series tags: spn x jjk crossover, mild angst (because suguru refuses to talk about his feelings), attempted humor, canon typical violence, no beta, hurt/comfort, idiots in love, mutual pinning, 4 + 1 things, additional tags to be added.
❕cw: pseudo-incest, throat training, gagging, mentions of vomit, mentions of face fucking, impact-play
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀⋆ 𑣿 ⠀𝕾ibling persistence is like no other.
she doesn't even have to say it, just gives him a look that translates into everything. caleb is good like that, being able to read minuscule expressions that mean more than the world. he counts the number of lines between her brows, determining exactly what she needs.
there's no need to take his gloves off— he knows she likes it rough, untamed, and a bit fucked up (more than he likes to admit, but he'll never turn down the opportunity to ruin her perfect little throat).
"caleb."
"i know, baby. look at you. so fuckin' pathetic for me, yeah?" he caresses her soft skin, the friction between her cheek and his leather-clad hand enough to spark arousal. she nods, teeth catching onto the heel of his palm. her webbed lashes fail to cover the sin behind her eyes. he enables it anyway, because he's no god damn saint.
he never claimed to be.
"always need something in that mouth of yours. open wider f'me, pips. there you go, good girl." his index and middle fingers stroke down the center of her hot, wet muscle.
she's salivating like a mutt, eyes tearing up the further down he reaches. the poor girl has such a terrible gag reflex, and he tuts at her when she begins to choke once he hits the back of her tongue. letting his thick digits linger, he wraps his other hand around her throat. she whines, coughing and wincing at the thought of vomiting onto him.
"you need to breathe." how else will he fit inside?
slowly, she begins to adjust to his tempo, jaw slackening and drool pooling on the floor as he slides his fingers in and out of her. the corner of his lips curls upward in a sneer, feeling his trousers grow tighter by the second. he wishes he had taken his hat off, sweat beading at the back of his neck.
"such a pretty mouth— letting big brother use it like that sweet pussy. you want me to fuck it, too? s'that what my mei mei needs?"
she nods more, but he's in the mood to admonish bad habits. he pulls his fingers out for a brief moment, not for respite, but to strike her across the face before plunging them back in. she cries out, wriggling under his weight.
"use your words."
"y-yeth!" she struggles to annuciate.
it's convincing enough for his good graces, letting her suck off the mess she made on his gloves. a shame he can't keep her like this forever: beautiful and utterly ruined for him, lips locked around the black material.
"tell me you want this cock."
she's kneeling between his spread legs in an instant, nuzzling her face against the bulge in his pants. with puffy lips and a slobbery chin, she stares up at him in pure desperation. fuck, he loves her. he loves her so much it kills him.
"i want it, i want caleb's cock. please give it to me, gege."
"you'd die without it?"
it's a test of patience, but she's able to fight the urge to roll her eyes at him. her heart lunges at the thought of being robbed of his dick right now, rubbing her thighs together in frustration. she'll settle for groveling if it means he'll give her what she wants.
7,428 words * ˛ ✦ ･ The things he can’t say with his mouth, he says with platinum and diamonds. But his hugs stay brief. Three seconds, maybe four. Enough to feel her warmth, the press of her cheek against his chest, before he lets go like she’s scorched him. If he holds on any longer, his mind wanders—traces the curve of her spine, the way her hair smells like jasmine and something uniquely her, the softness of her breathing against his collarbone—and then his bloodstream turns to kerosene.
WARNINGS: third person pov (fem!reader), alternate universe – modern, DILF!CALEB — AGE GAP, incest (reader is caleb's daughter), camgirl!reader, exhibitionism + voyeurism, mutual pining, HEAVY DUBIOUS CONSENT, masturbation, face-slapping, non-consensual somnophilia, edging, cunnilingus, yandere!caleb, graphic descriptions of murder + mentions of death, hair-pulling, unprotected sex (unrealistic cervix fucking), heavy dirty talk, stomach bulging, overstimulation, squirting, creampie + breeding kink.
Caleb leans back in his chair at Skyhaven; his bionic arm whirring softly as he flexes the fingers—metal and synthetic tendon responding to the phantom itch of a limb long gone.
