Still, you kept moving. Because somwhere above you, Caleb was escaping. Caleb was surviving. And stupidly, that mattered enough.

Imagine far above the building after God knows how much time have passed by. The helicopter blades thundered alive. You almost stumbled hearing it as relief had once again crashed into you so suddenly it hurt. They made it. And a laugh escaped you breathlessly. "Thank God..." And for one tiny moment, everything felt lighter. Worth it. Then pain esploded across your shoulder. A walker slammed into you from a side doorway hard enough to send you crashing into the wall, your gun flew across the floor in the process as the walker snapped its teeth inches from your face. So you shoved your knife upward desperately into its skull.

Imagine the way your breathing turned ragged instantly. Everything hurt. Your shoulder, your ribs, your legs. And somewhere nearby, more groans echoed. Closer, too close. So you forced yourself upright shakily as blood dripped slowly down your sleeve, one you couldn't tell if it was yours or not. Then you felt it, heard it, above you, the helicopter sound grew louder. Then slowly, it started dafing away into the distance. Your chest tightened painfully. Ten minutes. Maybe he waited longer. Maybe he fought them. Maybe he searched for you until very last second. Or maybe, maybe he just understood what this really is. Not bravery, not heroism. Just survival choosing who got to continue.

Imagine as you leaned briefly against the wall, exhausted beyond words. Caleb's dog tags rested tightly in your hand. Cold, heavy and real. Just then you heard more footsteps, not human, never human anymore. You laughed quietly to yourself. Tired, hollow and half-breathless. "Goddammit." Because maybe love really could kill a person. Not quickly, not romantically. But in choices, in sacrifices, in wanting someone else to live more than you wanted yourself to. And that somewhere deep down. You already knew, you were probably not making it to N109 zone.

[ⓒdark-night-hero] 2026° ko-fi?

:I'm thinking if I should make it a whole series of something because this has sooo much potential as one. PS. Told ya'll Caleb is yet to come home I'm this banner. And I basically lost him to Zayne, like wtfffg

Tagged: @younghideoutberserker @booakaishia

[applefishcake]

childhood bestfriends caleb and nonMC!reader, who he's secretly in love with while she thinks he likes someone else

warnings. angst, fluff, rejection, she fell first he fell harder, caleb is down bad, groveling, miscommunication, caleb sucks at feelings, slow burn, childhood friends to lovers, he gives her a nickname adjacent to pipsqueak preview. "I love you," he says, pressing his forehead against yours. You want to tell him that it's not fair to treat you the way he does and expect you not to fall for him. That holding your hair when you vomit, falling asleep at your bedside when you're sick, and his eyes closing in on you in any room is not fair. "Then prove it to me." wc. 8.4k (she's hefty...)

You proposed to Caleb for the first time when you were nine years old, with a flower ring.

The winter air had nipped at your flushed cheeks as you stepped into ice, holding it out to him. Your breath had puffed into the air like a dragon, and you nuzzled your chin further into the wool of your scarf to keep warm. It had been the only flower left after fall had faded away, yet its white petals stood brilliantly in between your fingertips, weathering against the cold.

The child in front of you was closed off. Eyes narrowed, fists balled inside his pockets, and usually adorning a solemn look on his face. Though, it had certainly gotten better since you first met him as one of Grandma Josephine’s adoptive children. Back then, he hadn’t even spoken much—only keeping MC tight at his side, as if she might disappear if he didn’t. He wasn’t rude by any means…just, cautious. Too aware for a child of his age.

But without a doubt in your mind, he was the most handsome boy you’d ever seen.

He’d raised his brows. “You just met me last week.”

“It’s love at first sight.”

He rejected you, naturally, but it did little to make a dent in your childish heart. Not when his purple hues gazed into your own, with a softness that didn’t seem intent on hurting you.

The next two decades becomes a perpetual cycle of this encounter—in which you learn that Caleb is a very caring person.

In that time, you learn a lot about him, aside from his gorgeous face. You find that he’s fond of nicknames. Pipsqueak for MC. Splints for you, when you launched yourself off a swing and broke your wrist trying to impress him. Safe to say, it didn’t impress anyone but your doctor, who was baffled you managed to fly so high into the air with your 11-year-old legs. Caleb held your other hand tight in the emergency room as you wailed helplessly, waiting for the doctor to ease the pain. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t cry just a tad longer to keep your hand in his.

“This thing is so ugly,” you whine, picking at your cast as he walks you back home. “Do you think I’m gross now, Caleb?”

“It’s not ugly. You need it to get better.”

“I thought you’d fall in love with me if I went high enough,” you sniffle fake tears, which he reads in an instant. “I did go pretty high up, though. So maybe you like me at least.”

He laughs, and you scowl, insisting that you aren’t joking. So instead, he smiles and holds your free hand in his again. Your heart skips a beat. A childish, but innocent love fluttering in your chest. “Come on, splints. Let’s go watch TV, and I can sign your cast.”

The broken wrist is so worth it.

With MC being two grades lower than the two of you and thus having a different schedule, it doesn’t take long before you’re doing practically everything with Caleb. He’s your seatmate in class, the two of you walk to and from school, and there doesn’t seem to be a moment where you aren’t glued at the hip. Throughout all of this, you make sure you shoot your shot whenever the chance arises—even when it doesn’t arise at all.

“You get any chocolates for Valentine’s?” you ask as you plop down in your seat with your lunch, not-so-conspicuously eyeing his desk as his friends begin to crowd around the two of you. It didn’t take long for Caleb to adjust to ordinary school life. After his initial bumpy introduction where he seemed hesitant to get close to anyone his grandma would introduce him to, he was quick to adjust to a level of charisma even you haven’t gotten to. 

By now, he’s charisma personified. You, yourself, have no idea how quickly he adapts to things. Though, you do recall that after an exam measuring his intelligence, he was told he couldn’t lower his grade by two years to be with MC. So you suppose he’s rather bright—almost as much as his face.

“Too many,” one of his friends groan, dragging his hand down the side of his face. “Life’s so not fair, dude.”

“Just a few,” Caleb laughs, turning to feel me stare at him expectantly. “Most of them are obligatory. I just helped a couple people out during gym.”

You glance at his friends. “How many is a few?”

“At least five,” another one grins. He wiggles his eyebrows at you, and his friend snickers at his shoulder. “You jealous?”

It’s not like your crush on Caleb is new news. In fact, it’s practically common knowledge at your school, given how open you are with your affection with him. Asking him out with a giant poster on orientation day, sending him notes with hearts littered everywhere during class, and refusing to be subtle when you’re discussing it with your friends…it tends to add up. Most people believe your relationship to be strange, but those who matter thought of it as the norm, so it doesn’t really matter. 

“Jealous? I don’t think so, why?”

“Most girls would be if their boyfriend got a bunch of chocolates,” he responds, to which Caleb immediately reminds him that you’re not dating. Then his friend sighs. “It’s cute when girls get jealous, isn’t it?”

At this, your ears perk.

“Should I be jealous?” you ask Caleb, making his friends erupt into snickers. “Do you think it’s cute too?”

He rolls his eyes and flicks your forehead softly. “Do you ever ask normal questions, splints?”

Throughout your childhood together, everything involves him. Family dinners, graduation, holidays, all of it. Of course, this means that MC is there for all of it too. You’re helplessly in love, but you’re not stupid. You know what love looks like from the movies their grandma would play on their TV. He cares for her with a different look in his eyes. He protects her with a lovingness in his voice that he doesn’t spare for you. 

The same fingers that flick your forehead touch her arm gingerly, like she could crack in half if he holds too hard. He doesn’t touch her very easily either, whereas he often falls asleep with his head fully leaning against your shoulder on the bus ride home. He wakes up at the crack of dawn to make her lunch, while the two of you munch on sandwiches from the school cafeteria during lunch breaks. He scolds you when your clothes are tossed on the ground while he folds hers without her having to ask. He never enters her room to protect her privacy while he lounges in yours like he owns the place.

Your Caleb, you have found, is different from MC’s Caleb. 

MC’s Caleb is easy to depend on. Trustworthy, perfect, and never makes a mistake for the life of him. He never loses his cool in front of her, never has a hair out of place, lets her win at all the board games, and always has this clear but dazed look in his pretty purple eyes. Your Caleb has none of that. Your Caleb teases you mercilessly when you lose the card game for the fifth time in a row. Your Caleb passes out on his desk while studying for an exam, essentially drooling on his notebook to lie to MC that he’s naturally talented at math. Your Caleb sends you stupid videos about plane models and forces you to sit through a thirty-minute explanation about it.

You know he likes her. He knows you know he likes her. She doesn’t know anything at all. All jumbled up, like a wordless pact ready to crumble at any moment. 

Of course, this means that he prioritizes her over you at times. All the time. It’s to be expected. She’s family, you’re not. You’ve grown used to it, and so has he.

MC doesn’t notice though, because she doesn’t have to. Because to her, Caleb is just a slightly nagging but cool adoptive brother. Nothing more, nothing less. And you’re one of her childhood friends, and Caleb’s best friend. Nothing more, nothing less.

The first year after you graduate high school is a dramatic shift from your cozy hometown. You somehow manage to get into the same college as Caleb–and you attribute his tutoring to be the main culprit—though in different majors. It’s a lot to convince him to go so far from home given that MC is still at home, but after a lot of reluctant discussion, he agrees.

“Take off your shoes at the door,” he reminds you as you barge into his dorm room after a particularly difficult exam for one of your classes. You do as he asks, grumbling about how he has no mercy for the fallen, tossing them haphazardly beside the door and prancing past him. He takes the time to tidy them up, as if he’s expecting it. “How was your exam?”

“Awful. I went through war.”

Caleb grins as he sits down at the coffee table beside you, watching as you bury your face into your arms. “And whose fault is it that they didn’t want to study?”

“Yours.”

“Funny,” he snorts, and you feel his large hand ruffling the top of your head. “It’s alright, splints. I can tutor you a bit earlier on the next one.”

“Even you can’t save me for this class.”

“Is that a challenge?”

He ends up cooking up something quick in his makeshift kitchen (essentially just a rice cooker), while you laze around on his bed, scrolling aimlessly on your phone. Once he’s finished, you scarf down his food like a man starved, lips stretching widely. At times like these, you’re oddly grateful for his hopeless love toward MC. How else would he have learned to cook such good food?  “You should honestly be a chef, Caleb. Actually, no, that would mean other people would eat your food. I guess you can just be my personal chef when we’re married.”

Caleb remains completely unaffected, wordlessly cleaning the plate in front of you. “I didn’t realize I was engaged.”

“Well, now you know. Not sure if you remember, but I had fireworks for you and everything when I proposed. Plus an orchestra.”

He hums, looking up as if he’s in thought, and then nods. “Now that you mention it, that does sound familiar, splints. How could I forget?”

You shrug. “You tell me.”

His face falls as you pace to the door and begin to put your shoes back on. “Where are you going? Aren’t you done with class?”

“Going out. I deserve it after that exam.”

“With your friends?”

“No, with four guys,” you joke, but he doesn’t seem to find it very funny. “I’m just going to a club. I won’t be back too late.”

He’s already grabbing his jacket. “I can come.”

You push him back with your finger by the nose, and he blinks in surprise, making you laugh. “No need. You have exams too, y’know.”

“I’m done studying.”

“Liar.”

Though it takes some convincing, you eventually have him sit at his desk once more. He manages to nag a whole lot as you leave, reminding you to call him once you’re done so he can pick you up, but you just wave him off as you leave out the door. You take your time getting ready–dolling yourself up to hide the dark circles beneath your eyes. As you get ready, you video call MC, where she asks how you and Caleb have been doing in her absence. She rants about her days with her grandma, complaining about how quiet the house is when Caleb isn’t home, though she indulged in the beginning. She asks you to show her your outfit once you’re done, and she beams brightly in your screen, squealing about how you’d likely get a boyfriend soon that you can tell her all about.

You just smile, because you don’t know how to tell her that the only boy you want is wrapped around her unknowing hand.

The club is loud. Where the music rumbles through your feet to the tips of your fingertips, and the lights are flashing in a dimly lit room. Your friends flock to a table and order drinks while you let yourself feel the music and crack a joke or two once in a while.

A group of guys approaches you with easy smiles and louder voices than necessary—confidence sharpened by cheap cologne. One of them leans against your table like he’s done it a hundred times before, asking your name, where you’re from, if you come here often. The usual.

You answer, choking out a laugh to humor his unfunny jokes alongside your friends, while the swigs you take from your drink become deeper and deeper. 

He’s not bad at flirting, you think. Subtle, and not too glaring about it. But you don’t particularly enjoy humoring it, and it becomes gradually more apparent as your eyes keep drifting elsewhere and you keep having to ask him to repeat himself. You’re growing bored. Irritated.

Because he’s not Caleb.

It hits you in strange, inconvenient flashes. The way this guy stands just a little too far away. The way his voice doesn’t quite reach you over the music, even when he’s close. The way you don’t feel that familiar, grounding presence like an anchor holding you to the ground.

You find yourself glancing past his shoulder. Half-wishing to see Caleb there. Watching. Hovering.

But there’s only strangers. Blurred faces and flashing lights.

“You okay?” the guy asks, tilting his head.

“Yeah,” you say too quickly. “Long week.”

He grins, like that’s an invitation. Says something else—something about getting you another drink, maybe dancing, maybe getting out of here.

You nod again. Smile again.

Across the room, your friends are already disappearing into the crowd, dragged toward the dance floor by laughter and hands you don’t recognize. One of them glances back at you, gives you a look that asks ‘you’re good, right?’ before she’s gone.

You sit back down at the table when the guy steps away. Maybe to grab drinks, maybe because he senses your attention drifting. You don’t really care which.

The music swells in your chest. The lights flicker. You wish you could enjoy yourself, but it’s particularly hard today.

You take another sip. Then another. Your phone rests face-down on the table, but you flip it over anyway.

No messages.

Of course not. He cares, but not like that. Not in the way that he would spam MC’s phone whenever he didn’t know where she was or how she was doing. No, not like that at all.

Another sip. The glass is nearly empty now.

And suddenly, you’re pressing send before you can even register what’s happening.

[you]: hi

The answer comes immediately, the grey bubbles popping up on his end of the screen.

[futre hubs <333]: do you need me to come pick you up?

[futre hubs <333]: i can

You’re not sure why you feel like shit, but you hate it. In moments like these—moments where the alcohol lets you lower your walls and truly think—it hits you like a truck, like a deeply sinking feeling in your chest. The years of rejection after rejection that the two of you frame like a bit—as if your feelings have become so miniscule that it no longer even phases him. 

It hurts, a bit. More than you let yourself feel.

You’re not sure how much time passes. Maybe minutes or maybe an hour. There’s buzzing throughout your body. The grip on your waist belonging to the man you’ve been half-heartedly entertaining suddenly becomes harsher, snapping you out of your trance. It feels unlike Caleb, but you let it sit anyway. However, the hand moves to your wrist, and you’re being pulled out of the crowd towards the wall.

Too touchy. He’s saying something into your ear, and you feel his breath against your skin. You don’t like it. Too close. The buzzing feeling feels more like an alarm now.

The words either go unheard due to the music or don’t deter him. You want to go back. Back to Caleb. In the moment, you begin to think—almost as if the world is in slow motion. Perhaps the drinks, you think. You wonder if Caleb will leave you. You wonder if he’ll leave to go be with MC. You wonder if the years you’ve spent expressing your love to him meant as much to him as it did to you, or if he just found it plain annoying. You wonder if now that you’re in college, he’d want to explore other people, and he’ll finally find an outlet to get rid of you for good. 

But you know he wouldn’t. Because he cares for you. Just not as much as he cares for her.

You wonder if he’s ever looked at you with the same softness he does with MC.

Someone pulls you away from the man and into their chest, and the worries dissipate in an instant. His scent. His warmth. You knew he’d come. He always does. It only takes a warning glare from Caleb before the man disappears into the crowd again, and you feel the grip on your wrist loosen. Caleb stares down at you, your back still to his chest as you blink wearily, almost in slow motion, and he sighs. He doesn’t give you the same smile he gives to MC when she’s in trouble. 

A part of you wishes he wasn’t always there for you—not when it’s so different from how he’s there for her. 

You sit idly in front of a convenience store parking lot while Caleb fetches you some water and ice cream. You have your knees to your chest, arms pulling them close as you shiver against the cold autumn breeze. You should’ve brought a jacket. The buzzing, hot feeling of the alcohol is subsiding too quickly.

“Drink.” You feel a water bottle press against your cheek from behind, and Caleb plops down beside you with a plastic bag. He notices how you’re holding yourself together and frowns. “Are you cold?”

“No.”

“I told you to grab a jacket.”

“You nag too much.”

He snickers and twists open the cap of the water bottle for you to drink, which you sip carefully. He strips his jacket off and drapes it over your shoulders, and you immediately bury yourself in it. It smells like him.

“What kind of woman do you like, Caleb?”

“You and your questions.”

“I want to know.”

He shifts to face you, motioning for you to lift your arms. He grabs either side of his jacket and pulls it shut, fumbling with the zipper until he manages to zip it to your chin. You can barely claw your hands out of his sleeves—the fabric almost engulfs you—but he just laughs. “My type? A woman who brings jackets when it’s cold.”

You scowl, making his laugh echo louder. “Other than that.”

“A woman who goes to class in the morning.”

“...Other than that.”

“A woman who doesn’t leave her clothes all over my floor when she feels like sleeping over.”

“Something else.”

“A woman who eats healthy, balanced meals. A woman who doesn’t steal all my pens and then still ends up asking me for more. Maybe someone who doesn’t pass out drooling on my pillow. Or someone who doesn’t let half the world know that they like someone—hell, maybe even the entire world.”

Caleb glances at you, chuckling to himself, but stops the moment he sees that you’re not laughing with him. Your head hangs low, your feet shuffling anxiously. His face twists, and suddenly the air thickens.  “Splints?”

You pick at your sleeves. “So just not me?”

“I was just kidding around.”

“Jokes have some truth to them.”

“Not all of them. I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s okay, Caleb,” you finally meet his eyes again, and shrug. “I know you like someone else. I’m not an idiot.”

Silence commences, like a bell dropping on your head.

Caleb shifts his weight, one hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. It’s a nervous habit you’ve seen a hundred times—usually followed by some half-joke, something to smooth things over.

But nothing comes.

The space between you suddenly feels too small and too big all at once. You try to act normal. You really do.

You fiddle with your sleeve again, smoothing it down, then pulling at it, then smoothing it again. Anything to give your hands something to do, so they don’t reach for him out of instinct. 

Caleb glances at you. Then away.

Then back again, like he’s trying to solve something written across your face but can’t quite make out the words.

“Hey,” he starts, softer this time.

You hum in response, not trusting your voice yet.

Another pause. God, it’s awkward.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he mutters again, quieter now. Not defensive. Unsure. “You know I think you’re amazing.”

Just not enough.

“I am pretty great,” but it comes out too soft.

Neither of you knows what to do with another stretch of silence. So you opt to drink some more water instead.

“Why do you like me so much?” He eventually mutters out as he bites his bottom lip, eyes falling to the ground like he can’t bear to watch your expression. “You could do a lot better.”

You smile, but it’s half-hearted. “How could I not?”

He pauses, as if choosing his words carefully before his voice comes out in a soft whisper. “You mean so much to me. You’re smart, beautiful, and everything good in between—whoever gets to call you theirs is the luckiest person I know. And you know I’d do anything for you.”

Despite their sweetness, his words feel like judgement wrapping around your heart in vines, squeezing just before it’s about to pop. You wish you could block your ears out for what comes next.

“But it can’t be me.” Caleb’s lips purse, brows furrowing as he looks away. “I can’t give you what you want.”

The rejection hurts more than you realized it would. You want to tell him that it’s not fair to treat you the way he does and expect you not to fall for him. That holding your hair when you vomit, falling asleep at your bedside when you’re sick, and his eyes closing in on you in any room that you’re in is not fair. 

Instead, you nod. And you swear to yourself that you’ll swallow this sickening lump in your throat that makes you want to hurl and sob at the same time. That you’ll bury it deep in a graveyard within you that even the closest person to you would never know of. Especially him.  

“I don’t want it, either,” you snort back, immediately perking up to slap his back in what results in a jolt. His shoulders tense as he blinks wide at you, unsure of the sudden shift in atmosphere. “I don’t want feelings that belong to someone else, dumbass.”

Once it sinks in that you mean it, a smile finds its way onto his face, though something flickers beneath it, like a flash of something you don’t want to look too far into.

Not because you still had hope, but because whatever existed between you had never been something as simple as a crush. It had roots—tangled deep into your souls and impossible to pull free without tearing something open. You wanted to keep what was left. Even if it lingered just a little longer, and even if you pretended not to see the splintering strands in the string tying you together.

So you let it settle. Let it rot somewhere you couldn’t feel it.

The two of you fall into the kind of closeness that you’ve always had, and time passes as if it was always meant to be this way. It’s easier this way. For a while, it does work, but nothing ever really stays under wraps. Despite your incessant protests in telling yourself it’s fading, the scars he’s inflicted on you are just that. Scars. Unmoving yet subtle.

The thinning thread finally snaps a few years later, when MC develops feelings for a coworker in the Hunter’s Association. The day the cracks in the glass bridge holding you together shatter beneath your feet into a million different pieces.

“When’s the last time you’ve slept?”

He’s sprawled shirtless on the couch of his apartment in Skyhaven, freshly out of the shower after you arrived to visit him for the first time in months—only to see that he’s nearly overworking himself to death. Despite him going off to the DAA after college, you’d kept close contact, the connection between the two of you never wavering regardless of your restricted time. It only changed after news of MC broke out. Worried, you’d rushed to Skyhaven to make sure he was doing okay, which you’re clearly glad you did now. You’d practically had to drag him to the shower to keep him from passing out next to the front door in his gear.

Caleb, clearly, is off. You suppose you don’t blame him. The woman he loves is yearning for another. Almost poetic, really, but you don’t like seeing him this way. Especially when you know what it feels like yourself, even if you’ve gotten used to it. Gotten over it. He looks like a kicked puppy. Hurt, like a dog who’s just been scratched by its owner. 

“I dunno.”

You peer into the empty abyss that is his fridge and frown. There’s a few measly apples sitting inside, and a half-eaten protein bar that’s been there for god knows how long. “What the hell have you been eating?”

He responds with a grunt, letting his head fall back against the sofa. You decide to make do with the instant noodles he has stashed in one of the cupboards and bring it over to him once it seems mostly done. With a fork, you stick out a few noodles to his face, urging him. “Eat.”

“Not hungry,” he mutters.

“Don’t care. Sit up.”

He opens one of his eyes to peek at you, which somehow urges him forward. There’s darkness beneath his eyes—even stubble littering his chin from a few days worth of not shaving. You want to reach out and poke fun at him, but the state he’s in deters you. Instead, you silently feed him, watching him chew his food while staring at your hands. It makes you wish you put on a fresh set of polish before you came.

You twirl another small forkful and hold it out. He leans forward this time without being told, taking it quietly. His shoulder brushes yours as he settles back against the couch, and you can feel his skin through your shirt.

“Thanks,” he mutters, voice rough from disuse more than anything. “For coming.”

“Yeah,” you say, quieter now. “Someone had to make sure you didn’t rot in here.”

He huffs a faint laugh, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Probably would’ve. Dramatic way to go out, huh?”

You nudge his knee with yours. “Starving to death in your own apartment? Real heroic.”

A ghost of a smile flickers across his face. It makes your heart flutter. Stupid feelings.

“…thanks for coming, splints,” he says.

Your chest tightens—sharp and sudden. It feels like it’s threatening to feel something that’s not yours to feel. So instead, you look down at the bowl, pretending to focus on separating another bite. You twirl your fork, more carefully this time. “I had to. You weren’t responding, so I thought you died, or something. Open.”

He rolls his eyes, but obeys anyway. “Bossy.”

“Learned from the best.”

His lids flutter shut, voice dropping to a lower hum. “I missed this.”

Your hand stills. “What?”

He shrugs, eyes still closed. “You being here.”

His hair is sticking to his forehead, still damp from the shower. Before you realize what you’re doing, you brush a stray strand of hair off his forehead. You speak quietly. “You look like shit.”

“Wow,” he mutters. “You have a way with words.”

You frown, and without thinking, your hand lingers at his temple for just a second longer than it should. His skin is warm, still hot from the shower.

“Idiot,” you whisper.

He catches your wrist. Not tight, not stopping you. Simply holding it there for a moment that feels too long and not long enough at once. Your eyes meet for a fleeting moment, and then you’re looking away, setting the mostly finished bowl of noodles onto the coffee table to pull away.

“Don’t make this a habit. I’m not flying out here every time you forget to eat.”

“Could,” he murmurs. “You would.”

You don’t respond to that, because he’s not wrong.

“…Is she okay?”

It slips out of him like instinct. Like breathing. And just like that, everything shifts. You don’t answer right away—instead, your fingers tighten slightly around the fork.

“She’s fine,” you say eventually. Leave it, you plead in your head.

“Did she say anything?” he asks, sitting up a little more now. There’s something in his eyes, like he’s searching. “When you talked to her.”

You shrug, trying to keep your tone even. “Just normal stuff.” Stop, you think. Please stop talking.

“Like what?”

“Like her job. Her grandma. Nothing serious.” Shit.

He frowns slightly. “She didn’t mention him?”

There it is. It’s always about her.

You know he’s in a vulnerable spot right now, but it does nothing to ease the sudden flame roaring in your chest. Whether it’s from years of repressed hurt or shame, all it amounts to is a relentless ball of rage inside of you that leaves your nails digging crescents into the palms of your hands. You stare at him, chewing on the inside of your cheek as you inch away from him. 

“Does it matter?”

Caleb’s face relaxes. “What?”

“Why does it matter what she thinks about him? She likes him, end of story, no?”

“I just want to know if he’s a decent guy.”

Your ass. “That’s not really your business, Caleb, but sure. He’s a great guy. Amazing, honestly. He’s really gentlemanly and checks every single box. He lives above her apartment, so they’re right next to each other. He treats her gently, too. I’d bet every girl would jump at a chance to date a guy like that.”

You’re not sure where the words are tumbling out of, but it’s too late to go back. Neither do you want to.

“I wonder if he has a brother. Maybe MC could set me up or something.”

“Oh. Is he…” Caleb’s back straightens, and you notice his fingers digging into his thighs. “...handsome?”

“Didn’t you hear me? I’m telling you, he’s perfect. His face could pay for the Linkon rent by itself.”

He suddenly stands, and you glare up at him through your eyebrows. “Why are you talking like that?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you scoff.

He narrows his eyes. It’s something you haven’t seen in a while, since Caleb rarely gets upset at you. “You know exactly what I’m talking about, splints.”

“Can you just spit it out? What am I saying differently?”

“You’re angry.”

You stand, following suit. He looms over you to have his shadow essentially engulf you, and you wish you could kick his ankle so he falls to the ground. “Maybe if you weren’t so irritating, I wouldn’t feel so annoyed right now.”

“What?”

“It’s hard to watch, Caleb,” you hiss out in exasperation, throwing your hands into the air. “It’s always pipsqueak this, pipsqueak that, pipsqueak what. Seriously, we’re not kids anymore, you need to get over it!”

You’re not sure if you’re talking to him or yourself anymore.

“Can we calm down and talk? If I’ve been talking too much about it, I can stop, so—”

“We haven’t seen each other in months, Caleb! And all you want to ask me about is how she’s been? Why don’t you ask her yourself, if you’re so curious? Oh, but you can’t, because you always have to be perfect in front of her. So instead, you dump all of this on me. Your goods and bads, all of it, just for me to get kicked to the curb like I’m some dispensable object.”

“What?” his balks. “Dispensible? Are you serious? As if I haven’t gotten you out of every little thing you’ve gotten yourself into the past decade of our lives? As if I haven’t picked you up every weekend from your friends’ places at three in the morning? Like I haven’t called you every single week—”

“Well, I want you to stop that!” your words spit at him like weak knives, growing louder by the second. 

“You didn’t seem very against it the last forty times.”

“I am now.”

“What has gotten into you, splints?”

“Don’t call me that right now,” you glower, and you try to ignore the hurt flashing across his expression. “I’m just sick of seeing you follow her around like some wet dog. She doesn’t see you like that, can’t you see that?”

Your breathing begins to stutter, and you suck in a deep breath through your nose. Your chest stings, and you pray that you don’t lose composure so the tears threatening to bubble at the corners of your eyes remain hidden.

“You told me that you couldn’t give me what I wanted. Well, she can’t either,” you bore holes into his chest, too afraid of what you might see if you look up. “If I can get over my stupid feelings, so can you.”

But you’re not over it. Not at all.

He opens his mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. For the first time in a while, you’ve rendered him speechless, and it feels even worse than what it felt to be rejected years ago. You’re not sure how your nails haven’t drawn blood at this point. You’d rather that they do, so you have some excuse to use the restroom.

“It’s not fair what you do, Caleb,” you try to will your tears to stay at bay, but you can’t help them. They sting, blurring your vision as you drop your head in some pathetic hope that he won’t face them head on. “How you treat me when you don’t like me like that is not fair. At least MC doesn’t know, but you—you know, and yet you—”

The rational part of you says that it’s not entirely his fault. Sure, you insisted on staying by his side. Sure, you insisted that you could push down your feelings. Sure, you’ve promised a lot of things, but it’s his fault too, for being the way he is—so kind, so thoughtful, just so him. 

You wipe desperately at your tears. It was a lost cause from the start.

“Please don’t cry.” His face drains of color, apparent even against the dim lighting in his apartment. He steps towards you, and you take a step back. “Please don’t cry, splints, just not that.”

But when your tears refuse to cease dripping down your cheeks, your face flushing in humiliation, you feel both his hands cupping either side of it. He tilts your gaze up, and you realize that he’s only inches away from you, so much so that you can feel his breath against your skin. It’s moments like these that you lose yourself in his beauty. The deepness of his eyes that seem to peer into your very soul is one of the first features that you fell in love with as a child, and it hasn’t changed since. Damn him. You blink, eyes wide while his own flicker to your lips. 

“Be as mad as you want. Hit me, hate me even,” he whispers, his nose almost touching yours now. His thumb pad smooths your tears away. “But don’t waste your tears on someone like me.”

You think you might be imagining things. Because with the tension that nearly suffocates you and his lashes almost fluttering against your skin, you think he might be about to kiss you.

A sharp pain jabs you in the chest. Is it pity? A consolation prize dressed up as something softer? Is it to smooth things over, to make this moment easier for him to leave behind? Or is it rebellion? Something reckless from the fact that he can’t have her? Your tears have dried up, but the rest of your body seems to weep, as no excitement, no butterflies course through your veins. 

Why is it always something else? Why is it never you? It only hurts—because even now, you’re just the place he empties everything he feels for her.

Instinctively, you press your palm into his lips to push him away, and it feels like the air itself has stilled.

His breath lingers against your skin. Yours stutters like it’s forgotten how to exist in the same space as him. The air is so thick you could slice it with a knife.

Eventually, he pulls away. Caleb stares at you with an expression you haven’t seen before, though you don’t look long enough to analyze it. Wordlessly, you gather your things, stuffing your jacket into your bag and stumble over to the door—all while he stays locked in a petrified state, like he’s processing what he just did. Your gaze remains fixated on the wooden panels of the floor while you pack, refusing to look any higher in case you might see anything other than his feet.

“Don’t follow me,” you tell him as you leave. 

You don’t wait to see if he hears you.

The journey home feels like there’s a gaping hole in your chest, and all you can do is stare out the window as you feel the vibrations of the train through your fingertips. Outside, the world blurs past in streaks of dim lights and shadowed shapes, and you wish that your feelings were as fleeting as the buildings blurring by. 

You try to count the number of trees you see. Not on the warmth of his breath against your palm. Not on how close he’d been. Not on the fact that, for a second, you almost let him.

If you hadn’t pushed him away, would it have meant anything? Or would you have just been a mistake he’d regret in the morning?

Your phone buzzes frantically in your pocket, and you pull it out to see his name in big bold letters. He’s texting you simultaneously, apologizing in so many different ways that they all start to blend into one message you don’t plan on reading. You refuse to give into what your heart wants. It’s hurt you too much in the past. So instead, your thumb hovers above the ‘mute’ button.

You press it and shut your eyes.

Even if it’s difficult to adjust the first few weeks without him, you can’t bear to face him either. He shows up at your door. Nearly every day for some time, knocking softly and asking if you’d be willing to talk. When you simply plug in your earbuds and bury yourself into your bed, he apologizes through the door and leaves you something to eat. You tend to throw it out at first, but after a while, you figure it’s just a waste. Just like that, a month goes by. And then another. Then another. Until you can’t count them on one hand anymore. He comes by once every two weeks or so now, likely busy with his work.

Despite how much your body seems to miss his presence, you wonder if you should distance Caleb permanently. It’s a daunting idea. One that you never would’ve thought just a few years ago, but the embarrassment runs deeper than you want to admit. The feelings you’ve tried so hard to hide clearly aren’t hidden. Is this sustainable? 

Regardless of what you think, he comes around like clockwork.

“Are you in there?” He knocks gently on your door, voice soft. He probably knows you are.

“No.”

He chuckles from the other end. “Right. Happy birthday, splints.”

You glance at your phone calendar. He’s right. 

As usual, he begins to talk about random events in his life that he hasn’t had the opportunity to tell you, and while you usually muffle it out, you decide to quietly shuffle over to the door today. To tell him, maybe, that you don’t want to keep doing this. Or maybe just to hear his voice, you don’t know. Either way, you slide your back down the door where he’s on the other side, pulling your knees into your chest.

“I don’t know if you’ve read my text, but–”

“I don’t read them.”

Caleb stops, and you can almost hear his breath hitch. You usually don’t give him more than a few words, much less a full sentence, so it seems to have taken him aback. After the brief remission, you hear him clear your throat. “Splints, can you open the door? I want to talk—apologize to you.”

Silence.

“Or I can do it out here. That’s fine,” he sighs. “I want you to know that it’s okay if you want to hate me forever after this. I won’t keep clinging to you if you at listen to what I have to say, but I really just—I need to say that this is my fault.”

You half-heartedly hear his words drone on, his confidence wavering every so often while you pull up his chats on your phone. You have no idea how you hadn’t folded and read his chats until now, though it might’ve been more so for your own peace than anything. There’s too many to scroll up to, so you read the most recent messages, squinting in the dark against the light of your phone. 

[1:41PM]

[caleb]: are you eating well?

[caleb]: i made this today

[caleb]: [image attached]

[caleb]: your favorite dishes :) i’ll drop them off at your place later

[caleb]: i hope you’re not just throwing them out…wouldn’t blame you tho

[caleb]: at least take care of yourself :)

[8:13AM]

[caleb]: hi splints :)

[caleb]: you probably watched it already but that movie you wanted to see came out a week ago. I went to go see it

[caleb]: i still think it’s kind of bad…but it was entertaining

[caleb]: unless you wanna argue about it ?? :3

[5:32PM]

[caleb]: ranked first today

[caleb]: i was excited to celebrate it with you and then remembered :/

[caleb]: it doesn’t feel as good when i can’t tell you lol

[caleb]: hope you’re okay

[11:23PM]

[caleb]: i wish i hadn’t been so stupid

[caleb]: i didn’t deserve you back then

[caleb]: i still don’t

[caleb]: i shouldn’t have lost my cool when you were over here. didn’t like hearing you talk about that guy like that

[caleb]: im sure he’s a good looking guy, and i know you’re particularly weak to good looking guys…

[caleb]: i was being childish and i wish i could’ve explained it to you then

[caleb]: i know you don’t owe me anything and you don’t have to listen to what i have to say

[caleb]: but i never wanted to make you feel used, and i never did. if that even sounds believable lol

[caleb]: it was never about her

[caleb]: there’s so much more i want to say but i’ll say it in person

[caleb]: miss you a lot

[caleb]: sleep tight

You wish the tightness in your chest would go away. You wish you didn’t feel his sorrow through him. And you wish you didn’t care about your own feelings for him.

“I love you, splints,” he murmurs, and your attention tears away from the chats, your phone nearly clattering onto the floor. Your eyes widen, suddenly regretting that you missed the first half of his speech. 

“Not in the way you say it to your friends, or the way you say it to family. You’re my life, and you’ve been my life since the day you gave me that ring. I care for MC, but what I feel for you is different. It’s always been different. I realized that years ago, but I was afraid that it wouldn’t be fair for you. I thought you deserved someone better than someone who doesn’t know how to understand their own feelings.” Your throat dries. “I thought it wasn’t fair because I’d already put you through so much.”

“At the same time, I’m a selfish guy, you know? I couldn’t let you go either, because I couldn’t bear to see you with someone else. I wanted it to be us, and the only way I could think of existing without feeling like I was ruining you was to stay how we were. Stagnant, I guess,” he chuckles, but it feels sad. Weak. “I’m an idiot when it comes to you, you know.”

You don’t respond.

Not because you don’t have anything to say—if anything, there’s too much. It crowds your throat, every word scraping against the next until none of them can make it out. Your fingers hover uselessly over your phone, screen still lit with a conversation you can’t even remember reading.

‘I love you.’

The words echo, but they don’t land the way you once dreamed they would. They don’t bloom or soften or fix anything. They just sit. Too heavy. Too late.

Your chest tightens, aching outward like it’s trying to break free. Because you’ve wanted this—God, you’ve wanted this—for so long that you stopped letting yourself imagine it could ever actually happen. It should feel like relief. Instead, it feels real, but fragile.

Because you remember too much. The almosts. The waiting. The way you learned how to swallow your emotions when he built a wall between the two of you—and that doesn’t disappear just because he finally found the words.

Your hand curls slightly against the door, fingers brushing the cool surface.

Even with all that, you still miss the warmth of his skin. How his hair felt through a towel as you dried it. How he’d flick your forehead when you’d get a question wrong during one of his tutoring sessions. How he’d tease you about your grades or interests, and learn more about them anyway. How he’d message you throughout the day about random endeavors. How he’d always be there. How with just a call of his name, he would’ve crossed the continents for you. His eyes. His lips. His face. His painfully handsome face.

You remember him in all parts of your life—and not a single moment you’ve spared has gone without him. You remember how he held your hand when you’d broken your arm, and the way he’d lifted you into the air and embraced you when you were accepted into the same college as him. You remember how he’d pet your hair as you complained about him going too far for the DAA, promising he’d visit often. And he did. He always kept his promises.

Your body moves on its own, as if this was how it was always meant to be. The door slowly creaks open.

“…We’re a mess.”

A faint, tired smile is all you can give him. Still, when he sees you, the world seems to stop for just the two of you, and it takes him a moment to fully register that you’re really there. That you’re not just a figment of his imagination, and he hasn’t truly lost you forever as he’d feared. “This doesn’t mean you’re completely out of the woods. I’m still mad.”

“You should be,” he whispers out, nearly breathless.

Hesitantly, you step towards him. He reaches his arm out, brows furrowed cautiously like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to even blink right now. The tips of his fingers twitch towards you. You raise a brow, and he swallows the lump in his throat, retracting back until you nod. 

Realizing you don’t have shoes, you step onto the fronts of his shoes one foot at a time, taking his hand until you’re flush against him and he’s already engulfing you into a crushing embrace. His arms wrap around you, strong and warm. He smells good. Though you can’t confidently say the same for yourself given the state you’re in, he drops his chin into the crook of your neck and inhales deeply, like a man starved.

“Note to self,” you mumble. “Don’t propose to any handsome guy you see.”

Caleb laughs, airy this time, and you feel it against your collarbone. “I thought you were going to leave your husband out here to die in the cold.”

“I should divorce you. We’re not even married yet.”

He grins, lopsided. “You should.”

“I won’t.”

“I know.

You bury your face into his chest, fingers digging into the fabric on his back. “I don’t want a version of my life without you, Caleb. As annoying as you are.”

He pulls away for a brief moment and places a kiss on your cheek, his own dusting red. Flowers feel like they’re blooming on the spot he pecked, but somehow, it feels natural. You’ve always been close to him physically throughout your upbringing, even if it never involved lips–that was new territory. You cross your arms, relying on his hands around your waist to keep you upright. “Tell me more.”

“You nag too much.”

He kisses your nose. “Hm?”

“You’re emotionally repressed.”

“Ouch.” He kisses your temple.

“You’re too good at things you don’t try at.”

Your jawline.

“You’re unstable. You’re too protective. You’re stupid.”

“I love you,” he says, pressing his forehead against yours. His lips hover above your own, just centimeters away.

Your lashes flutter against his. “Then prove it to me.”

“I will,” he whispers, just as his mouth slots against yours, and a warmth blooms throughout your chest. You melt into him, like you always have and you always will. “I’ll prove it to you for the rest of my life.”

[sylxst]

Obsessed with the idea of meanie big brother! caleb finding out you write porn.

tags: sexual content 18+ mdni, pseudo-incest

wc: 2k

He thought it was a boy at first. Don't ask him how he came to that conclusion. You've been curled up by yourself lately, against a wall so no one can peek over your shoulder. Screen brightness low, typing a mile a minute. Thumbs dancing like they can't move fast enough.

And you fidget like a wriggly little worm on the sofa, in your bed. Your lower half so active, like there's something you're seeing that's effecting you down there. Something making your thighs squeeze, ankles cross.

Caleb sees it all and the idea of you yapping away with some loser really gets on his nerves. Plus it's not good for your pretty eyes to be glued to a screen all the time. They need to rest, they need to focus on more important things. Like him, for instance.

So when you put your phone down absentmindedly and walk off, he takes it. Slides it off the table and he doesn't even need to put the password in. Never.

Your phone has his face registered, the moment he looks at the camera with his frown and swipes up, your phone immediately opens up to him. Like everything else in your life.

To his surprise there are no messages to read. No nasty texts or pictures to make you achy and hot down there. No boy responsible for that. Thank god.

But what he finds is a word document titled, meanie big brother.

His eyes slowly widening at the realization. Ears hot. You've been writing.

This whole time you've been typing up absolute filth and that's what's been leaving you damp in your sleep shorts.

Unbelievable.

With a slow growing smile he reads the last bit you left.

meanie big brother! who makes it a routine to go straight to your room after waking up. Climbing into your bed without you hearing or feeling his weight make the frame squeak just so he can stuff you full of his morning wood <3 So sudden, he doesn't care to ease it in, every inch firm and thick slotted between your damp lips unlike anything you imagined.

It's his way of starting the day. His method of cardio because he's so in shape and takes his health very seriously. Yours as well. The sunrise is nothing compared to watching your sleepy face twist and scrunch with your pussy stretched full first thing. Pleasure ripping through your peaceful slumber.

Un-fucking-real.

"C-caleb what the fuck?" exclaims your whiny voice coming back to retrieve what's yours.

Even from where he lounges, balancing on the back legs of his chair, he can smell your fear. He's amused by it written all over your face, the way you're quick to jump him like that'll do something.

He's way quicker than you, always has been. All he has to do is stand up and now you're too small to snatch your phone from his hand.

" I should be asking you that pipsqueak" He flips it back on you, seeing how you crumble, "Cause why is my sweet virgin baby sister writing porn?"

Brocon porn but of course you are. He saw it coming, anyone could. You're obsessed with him and a massive pervert.

But takes one to know one. And with all things having to deal with you and you alone, he's a goddamn expert.

You're definitely leaving them somewhere and he makes mental note to go scourging for your secret account. But in the meantime he enjoys watching you squirm, biting at your lip trying to find some excuse to give him.

"So what?" you retort with a shrug trying to play it cool, "You're the one violating my privacy idiot."

He grins.

"So what?"

He leans above your ear,

"What do you even know about getting your pussy fucked anyway?" He whispers, "You've never been touched like that before. Where are you going for the inspiration pipsqueak?"

You've been in similar situations with Caleb all your life to know when it's your queue to flee— phone be damned. But caleb can sense it a mile away and grabs your arm before you could take a step back.

Now you're face down on the dining table. Face in your arms, phone at your nose, screen bright with your fiction in progress. Caleb hikes your big shirt to your chin. Leaves your lower half bare, shorts and panties pooled at your ankles. Legs knocked a couple inches apart.

"Why waste your time watching other guys when you have a perfectly good big brother in your house?" He questions, but it sounds like he's talking to himself, softly chastising you, "If that’s what you like then I don't mind being mean to you. Not one bit."

For emphasis or just for the hell of it, the palm of his hand swiftly swats your ass. Hard. Once. Twice. Ignoring your yelps from each spank.

"Okay okay! I get it" You complain, blinking back the knee-jerk tears

"Good," He caresses the warm skin with fingers gripping the fat of your ass as he admires your curves, "Start from the beginning, read me your first paragraph little writer."

It's hard to, with him toying with your slick seam with his fingers. Opening you up with his thumbs, your clit throbbing for attention and he gives it fleetingly with fingertips.

And you don't want to read it aloud, this stuff isn't meant for that.

"I'm waiting."

Before he spanks you again, you swallow,

"m-meanie big brother! who doesn't give a shit about what you're up to-"

"Language," Caleb cuts you off with a playful gasp like he's offended, "But go on."

You roll your eyes,

"He loves to lay you over your books when you're trying to study, or over your vanity when you're getting ready for the day. Um.. playing with the wet seat of your panties, stuffing his face in your..- p-pussy, claiming it's because he misses you."

A beat of silence.