Outside his office window, Linkon City sprawls beneath a smog-thick sunset, lights flickering to life like dying stars. He should be reviewing the reports from the eastern border, should be preparing his briefing for the Defence Council tomorrow, but his mind has been a one-track circuit since dawn.
It always is, these days.
The thought of her burns at the edges of his concentration like a fuse that never quite reaches the bomb.
He doesn't touch her. That much is sacred, self-imposed, a line drawn in shared-blood that he refuses to cross. She’s grown up beneath his roof, beneath his shadow, and somewhere between her eighth birthday and now—somewhere between scraped knees and the way she fills out his old academy shirts—Caleb decided that his hands are weapons, and weapons have no business on soft things.
So he gives her everything else.
The penthouse suite in the west wing, the keyed access to his private accounts, the dresses that cost more than most families see in a year. He walks through boutiques with his jaw clenched and his credit chip smoking, buying every sparkling trinket that might earn the flicker of a smile. The shopkeepers in Diamond District know him by now; they see the Colonel’s uniform, the peaked hat tucked under his arm, and they bring out the private collections.
The things he can’t say with his mouth, he says with platinum and diamonds.
But his hugs stay brief. Three seconds, maybe four. Enough to feel her warmth, the press of her cheek against his chest, before he lets go like she’s scorched him.
If he holds on any longer, his mind wanders—traces the curve of her spine, the way her hair smells like jasmine and something uniquely her, the softness of her breathing against his collarbone—and then his bloodstream turns to kerosene.
Caleb is not a fool. He knows what he is. He knows the hunger that lives behind his ribs, the thing that snarls when she laughs at someone else’s joke or tilts her head to listen to some junior officer’s story at the base gala.
He keeps it leashed.
For her sake, he tells himself. For her.
The dashboard clock reads 21:47.
She’ll be in her room, probably. Streaming those inane idol competitions or chatting with those friends of hers he hasn’t vetted. He’ll bring her the box from La Rue Jewellers, the one with the diamond choker that makes her eyes look like stars. She’ll smile, say thank you, and the distance between them will stretch another inch.
The penthouse is silent when he enters, his boots clicking against polished marble. The house AI chirps a greeting he doesn’t acknowledge, shrugging out of his jacket with its weight of medals and rank. The bionic arm makes quick work of the buttons; the meat-and-bone arm is slower, clumsier, human. He drapes the uniform over the back of a chair—hat, gloves, aiguillette arranged with military precision even in abandonment. Beneath the wool, his shoulders feel lighter, though the tension in his spine remains.
The city glows through floor-to-ceiling windows, casting violet shadows across the living room where his gifts to her are arranged like shrine offerings: unopened boxes from last week, the week before, a pyramid of his inadequacy.
A sound reaches him.
Faint, filtered through her bedroom door at the end of the hall. Laughter—not the genuine kind, but something higher, breathier, performative.
Caleb’s jaw tightens. He’s heard that tone before, on comms channels, in interrogation rooms where subjects pretend they’re not afraid. His purple eyes narrow, pupils dilating in the dim corridor as he moves toward the source, silent despite his size. The door is ajar, a sliver of warm light cutting across the dark hallway. Through it, he can see the edge of her bed, the rumpled silk sheets, the glow of her holo-projector casting shimmering patterns on the ceiling.
He stops. Watches. His heart beats once, twice, a third time—hard enough to bruise his ribs.
She’s on camera. That much is obvious from the way she’s positioned, perched on the edge of her vanity chair in nothing but an oversized shirt that might have been his once, might still bear his scent if he buried his face in it like some lovesick recruit. The shirt slips off one shoulder, and Caleb’s fingers curl into fists, metal knuckles creaking.
The holo-screen floating before her shows a chat feed scrolling faster than he can read, usernames flashing in neon pink and toxic green.
Tips, they’re called.
Tips for her smile.
Tips for her to blow a kiss.
Tips for her to say their names in that soft, pleading voice he’s never heard directed at him.
Then she says it. “My daddy won’t touch me.”
The words hit him like a bullet straight to the sternum. She’s pouting at the camera, lower lip jutting out in a way that makes something feral claw up his throat. “He buys me everything, but he won’t even stay for breakfast. I’ve tried everything—wearing his shirts, sitting on his lap.” She laughs, and it’s bitter as ash. “He just ... pats my head and leaves. But you guys are here. You see me.”
Caleb’s bionic arm whirs louder, servos overheating with the force of his grip on the doorframe. The wood groans, splinters.
He doesn’t breathe.
Can’t.
She’s pulling a box into frame—one he doesn’t recognize, wrapped in holographic paper that shifts from silver to rose gold. A gift. Not from him. Her fingers tear into it with an eagerness he’s never seen her show for his offerings, the ones that sit pristine and unloved on the living room table. Inside is lingerie, black lace and strategic cuts, and she holds it up to the camera with a giggle that makes his vision flash white at the edges.
“Oh, this is perfect,” she coos, pressing the fabric to her cheek. “Thank you, DaddySupreme264. I’ll wear it just for you.”
Caleb steps back. One step. Two. His throat is full of barbed wire and rage.
The chat scrolls with suggestions, commands.
She nods along, eyes bright with the validation he’s been withholding in the name of honour, in the name of protecting her from the monster he is. His own gifts—priceless but worthless—sit in the other room like accusation. Every diamond, every platinum chain, every carefully chosen token of a love he can’t voice. They mean nothing. But DaddySupreme264’s lace, that matters. That gets held close, gets promised to the skin that Caleb has maps of in his mind, territories he’s starved himself from claiming.
In the kitchen, the housekeeper—a tiny old woman named Josephine who’s been with him since before the explosion took his arm—glances up from polishing silverware. “Colonel? You’re home early.”
He doesn’t answer. Pours himself a glass of something amber and expensive, downs it in one swallow. The burn doesn’t touch the ice forming in his gut.
Josephine eyes flick toward the hallway, where the faint glow of the projector still dances, then back to him. She knows. Maybe she’s always known.
The staff talks; they’ve seen the gifts pile up, seen the way he looks at her when he thinks no one’s watching. The way his gaze tracks her like she’s the only fixed point in a spinning universe.
“Sir,” Josephine says carefully, “the young miss has been ... receiving packages. I’ve been placing them in her room as directed.”
“I know.” His voice is gravel and broken glass.
He pours another drink, doesn’t touch it. “I know exactly what she’s been doing.”
Caleb shouldn’t watch. Shouldn’t stand here in the dark like some phantom, consuming the sight of her performing for strangers what he’s denied himself. But he’s rooted, a statue of want and fury. He’ll kill them. Every username, every anonymous face in the chat. He’ll hunt them through the net, through the dark corners of Linkon City’s datastreams, and he’ll make them regret looking at what’s his.
But not tonight.
Tonight, he turns away from the glow of her makeshift stage, and walks back to the living room. The choker from La Rue waits on the table, still in its velvet box. He picks it up, feels the weight of it in his flesh hand, then tosses it onto the pile with the rest.
Unopened. Unwanted. Unloved.
Just like every word he’s choked back, every touch he’s denied himself. His jaw aches from clenching. His vision blurs at the edges, purple eyes burning with something that might be fury or might be the first honest tears he’s allowed in twenty years.
Caleb’s boots echo down the corridor, trying to outpace the war drum in his chest. The private study is a relic of older Skyhaven blueprints: no windows, matte-black walls, a single chair bolted to the floor in front of a tri-monitor rig he once used for flight-deck simulations. He seals the pneumatics himself, thumb-print and retinal scan, the hiss of the locking bolts sounding almost like a cell door.
Appropriate, he thinks. Might as well be a cage for what I’m about to do.
He strips off the remaining uniform pieces with mechanical urgency. The bionic arm interfaces with the desk port; the monitors wake with a muted chime of recognition. In the LED wash, his purple irises glow, slits narrowing against the sudden brightness.
Three clicks and he’s on the dark-net mirror of the public streaming lattice.
No aliases that can be traced to Farspace servers. He types @XYZ in the username field, leaves the avatar blank—no icon is needed for a ghost. His tongue presses to the back of his teeth while the feed buffers.
The other screen blossoms into pixel-perfect clarity:
LIVE: MY DOLLHOUSE / 4,312 viewers.
She's now sitting cross-legged on the pink faux-fur rug he imported from Polaris Station. Behind her, smart-lights cycle lavender to baby-blue, casting halos on the white ribbons tangled in her hair. The shirt’s hem pools at mid-thigh, every time she leans toward the camera, it rides higher, exposing the crease where thigh meets hip, skin powdered with glitter that catches the light like ground diamonds.