"Oh yeah?"

Then he kneels, and you only know that when you feel his humid breath against your sex and you immediately start to fidget.

"Stop that" He bites, just like his fingernails digging into your skin as he spreads your ass open. "Your big brother misses you so much let him prove it to you.”

You do what he says even though every inch of your body wants to push back into him. The moment his mouth, warm and eager, suckles you, your brain resets itself.

A tongue heavy kiss that drools over your clit. He tastes your wetness that's leaks and sucks your folds for more. Smothers your clit to feel you tremor.

So noisy. His moans lilted to tease you when you squeal, "Oh-caleb-!"

It's not your fault for being loud, there isn't a place his tongue hasn't lapped up. His nose pokes and prods at your puckered hole. You had no idea you were so sensitive there. Every touch shooting waves of pleasure and he takes advantage of it.

You're stuttering when he spits on it, teases the pad of his thumb over the mess. Almost drooling on your phone, eyes wanting to roll back so bad.

Caleb hikes your leg to rest on the table, turning his head. The subtle change in position, the way you can lower yourself on his face and grind. Let him willingly suffocate against you. It's too much.

"Such a good girl" He swoons, voice breathless, with a hand firming landing on your ass "do you wanna cum on my tongue baby?"

You're chanting, unwavering and loud.

"Yesyesohyes pleease"

Your body has a mind of it's own the way you grinds your hips, quaking as you're so close to unraveling. You're chasing after the edge, after caleb's tongue that slots hotly past your hole. You break with a sob. Overstimulated on his tongue that eases in and out of you.

Caleb takes every drop of your orgasm and swallows. You can feel him licking his lips, breathe fanning hard out of his nose on your dripping cunt.

"Keep readin' " He says after, his usual bright voice is dimmed, "What else does meanie big brother do?"

" 'leb.." You mewl a coy plea to distract him , turning around to watch as he straightens up his face glistening.”

"I don't think that's what it says" He glances to your phone with its black screen, "Don't leave me hangin' pips the story's getting good."

The look he gives makes you turn your phone back on. You feel him teasingly press his firm print against you. Just as he thought you would you rub against it as you read what's left.

"he feels you up with the raw length of his cock, slaps the weight between the swell of your lips. Each smack makes you jolt when it knocks against your hole where you need him the most."

"Fuck" a low broken moan, "That's really fuckin' dirty sis"

He tugs his pants down, "But that's what big brothers do right?"

You melt and bite at your lip from the firm heat rubbing up against you, heavy and throbbing.

"what happens next? huh?" Caleb asks, "Did you think that far ahead yet?"

You shake your head, embarrassment and unrelenting arousal making your cheeks burn and hips grind to feel up the thickness of his cock. Hoping that the head will find your hole and press. It gets close to sliding in, but it runs over your clit.

"That's all you got? Bummer" Caleb hums,

He drags his cock back to your entrance and pushes until the swollen head spreads you open.

Knocks a gasp out of your lips when he keeps going, taking up every bit of room inside you.

"Why don't you add big brother giving you his cock slow and deep?" Caleb groans, "Tell 'em how he stretches you out."

It hurts so good. Balls full and kissed to your bud as he grinds further inside, savoring the grip you have on him, like you refuse to let him go.

"S-s-deep-!" you breathe out, clawing at the table trying to brace yourself

You hear Caleb chuckle before a sudden thrust knocks into you hard enough to rock the table,

"'course I am, this pussy is all mine" He says, "you should add that to your horny little story."

"m-may-ah-be I will."

"Uh huh."

He moves just as he said he would. Slow and deep. Mean. Pulls back some to swiftly shove it all back in, finding soft sensitive spots inside. Places that make you squeeze real tight and he holds your hips where he knows he'll find them. Real slow, but you're a teary eyed mess. Kness buckling, legs kicking up as you whimper from each heavy punishing stroke.

"Gonna tell them how wet you are for your big brother? Pussy louder than your moans sis " He keeps going, feeling up the valley of your spine possessively, "Make sure your audience know how much meanie big bwother loves his sweet baby sister so f-fucking much-"

An embrace from behind, the way you feel your back against firm but supple curves of muscle. His hands grip your tits, pinch your nipples and squeeze the fat as if committing to memory how they feel in his hands. He starts speeding up, until the sound of skin is deafening and overwhelming bliss has your jaw hanging open,

"caleb-cal-leb-f-fuckme-"

The table forced to take the onslaught of his hips, of you using it to push yourself back into him. You feel him drool against your neck, panting like a dog. Then he pulls out.

"Fuck-flip over yeah flip over-" He urges you like he'll die painfully if you don't.

He doesn't hear your complaints when he does it for you. Lays you out lust-driven and you can see it in his eyes bearing its shadows down on you.

He wastes no time sinking back in, the change in position makes him feel so much closer to you. Your legs wide and bent at his sides, his abs flexing as he strokes your insides. His chest pink, pecs heaving. Necklace shiny and winking at you. Your greedy hands feel it all.

"Kiss me" you softly beg, looking up at him through your lashes, a whisper of a breath "Please big brother?"

Caleb moans like a timid sob like you know he would. His eyes big and wide like windows. He doesn't say anything and lips take yours feircely. Clumsy but too hungry to care.

A hand delves between your legs to run fingers over your clit. You spasm but caleb's hold on you with his weight barely lets you move.

"I love you 's much baby sis" He babbles against your lips "this tight pussy-'s all mine right?"

He backs away to watch your eyes roll about, watch as you squeal, "’m yoursyours-all yours-!"

He can't help it, erraticly shoving himself into your walls, collapsing as you silently scream as you cum. Your pussy unbelievably narrow he bursts right against your cervix, the heat blooming in your stomach.

"A-ah s-shit-"

Another line he's crossed yet again, too far and it’s way too late to take it back now. But with the way he fucks his seed into your pussy still twitching as you cum he doesn't regret it. Not one bit.

He kisses you through the comedown, peppered slowly all over your face. He’s entranced by the bliss that leaves a radiant glow on your face.

"Can't wait to read the finish product pipsqueak " He says, before you grab a punishing fist full of hair.

[dotalicious]

kiss | bakugo, k.

ꉂ ᵎᵎ cw/tw: 18+, yearner!best friend!katsuki, fem!afab!sheltered(ish)!virgin!reader, implied oral sex, mention of condoms, kissing pussy through underwear, kissing, makeout, mention of sex, fluffy, friends to lovers, love confession, reader has hair, swearing, reader has parents, erections, both katsuki and reader are in early 20s

ꉂ ᵎᵎ a/n: who the hell is this dot lady? tf 😂😂😂😂

ꉂ ᵎᵎ synopsis: best friend bakugo notices you can't handle kissing scenes

ꉂ ᵎᵎ w/c: ~1.2k

you always cover your eyes when a kissing scene in a movie or show comes on.

it's a habit, one instilled into you by your parents since childhood. that's why, as you and your best friend, katsuki, watched a romance together for the first time, you hadn't even noticed you were still doing it until he pointed it out.

“what are you doing?” he asks, confusion lacing his voice. he shoots you a sideways glance.

you peek at him through your fingers, before slowly lowering your hands. “…nothing,” you mumble. usually when the two of you watched movies, it was him who would choose what to watch— selecting some sort of action-packed film that was so quintessentially boyish and therefore perfect as background noise for when your brain would turn off. needless to say, when you brought up your request for movie night this week, you were rather surprised with how easily he obliged, perhaps more than he was with what you picked out. he simply just expected you to actually watch it, rather than spend most of your time hiding your face from the screen.

his eyebrow lifts, still concerned. “you good?”

“yeah, yeah,” you nod, eyes flicking back to the tv. as if on cue, another kissing scene pops up and your hands reflexively raise to block your vision. the look from katsuki is already expected.

an embarrassed sigh escapes you as you decide explaining things would be easier. “okay, when i was little, i wasn’t allowed to watch kissing, so like now, i don’t know what to do when it comes up as an adult… like if i should watch or look away.”

katsuki's lips purse. “what do you when you actually do it?”

his typical bluntness somehow catches you off guard, and your face swiftly heats up. “i don’t. or like, i mean, i haven’t done it yet.”

“…you for real?”

“stop,” you huff, “don’t even.”

“i’m not even ‘even’—ing — i’m just... surprised. the hell do you do on all those dates you go on?”

“i told you,” you half shrug, your gaze avoiding his, “i just talk and stuff.”

“see,” he rolls his eyes, tsking lightly, “when someone says ‘and stuff,’ it makes you think they’re having sex.“

the blush across your cheeks intensifies, the back of your neck practically on fire at this point. “i… i’m not doing that either, you weirdo,” you stammer. “what i mean is what i say, you know that.”

he shrugs, yet there's something very thoughtful in his expression now. “i guess i just didn’t know how strong your commitment to honesty was.”

“what does that mean?”

“i just… i dunno,” he shrugs again, “i thought you had game.”

“i have game,” you scoff, “i’m just waiting... for the right person.”

he takes pause. “who’s that?”

“who’s what?”

“the right person.”

“i don’t know,” you mutter, “guess when i’ll meet them i’d know.”

another silence falls between you, this one thicker than before. his mouth opens to speak, before closing, and then opening again.

“what if they’re like...” he cuts himself off with a sigh, “...ah, nevermind.”

you tilt your head, curiosity cutting through your nerves. “like what?”

“like… right in front of you.”

you blink.

“...katsuki?”

“i'm sorry,” he mumbles out quickly, moving to stand, “i don't— just forget it...”

“no, katsuki, please— wait,” you reach out to him, your hand landing on his wrist. you take a breath before continuing, mind grappling to make sense of it all. “are you saying you... like me? like...like me?”

his leg bounces. “yeah,” he admits after a beat, voice lower now, like he’s forcing the words out before he can talk himself out of it, “of course i do. but i get if you don't see me that way—”

“no, no—” you reassure, shaking your head, “i do. i do.”

upon hearing your requital, katsuki swallows thickly. after all these years of pining for you in silence, trying to convince himself to just give up his pointless crush, the words leaving your tongue couldn't sound any sweeter. he glances at you again, eyes flicking to your lips before snapping back up, a flicker of nerves flashing across his face as temptation begins to gnaw at him.

“what... what are you doing?” you find yourself whispering as he leans closer.

“can i kiss you?” he murmurs, “please?”

it feels like your heart may nearly burst out your chest at the question. before you can over think it, you nod.

surprisingly, the lips of your best friend are soft as they brush against yours. the kiss is brief, nervous, barely more than a peck, and nothing like the confident katsuki you know, and yet it manages to send a shock straight down your spine all the same. that being said, it surprises you both when your hands find the collar of his shirt in order to pull him back in for another, and even more when the rush of gravity sends the two of you tumbling down onto the floor.

as the kiss intensifies— teeth clashing, tongues exploring, gasps and moans filling the air, it nearly feels like the newly-discovered jaws of passion might consume you whole. you barely clock the hard on in katsuki's pants pressing against your thigh in the heat of it all — too distracted with how naturally his hands entangle themself into your hair — until he pulls away from you with a groan, the weight's absence discernibly missed as he rests his forehead against yours.

still, you don't bring awareness to it, too busy trying to catch your breath. “i...wow...” you manage, wiping your chin of drool with the back of your hand. “is it always like that?”

he shakes his head, clearing his throat with a rough sound. “it's never been that good for me,” he rasps, before a passing thought crosses his mind, “definitely could be better though.”

“better?”

with half-lidded eyes, his tongue darts out to wet his lips, like he’s still weighing how much to say out loud. eventually he exhales, the sound quiet and decisive.

“…fuck it,” he mutters under his breath.

carefully, his hands slide down your sides, before settling at your hips— the movement more hesitant than sure, intent on giving you every chance to pull away, yet the question is clear, even if unsaid.

can i fuck you?

“oh,” you mumble, your mouth feeling desert-dry while a heat began to pool low in your core. “i... do you have a condom?”

katsuki nods feverishly, thumbs moving to hook through your shorts' belt loops in order to tug them down. “we're not gonna need that for a while though.”

“w-we're not?"

for the first time tonight, you finally see that familiar smirk spread across his face. you've always said he's had the weirdest humor. and yet, you watch attentively as he lowers his mouth to press a soft kiss to your navel, and then to the lips of your cotton-clad pussy— the fabric positively soaked with arousal now.

“don't cover your eyes, okay?"

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[cumironi]

HATE AT THE FIRST THRUST (MAKE IT CREAM-PIE)

feat. Gojo Satoru/Reader, Fushiguro Toji/Reader, Higuruma Hiromi/Reader, Geto Suguru/Reader, Ryomen Sukuna/Reader, Nanami Kento/Reader, Kong Shiu/Reader.

summary. he is your brother best friend. tall, older, hot and handsome. guess who he made friends with? your pussy.

trigger/warnings. Hate Sex, Enemies With Benefits, Brother’s Best Friend, Brother’s Roommate, Risky Sex, Almost Getting Caught, Thin Walls, Semi-Public Sex, Rough Sex, Creampie, Unprotected Sex, Dirty Talk, Degradation Kink, Verbal Degradation, Praise Kink, Size Kink, Brat Taming, Face-Sitting, Cunnilingus, Face-Fucking, Mirror Sex, Wall Sex, Overstimulation, Possessive Behavior, Explicit Sexual Content, Age Difference, Power Imbalance, Manhandling, Drunk Sex, Vibrator Use, Bathroom Sex, Gaming Chair Sex, Jealousy, Humiliation, Kitchen Sex, Thigh Riding, Blowjob, Deepthroating, Fingering, Counter Sex.

Gojo Satoru

the bass from suguru’s shitty speakers bleeds through the walls, a dull thud that matches the pulse hammering between your legs. you hate gojo satoru. you hate the way he stretches out on your brother’s couch like he owns the place, you hate the way he smirks at you over the rim of his glass, you hate the way his voice drops an octave when suguru leaves the room. you hate him. you hate him so much your teeth ache with it, and yet here you are, back pressed against the cold tile of the guest bathroom, one hand clamped over your own mouth and the other tangled in that stupid, soft white hair.

“shh, shh, shh,” he hums against the inside of your thigh, and you can feel his smile, that infuriating, knowing curve of his lips, branding your skin. “you want suguru to hear how much you hate me? want him to find his baby sister dripping all over his best friend’s face?”

you try to kick him, a pathetic, wobbly movement because your knees are liquid and he’s got your legs hooked over his broad shoulders, your skirt bunched up around your waist like an afterthought. “i do hate you,” you hiss, but it comes out on a broken gasp as his tongue flattens against the soaked cotton of your panties. the fabric is a useless barrier, a flimsy scrap of nothing soaked through with how much you need this, need him, despite every screaming cell in your body. “you’re a fucking asshole, satoru.”

“mmhm,” he agrees, the vibration of it shooting straight to your clit. he doesn’t even bother pulling the panties aside, just noses at the damp spot, breathing you in like you’re a fucking meal. “and this asshole is the only one who can make this pretty, angry little cunt this wet, isn’t he? been watching you all night, brat. all those little glares, those sharp words. all i could think about was bending you over the kitchen counter and fucking that attitude right out of you.”

you whimper, your head falling back against the tile with a soft thud. the music from suguru’s room is still going, some lo-fi hip-hop track you used to find calming but now just sounds like a taunt. your brother is twenty feet away, probably scrolling through his phone, completely oblivious to the fact that his best friend has his little sister pinned like a butterfly in the guest bath, about to devour her. the wrongness of it, the sheer depravity, makes your cunt clench on nothing, a fresh wave of slick dampening the gusset of your panties even further. “please,” it slips out before you can stop it, a tiny, desperate sound you don’t even recognize as your own.

gojo pulls back, just enough to look up at you. in the dim light filtering under the door, his eyes are blown wide, the ethereal blue almost swallowed by black. he’s a study in contrasts—the sharp, almost angelic cut of his jawline, the lewd shine of his lips, the way his expensive cologne is mingling with the raw, musky scent of your arousal. he’s twenty-nine, five years older than you, and he’s been a fixture in your life since you were a teenager, a permanent, arrogant shadow attached to your brother’s side. you’ve watched him charm his way through half of tokyo, and you’ve always, always felt a hot spike of something you refused to name every time. now you know what it was. it was this. it was the sight of his thumb hooking into the side of your ruined panties and dragging them down your legs with a slow, deliberate pull that feels like a declaration of war.

“please what, baby?” he coos, the pet name dripping with condescension. he tugs the damp fabric over your ankles, your heels, and tucks them into the back pocket of his jeans. a trophy. “use your words. you’re a big girl, aren’t you? hate me with your whole chest but you’re gonna let me fuck you raw while your brother’s in the next room.”

“yes,” you choke out, the word tasting like ash and honey on your tongue. “fuck me. just—shut up and fuck me.”

he laughs, a low, private sound that makes your stomach flip. “that’s not very nice. and here i was going to be sweet to you.” he stands up, and the sheer size of him is overwhelming in the cramped space. he’s so much taller, so much broader, and he uses it, caging you in with his arms braced on either side of your head. his body is a wall of heat against yours, his chest solid under the soft cotton of his shirt. you can feel the hard ridge of his cock pressing against your belly, and a fresh bolt of pure, unadulterated lust shoots through you. you hate how much you want it. you hate him.

his fingers find your chin, tilting your face up so you have to meet his eyes. “you’re going to look at me while i ruin you, understand?” his voice is a low rumble, a command that brooks no argument. “you’re going to watch my face while i stretch this tight little hole out. and you’re going to take it all. every fucking inch. and if you make a sound, if you so much as whimper too loud, suguru is going to come knocking on this door wondering why his best friend is balls deep in his precious baby sister’s cunt.”

the threat is a live wire against your skin. “you wouldn’t dare,” you breathe, but your hips are already canting forward, seeking friction, seeking him.

his smile is a flash of white teeth. “wouldn’t i?”

his hand drops from your chin, and he makes quick work of his belt, the clink of the metal buckle obscenely loud in the quiet room. he doesn't undress. he just unzips his jeans, pushes them and his boxers down just enough to free his cock. and fuck. fuck. you knew he’d be big. you just knew it. the arrogant fucker radiates big dick energy like a nuclear reactor, but seeing it is something else entirely. he’s thick, so thick you can’t imagine how he’s going to fit, the tip flushed a deep, angry red and already leaking. he strokes himself once, twice, lazily, smearing the bead of precum around the head with his thumb while he watches you watch him.

“scared, baby?” he asks, his voice soft and mocking.

you swallow hard, your throat dry. “fuck you.”

“that’s the idea,” he murmurs, and then he’s on you.

he doesn’t bother with his fingers, doesn’t bother to check if you’re ready. he knows you are. he can see the slick glistening on your inner thighs, can smell you all over him. he hooks one hand under your knee, hiking your leg up around his hip, and the blunt head of his cock notches against your entrance. the pressure is immense, a burning, stretching ache as he pushes in just an inch. your mouth falls open on a silent scream, your fingernails digging into the hard muscle of his shoulders through his shirt.

“oh, f-uuuuck,” the moan is torn from you, a ragged, guttural sound. your eyes squeeze shut, your whole world narrowing to the impossible stretch of him splitting you open. he’s so fucking big.

“eyes. open.” he grunts, his own composure cracking for the first time as he sinks another inch deeper. a tremor runs through him. “god, you’re tight. so fucking tight. like you were made for my cock, brat.”

you force your eyes open, and the sight of him is almost too much. his perfect face is strained, a bead of sweat tracing a path down his temple. his eyes are fixed on where your bodies are joining, a look of intense, single-minded focus on his features. it’s the most vulnerable you’ve ever seen him, and the power of it makes your inner walls flutter around him.

“satoru,” you gasp, and it’s not a curse this time. it’s a plea.

he hears it. he bottoms out in one brutal, final thrust, and you see stars. your back arches off the door, a long, keening moan trapped behind your clenched teeth. you feel so full, so impossibly full, every nerve ending in your cunt screaming with the pressure of him. his pubic bone grinds against your clit and you bite your lip so hard you taste copper.

“there she is,” he groans, dropping his forehead to rest against yours. his breath is hot and ragged on your face. “there’s my good girl. taking it all so well. hate me all you want, sweetheart, but this pussy? this pussy loves me. can feel her trying to suck me in deeper.”

he doesn’t give you time to adjust. he pulls his hips back, the drag of his thick length against your inner walls making your knees buckle, and then he slams back in. the sound is wet and obscene, a filthy squelch that echoes in the small bathroom. your moan catches in your throat, turning into a choked sob of pure pleasure. he sets a pace that is punishing, ruthless, fucking into you like he’s trying to carve a space for himself inside you. the tile is cold against your back, his body is a furnace against your front, and you’re pinned between them, a willing sacrifice on the altar of his dick.

“you have no idea,” he pants, his voice a ragged whisper against your ear, “how long i’ve wanted to do this. wanted to shut that smart fucking mouth of yours up. all those times you’d storm around the apartment, wearing those tiny little shorts, giving me those dirty looks. you were just begging for it, weren’t you? begging for your brother’s best friend to put you in your place.”

“yes,” you sob, because it’s true, because the hate was always just a mask for this, for the way your body aches for him. “yes, yes, yes.”

he shifts his angle slightly, and the new position makes the head of his cock hit something devastating inside you, a spot that sends lightning bolts of pleasure straight to your clit. your vision whites out for a second. “there?” he asks, a smirk in his voice even as he’s panting. “right fucking there, baby? that’s the spot that makes you forget you hate me?”

“don’t stop,” you beg, your voice wrecked. “please, satoru, don’t stop, i’m gonna—fuck, i’m gonna come. don’t stop, please, don’t stop, please, please, please…”

the words are a mindless chant, falling from your lips in time with his thrusts. your orgasm is building, a tidal wave of pressure at the base of your spine. you’re so close, hovering on the precipice, and you can feel him getting closer too, his rhythm becoming erratic, his groans deeper, more guttural.

“come on my cock, brat,” he orders, his hand coming up to clamp over your mouth again, muffling your rising cries. his thumb presses against the seam of your lips, and you open for him instinctively, sucking it into the wet heat of your mouth. his eyes darken impossibly further. “fuck. that’s it. come on it. let me feel this sweet little cunt milk me dry. want to fill you up. want to watch my cum drip out of you for the rest of the night.”

that’s what does it. the filthy, possessive words, the feeling of his thumb in your mouth, his cock pounding into that perfect spot, and the knowledge that suguru is right there, in the next room, a thin wall away from the sound of his best friend ruining his sister for anyone else. the tension snaps, and you shatter. your orgasm crashes over you, violent and blinding, your inner walls clamping down around him in rhythmic, pulsing waves. a scream tries to tear its way out of your throat, but it’s swallowed by the hand over your mouth, turning into a series of high, desperate “mmh-mmh-mmh!” sounds.

“fuck, that’s it, milk it, milk my cock,” gojo groans, his own control finally snapping. his hips stutter, slamming into you one, two, three more times before he buries himself to the hilt and you feel him pulse inside you, a hot, thick flood of cum painting your insides. he groans your name, a broken, reverent sound that’s completely at odds with the brutal way he’s been fucking you. his body shudders against yours, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as he gasps for breath.

for a long moment, the only sounds are your ragged, synchronized breathing and the muffled thump of the bass from down the hall. you’re both slick with sweat, your bodies still joined, his softening cock still nestled inside your aching, over-sensitized cunt. the hate is gone, burned away in the fire of your climax, leaving behind a terrifying, hollow ache. you don't know what to do with your hands, with your face, with the fact that you just let gojo satoru come inside you.

he lifts his head slowly, his expression unreadable. he pulls his thumb from your mouth with a soft pop and uses his now-free hand to gently brush a strand of sweat-damp hair from your forehead. the gesture is so unexpectedly tender it makes your chest hurt worse than the fucking did.

he pulls out, and the sensation is a loss, a sudden emptiness that makes you wince. you can feel his release, warm and wet, starting to seep out of you, trailing down the inside of your thigh. he looks down, watching the pearly white fluid trickle down your skin, and that infuriating smirk finally returns to his lips, though it’s softer now, almost lazy.

he reaches into his back pocket and pulls out your panties, holding them up. “gonna need these back,” he says, his voice still a little rough. “consider them collateral.”

before you can muster the energy to snarl at him, a heavy knock lands on the bathroom door, making you both freeze.

“oi, satoru? you fall in or what?” suguru’s voice, muffled but clear, comes from the other side of the door. “and have you seen my sister? she disappeared.”

gojo’s grin widens, a predator’s smile full of sharp, beautiful teeth. he leans in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, his voice a whisper of pure, triumphant filth.

“tell him you’re fine, baby.”

Toji Fushiguro

the sound from the tv in the living room thumps through the wall, a dull and steady heartbeat that does absolutely nothing to cover the wet, obscene sounds coming from your mouth. you’re on your knees on the cold, unforgiving tile of gojo satoru’s guest bathroom, the vanity light casting a too-bright, unforgiving glow on the scene. you hate him. you hate the way he sprawls on the closed toilet seat like he owns the place, like he owns you in this moment, his thick, muscular thighs clad in worn denim spread wide enough to cage you in.

you hate the lazy, condescending smirk that plays on his scarred lips as he looks down at you, one large, calloused hand tangled possessively in your hair, not quite pulling, just… holding. a silent reminder of the power dynamic that has been humming between you two for years, ever since your idiot brother brought this walking, talking threat home and called him a friend. toji fushiguro. the name itself feels like gravel in your brain, but right now, the only thing that matters is the heavy, hot weight of him stretching your lips, the salt-sweet taste of his skin flooding your senses, making your eyes water and your thoughts go hazy and stupid.

“that’s it, look at you,” his voice is a low, rough rumble, like stones grinding together deep in his chest. it’s the same voice that’s mocked you for years, the same voice that called you ‘princess’ with an edge sharp enough to cut glass, but now it’s thick with a dark, approving praise that makes your stomach clench. “always had that fuckin’ bratty mouth on you. knew it’d be good for somethin’ other than yappin’ at me.”

his thumb strokes your cheekbone, a surprisingly gentle gesture from a man who could snap your neck without a second thought, and you hate how your body leans into it, how a pathetic little whimper vibrates around his cock. he’s still wearing his jeans, the rough denim scraping against your chin as you take him deeper, the zipper biting into the soft skin of your upper lip.

he hadn't even bothered to undress fully, just yanked the button fly open and pulled himself out, thick and intimidatingly hard, the sight of it making the angry, defiant words in your throat die a quick, shameful death. you glare up at him, or try to, but the effect is ruined by the tears clinging to your lower lashes and the way your jaw is stretched obscenely wide around his girth.

he chuckles, a low, dark sound that seems to vibrate straight down to your core, which is already a slick, aching mess beneath your thin cotton shorts. this wasn’t supposed to happen. you’d followed him in here to hiss at him for drinking the last of your fancy oat milk, to tell him exactly what you thought of his leech-like presence in your brother’s apartment, but the words had tangled on your tongue when he’d just looked at you, that lazy, predatory gaze dropping to your mouth and then lower, and before you knew it, you were sinking to the floor, your hatred for him warring with a sudden, vicious, and undeniable hunger.

“mmph—” you moan, the sound choked and desperate, your hands that were braced defiantly on his knees now gripping the thick denim over his thighs for support as he pushes his hips up just slightly, forcing himself a fraction deeper into the wet clutch of your throat. you gag, a full-body shudder running through you, but you don't pull back. you can’t. your eyes flutter closed and you focus on the overwhelming sensation of him, the heavy pulse of his cock against your tongue, the musky scent of him filling your nose.

“uh-uh, eyes on me, sweetheart,” he commands, the praise replaced by a sharp edge of dominance. his grip in your hair tightens just enough to sting, yanking your head back so your watery gaze meets his. “wanna watch those big, pretty eyes while you choke on it. wanna see how much you fuckin’ hate that you love this.” his words are filthy, a direct hit to the core of the conflict raging inside you, and it makes you clench around nothing, a fresh wave of slick heat soaking your panties.

he’s right, the bastard. you hate him so much it’s a physical burn in your chest, a resentment that’s been simmering for years over every condescending look, every patronizing nickname, every time he made you feel like a silly little girl playing dress-up in an adult world. but the feeling of him, thick and vital and so fucking male, in your mouth, the low grunts of pleasure he can’t quite suppress, the way his thigh muscle jumps under your fingers—it all short-circuits your brain, turning your hate into something molten and needy that has you pressing your thighs together for some kind of relief.

he pulls your head back further, his cock slipping from your lips with a wet, obscene ‘pop’ that leaves a shining strand of saliva connecting you to him. you gasp for air, your chest heaving, your lips puffy and slick and burning. he uses his hold on your hair to tilt your head this way and that, studying your wrecked face with a satisfied smirk. “so fuckin’ messy,” he observes, his voice dripping with a dark amusement that makes you want to claw his eyes out. or beg him to put his cock back in your mouth. you’re not sure which.

“satoru’s just out there, you know. prob’ly orderin’ a pizza or playin’ one of his stupid games. has no idea his precious little sister is in here, on her knees for the guy she swears she can’t stand.” the mention of your brother’s name, satoru gojo, just on the other side of that flimsy door, sends a sharp jolt of panic and a twisted, shameful thrill straight to your pussy. you can hear the faint, familiar sound of his laughter mixing with the video game’s soundtrack.

“fuck you, toji,” you manage to spit out, your voice a hoarse, wrecked rasp that completely undermines the venom you intended. your hand, of its own volition, reaches up to wrap around the base of him, feeling the hot, velvety steel of his shaft and the crisp, dark hair at its root. he just laughs, a low, genuine sound that’s somehow more terrifying than his threats. “that’s the plan, sweetheart. but first, i think you’ve got a little more work to do down there. open up.”

and you do. you part your swollen lips and let him guide himself back in, the fat head of his cock pushing past your lips and sliding over your tongue until he’s hitting the back of your throat again. this time, he doesn't give you a moment to adjust. he uses the hand in your hair to set a rhythm, pulling you onto him in slow, deep thrusts that have your nose pressing into the rough fabric of his jeans every time he’s fully seated.

your own moans are a constant, guttural “aah—aah—mmnngh—” that vibrates around him, the sound utterly pornographic in the small, echoey bathroom. the bright vanity lights glare down on you, leaving you nowhere to hide from the degradation and the dark, consuming pleasure of it. his other hand comes up to cup your jaw, his thumb tracing the stretched outline of your lips around his girth.

“fuck, your mouth was made for this,” he groans, the first real crack in his cool composure, a hint of strain in his deep voice. “all those smart-ass comments, all that bitchin’ and moanin’… just needed this fat cock to shut you up, didn’t you?” you can’t answer, can only look up at him with tear-filled, pleading eyes, your body swaying into his rhythm, the ache between your legs becoming an unbearable, throbbing pulse.

you hate him. you hate how good he tastes, how the weight of him on your tongue makes the world narrow to just this: the cold tile under your knees, the musky scent of him, the sound of his low praise, and the terrifying, exhilarating feeling of being completely, utterly used by a man who despises you as much as you despise him.

after what feels like an eternity of that slow, torturous face-fucking, of your jaw aching and your throat raw and your pussy a sodden mess, he pulls you off him again, this time with a finality that makes your heart stutter. he stands up, towering over you, his cock standing proud and glistening from your efforts. “up,” he grunts, and the single word is an order that your body obeys before your brain can even process it.

your legs are shaky, numb from kneeling, and you stumble as you rise. his hands are on you in an instant, big and hot and unbelievably strong, hauling you up and spinning you around to face the wide, marble-topped bathroom counter. you catch a glimpse of yourself in the massive mirror—your face is flushed, your eyes are glassy and wet, your mouth is a swollen, bee-stung wreck, and your thin top is twisted from his grip.

you look thoroughly debauched, and the sight sends a fresh pulse of shameful arousal through you. he meets your eyes in the reflection, his own gaze dark and feral, a predator finally cornering his prey. “look at us,” he murmurs, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, his hot breath fanning over your sensitive skin and making you shiver violently. “hate me all you want, but your body knows who it belongs to right now.”

his hands slide from your shoulders down your arms, then around to your front, his rough palms cupping your breasts through the flimsy material of your top. he’s not gentle; he kneads them roughly, his thumbs finding your nipples, already hard and aching, and pinching them through the fabric. a sharp, startled cry escapes your lips, and he shushes you, his teeth grazing your earlobe.

“quiet now. wouldn’t want big brother to come checkin’ on you, would we?” his hips press against your ass, the rigid length of him trapped between your bodies, grinding into the cleft of your shorts. your hands fly to the cold marble edge of the counter, gripping it for dear life as he ruts against you like an animal. one of his hands leaves your breast and travels down, shoving past the loose waistband of your shorts and panties.

a guttural groan rumbles in his chest when his thick fingers find you, sliding through the absolute mess of slick that’s gathered there. “fuckin’ soaked,” he hisses against your neck, his teeth nipping at the sensitive skin. “this all for me? all this fuckin’ wet just from chokin’ on a cock you pretend to hate?” he plunges two fingers inside you without warning, a rough, brutal stretch that makes you see stars and bite down on your own lip to keep from screaming.

“nnngh—f-fuck you,” you pant out again, but it comes out as a broken whimper, your hips rocking back against his hand, seeking more of that rough friction. “yeah, you keep sayin’ that, sweetheart,” he laughs, the sound dark and knowing. “but your cunt’s tellin’ a whole different story. she’s grippin’ my fingers like she’s starvin’ for it.”

he finger-fucks you with a relentless, punishing rhythm, the wet, squelching sounds of it filling the bathroom, competing with the thump of the tv. his other hand is in your hair again, yanking your head back so you’re forced to watch your own wrecked reflection as he works you over. “look at how pretty you are when you’re bein’ a good little slut for me,” he coos, filthy, degrading balm to the fire he’s stoking inside you. “so much better when that mouth is busy moanin’ instead of complainin’.”

his fingers curl inside you, hitting a spot that makes your vision white out for a second, and a strangled, high-pitched “ah—ah—toji—!” escapes you before you can stop it. his name on your lips in that desperate, needy tone seems to be the trigger he was waiting for. he yanks his hand out of your shorts and uses it to shove them and your panties down to pool around your ankles, the cool air hitting your overheated, dripping cunt making you gasp.

he kicks your feet apart, spreading you wide. you hear the rustle of denim, then the blunt, wet head of his cock is nudging against your entrance, not pushing in, just… resting there, a promise and a threat. one of his hands splays on the small of your back, pressing you down so your chest is flat against the cold marble counter, your ass up and presented to him. in the mirror, you can see the obscene picture you make: bent over, completely exposed, with this massive, dangerous man looming behind you, his cock poised to split you open.

“please,” you whimper, the word torn from a place inside you that you didn't know existed. it’s a total surrender, a complete abdication of the hate and the pride that’s been your shield against him for years. he just grins, a wolf’s smile in the mirror. “there it is,” he murmurs, sounding almost proud. “that’s my good girl.” and then he pushes in. it’s not slow, and it’s not gentle. it’s a long, thick, unyielding slide into your wet, grasping heat, a relentless invasion that makes your mouth drop open on a silent scream.

your eyes roll back, your fingers scrabble uselessly against the slick marble for purchase, and all the hate, all the resentment, it all just… evaporates, replaced by a single, overwhelming sensation of being filled so completely, so perfectly, that you can’t think of anything else. “fuck, you’re tight,” he grunts, his hips flush against your ass, his whole body a wall of heat and muscle behind you. “this tight little pussy’s been wastin’ away waitin’ for me, hasn’t it?”

he gives a shallow, experimental thrust, and you feel every thick inch of him drag against your inner walls, making you keen low in your throat. he sets a pace that’s brutal and deep, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in, the sound of his hips slapping against your ass a sharp counterpoint to the wet squelch of him moving inside you. your moans are a constant, broken litany of “uh—uh—uh—toji—fuck—uh—” that you can’t control, each thrust punching the sound out of you.

the difference between you and him is absolute; he’s using your body for his pleasure, and the fact that it’s giving you the most intense pleasure you’ve ever known is just a secondary, humiliating benefit for him. you are nothing but a tight, wet hole for him to fuck, and in this moment, bent over your brother’s bathroom counter, with your brother just yards away, you’ve never wanted to be anything more.

Higuruma Hiromi

the soft cotton of your tanktop clings to the dip of your waist, riding up just enough to expose the vulnerable curve of your belly as you hover there, thighs bracketing his broad chest, the heat of him seeping through the thin fabric of his dress shirt still unbuttoned at the collar. you can feel the solid plane of his sternum against the backs of your bare knees, the coarse scrape of his slacks against the tender skin of your inner thighs.

the room is too quiet, the only sound the distant hum of the refrigerator from the kitchen and the muffled, rhythmic click of nanami’s keyboard bleeding through the wall of his adjacent bedroom. you hate him. you hate the way he’s looking up at you right now, not with the bored, detached expression he wears in court, but with a dark, consuming focus that makes your lungs feel like they’re filled with wet cement. his hands aren't on you yet, they're resting palms down on your rumpled duvet, but the potential of them, the sheer size of those litigator hands that you’ve seen shuffle papers for hours, is a threat and a promise all at once.

you’d only wondered what it would feel like. that nose. that sharp, aristocratic bridge that always seemed to be angled down at you in mild disdain whenever he came over for nanami’s terrible scotch and stoic conversation. you’d wondered if it was as cold and cutting as his resting face, or if it would be different pressed up against the wettest, softest part of you.

you hadn’t meant for this to happen. you’d come out of the bathroom in just your tanktop and cotton panties, expecting the hall to be empty, expecting him to be in the living room. instead, he was leaning against the frame of your door, loosening his tie with that infuriating sigh he always makes when he’s been forced to endure your presence.

you’d snapped at him, something childish about him being a ghost haunting the hallway, and he’d just… walked in. closed the door. locked it. and now you’re here, straddling the chest of your brother’s oldest, most trusted friend, with your pussy bare and aching just inches from his chin.

“don’t hover,” his voice cuts through the tense air, a low rumble that vibrates through his chest and into the marrow of your bones. it’s not a request; it’s a directive, delivered with the same flat, undeniable authority he uses to command a courtroom. “if you’re going to hate me, at least have the decency to do it while you’re suffocating me. i don’t have all night, and kento doesn’t sleep that heavily.”

the sound of your brother’s name in this context makes your stomach clench hard, a sick thrill mixing with the simmering rage you’ve nursed for him for years. “i’m not hovering,” you lie, your voice a frayed whisper that betrays the trembling in your thighs. “i’m trying to figure out if this is even worth the inevitable sanitation process i’ll need after.”

his eyes narrow, the lines around them crinkling not with age, but with a predatory amusement. he’s twenty-nine to your twenty-four, and in this moment, those five years feel like a chasm of experience you’re teetering on the edge of. “it’s worth it,” he says simply. and then his hands move. they don't grab your hips to force you down.

instead, they slide up the backs of your thighs, palms hot and dry and so much larger than you remembered, fingers splaying wide to encompass the curve of your ass. he doesn't squeeze, just holds, his thumbs digging into the soft flesh right where your leg meets the swell of your bottom, pulling the skin taut. “you’ve been dripping on my shirt for the last minute. either you’re allergic to the fabric softener or that curious little cunt of yours is starving for something only my face can give it. which is it?”

your breath hitches, a sound so sharp and undignified it’s like a slap in the silent room. you want to deny it, to spit venom at him, to tell him he’s delusional. but you can’t. because you can feel it. the slick, embarrassing evidence of your body’s betrayal is a cool trail on your inner thigh, a damp spot that’s surely soaked into the starched cotton of his shirt where you’ve been resting. the hatred is still there, a hot coal in your chest, but it’s being smothered by a wildfire of something far more base and uncontrollable. “fuck you, hiromi.”

“eventually,” he agrees, and the corner of his mouth twitches—a ghost of a smirk that makes you want to claw his eyes out or grind down onto his face until you can’t see straight. “but first, you’re going to sit. properly. i want that pretty, angry pussy planted so firmly on my mouth that when kento comes knocking, you’ll have to lie through your teeth about why you’re walking funny tomorrow.”

the command is a gravitational pull. you let your weight drop, just an inch, and his nose—that fucking nose—grazes the inside of your thigh. the contact is featherlight, but it sends a shockwave up your spine. you whimper. it’s a tiny, pathetic sound that gets swallowed by the hum of the house, but he hears it. of course he hears it.

his grip on your ass tightens, fingers curling into the plush flesh possessively. “there she is,” he murmurs, his breath fanning hot and damp against the sensitive skin just above where you need him. “all that big talk, all that scowling at me across the dinner table for years, and you’re just a needy little thing waiting for someone to put you in your place, aren’t you?”

and then he pulls you down.

it’s not a gentle descent. it’s a firm, unyielding pressure that seats your entire wet cunt directly onto his waiting mouth. the first thing you register is the heat—a scorching, wet inferno that envelops you completely. the second thing is that nose. it slots perfectly against your clit, that hard, unforgiving bridge pressing right into the swollen, aching bundle of nerves as his tongue—god, his tongue—laves a broad, flat stroke from your dripping entrance all the way up to meet it. the sound you make isn’t human. it’s a strangled, high-pitched keen that you barely manage to muffle by slapping a hand over your own mouth, your eyes squeezing shut as your head falls back.

“oh my g—nnngh, hiromi!”

he doesn't answer with words. he answers by eating you like a man starved. there’s no teasing, no gentle exploration. it’s a full-on assault. his tongue spears inside you, curling and thrusting in a rhythm that’s as methodical and thorough as his cross-examinations, then flattens to drag up through your folds until the tip of his nose nudges insistently at your clit.

his jaw works tirelessly, the scratch of his faint five-o'clock shadow a delicious, burning friction against your inner thighs and the swollen lips of your pussy. you can feel the bridge of his nose sliding through your slickness, smearing it, painting his face with the very evidence of your submission to this act. it’s better—so much dirtier and more intense—than the vague, shameful fantasy you’d conjured in the dark of your own room. it’s real, it’s wet, and it’s making your brain short-circuit.

“you’re so fucking loud,” he growls against your clit, the vibration of his deep voice shooting straight to your core. he pulls back just enough to speak, his chin and lips glistening with you in the dim light filtering through the curtains. “kento’s room is twenty feet away. you want him to hear how much you love hating me? how his baby sister’s pussy is drooling all over his best friend’s face?” his tongue darts out to clean his bottom lip, a deliberate, filthy display. “grind. use my nose. you’ve been thinking about it, haven’t you? all those nights you’ve been a brat, you were just picturing my face buried here, weren’t you? do it. fucking ruin my face, baby.”

the audacity of him calling you baby while his tongue is still wet from being inside you, snaps something loose. your hips roll, a desperate, unpracticed circle that grinds your clit down onto the hard slope of his nose. the pressure is perfect, a sharp counterpoint to the soft, wet plunge of his tongue that has returned to lap at your opening.

your free hand flies back, bracing yourself on his solid thigh behind you for leverage. the new angle lets you ride his face with more purpose, your pussy sliding against his mouth, his nose a constant, unyielding point of pleasure that you chase with frantic, jerky movements of your hips. “f-fuck, your nose… hnnngh… you’re such an asshole, hiromi, a fucking—ah!—a fucking asshole with a perfect nose…”

he hums his approval, a sound that tickles your clit and makes you jolt. his hands have abandoned their bruising grip on your ass to slide up under the hem of your tanktop, fingers splaying across the bare, damp skin of your lower back. he’s pulling the fabric up, bunching it around your ribs, exposing your stomach and the underside of your breasts to the cool air. you’re a mess—tanktop rucked up, pussy naked and grinding on his face, your brother’s friend’s tongue buried in your cunt. it’s debauched. it’s wrong. and it’s making the coil in your belly wind so tight you think you might snap his neck with your thighs.

“enough,” he rasps, and before you can protest the loss of his mouth, his hands are on your hips and he’s lifting you. lifting you, like you weigh nothing. the world tilts dizzyingly as he flips you onto your back, your head hitting the pillows with a soft fwump. the tanktop is now a twisted, useless band of cotton around your armpits, your breasts heaving and fully exposed to his dark, ravenous gaze. he kneels between your spread legs, his own clothes still infuriatingly mostly on—slacks tented obscenely, shirt damp with your slick and his sweat, tie hanging loose. the power dynamic shifts, solidifies. he’s no longer your throne; he’s the predator, and you are pinned beneath him.

“now we do it my way,” he states, unbuttoning his cuffs with quick, efficient movements. he doesn't undress fully, just works his belt open with a metallic clink that sounds like a gunshot in the quiet room, unzips, and frees himself. you can’t look away. he’s thick, angry-looking, and slick at the tip. he strokes himself once, twice, smearing the moisture, his eyes never leaving your face. “you had your fun. you got to use me. now i get to fuck this attitude out of you while your brother is on the other side of that wall wondering why the floorboards are creaking.”

he hooks one of your legs over his shoulder, the stretch a deep, satisfying ache that opens you up completely to him. his other hand comes down to grip the headboard above your head, his knuckles white. the position is intimate, overwhelming, his face just inches from yours, his body a wall of heat and restrained power caging you in. you can smell yourself on his breath, see the glisten still on his nose. “hate me all you want,” he breathes, the head of his cock nudging against your entrance, a blunt, heavy pressure that makes you gasp and arch your back. “i can feel how much you need this.”

and then he pushes in. it’s not a gentle, gradual entry. it’s a single, deep, relentless thrust that buries him to the hilt inside your soaking, clenching heat. your cry is a raw, torn sound— “h-hiromiii—fuuuuck!” —that you smother into the firm muscle of his shoulder, your teeth sinking into the fabric of his shirt to keep from screaming. the stretch is immense, a burning, glorious fullness that borders on pain before it melts into a deep, primal satisfaction.

he stays there for a heartbeat, buried deep, letting you feel every inch of him throbbing inside you. his lips find your ear, his voice a rough, strained whisper that’s pure filth. “that’s it. take it. take all of it. kento’s little sister has the tightest fucking pussy i’ve ever felt. you were made for this, weren’t you? made to be stuffed full of your brother’s best friend’s cock.”

he starts to move, and it’s not a slow, romantic rhythm. it’s a hard, driving cadence, each thrust a punishing, possessive claim that rocks the bed frame against the wall with a soft, rhythmic thump. thump. thump. you can hear nanami’s keyboard stop for a second, a pause that freezes the blood in your veins, before it resumes, faster now, as if he’s put on headphones.

but you don’t care. you can’t care. not when higuruma is fucking you like this, his hips slapping against your ass with a wet, obscene sound that fills the room, his cock driving into that spot deep inside that makes your vision blur and your toes curl against his shoulder.