Her voice filters through the studio mic he bought her last birthday—crisp, deceptively sweet. “—and the dress came in this ginormous box, all lace and pearls. Daddy didn’t even unwrap it himself, just left it on my bed with a note. ‘For my princess’,” she laughs, but it’s laced with bitterness.
“Princess? He can’t even look at me long enough to call me by name.”
DaddySupreme264: show us the tags, doll. bet the old man kept the receipt
kpop-20: I’d never ignore you, baby. you’d be the centre of my universe
PayPigSupreme: 500 credits if you pull the shirt down just a lil more
mmnekomii: imagine how soft you'd feel on my lap while i tell u ur too good for him
Caleb’s right hand is already under the desk, belt unhooked, trousers slackened just enough to free the weight of his cock. It juts an angry-red, the circumcised head slicked by a bead of pre-cum that smears across his palm as he strokes, matching the cadence to the way she breathes on his screen.
She drags manicured fingers through her bangs, ribbons fluttering.
“You know, sometimes, I think he’s scared of me.” She lowers her voice to a conspiratorial whisper that shoots straight to Caleb’s groin. “Like if he gets too close he’ll break something.”
A pause, cheeks hollowing while she pouts. “I’m not fragile, though.”
69696969: marry me pls
stardustsirens: ur tits r so pretty
GilDown (donates 1,000 credits): Touch your chest, pretty. tell us what you’d do if Daddy walked in right now.
She tips forward, elbows on the rug, cotton fabric stretching across her breasts. Nipples poke visible, already stiff. Her hand sneaks beneath the hem, cupping one mound and squeezing.
“Mmm, if Daddy saw?” She rolls her eyes skyward, voice syrupy. “He’d probably ground me. Confiscate my toys. Call them ‘inappropriate’ while he locks his door and—” She flicks her gaze straight into the lens, “—jerks off thinking about what he’s too proud to take.”
PayPigSupreme (instant 5,000 credits)
DaddySupreme264: tell the colonel we said hi
Caleb’s hips twitch upward, cock sliding through his fist with a wet hush.
On the second monitor, he spawns a tracker—military-grade packet-sniffer piggybacking on civilian registry. Names, addresses, credit trails bloom like targets on a HUD. DaddySupreme264 shows a proxy registered in the lower terraces, but secondary metadata leaks a main residence in the Glass Heights—a diplomat’s son. He flags it red. PayPigSupreme routes through an offshore Luna exchange; Caleb tags the relay for midnight infiltration, Farspace black-ops style.
Every alias scrolling worship finds itself logged, geotagged, cross-referenced.
A slaughterhouse ledger.
(Fuck you, Gildown. His best friend is getting something else for that stunt.)
She releases her breasts. “You guys deserve the real show,” she croons, flashing knee-socks that end in ribbon garters. “Not some coward’s sloppy seconds.” She tugs the shirt higher, exposing her torso and her damp underwear. “I’m all yours tonight.”
karysm4tic: spread, pretty. let us see how pink
luxeloli: breedable doll. i’d pay your college tuition just to eat u out between classes
Caleb’s grip tightens around his cock. He imagines crushing each username between metal fingers, reducing their owners to data-dust. Heat pools at the base of his spine, but he clamps down—jaw so rigid he tastes iron. He refuses to spill while they watch her, while they bid for her moans.
His rhythm slows, punishment more than pleasure.
On-screen, she palms herself through soaked cotton, thighs squeezing together. A visible shudder ripples her torso; the mic catches the tiny wet sound of fabric dragging across slick folds. “Tell me,” she whispers, leaning so close the camera auto-focuses on her dilated pupils, “tell me I’m better than the medals he polishes. Tell me I’m the only reward he really wants.”
Caleb’s throat vibrates with a sound too low for human ears—more growl than words. He angles the third monitor toward him, opens a secure comm.
A junior tech’s face appears, bleary from night rotation. “Colonel Xia?”
He doesn’t look away from her fingers now circling her clit through sodden cloth, hips rolling in tiny increments.
“I need silent warrants on these IPs,” he murmurs. “No flags. Send me their locations.” He uploads the list, and the tech pales at the quantity ticks, but salutes, monitor dying.