“you hate me so much,” he pants against your neck, his teeth grazing your pulse point. “tell me how much you hate me. tell me while my cock is rearranging your guts. say it. ‘i hate you, hiromi.’ say it.”

“i—nnngh, god—i hate you,” you gasp out, the words a broken, breathless lie that your body contradicts with every clench of your walls around his driving length. you hate him? you can’t even remember why. all you know is the perfect, devastating slide of him inside you, the way his pubic bone grinds against your clit with every deep thrust, the lewd, wet squelch of your pussy taking him over and over.

“good girl,” he growls, and the praise from him, in this context, is a perverse, delicious reward. he shifts his angle, the hand on the headboard coming down to grip your jaw, forcing you to look at him. his eyes are wild, pupils blown wide, his hair a mess, falling over his forehead. he’s as ruined as you are. “keep saying it. keep hating me. just keep this tight cunt wrapped around me while you do.”

the pressure builds, a monstrous, consuming wave that you’re drowning in. the sound of his skin against yours, the harsh panting of your breaths mingling, the distant, oblivious click of your brother’s keyboard—it’s a symphony of depravity that pushes you further toward the edge. his thumb finds your clit, pressing down in hard, tight circles that match the punishing rhythm of his hips.

“give it to me,” he demands, his voice a wrecked snarl. “let me feel you strangle my cock with this perfect fucking pussy. let go. forget he’s there. forget you hate me. just feel this.” his hips snap forward with brutal precision, and the world narrows to the point where he’s buried inside you and the filthy, beautiful things he’s growling against your open, gasping mouth.

Geto Suguru

you’re not even supposed to be in this wing of the house. gojo’s family estate is a sprawling, ridiculous maze of old wood and sliding screens, and you’ve been relegated to the guest room farthest from his because he “needs his beauty sleep” and you “kick in your dreams.” which is a lie. you’ve been kicking nothing but the sheets for the past two hours because the ache between your thighs is so persistent it’s become a second pulse, a low, wet thrum that no amount of tossing and turning can silence.

so you give in.

you’re on top of the covers, the thin strap of your tank top sliding off one shoulder, the cotton worn so soft it’s practically transparent over your nipples. the room is dark save for the pale blue glow of the moon filtering through the rice paper screen. your knees are bent, feet planted wide on the mattress, and in your hand is the small, sleek vibrator you’d hidden in the bottom of your toiletry bag.

it’s pressed right up against the damp gusset of your panties, the silicone head buzzing a low, steady hum that vibrates up through your clit and sends these pathetic little shivers down the insides of your thighs. you’re not even trying to be quiet about the way your breathing hitches, your head tipped back against the headboard, your lips parted as you drag the toy in a slow, torturous circle over that swollen nub through the cotton. it’s not enough. it’s never enough when you’re this far gone, when the fantasy behind your eyelids involves a deep voice and large, ringed hands that belong to a man you despise.

the door slides open without a knock. not a creak, not a warning. just the smooth, soft shush of wood gliding on its track.

you freeze. your eyes snap open and your whole body locks up, the vibrator still buzzing in your hand, your pussy still fluttering around nothing because you were so close to slipping a finger inside. there, silhouetted against the dim hallway light like some kind of dark, avenging spirit, is geto suguru. h

is long black hair is loose, a curtain of ink spilling over the broad shoulders of his sleep shirt. his face is half in shadow, but you can see the slow, almost lazy tilt of his head as he takes in the scene. the tank top. the spread legs. the toy. the way your wetness has probably soaked a visible dark patch into the front of your underwear.

there’s a beat of silence thick enough to choke on.

“satoru’s room is down the hall,” he says, and his voice is low, a gravelly murmur that seems to crawl right under your skin and settle in the base of your spine. “but i don’t think he’s the one who can help you with that face you’re making.”

you should scream. you should tell him to get the fuck out. you should throw the vibrator at his stupid, beautiful, condescending face. you hate him. you hate the way he looks at you like you’re a puzzle he’s already solved, like you’re a child throwing a tantrum.

you hate that he’s satoru’s best friend, that he’s always there, a silent, judging presence with that infuriating smirk. you hate that you’ve touched yourself more times than you can count to the memory of the way his forearms flex when he rolls up his sleeves.

you don't do any of those things. you just stare at him, mouth dry, chest heaving, the vibrator still humming a guilty confession against your clit.

and that pretty much sums up how he ends up sitting in the plush velvet armchair in the corner of your room. how you end up on his lap with your back flush against the solid wall of his chest, your tank top rucked up to your collarbones and your panties a forgotten scrap of fabric on the floor. his thighs are spread wide beneath you, forcing yours open in turn, and he’s hooked your ankles over the wooden armrests of the chair so you’re completely, utterly exposed to the cool night air and the unforgiving reflection of the full-body mirror across the room.

his chin rests on your shoulder, his lips so close to your ear you can feel the warm ghost of his breath every time he exhales. one of his big hands is splayed flat and possessive on your stomach, holding you still, while the other holds the vibrator. your vibrator. but it’s different now. it’s an instrument of his will, not your relief.

“look at yourself,” he murmurs, and his voice is a low, smoky thing that coils tight in your belly. his long fingers part your puffy outer lips with a casual, almost clinical precision, holding you open so the mirror shows everything. the slick, glistening mess of you. your clit is a hard, desperate pearl peeking out from its hood, and he presses the buzzing head of the toy directly against it.

your whole body jerks, a sharp, involuntary gasp tearing from your throat. “fuck—suguru—”

“shhh,” he coos, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “satoru is just down the hall, remember? you wouldn’t want him to come investigate what all those pretty little whimpers are about, would you? see what a greedy little cunt his baby sister has?” he circles the vibrator slowly, pressing down just enough to make your hips buck up against his restraining hand.

“i hate you,” you manage to grit out, but your voice is wrecked, a thin, reedy thing that holds no conviction. your head lolls back against his shoulder, your eyes fluttering shut as he changes the setting on the toy to a lower, deeper pulse that feels like a second heartbeat right against your most sensitive nerve.

“i know you do,” he agrees, and there’s a smile in his voice, that infuriating, knowing curve of his lips you can feel against your neck. “you hate me so much your little hole is clenching around nothing, just begging to be filled. look.” he taps the vibrator against your entrance, a light, teasing pat that makes your inner muscles flutter and weep a fresh bead of slick down onto his sweatpants. “open your eyes, baby. i want you to watch what i’m about to do to this pussy you think belongs to you.”

you obey. you don't know why, but you do. you watch in the mirror as he drags the vibrator down, letting it buzz against your weeping hole before sliding it back up to torture your clit. he does this over and over, a maddening seesaw of sensation that has your thighs trembling and your fingers digging into the meat of his forearms, nails leaving little crescent moons in his skin. he’s not letting you come. every time your breathing gets too ragged, every time your hips start that desperate little circle, he pulls the toy away and just traces the swollen outline of your lips with a fingertip, spreading your slick around like he’s admiring his work.

“so wet,” he muses, almost to himself. “all this, for a toy? or were you thinking about something else? someone else?” his thumb finds your clit, pressing down on it hard and still as the vibrator buzzes uselessly against his own knuckle. “were you thinking about me, baby? about how much you hate me? about how you’d bite that lip and glare at me while i split you open on my cock?”

“no,” you lie, and the word comes out on a broken moan because he’s replaced the vibrator with two of his thick fingers, plunging them knuckle-deep into your aching cunt without any warning. the stretch is immediate and perfect, a blunt pressure that makes your back arch off his chest and a loud, shameless moan echo in the quiet room.

“no?” he echoes, his tone amused. he curls his fingers inside you, finding that rough, spongy patch on your front wall and pressing against it with a steady, unyielding pressure. “then why is this sweet little pussy sucking on my fingers like it’s starving? huh? it’s clinging to me. begging me not to stop.” his other hand comes up to wrap loosely around your throat, not squeezing, just resting there, a heavy, possessive weight that makes you feel small and claimed. “tell me the truth, and maybe i’ll fuck you. tell me you hate me, and i’ll stop right now and leave you here with your little buzzing friend.”

you’re panting now, your reflection a debauched mess of flushed cheeks and glazed eyes and a slack, wet mouth. you watch his fingers disappear inside you, watch the way your body greedily pulls them back in every time he draws them out. “i hate you,” you whisper, but then you’re pushing your hips down, trying to fuck yourself on his hand. “i hate you… so much… please… suguru, please, i need—fuck, your cock, please.”

“that’s my good girl,” he praises, and the words are a hot brand against your skin. “that wasn’t so hard, was it? admitting you’re just a needy little thing who wants to be fucked by a man old enough to know exactly how to ruin you.”

he pulls his fingers out of you with a wet, obscene sound and brings them up to your mouth, pushing past your lips and onto your tongue. you taste yourself, salty and musky, and you suck them clean without being told, your eyes locked on his in the mirror. the power dynamic is a tangible thing in the air, a current that runs from his chest to your spine. he’s in control. you’re just a body, a wet, willing hole, and you’ve never been more turned on in your life.

he shifts you then, a manhandling that’s both rough and effortless. he stands, pulling you up with him, and then bends you over the back of the chair. your knees sink into the plush velvet seat cushion, your hands gripping the top of the chair back for support. you’re on your knees, facing the mirror, your ass in the air and your pussy presented to him like an offering. you hear the soft rustle of his sweats being pushed down, and then you feel him. the hot, heavy weight of his cock slapping against your ass cheek, once, twice, before he’s dragging the thick, leaking head through your soaked folds.

“this is what you wanted, isn’t it?” he asks, his voice a low growl. one hand fists in your hair, not hard enough to really hurt, but enough to tilt your head back and force your gaze to the mirror. “to watch yourself get fucked by me. to see your face while i stretch this tight little cunt around my cock. i want you to watch every second of it. i want you to see what a pretty little slut you become for someone you claim to hate.”

and then he pushes in.

it’s a slow, relentless invasion. he doesn’t slam into you; he feeds his cock into you inch by devastating inch, letting you feel every ridge, every vein, as your pussy struggles to accommodate his size. your mouth falls open on a silent scream, your eyes wide and locked on your own reflection. you look ruined already, and he’s not even halfway in. your cunt is burning, stretching, yielding to him in a way that feels like a total surrender of self.

“fuck, that’s it,” he groans, his head falling forward for just a moment before he catches himself and looks back up at the mirror, his dark eyes finding yours. “look at you. so fucking full. your little pussy is gripping me so tight, like it’s trying to strangle my cock. you feel that, baby? feel how deep i am?” he bottoms out, his hips flush against your ass, and he holds there, grinding against your cervix in a way that makes stars burst behind your eyes. “this is what you needed. not a toy. a real cock. my cock. say it.”

“y-yours,” you gasp, the word pulled from somewhere deep and primal. “your cock. i needed your cock, suguru.”

“good girl,” he repeats, and then he starts to move.

his pace is brutal and slow, a deep, rolling grind of his hips that has his pubic bone rubbing against your clit with every thrust. he keeps his hand in your hair, keeping your head up, making you watch as your body rocks forward with the force of him. you can see your tits swaying with the motion, your own face contorted in a mask of agonizing pleasure. your moans are a continuous, low stream of sound—“uh, uh, uh, fuck, uhnn, yes, right there, oh god, suguru.”

“you’re taking me so well,” he murmurs, his voice strained but steady, a stark contrast to your wrecked babbling. “such a perfect, tight little hole for me. did you ever think about this when you were glaring at me over dinner? when you were stomping your foot and telling satoru you couldn’t stand me? were you wet under that bratty little skirt, thinking about how i’d bend you over the nearest surface and fuck the attitude right out of you?”

“yes,” you sob, because it’s true, it’s all true. “yes, i was. always. i hate you, i hate you, don’t stop, please, fuck me harder.”

he gives a dark, breathless chuckle and obeys, snapping his hips forward with a new, sharper rhythm. the sound in the room is lewd and wet—the slick slap of skin on skin, the obscene squelch of your pussy taking him again and again, the creak of the chair beneath your combined weight. he’s so deep, hitting spots inside you that your fingers and your toys could never dream of reaching. he’s filling you up so completely that you can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t do anything but take it and watch yourself be taken.

“you look beautiful like this,” he says, his voice dropping to something almost tender, which is somehow more devastating than the dirty talk. “all fucked out and stuffed full of me. my cock ruining this pretty pussy. you belong right here, don’t you? on your knees for me, watching yourself fall apart.”

“uh-huh,” you manage, a pathetic, needy sound. your legs are shaking, your knuckles white where you’re gripping the chair. he leans forward, pressing his chest against your back, his mouth hot against the side of your neck as he fucks into you with deep, possessive strokes. you can smell him, clean soap and something darker, muskier, and it’s drowning you. you can feel his sweat-slick skin against yours, the hard plane of his stomach on the curve of your ass. he’s everywhere. he’s everything. the man you hate is the only thing in the world you want.

and all the while, your brother is just down the hall, asleep, completely oblivious to the way his best friend is slowly, methodically, taking you apart piece by piece in front of a mirror.

Nanami Kento

the thing about nanami kento is that he’s always been a condescending bastard wrapped in a three-piece suit, and you’ve hated him since you were seventeen and he told you that your college application essay was "adequate for a state school." he was twenty-two then, already best friends with your brother hiromi, already looking at you like you were a mildly interesting insect he couldn't be bothered to step on.

now you're twenty-four and he's twenty-nine and he's sitting on your brother's expensive leather couch with his sleeves rolled up to his forearms, looking like a goddamn cologne advertisement while hiromi drones on about case law in the kitchen. you hate him. you hate the way he tilts his head when he reads, you hate the way he says your name like it's a footnote in a legal brief, and you especially hate the way your thighs press together when he licks his thumb to turn a page of deposition notes.

"i'm going to grab us something to eat," nanami announces, standing and stretching in a way that makes his shirt pull taut across his chest, and hiromi just waves a dismissive hand from the kitchen island where he's buried in paperwork. "get the spicy tuna rolls from that place on fourth," your brother says without looking up, and nanami hums an acknowledgment that vibrates somewhere deep in your stomach even though you want to punch him in his perfect fucking jaw.

you're in the hallway when it happens, coming back from the bathroom with your phone in your hand and your brother's oversized hoodie swallowing your frame, and nanami is suddenly just there, blocking your path to the living room with his broad shoulders and that infuriating little smirk he gets when he knows something you don't.

"excuse me," you say flatly, trying to sidestep him, but his hand comes up to rest on the wall beside your head, casual as anything, like he's not caging you in with his entire body. "your brother's working on the takahashi appeal," he murmurs, and his voice is so low it feels like it's crawling down your spine on all fours. "very focused. very loud when he's focused. wouldn't want to disturb him, would we."

you open your mouth to tell him to go fuck himself, but his other hand finds the doorknob to your childhood bedroom and suddenly you're being walked backward into the dimly lit space you've known since you were twelve years old and covered your walls with band posters. the door clicks shut behind him and your back hits the solid wood and nanami kento is dropping to his knees in front of you like it's the most natural thing in the world, like he's done it a thousand times before, like your brother isn't thirty feet away muttering about precedent and tort reform.

"what the fuck are you doing," you hiss, but your voice comes out breathy and ruined because his hands are already sliding up the backs of your bare thighs, pushing the hem of your—his—hiromi's hoodie up over the curve of your ass. "getting something to eat," nanami says against the swell of your hip, and his teeth graze the thin cotton of your underwear and you have to bite down on your knuckle to keep from making a sound that would bring your brother running.

"you're not—we can't—i fucking hate you, nanami." "i know," he says, and his thumbs hook into the waistband of your panties and pull them down just enough to expose the cleft of your ass, just enough for him to press his nose against the damp fabric still covering your cunt and inhale like you're a bottle of vintage wine he's been saving for a special occasion. "you've hated me for years. it's adorable, really. the way you glare at me across the dinner table. the way you clench your jaw when i compliment your hair. did you think i didn't notice?"

you want to argue but then his tongue is pressing flat against your clothed pussy and all the words in your head turn to static. he licks you through the cotton like he's savoring an appetizer, slow and thorough, and your hands scramble against the door behind you for purchase because your knees are already threatening to give out.

"nanami—"

"shh," he breathes against your core, and the vibration makes your hips jerk forward involuntarily. "hiromi's right down the hall, sweetheart. you don't want him to know his best friend is on his knees for his baby sister, do you. you don't want him to know how wet you get for someone you claim to despise."

he peels your underwear down your legs with agonizing patience, tapping your ankle to make you step out of them, and then his hands are spreading your thighs apart and you're turning to face the door because you can't look at him, you can't watch him do this, it's too much. but turning around just means your forehead is pressed against the cool wood and your ass is presented to him like an offering and nanami makes a sound low in his throat that's half laugh and half groan.

"there she is," he murmurs, and his palms cup your ass cheeks and spread them wide and then his mouth is on your cunt from behind and you have to shove your fist against your teeth to keep from screaming.

he eats pussy like he does everything else: methodical, precise, devastatingly effective. his tongue traces the seam of your lips first, up one side and down the other, mapping the territory like he's memorizing case law. then he flattens his tongue and licks a broad stripe from your clit all the way up to your tightest hole and back down again, and your legs shake so hard you think you might collapse.

"you taste like you've been thinking about this all day," he says against your wet flesh, and his breath is hot and his words are smug and you hate him, you hate him so much. "did you touch yourself before i came over. did you get yourself off thinking about me while you were waiting for your brother to get home."

"no," you gasp, and it comes out like a sob because his tongue has found your clit and he's circling it with the same focus he applies to cross-examining witnesses. "liar," he says simply, and then he seals his lips around the swollen bud and sucks hard enough that your vision whites out and your hips buck back against his face.

his hands grip your thighs to hold you steady while he feasts on you, and the wet sounds of his mouth on your pussy fill the room and you're terrified hiromi will hear but you're also so far gone you can't bring yourself to care. nanami's tongue pushes inside you and your walls clench around the intrusion and he groans like you're the best thing he's ever tasted, and maybe you are, maybe that's why he's been looking at you like that for seven years, maybe that's why he always finds excuses to touch the small of your back when he walks past you, maybe that's why he's always so mean because he's been hungry for this just as long as you've been pretending you aren't.

his nose presses against your perineum while his tongue fucks into you, and your fingers claw at the door leaving crescent moon marks in the paint that hiromi will definitely notice later. "please," you whisper, and you don't even know what you're begging for until nanami pulls his mouth away with a wet pop and says, "please what, sweetheart. use your words. you're twenty-four years old, surely you can articulate what you need from me."

"fuck you," you spit, but there's no venom in it, just desperation. "fuck you, nanami." "that's not very nice," he says, and you can hear the smirk in his voice without seeing it. "but i suppose i can work with that." his hands leave your thighs and you hear the clink of his belt buckle and the rasp of his zipper and your whole body trembles with anticipation and dread and something else, something that feels a lot like relief that this is finally happening after years of tension so thick you could choke on it.

he stands up behind you and his chest presses against your back and his mouth finds your ear. "we're going to do this quietly," he breathes, and his cock nudges against your soaked entrance, thick and hot and intimidating. "your brother is right there. one sound, one whimper too loud, and he's going to come investigate. and then what will he think. his best friend, buried inside his little sister. his best friend, who he trusts with his life, ruining his baby sister's cunt while he works on a murder case twenty feet away."

"you're a piece of shit," you manage, and nanami laughs, actually laughs, a soft huff of air against your neck. "i know," he says, and then he pushes inside you in one slow, relentless thrust that makes your mouth fall open in a silent scream.

he's big. you knew he would be, you've imagined it more times than you'll ever admit, but knowing and feeling are two different things and your cunt stretches around him like it was made for this, made for him, and your forehead thunks against the door as he seats himself to the hilt and stays there, letting you feel every inch.

"breathe," he instructs, and his hand comes up to wrap around your throat, not squeezing, just holding, just reminding you who's in charge here. "you're doing so well. taking me so deep. i knew you would. i knew this tight little pussy would be perfect for me."

he starts to move and it's slow at first, deliberate, each thrust rolling through your body like a wave. the door rattles gently in its frame and you pray hiromi has his noise-canceling headphones on like he usually does when he's deep in work. nanami's free hand finds your hip and grips hard enough to bruise and he pulls you back onto his cock with every forward snap of his hips, creating a rhythm that's devastating in its precision.

"you feel that," he murmurs against your ear, and his voice is ragged now, losing some of its controlled edge. "that's what you've been missing all those years you spent pretending you didn't want me. all those family dinners where you wouldn't look at me. all those times you slammed your bedroom door when i stayed over. you could have had this. you could have been getting fucked like this every night."

"i hate you," you whimper, but it comes out broken and wet because his cock is dragging against something inside you that makes your toes curl and your vision spark at the edges. "say it again," he demands, and his hips snap harder, faster, and the sound of skin against skin starts to fill the room. "tell me how much you hate me while your cunt drips down my cock. tell me you don't want this while you're pushing back against me like a bitch in heat."

you can't speak. you can barely breathe. all you can do is brace your palms against the door and take it as nanami fucks you with a brutal efficiency that speaks to years of pent-up frustration. his grip on your hip tightens and he pulls you off the door just enough to bend you forward, walking you toward the bed with his cock still buried inside you, never pulling out, just grinding deeper with every step.

"on the bed," he says, and it's not a request. he pulls out just long enough to turn you around and push you face-down onto your childhood comforter, the one with the faded stars you've had since you were fifteen, and then he's yanking your hips up and spreading your knees and sliding back inside you from behind.

you bite the blanket to muffle your moan. he's deeper this way, hitting something that makes your whole body shake, and his hand comes down on your ass with a sharp crack that echoes in the quiet room. "quiet," he reminds you, but he doesn't sound like he cares anymore, he sounds like he wants hiromi to hear, wants your brother to know exactly who's ruining his sister. his fingers find your clit and he rubs tight circles that match the rhythm of his thrusts, and you're losing your mind, you're falling apart, you're—

"y/n, did you see my hoodie?" hiromi's voice comes from somewhere down the hall, muffled but distinct, and your entire body goes rigid with terror. nanami doesn't stop. his hips keep moving, slow and deep, and his fingers keep working your clit, and his mouth presses against your ear. "answer him," he breathes.

"y-yeah," you call out, and your voice cracks in the middle of the word because nanami chooses that moment to thrust particularly hard. "i’m wearing it. i’m cold."

"okay." hiromi says, and then his footsteps retreat back toward the kitchen and you sag against the mattress in relief.

nanami's laugh is dark and satisfied against your neck. "good girl," he praises, and the words go straight to your cunt, making you clench around him. "such a good girl for me. lying to your brother while i'm buried inside you. what would he think if he knew. what would he say if he walked in right now and saw you bent over your bed, taking my cock like you were made for it."

his thrusts pick up speed again, harder now, more desperate, and the headboard knocks gently against the wall and you don't care anymore, you don't care if hiromi hears, you don't care if the whole world knows. nanami kento is fucking you into your childhood mattress and his hand is on your throat again, pulling your head back so your spine arches, and his lips are on your shoulder and his teeth are sinking into your skin and he's marking you, claiming you, ruining you for anyone else.

"this is mine now," he says against the bruise he's sucking into your flesh. "this pussy. this body. you can pretend you hate me all you want, sweetheart, but we both know the truth. we both know you've been waiting for this. we both know you're going to let me do this again. and again. and again."

his cock drives into you relentlessly and your fingers twist in the star-covered blanket and the room smells like sex and his cologne and the faint vanilla of your old candles. nanami's pace becomes erratic, his control slipping, and his groan vibrates against your spine as he buries himself as deep as he can go and holds there, pulsing, filling you with heat that spreads through your belly and down your thighs. his forehead drops to the back of your neck and his breath comes in ragged gasps against your skin and for a long moment neither of you move, suspended in the aftermath of something that's been building for seven years.

he pulls out slowly and you feel empty without him, hollow, and you hate that too. his hand smooths down your spine, almost tender, and then he's tucking himself back into his slacks and adjusting his belt and you're still face-down on your bed with your ass in the air and his spend leaking down your inner thigh.

"i'll go get the sushi now," nanami says, and his voice is perfectly even, like he didn't just rearrange your entire world. "spicy tuna, wasn't it. from the place on fourth." he pauses at the door and looks back at you, still sprawled and ruined on your bed, and that infuriating smirk is back. "you should probably clean up before your brother comes looking for that hoodie."

Shiu Kong

the kitchen wasn't supposed to be occupied at two in the morning, not when the rest of the apartment sat in that heavy, breath-held silence that only existed between midnight and dawn, and certainly not when you'd crept out of your room in nothing but an oversized sleep shirt that barely skimmed the tops of your thighs and a pair of cotton panties that suddenly felt like the most insufficient armor you'd ever worn.

your bare feet cold against the tile as you navigated by the thin blue glow of the stove's digital clock and the weak moonlight bleeding through the window above the sink, your stomach growling loud enough to be a personal betrayal after six hours of cramming neurobiology flashcards until the words stopped looking like words and started looking like abstract art, and you'd been so focused on the singular mission of retrieving the leftover takeout container from the bottom shelf of the fridge that you hadn't noticed the figure leaning against the counter until the soft clink of a glass being set down.

the sound made every nerve in your body fire simultaneously, a startled gasp catching in your throat as your eyes adjusted to the dimness and found shiu kong standing there in low-slung gray sweatpants and nothing else, the pale expanse of his chest catching what little light there was, the cigarette tucked behind his ear a familiar silhouette, the faint smirk already curling at the corner of his mouth like he'd been waiting for this exact moment, like he'd known you'd come shuffling in eventually and had positioned himself here just to watch you flounder.

"you're up late," he said, and his voice was that particular brand of lazy that always made you want to punch him directly in his perfect teeth, the kind of drawl that suggested he found everything around him vaguely amusing and slightly beneath his attention, and you hated him, you genuinely and truly hated him.

hated the way he'd been crashing on toji's couch for the past three weeks while his own place was getting renovated, hated the way he left his expensive cologne clinging to every room like a territorial marker, hated the way he looked at you over the dinner table with those half-lidded eyes that seemed to see straight through your clothes and into the parts of you that you kept carefully locked away.

hated that he was thirty-four and successful and so infuriatingly confident that he made your brother's already insufferable best friend status somehow even more unbearable, and you especially hated the way your thighs pressed together involuntarily when he shifted his weight and the muscles in his abdomen tensed with the movement.

"i was studying," you managed, your voice coming out flatter than you intended, and you turned back toward the fridge with what you hoped was dismissive finality, pulling open the door and letting the cold air wash over your flushed skin as you pretended to search for something that wasn't the obvious container of pad thai sitting right in front of your face.

your mind racing with the sudden awareness that you were practically naked and he was practically naked and toji was asleep no more than twenty feet away behind a door that you suddenly couldn't remember if he'd closed all the way.

"studying," shiu repeated, and you could hear the smile in his voice without having to look, could feel his eyes tracing the back of your bare legs, the curve of your ass barely covered by the hem of your shirt, and when you finally grabbed the container and straightened up, he was closer, close enough that the warmth radiating off his skin reached yours across the small kitchen, close enough that you could smell the whiskey on his breath and the faint remnants of his shower gel, and your heart stuttered in a way that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the way his gaze dropped deliberately to your mouth before dragging back up to your eyes. "must be some intense studying, princess. you look all wound up."

"don't call me that," you snapped, but the words came out breathless instead of sharp, and his smirk deepened, and you knew he'd heard it too, that little hitch in your voice that betrayed exactly how affected you were by his proximity, by the way his hand came up to brace against the refrigerator door beside your head, caging you in without quite touching you, the position so casually dominant that your knees felt suddenly unreliable.

"why not?" he murmured, and his other hand came up to brush a strand of hair away from your face with a gentleness that contrasted violently with the predatory gleam in his eyes, his fingers trailing down the side of your neck with deliberate slowness, and you should have shoved him away.

should have kneed him in the groin and fled back to your room and locked the door, but your body had apparently decided to mutiny against your brain because instead of moving away you tilted your chin up, exposing more of your throat to his touch, a soft sound escaping your lips before you could swallow it. "you're toji's baby sister, aren't you? practically royalty around here. and you look like a princess right now, all soft and sleepy and barely dressed, wandering into the kitchen like you wanted to be found."

"i wanted pad thai," you whispered, but your voice cracked on the last word because his thumb was tracing the line of your jaw now, tilting your face up further, and his body was so close that you could feel the heat of him everywhere, could see the faint scar bisecting his eyebrow, could count the individual lashes framing those infuriatingly beautiful eyes, and when his thigh nudged between your legs and pressed against the cotton of your panties, the sound you made was nothing short of obscene, a broken little whimper that made his pupils blow wide and his smirk sharpen into something dangerous.

"you wanted something," he corrected, and his voice had dropped to a register that vibrated through your chest, "but i don't think it was noodles, baby. i think you came out here in this tiny little shirt because you knew i'd be here. i think you've been thinking about this since last week when you walked in on me coming out of the shower and pretended you weren't staring at my cock through the towel."

your face burned at the memory, at the way you'd frozen in the hallway like a deer in headlights while water droplets slid down his chest and the thin fabric of the towel had done absolutely nothing to hide the outline of him, thick and heavy against his thigh, and you'd stammered some excuse and fled, but not before you'd seen the knowing look in his eyes, the same look he was giving you now as his thigh pressed harder against your core and you instinctively rocked into the pressure, your hips moving of their own accord, seeking friction against the solid muscle of his leg.

"i hate you," you gasped, but it came out more like a moan, especially when his hand slid from your jaw down to your throat, not squeezing, just resting there with the implicit threat of pressure, his thumb stroking over your pulse point where your heartbeat was hammering out a confession your mouth refused to make.

"i know you do," he said, and there was genuine amusement in his voice now, a dark satisfaction that made your stomach clench with equal parts fury and arousal. "i know you hate how much you want this. i can feel how wet you are through your panties and my sweatpants, princess. you're soaking my fucking thigh and we haven't even started yet. is that how desperate you are? how long have you been touching yourself in your room, thinking about me?"

you shook your head, denial automatic even as your hips kept grinding against him in slow, helpless circles, the friction building a pressure low in your belly that was already making your thoughts go syrupy and slow, and when he chuckled low in his throat and used his grip on your neck to guide you down, down, down until your knees hit the cold kitchen tile with a soft thud, you went willingly, your hands coming up to brace against his thighs, feeling the coarse hair beneath your palms, the solid warmth of him.

"that's it," he praised, and the word sent a shiver down your spine, made your fingers curl into his skin as you looked up at him through your lashes, your breath coming in shallow little pants. "look at you, so pretty on your knees for me. you hate me so much but here you are, mouth watering already, aren't you? you want to taste me, baby? want to find out if i'm as good as you've been imagining?"

"please," you breathed, but your hands were already sliding up his thighs, fingers hooking into the waistband of his sweatpants, and he helped you, pushing them down just enough to free his cock, and your mouth went dry at the sight of him in the dim kitchen light, thick and flushed and already leaking at the tip, and you hated that he was right, hated that your mouth was literally watering, hated that you couldn't stop yourself from leaning forward and pressing a soft, experimental kiss to the head, tasting salt and skin and something uniquely him.

"there you go," he murmured, and his hand came down to cup the back of your head, not pushing, just resting there, fingers tangling gently in your hair, and the tenderness of the gesture in contrast to the filthiness of the situation made your head spin. "take your time, princess. we've got all night. toji's passed out drunk, he's not waking up for anything. so you can take as long as you want learning how to suck my cock."

you opened your mouth and took him in, just the tip at first, your tongue swirling around the head as his breath hitched above you, and the sound of it, the way his composure cracked just slightly at your touch, sent a surge of power through you that made you bolder, made you take him deeper, your jaw stretching to accommodate his width as you hollowed your cheeks and sucked, your eyes never leaving his face, watching the way his lips parted and his head fell back against the cabinet behind him.

"fucking hell," he groaned, and his fingers tightened in your hair, "you're a natural at this, aren't you? all that attitude and you just needed something to fill that pretty mouth. look at you, taking me so well, like you were made for it. your brother's little sister, on her knees in the kitchen, choking on my dick like a good little slut."

the degradation should have made you angry, should have made you pull off and slap him, but instead it made you moan around him, the vibration making his hips jerk forward, pushing himself deeper into your throat until you gagged slightly, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, and he pulled back immediately, letting you breathe, his thumb brushing away the moisture on your cheek with something that almost looked like concern.

"easy," he said softly, "i've got you. you're doing so good, baby. so fucking good. can you take a little more for me?"

you nodded, dazed, and opened your mouth again, and this time when he guided himself back in you relaxed your throat, breathed through your nose, let him slide deeper and deeper until your nose was pressed against the coarse hair at his base and you could feel him in your throat, the fullness overwhelming, and above you shiu let out a sound that was half groan and half laugh, incredulous and wrecked.

"that's my girl," he breathed, and the possessive pronoun made your cunt clench around nothing, made you press your thighs together against the ache that was building there, your panties absolutely ruined at this point, sticking to your slick skin. "you're doing so well, princess. so proud of you. gonna let me fuck this pretty throat a little? just a little, i promise."

you made a sound of assent, and he began to move, slow shallow thrusts at first that gradually deepened as you adjusted to him, your hands gripping his thighs for stability as he used your mouth with careful, controlled movements, his breathing growing heavier, his praise falling from his lips in a constant stream of filth and affection that short-circuited every rational part of your brain.

"so good, fuck, your mouth is perfect, you know that? perfect fucking mouth, been thinking about it for weeks, thinking about shutting you up with my cock every time you sassed me at dinner, every time you rolled your eyes at something i said. knew you'd be good at this, knew you'd take it like you were starving for it."

your jaw was aching and your throat was raw and you had never been more turned on in your entire life, your entire body humming with need, your hips rocking against nothing, desperate for any kind of friction, and shiu noticed, of course he noticed, because he noticed everything, and he pulled out of your mouth with a wet sound that was obscene in the quiet kitchen, leaving a strand of saliva connecting your lips to his cock.

"up," he commanded, and his hands were under your arms, lifting you easily, spinning you around so your back was pressed against the cool edge of the counter, and then he was kissing you, finally kissing you, his mouth hot and demanding against yours, tasting himself on your tongue, and you moaned into his mouth as his hands slid down to grip your ass, lifting you onto the counter with effortless strength, the cold granite against your bare thighs making you gasp.

"you've been so patient," he murmured against your lips, his fingers hooking into the waistband of your panties and pulling them down your legs, leaving you bare and exposed on the counter, your sleep shirt rucked up around your waist, and the way he looked at you, like you were something to be devoured, made your entire body flush with heat. "let me take care of you now, baby. let me give you what you actually came out here for."

his fingers found you then, sliding through your wetness with a sound of approval, and when he pushed two inside you without warning, your back arched off the counter and a loud, broken moan tore from your throat, echoing in the small kitchen, and his free hand clamped over your mouth instantly, his eyes flicking toward the hallway where toji's room sat in darkness.

"shh," he breathed, his fingers still moving inside you, curling against that spot that made stars burst behind your eyes, "you have to be quiet, princess. your brother's right down the hall. you don't want him to wake up and find you spread out on his kitchen counter with my fingers in your cunt, do you?"

you shook your head frantically against his palm, but your hips were rolling into his touch, desperate for more, and he laughed softly, that infuriating smug laugh that you hated and loved in equal measure.

"that's what i thought," he whispered, and he removed his hand from your mouth only to replace it with two fingers, pressing them past your lips, and you sucked on them obediently, tasting yourself, watching his eyes darken with satisfaction. "keep them there. bite down if you need to. but don't make a sound, or i'll stop. understand?"

you nodded, your teeth grazing his knuckles, and then he was lining himself up at your entrance, the thick head of his cock pressing against where you were wettest and most desperate, and when he pushed inside, slow and deliberate and unrelenting, the stretch of him was so intense that you did bite down, hard, your muffled cry absorbed by his fingers as he filled you inch by devastating inch.

"fuck," he groaned, his forehead dropping to your shoulder, his breath hot against your neck, "you feel even better than i imagined. so tight, princess. so fucking tight around me. is this what you needed? needed me to fill you up, stuff this pretty little cunt full of my cock until you can't think about anything else?"

you couldn't answer, could barely breathe, every nerve ending in your body focused on the feeling of him inside you, thick and hot and perfect, and when he started to move, pulling out almost completely before sliding back in with a deep, rolling thrust, your vision went white at the edges and you bit down on his fingers so hard you tasted copper.

"that's it," he panted, setting a rhythm that was slow and deep and devastating, each thrust pushing a muffled whimper past his fingers, each withdrawal leaving you empty and aching. "take it, baby. take all of it. this is what you wanted, isn't it? not your textbooks, not your late-night snacks. you wanted me to bend you over this counter and fuck you until you forget your own name."

the sound of his hips meeting yours was wet and obscene in the quiet kitchen, the dim light casting shadows across his face as he watched you fall apart beneath him, his thumb pressing against your tongue, his other hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise, and you were so full, so completely overwhelmed by him, by his size and his scent and the way he moved inside you like he already knew exactly what you needed.

"you hate me so much," he continued, his voice a low rasp against your ear, "but you're taking my cock so well, princess. milking me with this greedy little pussy. you feel that? feel how deep i am? bet you can feel me in your throat, can't you? that's where i was just a minute ago, and now i'm here, and you're taking both so fucking beautifully."

a particularly deep thrust made your eyes roll back, and the moan that tried to escape was swallowed by his fingers, your teeth sinking into his skin as he picked up the pace, fucking into you harder now, the counter creaking beneath you with each thrust, and somewhere in the back of your mind you remembered that toji was asleep just down the hall, that any moment the floorboards might creak and the light might flick on and your brother would see you like this, impaled on his best friend's cock, his best friend's fingers in your mouth to keep you quiet, and the thought should have terrified you but instead it made you clench around him, made your legs wrap tighter around his waist, pulling him deeper.

"oh, you liked that," shiu breathed, and his smugness was palpable, his hips snapping against yours with renewed vigor. "you liked the idea of him catching us, didn't you? his innocent little sister, getting fucked stupid in his own kitchen. you're filthy, princess. absolutely filthy. and i love it. i love how wet you get for me, how you squeeze my cock like you never want me to leave."

you were beyond words now, beyond thought, reduced to nothing but sensation and the taste of his skin on your tongue and the overwhelming fullness of him moving inside you, and he kept talking, kept praising and degrading you in the same breath, his voice a constant litany of filth that wound you tighter and tighter until you were trembling on the edge of something catastrophic, your muffled whines growing higher and more desperate with each thrust.

"shh, shh," he soothed, his fingers pressing deeper into your mouth, his forehead against yours, his eyes locked on your face as he fucked you through it, "i've got you. i've got you, baby. just let go. let me feel you. but quiet, princess. quiet as a mouse. can you do that for me? can you come on my cock without making a sound, or do you want your big brother to know exactly what his best friend is doing to his baby sister right now?"

the tension in you snapped, and you came with his name swallowed by his fingers, your body arching off the counter as wave after wave of pleasure crashed through you, and he kept fucking you through it, his pace never faltering, drawing out every last tremor until you were limp and boneless against the granite, your mind blissfully blank of everything except him.

he slowed gradually, his thrusts becoming lazy and deep, and when he finally pulled his fingers from your mouth, they were marked with the indentations of your teeth, and he examined them with a satisfied smirk before bringing them to his own mouth and sucking them clean.

"good girl," he murmured, and pressed a soft kiss to your swollen lips. "told you you'd forget why you hated me."

Ryomen Sukuna

the walls of gojo satoru’s apartment are laughably thin for a place he pays an obscene amount of money for, and you’re reminded of this fact for the seventh time in the last hour as his unmistakable screech pierces through your skull like a rusted nail. “ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? THAT’S A WALLHACK, I’M REPORTING YOU, YOU ABSOLUTE SHIT.”

you wince, taking another sip of the cheap convenience store soju you’d been nursing on the couch, the bottle now sweating a cold ring onto your bare thigh because you’d forgone pants hours ago in a fit of humid summer frustration. twenty-four years old and still stuck dog-sitting your older brother’s ego while he screams at a monitor in his boxers. he’s twenty-nine. a grown man with a god complex and the emotional regulation of a toddler who dropped his ice cream. it’s infuriating. but it’s not as infuriating as the roommate.

ryomen sukuna. the name alone tastes like bile and bad decisions on your tongue. your brother’s best friend since their first year of university, a walking wall of arrogance draped in black compression shirts and an expression that perpetually suggests you smell like something unpleasant.

he’s always looked at you like you were an inconvenience, a stray cat gojo dragged in that he’s not allowed to kick out. and you hate him. you hate the way he manspreads on the couch, you hate the way he chews with his mouth slightly open just to annoy you, and you hate the way your thighs clench involuntarily whenever he leans over your shoulder to grab the remote and you catch the scent of sandalwood and something darker, something muskier.

the alcohol is a warm, thrumming hum in your lower belly. you’re not drunk—you’re lucid enough to know exactly how many steps it takes to get from this couch to his door, and lucid enough to know this is a terrible idea wrapped in a catastrophic bow. but the ache between your legs is louder than the rational part of your brain, and the way your cotton panties are sticking to the slick heat of your cunt is becoming impossible to ignore. you hear gojo scream something about a “healer diff” and you make your choice.

the floor is cold under your bare feet as you pad down the short hallway. sukuna’s door is slightly ajar, a sliver of blue-white light from his triple monitor setup spilling onto the carpet like a runway. you push it open with your knuckles, the hinges silent. he’s there, back to you, massive shoulders hunched forward, the corded muscles of his forearms flexing as his fingers dance over a mechanical keyboard in a rhythm of muted clicks.

he’s wearing those stupid noise-canceling headphones, the ones that cost more than your monthly car payment. you watch the back of his neck for a second, the way the undercut fades into the thicker black spikes of his hair, and you feel that familiar wave of pure, undiluted loathing wash over you. it’s the same loathing that makes your nipples tighten into hard peaks against the thin fabric of your tank top.

you step forward, the carpet swallowing the sound of your feet, and you reach over his shoulder. your fingers hook the padded edge of his headphones, sliding them forward and down so they thud softly against his collarbones. he freezes. his hands stop moving on the keyboard. there’s a beat of silence where you can hear your own heartbeat in your ears, then the slow, deliberate creak of his gaming chair as he pivots.

his eyes are dark. bottomless pits of garnet and shadow that rake over your face, then down to your bare legs, then back up to your flushed cheeks with a slowness that feels like a physical touch. “the fuck do you think you’re doing, brat?” his voice is a low, grinding rumble, the kind of sound that vibrates in the floorboards.

you don’t answer him with words because you know your voice would crack and give him the satisfaction of seeing you nervous. instead, you step between his knees, which have naturally fallen open as he turned to face you, and you climb. you brace your knees on either side of his thick thighs, the worn mesh of the chair seat biting into your shins, and you grab his face with both hands. his stubble scrapes your palms as you crash your mouth against his.

it’s not a sweet kiss. it’s a declaration of war. it’s teeth and desperation and the sour-sweet tang of soju on your tongue clashing with the mint of his toothpaste. for a horrible, agonizing second, he’s completely still. his lips are firm but unresponsive, and you feel a spike of cold dread shoot down your spine.

oh god, i’ve made a mistake. but then his chest expands, a deep inhale through his nose, and his hands—those huge, veined hands that you’ve watched wrap around coffee mugs and game controllers—finally move. they land on your hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your ass with a grip so bruisingly tight it forces a squeak of air out of your lungs.

you pull back just enough to breathe, your forehead pressing against his, your lips wet and parted. “shut up,” you whisper before he can say anything smug. “just shut the fuck up, sukuna.”

you move your mouth to his jaw, dragging your tongue over the rough texture of his five-o’clock shadow, tasting salt and skin. your hips are already moving, a slow, instinctual grind against the thick denim covering his cock. you can feel him hardening beneath the zipper, a heavy, unyielding ridge that makes your clit throb in sympathy.

“this why you’re here?” he mutters, his voice a gravelly taunt right in your ear. he’s not moving to help you. he’s letting you rut against him like a bitch in heat, his hands guiding your hips but not pushing, just observing. “couldn’t stand hearing your brother get his rocks off playing call of duty, so you came in here to get yours on my lap? pathetic.”

“i said shut up,” you gasp, biting down on the tendon of his neck. he hisses, a sharp intake of breath, and his hips finally buck up into you, a hard, singular thrust that grinds the seam of his jeans directly against your clit. the friction is so good, so blindingly hot, that you moan directly into his skin. “ah… fuck.”