She arches, gasping until it turns to breathless giggles. “I-I’m close, y’know? Thinking about him hearing me, about him finally breaking that stupid control,” her voice fractures on a whimper.
“About him shoving inside while you all watch—claiming me so none of you can ever—”
Caleb’s balls draw up, spine lighting with warning flares. He lets go of himself so fast that his cock slaps audibly against his abdomen, glistening, furious.
The tracker dings with addresses compiled, routes planned.
He highlights the nearest—DaddySupreme264, only forty minutes by stealth carrier if he skips traffic corridors. He can be there before dawn, can teach what it means to covet what’s his. A cold, surgical calm settles over the furnace in his gut. He wipes his wet hand across a promotions dossier, leaving a faint trail of precum on paper that once celebrated his restraint.
On the main feed, she topples onto her side, knees drawing up, shirt finally rucked high enough to flash the shadowed pucker of her asshole and the swollen gleam of her pussy—shaved smooth, lips flushed, a glint of lube or arousal shining at her entrance.
She shivers. “Thank you,” she breathes to the chat. “You made me feel wanted.”
Caleb kills the stream window. He waits until the mansion’s environmental AI drops the ambient hall lights to moth-wing amber—default setting meant to lull its VIP residents into dream-stasis. He’s already shrugged back into the black uniform trousers; belt open, zipper half-mast, the weight of his cock still stiff and angry against his thigh, unreleased since stream’s end.
Multi-screen array blazes soft lights across his face while he toggles from the kill-list to a secured residential feed.
She never disabled it after childhood nightmares; he never told her it still pinged his devices. The lens shows the world in high-definition monochrome.
She sleeps curled on her side atop the duvet, one knee hitched, cheek burrowed into a pillow. His stolen tee is now her nightgown, hem bunched at the dip of her waist, exposing cotton panties—pastel blue, innocent except for the darker crescent where arousal wicked outward and dried after she logged off.
Closer. He taps zoom.
The feed glides to macro, frame tightening on the soft plane of her mons, fabric clinging to swollen lips. Evidence of her slick: faint lines of residue streaking inner thigh, mute testimony to her audience—now only for him.
The sight slams heat straight to his balls; he tastes copper, unknowingly biting his tongue.
He kills the feed. Pushes up from the chair. Boots stay here—bare feet will be quieter. Corridor lights stay dormant for motion under priority profile: COLONEL—DO-NOT-LOG.
The house AI obeys; nobody questions the man who helped write its code during its construction.
Hallway carpets drink sound. Past Josephine’s pantry, past the lift, past the gallery of medals no one polishes but him—each step a silent cadence toward the only front line that ever terrified him. Her door stands ajar exactly two finger-widths, invitation or habit, he can’t exactly parse which.
Inside, the real-time air is thick with jasmine diffuser and something rawer—musk of girl-cum, salt of tears she’d shed softly into the pillow while chat worshipped her.
Caleb fills his lungs with it, letting it brand his bloodstream.
The latch whispers shut behind him. Moonlight from the city’s skyline paints vertical bars across her bed, her cage-light for his captive heart. He approaches her like it's reconnaissance with his shoulders squared, breath weapon-steady.
When his knees meet the mattress edge, he pauses—awaits waking twitch, murmur—nothing comes. She's deep in sleep, trusting walls she never thought would open for him.
Caleb folds down slowly, vertebrae clicking once; he ignores it. His hands brace on either side of her, and he lowers his face until his beard grazes her inner thigh. Static arcs between skin and stubble; she sighs, shifts, knee falling wider in reflex trust.
A gift.
He mouths upward, nose tracing lace trim of her panties, scent raw and sweet at once—slick she’d pumped out imagining strangers, now consecrated to his tongue alone.
Not yet, he warns himself. Taste first, own later—leave the killing for dawn.
Fingers hook elastic. He peels the cotton down in millimetres, fabric tacky where glaze has already dried. Cool air meets her folds; she shivers but doesn’t wake. He spreads her gently—outer labia swollen, inner petals flushed, slit glistening with nectar still.
The sight brands him harder than any laser-iron ever could.
His first lick is feather-light, collecting the salted-sugar film along her seam. Flavour detonates on his tongue—copper-tinged desire, night-bloomed jasmine, and something acrid from adrenaline she’d burned on camera. He delves deeper, lips sealing over her entrance to suck the remnants of that performance out of her—forgive me for not giving you this sooner.