“mm, that’s a pretty sound,” he praises, but it’s laced with such condescension it makes your skin prickle. “better than the whining i hear through the walls. gojo always said you were a little brat, but he never mentioned you were a slut for your brother’s friends.”

the word slut hits your bloodstream like a syringe full of adrenaline. you hate him for it. you hate that it makes you wetter. you sit back, fumbling between your bodies with shaking fingers to yank at his belt buckle. the metal clinks, a loud, damning sound in the quiet room, and you hear gojo’s distant voice yell “FLANKING LEFT!” from the other side of the wall.

“look at you,” sukuna coos, his voice dripping with dark amusement as he watches you struggle with the button fly of his jeans. “fingers all clumsy. too fuckin’ eager. haven’t even kissed you right and you’re about to drool on my dick.” he reaches down, batting your hands away with a lazy flick of his wrist.

he pops the button himself, the sound obscenely loud in the small space between you. he doesn’t pull himself out, though. he just tugs the denim open and pushes his boxers down just enough for his cock to spring free, heavy and flushed a furious, angry red. it slaps against the black fabric of his shirt, smearing a bead of clear fluid against the hem.

your mouth goes dry. he’s thick. not just long, but wide, the kind of girth that makes your inner walls clench in fearful anticipation. the vein running along the underside is prominent, pulsing.

“what’s the matter?” sukuna tilts his head, a slow, predatory grin spreading across his face. “scared of a little stretch, princess? you came in here all high and mighty, grinding on me like a cat, and now you’re staring at it like it’s gonna bite.” he wraps his hand around the base, giving it a lazy, wet-sounding stroke. “go on. take what you came for. or are you just gonna drip all over my chair like a broken faucet?”

the challenge is a switch being flipped. fueled by spite and the molten lava pooling in your stomach, you hook your thumbs into the waistband of your soaked panties and shove them aside, the fabric sticking unpleasantly to your folds before peeling away. the cool air of his room hits your exposed cunt, and you shiver. you grip his shoulders, your nails digging into the hard muscle there, and you raise yourself up.

he doesn’t help you. of course he doesn’t. he just holds the base of his cock steady, the fat, leaking tip nudging against your entrance. the first contact is electric, a shock of wet heat that makes your knees buckle. you sink down just an inch, just enough for the broad head to push past your outer lips, and you whimper. “ungh… it’s—you’re too—”

“too big?” he finishes for you, his voice a smug, silky purr. his free hand comes up to cup the back of your neck, forcing you to look at him. his eyes are half-lidded, pupils blown wide with lust, but his expression is one of pure, unadulterated mockery. “c’mon. you hate me, right? you want to prove you can take it. prove you’re not just a whiny little pussy like your brother.”

you take the bait. you let your weight drop. the stretch is immediate and devastating. you feel your cunt flare open around the invasion, the thickest part of him splitting you apart. your mouth falls open in a silent scream, your eyes rolling back in your head as a garbled, choked moan tears its way out of your throat. “hhaaa—fuck, fuck, sukuna—”

“there we go,” he grunts, his composure cracking for just a fraction of a second as your tight, wet heat clamps down around him like a vice. his jaw clenches, the muscle ticking violently. “fuckin’ hell. grippin’ me like you’re tryin’ to break it off. you’ve been thinking about this, haven’t you? sitting on my couch, hating me, all while your pussy is crying for it.”

you can’t answer. you’re full. impossibly, deliriously full. you’ve sunk down about halfway, and the pressure against your cervix is already a dull, aching promise. your thighs are trembling violently, the muscles screaming as you hold yourself there, impaled on him. your pussy flutters and pulses around his girth, trying to adjust, trying to accommodate the intrusion.

“go on, ride,” he commands, his voice dropping an octave. he’s not thrusting. he’s making you do the work. “bounce on it. show me how much you fucking hate me. make me believe it.”

you start to move. it’s clumsy at first, a stuttering, jerky roll of your hips. you lift up, feeling the drag of his veined shaft against your gripping walls, the ridge of his head catching on that spot just inside that makes your vision spark white. you drop back down, a wet, squelching sound filling the room as your slick coats him. “ah… ah… mmph…” the sounds are spilling out of you uncontrollably, high-pitched and needy.

“that’s it,” he groans, his head falling back against the chair’s headrest. his hands move to your ass, not to help you move, but to spread you open, pulling your cheeks apart so he can feel the way your cunt swallows him. “look at that ass swallowing my cock. you can hear it, can’t you? sloppy fuckin’ pussy.”

from the other room, muffled but distinct, you hear gojo laugh. “GET DUNKED ON, SUKUNA YOU’D BE SO MAD IF YOU SAW THIS KILLCAM.”

you freeze, a jolt of pure panic icing the heat in your veins. “oh god—he’s right there—”

sukuna’s eyes snap open, and the look in them is feral. “i know.” he plants his feet on the floor and, for the first time, he moves. he thrusts up into you. hard. the chair creaks dangerously, the hydraulics groaning under the sudden force. the head of his cock punches against your deepest spot, and you see stars. a loud, sharp cry is ripped from your chest. “AH! FUCK!”

“shhh,” he mocks, pressing a thick finger to his lips. “you want him to hear what a good girl you’re being for me? want him to know his baby sister is in here, creaming all over his best friend’s dick?” he thrusts again, a brutal, upward snap of his hips that jolts your whole body. “you hate me so much, but you’re fucking milking me, brat.”

you’re meeting his thrusts now, riding him in earnest, your rhythm frantic and uneven. the sound is obscene; a symphony of wet slaps, his low grunts, and your broken, desperate moans. “ungh… uhn… right there, oh fuck, right fucking there…”

“yeah?” he taunts, one hand sliding up your back to fist in your hair, yanking your head back and exposing the column of your throat. “right there? this the spot you were thinking about when you were touching yourself in your room? thinking about your brother’s roommate?” he’s pounding up into you now, meeting your downward strokes with brutal, deep thrusts that leave you breathless. “fucking pathetic. you can’t even hate me right, can you? dick’s too good, so you forget. you forget you’re supposed to be disgusted by me.”

you can’t deny it. the words are lost in the haze of pleasure. every plunge of his thick cock drives the air from your lungs, scrambling your thoughts until the only thing left is the feeling of him stretching you open. your tits are bouncing with the force of it, the thin tank top doing nothing to hide the stiff peaks of your nipples. you’re drooling, a thin line of saliva trailing from the corner of your mouth, and you can’t even bring yourself to care.

“messy little thing,” he breathes, watching your face contort with pleasure. he leans forward, licking the drool from your chin in a gesture that’s so degrading and so fucking hot that your cunt clenches down on him in a spasm. “fffuuck—do that again. squeeze me like that. show me how much you love being split open by a man you claim to despise.”

gojo’s voice cuts through the fog again, a distant, tinny sound. “ALRIGHT, LAST ROUND AND I’M DONE. SUKUNA YOU WANT PIZZA?”

sukuna’s rhythm doesn’t falter. he grinds up into you, slow and deep, circling his hips in a way that makes the coarse hair at the base of his cock rub against your swollen, aching clit. you sob, your nails raking down his chest through his shirt. “answer him,” he whispers against your ear, his breath hot and wet. “or better yet, let him hear you. let him hear what a sweet little fuckdoll his sister turns into when she’s drunk on my cock.”

he picks up the pace again, a punishing, relentless rhythm that has the chair squeaking in protest and your thighs burning. his words are a filthy, non-stop litany in your ear. “bet you feel so empty when you’re alone, huh? nothing in there but your own pathetic fingers. this is what you needed. a real man to fill up this needy little hole.” he punctuates the statement with a particularly vicious thrust that makes you see double.

you’re clinging to him, a sweaty, moaning mess, completely at his mercy. your hatred is a distant memory, replaced by the overwhelming, consuming need for more. more friction, more depth, more of his mocking praise. you’re riding his dick on his gaming chair, your brother thirty feet away, and the only thing in your universe is the way he stretches you and the way he laughs, low and cruel, at how easily you broke for him.

[dhazefawn]

GOT SOMETHIN’ IN MY SYSTEM; jason p. todd.

⋆˙⟡ synopsis: when red hood stumbles into your shitty convenience store at 2 am looking for marlboros, you don’t expect him to come back—but he does, except now he’s jason, your cute regular.

⋆˙⟡ pairing: jason todd‎ ‎ 𝔁‎ ‎ cashier!reader.

⋆˙⟡ cws: gun violence, injury (head wound, concussion), brief non-consensual touching (handsy customer), needles/stitches (implied), mild language, hospitalization, rating—mature.

⋆˙⟡ word count: 7.7k.

⋆˙⟡ author’s notes: i’ve probably said this like fifty times, but i’m restarting my dcu taglist. i’ll make a proper post soon, but if anyone is interested you could leave a comment or send me an ask. even though there is a afab presenting picture in the moodboard, that does not dictate reader’s gender—i have always written gen!reader.

Your clenched hand bangs on the “OPEN” sign for the third time this night. One letter is always burnt out—the “O”, to be specific. As a result, the small convenience store you work for has the word “PEN” basically written on its front door. Let’s say it doesn’t naturally garner any paying customers after normal shopping hours. Well, any normal customers, that is. You’re pretty much desensitised to every stranger who walks through the door.

“Does this make my store look like we sell dirty magazines?” Your manager, an old lady whom you’ve just learned to call ma’am instead of her real name—Marjorie—barks your way before opening the door to finally head home.

How nice that she never stays around for the night shift. Fantastic choice of words to end her stay here for tonight, too.

“More like a stationery shop,” you say, trying to align the sign to the center of the door, “I’m not sure people expect us to be selling anything… mature at a convenience store. You know, with there being aisles full of groceries.”

“I’ll be damned if a stupid sign ruins the reputation of this store, do you hear me? This building has been in my family for generations.” She’s still pointing at you, even though she’s half out of the door. “Take care of the place, don’t forget to clean up.”

“Sure, ma’am.” You try your best to hold back the sarcasm in your voice, but it fails, and you receive a nasty side glare from the woman.

You groan, turning back on your heel to return to the counter. It’s made of old wood-grain, laminated. Already chipping at the edges. It sits catty-corner to the door so you can see both the entrance and the back aisle. Which you have to, since the cameras—inside and out—are definitely fake.

There’s an old-school bell on a spring, attached to the door. It announces every customer, loud and impossible to muffle. Hearing bells at two in the morning isn’t ideal, but the store runs on pure spite, and your rent needs to be paid somehow.

Speaking of the devil, you hear the bell ring.

You straighten your spine, mentally readying yourself for another of Marjorie’s scoldings. You wonder what you forgot to do now, or who will be the recipient of her wrath. Raising your head, you open your mouth to muster some kind of excuse for whatever she’ll throw at you, but you stop dead in your tracks.

The person who walks through the door isn’t the short, hot-tempered old lady you’ve been working with for the past few months.

No.

You first notice the blood. The way it’s still wet, clinging onto the helmet, which is in the same shade. A man whom you have never seen in person stands just a few feet away from you. A hip holster hangs off of him, with something metal shining under the unbearable fluorescent lights. You don’t have to guess. It might be a gun, or he might have a knife stashed in another holster you haven’t spotted yet.

You’ve seen freaks in this shop—the guy who tried to pay with a bag of loose teeth, the woman who screamed at the beer cooler for ten minutes. Some are even sort of endearing when you learn how to handle them.

But you haven’t seen Red fucking Hood. And you sure as hell don’t know how to handle him.

What the actual hell? Marjorie didn’t train you for this. There isn’t a “how to deal with a vigilante showing up” section in any manual.

You freeze on the spot. Your hands grip the cold counter. For a moment, you think of taking the energy drinks from the small cooler and just throwing them at the man so maybe, just maybe, he’ll find the attempt pathetic enough and let you go. You can hear him step closer. You’re sure the metal cans won’t save you now.

You take a single step back. You hit the cigarette wall behind you. Marjorie would kill you if she found the cigarette wall in a mess, but it won’t really matter if the man approaching you gets to you first.

God, he is bigger in person. What the hell does he even eat to look like that?

What are you even thinking right now?

It only takes him a few steps to reach the counter from the entrance. A small trail of dirty footsteps follows him, and you grimace at the drops of blood sticking to his boots. There’s a small… handle sticking out of a holster lower on his leg.

Oh, that’s where the knife is. Lucky you.

You swallow down the breath stuck in your throat as he stands in front of the counter. He looks everywhere but at you, eyeing the energy drinks beside you and the cigarette wall. Instinctively, you raise your hands in front of you, as if to show him you won’t try anything stupid, like throwing energy drinks at him.

You can swear you hear something like an amused scoff coming from underneath his helmet as he looks back at you.

So, he finds this funny, huh.

“I’m not going to bite your head off.” He speaks first, because you sure as hell won’t talk to him first. You doubt Marjorie would scold you for customer service when the customer is Red Hood himself.

“So the knife there is just for show?” The words escape your lips without your permission, and you regret it instantly.

“I do love a good accessory,” he clicks his tongue, as if he’s being hilarious.

He raises a hand, and you watch the way the leather of his gloves flexes. They’re dark in color, tactical, fitted, covering to his wrist. The fabric leaves a piece of his forearm exposed. Your eyes trail over the showing skin. There are a few scars littered on the surface, running down his arm like rivers.

“You can drop your hands,” his voice breaks you out of your thoughts… about his arms?

“So, you aren’t suspicious or anything?” You drop your hands to your sides, “What if I—”

“You don’t scare me, sweetheart. It’s mostly the other way around.” He says the word “sweetheart” a little too easily. It almost sounds like honey rolling of his tongue. If he didn’t have a gun and knife strapped to him, maybe you’d even blush.

You hope you aren’t visibly blushing. The heat in your cheeks is your problem, not his.

“I could call the cops,” you challenge, a newfound confidence seeping into your words.

“And they’d definitely come here. After half an hour, give or take. But I’d already have taken what I came here for.”

Yep, he’s actually going to do something horrible. You thought Red Hood took care of criminals, not some cashier like you, who, yes, might have skimmed some dollars out of the cash register a few times. But that doesn’t warrant a visit from Red Hood himself. Your jaw tightens, while your hands clench. You’re sure your nails are digging crescents into your palm right now.

“And what would that be?”

If you’re going to be beaten up or robbed by Gotham’s most smart-mouthed vigilante, you’re not going down silent. Maybe you should scream. Just to make this harder for him.

He puts his other hand on his hip. For a moment, you think he’s reaching for his holster, but his voice from the helmet reaches you again.

“I want a cigarette.”

What.

“You want a what?”

Red Hood points a finger at the cigarette wall behind you. You follow the gesture to the Marlboros sitting in the middle row, just behind the locked glass screen. The “21+” sign is hanging on the screen with the paint already peeling off its surface.

He wants a fucking cigarette. And he’s saying all of this as if he didn’t just threaten you a moment ago.

“Seriously?”

“I am over twenty-one, if you’re wondering.”

“That’s not,” you groan. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

He shrugs. Throwing that energy drink can might have been an actual good idea.

“I can’t show you my ID, unfortunately,” he gives you a faux sigh through his helmet. Both of his hands are on his hips now, and you somehow calm down seeing that he’s not reaching for a weapon. “Secret identity and all. You understand, no?”

“You just had to mess with me, huh?”

“Couldn’t help myself.”

You turn your back slowly, still trying to keep an eye on him, all while letting out an annoyed huff. He mimics the sound of your sneer right back at you. You snap your head back at him. He, on the other hand, looks at one of the shelves, as if he didn’t do anything at all. You can feel something akin to a laugh building up in your body because he looks ridiculous, if you ignore the blood. His hands are on his hips, showing you he’s not going for his weapons. He’s looking away like a child caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to.

You open the cigarette wall with a turn of your keys. The glass screen moves, and you grab a single pack of Marlboros. You scan the pack in silence. It’s not like the heavy and tense silence from before, when he first walked through the door, bloody and intimidating. Now it feels like he’s actually a customer. A weird one, but it’s Gotham. You’re not surprised.

“Smoking is bad for you, y’know,” you say quietly, almost mumbling. Though he hears you anyway.

“You worried, sweetheart?”

“Oh, of course,” you answered with a raised brow, hoping the sarcasm was obvious in your voice. “Who else would walk in bloody in the shop just to buy cigarettes?”

He reaches for his pocket. Your eyes trail to his forearms again. You hadn’t noticed before, but the veins on his arms are barely visible. Though you can see the way they are indented in his skin, between the scars. He lays a few crumpled dollar bills on the counter. To his credit, the money at least isn’t bloodied.

“Next time at…” he looks at the clock on the wall behind you, the cracked glass shows that it’s eight pm now. “How does five sound?”

“If you don’t come with your accessories and blood, maybe. Just maybe.”

You hand over the cigarette pack to him. Your fingers brush his, and for a split second, his fingers freeze. It’s like he’s surprised and flustered by the contact.

“A deal breaker, then?” He lets out a cough before grabbing the Marlboros and taking a step back from the counter.

You tilt your head, trying to figure out in your mind what he looks like right now behind that helmet. His voice sounds hoarse. All because you touched him. Though he hasn’t expressed any discomfort yet.

“No,” you answer. “Not exactly…”

God, why is your stupid heart talking instead of your brain?

He perks up. You can see it in how his shoulders pick up. His grip on the cigarette pack changes; he’s now twirling it between his fingers.

Yep, you’re never leaving your apartment ever again.

He does have big hands, though.

“Five o’clock, then,” he says, like it’s already decided. Like you already said yes.

“I didn’t agree to anything.”

“You didn’t say no either, sweetheart.”

There it is again. That word. Dripping off his tongue like he’s known you for years. Like he has any right to call you that when you can’t even see his face.

He tucks the Marlboros into his jacket pocket. Takes a step back. Then another.

You should feel relieved. You are relieved. Probably.

“Same time tomorrow,” he says from the door. The bell hasn’t rung yet. He’s waiting. For what, you don’t know.

“Same blood?” you ask, because your mouth has officially divorced your brain.

He tilts his helmet. That same amused energy from before.

“Maybe less. If you’re lucky.”

The bell rings. He’s gone.

You stare at the door for a full ten seconds. Then, at the crumpled bills on the counter. Then at the trail of dirty footprints leading to the entrance.

Then back at the door.

What the hell just happened?

You grab the nearest energy drink can—not to throw, just to hold. The metal is cold against your palm. Your heart is still racing. Your cheeks are still warm.

And you hate yourself a little for already knowing you’ll be here at five o’clock tomorrow.

+++

“Wait, say that again,” Marjorie points at your face, as if you’re in the wrong. “A vigilante walked through my doors and threatened my employee?”

“He didn’t really threaten me,” you point out, but the exasperated look on the woman’s face makes you backtrack. “I mean, he looked scary. He didn’t lay a hand on me, though.”

Unfortunately.

You should have stayed home.

“You said he had a gun!”

“And a knife.”

“Oh, my god. And he smokes, too. Children these days.”

“I don’t think his smoking is the main issue here,” you move past the counter to the aisles.

You didn’t call Marjorie about what happened last night as soon as he had left. In her book, if something isn’t bleeding or broken, calling isn’t necessary. You cleaned the drop of blood from the counter and closed up last night. The streets felt just a tad brighter under the streetlights, knowing a certain vigilante might be looking out for you. Who knows, maybe he’ll appreciate the fact that you sold him the cigarettes without calling the cops on him.

Now you’re here, the next day. You’ve been buzzing around the shop all day. The sticky floors, even though you cleaned them yesterday, are still holding onto the grime. The fluorescent light bulb above the counter needed a few hits before it stopped flickering. You’ve been listening to the rattle of the beer cooler since you clocked in.

Marjorie’s incessant badgering about Red Hood unfortunately did reach your ears over the cooler’s rattle.

“Did he hurt you?” She asks again, and you, surprisingly, find the concern a bit endearing.

“Aw,” you coo, “you do care about me, Marj.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, idiot,” she scowls. “Who else would work for me if you died, or worse, quit?”

“No. He didn’t hurt me,” you deadpan. “He didn’t take anything. He paid for a Marlboro and took off.”

You haven’t mentioned the fact that he might visit again. You’re not planning on Marjorie finding out. She’ll leave in a few hours, and you will hang onto that stupid and foolish hope that a man whose face you’ve never seen will come to see you. You spent a few more minutes today in front of the mirror, too.

God, what are you doing?

“Marlboro?” Marjorie raises a brow. “He doesn’t even have taste. He should have gotten one of those… what are they called?”

“Yellow Spirits?”

“Yes, those.”

“You’re only saying that because they cost more.”

“If he’s bothering my employees, the least he can do is pay me.”

You bend down to the box near your feet. It’s full of some brand of cereal you can’t remember the name of. Something generic for an even more generic convenience store.

Marjorie approaches you near the aisle. Her brows are furrowed, and her wrinkles are even more pronounced today. The corners of her mouth are pulled into a thin line. As if she’s actually worried.

She starts digging into her pocket. You turn your head, curious about what she’s doing. She pulls out something that looks like a… taser?

“Marjorie, what is that?”

“Kid, we both know I don’t have the means to get you a gun,” she clicks her tongue, gesturing the taser your way, “but this should do the trick. It ain’t one of those harmless ones either. It packs a big punch.”

You grab the taser from her hand. It feels heavy in your grip. You imagine using it against anyone, though you don’t think you’ll be pointing it towards Red Hood anytime soon. First, stupidly enough, you hope he won’t give you a reason to use it. Secondly, you’re sure it won’t work against a man shaped like a mountain.

“Thanks, Marj,” you pocket the taser in your apron, the one Marjorie forces you to wear all your shift.

“It’s Marjorie,” she scoffs. “Now, I’ll get going. My heart cannot take another one of your ridiculous night stories. My poor knees need a break.”

As if she’s the one restocking.

She’s already half out of the door before you can even say goodbye. Not that she’d say it back. So much for her poor knees.

You turn back to the aisle. There are still a few more boxes unopened. The shop is relatively small one, so you’re not too worried about the amount of work waiting for you.

You look at the cracked clock near the register. There are a few minutes left before it strikes five. You bite your lip. There’s a strange feeling of impatience and exhilaration mixing in your stomach, all like a bad concoction.

This is how crazy people die in those superhero movies, all because they think that they’ve got a connection with a murder. You are very much that type of crazy person. It’s almost like Gotham has entirely changed you, making your eyes locked onto the door, awaiting a certain someone.

To your utter surprise, the bell rings. You feel your knees getting weak. You step away from the aisle that was blocking your way to the front door, half expecting Red Hood to show up and actually rob you or something; you’re not sure what people like him get up to.

Your heart is beating against your chest. There’s something deeply wrong with you. You consider running out the back door, but you’re already in the line of sight of the entrance.

He already saw you.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost, sweetheart.”

The “he” turned out to be not a bloodied costume-wearing vigilante, but your loyalest regular—Jason Todd. You still don’t understand why he keeps visiting. A small part of your heart hopes it’s because he finds the cashier, you, cute.

He’s wearing a black T-shirt. It’s cut off around the forearms. You see familiar faint scars. You’ve never asked Jason about them. He did notice you staring once, and he explained that he had had a few accidents with his motorcycle. Your heart pangs uncomfortably at the reminder of him being in pain. The shirt clings to his chest in a way that will not leave your mind this entire week. It rides up slightly around his waist, exposing just a small part of his skin. You can see the tattoos peeking out from underneath the fabric, just above the leather belt around his hips.

This is too much. Way too much for a full day shift.

Wow. Both him and Red Hood. That’s low. Even for you.

You feel a sense of disappointment, as if you were played by Red Hood. But it’s not like he owed you anything.

Jason tilts his head. A few of the white strands of his hair fall down on his forehead. They frame his face in an effortlessly handsome way, so much so that you want to punch the subtle grin off his face. You’re sure Marjorie would fire you for that, considering Jason is probably the only customer of this shop she actually likes.

“Jason,” you finally get the words past your lips, “it’s just you.”

“Just me?” he places a hand on his chest in faux hurt.

He steps into the shop. His gate is steady. In a way that is the opposite of yours. You’re sure you’re shaking like a leaf right now, gripping the bag of cereal even harder. You scold yourself mentally for freezing up like this.

You can see the way Jason’s face shifts. Maybe he noticed how off you are today. He’s always so perceptive, a trait you haven’t yet decided is stupidly attractive or attractively dooming for you. It reminds you of that one time you tried hiding a burn you had gotten in the shop from him, but he still noticed. He walked to the pharmacy across the street just to buy a weird cream you had never heard of, but you appreciated the gesture either way.

No one had really done that for you before. Not without expecting something in return.

He reaches you in just a few steps. You wonder how he moves so quickly. In a way that doesn’t tick you off either. He raises his hands, almost to show he’s trying to calm you down.

“You okay?” He asks, voice laced with concern. His tone is softer, too. Like cigarettes wrapped in velvet fabric.

“Yes. Yes, I’m fine. I feel like a million bucks.”

Who even says that?

You cough, trying to clear your throat. With a tilt of your head, you gesture to the register. Jason follows your gaze. He lets out a small sigh and follows you to the counter.

“So,” you try to force your voice to sound chirpy. It seems wrong. “What can I get you?”

By the look on Jason’s concerned face, you’re sure he noticed the strain in your voice, too. The soft glint in your eyes makes your heart tighten. You can’t take your anger out on him. It’s unfair.

“Is there anything I can do?” Jason offers, and the guilt in his voice makes you want to crawl under the counter.

For a moment, you wonder why he’s so hell-bent on comforting you. Especially when he has nothing to do with your stupid infatuation with a vigilante. Well, you have a small crush on Jason, too, but the future you will be the one who unpacks that.

“It’s nothing,” you lie, already reaching for the yellow Spirits behind the glass. Your fingers fumble with the keys. “Rough night. You know how it is.”

“I don’t,” he says, leaning against the counter. His forearm brushes against the chipped wood. You watch the muscles shift under his skin. “But I’ve got time if you wanna talk about it.”

“You’re buying cigarettes, not listening to me talk all day. This isn’t therapy.”

“Same thing, sweetheart.”

There it is. Sweetheart. The same word Red Hood used. Your brain short-circuits for half a second before you remember—Jason has been calling you that for months. Way before last night.

It doesn’t mean anything, you tell yourself. It’s just a word.

“You’re staring,” Jason says, amused.

“I’m obviously glaring,” you correct, shoving the yellow pack across the counter. “There’s a big difference.”

He doesn’t reach for the cigarettes. Instead, he tilts his head—and there. That’s the same tilt. The same one Red Hood used when he found you funny. Your stomach flips.

“You glare at all your customers like that, or just me?”

Two can play that game.

“Just the ones who show up at five o’clock looking like that.”

“Like what?”

You gesture vaguely at all of him. The arms. The chest. The stupid white streak in his hair.

“Like you just walked off a movie set.”

Jason’s grin spreads slowly. You feel heat pool up in your stomach. Suddenly, it feels like you’re back to last night. As if he is again, right in front of you, and you’re not sure how to handle this. How to handle Jason and Red Hood.

God, you’re going to hell. If there’s even one.

“So you have noticed.”

‘I notice when my regulars change their look,” you say, deflecting. “New shirt?”

“This old thing?” He plucks at the fabric, tugging on it a bit too harshly. You wonder if he’s nervous. “You like it?”

Jason—to your surprise and amusement—sounds actually nervous. The idea that you can fluster him lights your skin on fire.

“I liked the leather jacket better.”

“Noted.”

He’s still not taking the cigarettes. He’s just looking at you. Like he’s trying to solve a puzzle. The same way Red Hood looked at you—like you were interesting. Like you weren’t just another cashier.

“You’re doing it again,” you say.

“Doing what?”

"Looking at me like I’m hiding something. Which I am definitely not."

Jason laughs. It’s low, warm, and it does something stupid to your chest.

“Maybe you are hiding something,” he says. “You’re harder to figure out than most.”

“That’s the most backhanded compliment I’ve ever received.”

“It’s not backhanded,” he says, and you can get drunk on the flustered tone of his voice. “I’m just bad at words.”

“You’re a regular. You come here three times a week. I’ve learned that you’re not bad at anything.”

His eyebrows go up. “Anything?”

Shit.

“I meant—talking. I meant talking.”

“Sure you did.”

He finally takes the cigarettes. His fingers brush yours—deliberate this time. You’re sure of it. His hand lingers for half a second, in a way that’s longer than necessary.

“Same time tomorrow?” he asks.

“You’re already here today.”

“And?”

You stare at him. He stares back. The fluorescent light buzzes. The beer cooler rattles. Somewhere outside, a car alarm starts wailing.

“You’re completely ridiculous, you know that?” you say.

“And you’re avoiding the question.”

“Fine. Same time tomorrow.”

“Good.”

He tucks the yellow pack into his back pocket. No jacket today means you can see the outline of his wallet, the curve of his—

Stop it.

But he’s totally doing this on purpose.

Jason steps closer to the counter. You can see the faint freckles dotted across his pale skin. There’s a light scar running down his cheek. You wonder how a motorcycle accident could do all of this. You know he’s hiding something from you. For a second, you wonder what it would feel like to count his freckles and trace the scar.

You can see the muscles in Jason’s shoulders flex as he leans over the counter. His hand reaches for his other pocket. He takes out a lighter you haven’t seen before. A raised cross spreads across its surface, darkened in the grooves.

He places it on the counter between you, sliding it toward you.

You pick it up. It’s heavier than you expected. Warm from being in his pocket. Your thumb traces the engraving. Along the edge of the metal, barely noticeable unless you know to look, a Latin phrase is etched in fine, precise lettering—worn just enough to suggest it is carried often, turned over in someone’s hands.

“What’s this say?”

“Something stupid that I got when I was nineteen.” He doesn’t elaborate. “Light it up for me?”

You look up. “What?”

“The cigarette.” He pulls the yellow pack from his back pocket—when did he grab that?—and taps one out. Holds it between his fingers. Doesn’t move to light it himself, just looks at you. “You’ve got the lighter.”

“You have hands.”

“And you’re holding it.”

The fluorescent light makes his eyes look greener than usual. Or maybe that’s just the angle. Or maybe you’re hallucinating because of what is happening right now.

“You want me to light your cigarette,” you say slowly, “over the counter. In the middle of my shift.”

“I want a lot of things,” he says. “Right now I’m just asking for a light.”

Your heart is doing something stupid. Your hands are definitely not shaking as you flick the lighter. Once. Twice. On the third try, a flame catches.

Jason leans in, closer than he needs to. His fingers brush yours as he brings the cigarette to the flame. His eyes don’t leave yours. You can’t take your gaze off the sea-green color of his eyes.

The cigarette catches. He takes a slow drag. Exhales away from your face—polite, even now—and the smoke curls up toward the flickering lights.

“Thanks, sweetheart.”

He picks the lighter off the counter. His fingers linger over yours again.

“Same time tomorrow? Actually, I might be a little late.”

“You’re already here today.”

“And?”

You can’t think of a single clever thing to say. Your brain is full of smoke and green eyes and the weight of a silver lighter that’s no longer in your hand.

“Fine,” you manage. “Same time tomorrow.”

“Good.”

He tucks the lighter back into his pocket. The cigarette hangs from his lips. He’s halfway to the door when you call out.

“You forgot your cigarettes.”

He glances at the yellow pack still sitting on the counter. Then back at you through the smoke.

“No, I didn’t.”

The bell rings.

He’s gone.

+++

The next night is different. The fluorescent lights are too rough on your eyes. The counter is too cold. The rattling of the beer cooler is too loud. Marjorie didn’t drop by today either. You find yourself missing her incessant badgering, even if it does get a bit too much sometimes.

You feel lonely.

Ridiculous.

Maybe it’s because Jason didn’t show up today, and you’ve been staring at the front door like a kicked puppy. You’ve been lied to by him and Red Hood two times already. Or maybe, you’re just a fool to think that either of them would actually show up for you.

You sigh, leaning your elbow over the counter. The cold surface bites at your skin, but you don’t really care. Your thoughts are buzzing in your head nonstop. It’s all like an ambience you want to shut out.

The bell rings.

Your head snaps up, eyes trailing to the door.

A man walks in. Average height. Average build. Grey hoodie. Jeans that don’t quite fit right. His hands are shoved in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the cold—or against something else. You can’t tell. His face is the kind you’d forget five seconds after looking away.

Nobody, you think. Just another nobody.

You straighten up anyway, because Marjorie might not be here, but her voice lives in your head rent-free. “Don’t slouch,” she’d say. “Makes you look like you don’t care. Customers can smell apathy.”

“Evening,” you call out, forcing something pleasant into your voice.

He grunts. Doesn’t look at you. Wanders the aisles like he’s searching for something. You watch him pick up a bag of chips. Put it back. A candy bar. Put it back. A Gatorade—blue, the electrolyte one—he holds onto that one.

His hands are shaking.

Late at night, you tell yourself. Long shift. You shake too, sometimes, when you’re running on three hours of sleep and bad coffee. Don’t judge him too quickly. Just mind your own business.

He walks to the counter. Sets the Gatorade down. The bottle thuds against the laminate—harder than it needs to.

“That everything?” you ask.

He doesn’t answer, just keeps staring at the bottle.

“Sir?”

He looks up.

And there it is. That thing in his eyes that makes your stomach drop. He’s not looking at you like a customer—he’s looking at you like you’re not even there.

“Two eighty-nine,” you say, voice smaller than you want it to be.

He reaches for his pocket. Pulls out a crumpled five. Smooths it on the counter. Once. Twice. Three times. His fingers are pale and knuckles white.

You make a change and slide it across. He doesn’t take it.

“Sir? Your change.”

He blinks and pockets the money without counting. “Thanks.”

Then he walks to the door.

Good, you think. He’s leaving. You were wrong. He’s just some guy.

He stops at the door and doesn’t turn around. He keeps just standing there. His one hand is on the frame. The bell is hanging inches from his head.

A cold feeling, like a wretched thing crawls up your spine. Lock the register, you think. Your keys are in your pocket. Lock it. Call—

He turns around.

The Gatorade is still on the counter, just as he left it.

He walks back, and not slow this time—fast. His footsteps don’t echo—they thud. Every step is a warning call.

“I changed my mind,” he says.

“About the Gatorade?”

“About all of it.”

His hand goes to his waistband.

You know before you see it. Before he pulls it out. You know.

The gun is small and black. It’s the kind that fits in a waistband without printing. God, how did you not see it before? He holds it at his side, not pointing it at you yet—but the threat is there.

“Open the register,” he says. His voice isn’t flat anymore; it’s shaking.

A scared man with a gun is worse than an angry one.

Your hands go up automatically. “Okay,” you say. “All right. I’m opening it.”

Your fingers find the keys in your apron. You don’t look away from him. Never look away from the gun.

The register drawer slides open with that familiar ka-ching that’s never sounded so loud before. Now it rings out loudly in your ears over the deathly silence.

“Take it,” you say. “It’s all there. I’m not going to stop you.”

He steps closer, and the gun comes up. It’s pointed at your chest now.

“The safe,” he says. “Open the safe.”

“I don’t have the code. The manager—she doesn’t give it to the night shift. I swear.”

His jaw tightens. His finger moves to the trigger.

This is how I die, you think. In a convenience store that says “PEN” on the door, and just for a register with maybe two hundred dollars in it.

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not. I’m not. Please—”

He reaches across the counter. Grabs your arm, and he grabbed it hard. His fingers dig into your skin hard enough to bruise.

“Then you’re gonna call her. Right now. And you’re gonna get the code.”

“She won’t—she’s asleep, she’s old, she won’t—”

He yanks and pulls you halfway across the counter. Your hip slams into the edge. Pain shoots up your side.

“I said call her.”

Your head hits something on the way down. The corner of the register, or the counter edge. You’re not sure. All you know is white-hot pain and then warm wetness dripping into your hair.

The bell rings.

You barely hear it over the ringing in your ears.

But he does.

The robber turns. Just for a second. Just long enough to see who walked in.

And then he’s not holding you anymore. Because someone else is holding him.

Red Hood moves like water, like something that was never human to begin with. Your eyes can’t even catch up with his movements.

One second, he’s at the door. Next, his hand is wrapped around the robber’s wrist, twisting until you hear something crack. The gun clatters to the floor. The robber screams—a high, wet sound that barely registers in your foggy brain.

You’re on the ground. When did you fall? The linoleum is cold against your cheek. Sticky, too. There’s blood in your eyes. Your blood. From your head.

Oh, you think. That’s not good.

Red Hood doesn’t say a word—he just moves. A punch to the gut. An elbow to the back. The robber crumples like paper, gasping for air he can’t catch. Hood pins him to the ground with a knee to the spine.

You try to push yourself up. Your arms won’t cooperate. They’re shaking. Everything is shaking.

“Stay down,” Hood says. His voice is modulated. But there’s something underneath it. “Don’t move your head.”

You blink. The world swims. The fluorescent lights blur into halos. You can see his boots—heavy, and splattered with something dark—stepping over the robber’s body, coming towards you.

“Hey,” he says. “Hey. Look at me.”

You try. Your eyes find the helmet. The white lenses. The shine of blood—not his, not his—on his chest plate.

“There you go,” he says. His voice is softer now. The modulator can’t hide that. “You’re okay. You’re gonna be okay.”

“You came back,” you slur. Your tongue feels too big for your mouth.

“Of course I came back.” He crouches down. His gloved hands hover over you, like he wants to touch but doesn’t know where it’s safe. “I said five o’clock, didn’t I?”

“You’re late. So fucking late.”

A sound from under the helmet—a laugh, a broken one. “Yeah,” he says. “I’m late. I’m sorry.”

Something falls from his jacket. A glint of silver. It skids across the floor and stops near your outstretched hand.

The lighter.

The silver one. The engraved one. Jason’s.

Your brain snags on it like a needle on a record. That’s—that’s his. That’s the one he put in your hand. The one you flicked. The one that was warm from his pocket.

“That’s,” you start, but the words won’t come. Your vision is going dark at the edges. “That’s Jason’s.”

Hood goes very still.

“Jason,” you repeat, because it’s the only word that matters. “You’re—you’re him. You’re—… oh my god.”

“Don’t,” he says. His real voice. The modulator must have cut out. Or maybe your ears are just giving up. “Don’t talk. Just stay awake. Please.”

You try. You really do. But the dark is pulling at you, soft and heavy, and the last thing you see is the lighter—silver and warm and his—sitting on the dirty floor between you.

The last thing you hear is his panicked voice.

“Stay with me. Don’t—shit. Stay awake. Please.”

Then nothing.

+++

The beeping is the first thing you hear.

You can barely find the strength to open your eyes. Your eyelids feel too heavy. There’s a sterile smell around whatever room you are currently in.

The walls are stark white. They stretch unbroken except for the occasional monitor, its screen blinking in steady, indifferent rhythms. A faint antiseptic smell lingers in the air, sharp and clean, threaded with something metallic beneath it. The bed sits at the center, too narrow, sheets pulled tight.

And, you’re in it.

You look to the side of the bed. There’s a small table near you. On top of it, there is a small card. You try to raise your hand, and it’s a miracle you manage to. You grab the card and open it. Your eye recognizes Marjorie’s handwriting.

Get well soon, kid. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you, not much an old lady like me can do. You take all the time you need while you’re at the hospital. The GCPD will investigate this even if I have to break down their door. Call me when you’re ready to talk.

— Marj.

You knew she cared about you. Too bad you had to survive a robbery to get proof of that.

Fuck.

You got robbed. Almost shot at. Just for a few hundred dollar bills and a safe you don’t even know the code to.

You thought you were going to die.

Until he showed up.

You push yourself off the bed. The room spins. Your head throbs. You press a hand to your forehead and feel the bandage there, rough against your fingertips. Stitches. Great.

You look around. You’re in a private room. How the hell did you get a private room? Marjorie can barely afford to keep the store’s lights on. Maybe the hospital made a mistake. Maybe you’re in the wrong bed. Maybe—

The window.

There’s something at the window.

A shape, dark against the night sky. You’re on the third floor—you remember that much from the ambulance ride, the stretcher, the paramedic with kind eyes telling you to stay awake, honey, stay with me—

The shape moves.

A tap, glass against knuckle.

You squint. Your vision is still blurry, but you’d know that silhouette anywhere—the shoulders and the faint movement of dark curls.

Jason is standing on the fire escape.

He doesn’t come in. Just stands there and watches you.

You should be scared. You were scared the first time. But now? Now all you feel is something warm and stupid blooming in your chest.

You reach over and fumble with the window latch. Your fingers are clumsy—the head injury, probably—but you get it open. Cold air rushes in. Gotham smells like rain and exhaust and something that might be smoke in the distance.

“You’re supposed to be resting,” he says. You can hear the exhaustion underneath.

“You’re not supposed to be on a fire escape,” you shoot back. Your voice comes out hoarse. “Looks like both of us are starting this conversation in horrible ways. But I could scream, and they’d drag you out of here.”

“You wouldn’t,” he tilts his head, like he’s daring you to try.

He could probably cover the distance between you in a second. He’d have his hand over your mouth before you could even let out a squeak.

Why are you imagining his hand on your mouth right now?

“Are you gonna come in?” you ask, trying to get your mind out of the gutter. “Or are you gonna stand out there all night like a creep?”

His hair is a mess—curls sticking up everywhere, the white streak catching the dim light from the monitors. There’s a cut on his cheekbone, fresh. Dark circles under his eyes so deep they look like bruises. He’s wearing the same black shirt from before, the one cut off around the forearms, and you can see the scars now with new eyes. You’re sure the scars are not from a motorcycle.

“You look like shit,” you say.

He laughs. “You’re one to talk.”

“Fair.”

He climbs through the window, but doesn’t sit on the bed—stands near it, like he’s not sure he’s allowed. His hands are shoved in his jacket pockets. The jacket is different tonight. You wonder if he’s wearing anything like armor underneath it. Or maybe, tonight, he’s just your Jason, not Red Hood. Or maybe both. They have always been the same. You were just too blind to see it.

“The lighter,” you say.

He goes still.

“It fell out of your pocket. During the fight. I saw it.”

Jason stares at you. Something passes over his face—fear, maybe, or relief. You still haven’t quite figured that one out, yet.

“I know,” he says.

“Is that how you wanted me to find out? Or did you just get sloppy?”

He flinches. “I didn’t—I wasn’t thinking. You were bleeding. You passed out. I—” He stops. His jaw tightens, as if he’s chewing on words he can’t bring himself to say.

“You what?”

“I panicked.” The words come out rough. Broken. “I don’t panic. I don’t. But you were on the ground, and there was blood in your hair, and I thought—I thought you were—” He can’t finish the sentence.

You reach out. Your hand finds his. His fingers are cold—from the fire escape, from the night, from whatever he was doing before he got here. You hold on anyway.

“I’m not dead,” you say.

“I can see that. And you’re not good at bedside manners.”

“So stop looking at me like I’m gonna disappear. Plus, I’m the one in the hospital bed. If anyone has to work on their bedside manners, it’s you.” You jab a finger in his chest. The skin behind the fabric of the jacket feels like a wall.

Definitely not the time to be thinking about his chest.

He looks down at your hands. Then back at your face. Something shifts in his expression. The tension cracks.

He doesn’t talk right away. Instead, he pulls his hand around you—gently, like he’s afraid of hurting you, and reaches into his jacket pocket. When his hand comes back out, he’s holding the lighter.

The silver-engraved one. He turns it over in his fingers.

“I came back for it. After the ambulance took you. It was still on the floor.”

“So you didn’t come to see me?”

He gives you a look. That look, the one that says you know exactly why I’m here.

“I came to see you,” he says. “I’ve been out there for three hours.”

“Three hours?”

“You were sleeping. I didn’t want to wake you.”

You stare at him. This man. This impossible man. Buys cigarettes from you three times a week. Calls you sweetheart like it’s your actual name. Climbed through your hospital window at—what, two in the morning?—just to make sure you were okay.

“You’re an idiot,” you say.

“I’ve been told.”

“A stupid idiot.”

“Also been told. Also, stupid and idiot are synonyms.”

You grab his wrist. Pull him toward the bed. He stumbles—actually stumbles, like you’ve caught him off guard—and ends up sitting on the edge of the mattress, close enough that you can smell the smoke on his jacket and the gunpowder. It’s intoxicating. It reminds you of the time his nose was almost brushing yours as you lit his cigarette.

“You’re staying,” you say.

“I can’t—”

“You can. The nurses don’t come in until six. That’s—” you glance at the clock on the wall, the one with the cracked glass that reminds you of the store, “—four hours. You’re staying for four hours.”

“Four hours,” he repeats.

“And then you’re gonna come back tomorrow. And the day after that. And you’re gonna keep coming back until I’m out of here. And then you’re gonna come to the store. And you’re gonna buy your stupid yellow cigarettes or the Marlboro ones, I don’t care. And you’re gonna let me light them for you. With your lighter. And you will ask me out on a date. Preferably not one that starts in a convenience store.”

His mouth twitches. “That’s a lot of demands for someone who just woke up from a concussion.”

“I’m very good at multitasking.”

He laughs again, and it’s louder this time.

“Okay,” he says.

“Okay?”

“Okay. Four hours. And I will take you out on that date.”

He doesn’t leave after four hours. Instead, he stays until the sun comes up.

The nurses find him there in the morning— asleep in the visitor’s chair, his hand wrapped around yours, the silver lighter sitting on the bedside table.

They don’t ask questions. Thank god.

This is Gotham, after all.

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