The flat of his tongue circles her clit gently, then abandons the farce, dragging upward in slow, possessive laps that press his beard into sensitive flesh. She rocks involuntarily, hips rolling, seeking pressure her subconscious remembers. He gives it: mouth engulfing her, nose grinding the trimmed curls above her slit, breath hot and ragged.
When her walls flutter under idle swipes, he slips two fingers, testing her warmth, sliding knuckle-deep before scissoring slow. Her channel clenches into velvet ripples; he feels her heartbeat race even in sleep.
His cock jerks in sympathy, dripping onto sheets, but he denies himself again. Tonight is reconnaissance, worship, penance.
Caleb draws out, licks digits clean, then feathers kisses along each lip as if sealing classified files with his mouth. Panties return to their place; her scent now layered with his mark.
For an instant he envisions crawling up the bed, pressing his cock between her thighs, letting her wake impaled on the proof of his obsession—but the kill-list is waiting, and corpses won’t carve themselves into graves before sunrise.
He tucks the duvet around her shoulders, ghost-touch smoothing hair from her brow. Then he retreats, door ghosted shut, corridor consumed by obedient dark.
In the study, he powers the monitors, wipes a smear of her off his chin with the back of his hand, and opens the first dossier. Target: DaddySupreme264, residence tagged, surveillance windows logged. He slots a side-arm mag—ammo whisper-coated for quiet entry—then another, and another.
Beneath the methodical click of metal, a growl thrums constant: You watched what’s mine—now learn the price of looking, of bidding, of breathing her name like you have a right to it.
He thumbs comms alive, voice calm as winter orbit. “Strike team Eden, prepare live rounds, no records. Targets in Glass Heights and Lower Nine. We depart in thirty.”
Confirmation pings back, curt, unquestioning.
Farspace trains its killers well; they’ll follow him into hell for an acknowledgement.
Caleb shuts down the bedroom cam—but saves the encrypted feed onto a private shard, labelled GARDEN-X-01, retinal locked. He won’t watch again until blood cools, until the halls are hosed clean and confession is erased with solvent.
Then, maybe, he’ll replay the moment innocence slept and let him finally drink it—proof that he can take without shattering.
Soon, he vows to the empty air, I’ll come home and wake you the right way.
But first, butchers must work.
Caleb’s wrist reads 03:17 when the assault carrier lifts off of Skyhaven’s northern pad, engines throttled to whisper-mode. He isn’t wearing rank tonight—just kevlar-black fabric that drinks light, same as the strike team surrounding him. The only glint is the silver chain at his throat: the apple charm tapping against dog-tag metal with each breath, a cold reminder of what waits at home, sleeping under blankets still carrying his scent.
Far below, Linkon’s judicial grid believes itself watched by traffic cams and civilian routers.
But Skyhaven rewrote those routes years ago; tonight’s footage will loop yesterday’s drizzle, frame-perfect, courtesy of a satellite hack his intelligence snakes have activated before wheels-up.
Petty, yes—he admitted that into the mission log, words clipped, no apology. Competition must be rid of. That’s doctrine in every cockpit he ever flew: clear the sky before you engage the heart’s objective.
“Glass Heights first,” he murmurs into the comms. “Quiet house, diplomat cub. We enter second-floor balcony, bedroom south-east corner.”
Acknowledgements flicker as green glyphs inside his visor HUD. No names used—call-signs only. He’s Serpent—they don’t know that the apple around his neck is the reason any of them are even employed tonight.
The carrier banks, vectored thrusters swivelling.
Caleb’s stomach remains steady; the only vertigo sits behind his eyes, replaying a damp pair of cotton panties sliding down sleeping thighs. He blinks the image away, replaces it with schematics: penthouse layout, guard dog pedigree (old hound, arthritic), house-keeper schedule (bed at 01:00), target sleep-cycle (REM by 03:30).
Data is armour; sentiment gets people shot.
Still, a hot throb beats in his trousers—the echo of the arousal he refused to satisfy. He lets her taste coat him instead, drawing every inhale across tongue and memory.
Touchdown is silk. Ramp kisses terrace tiles without a squeal; carrier lifts immediately, disappearing into cloud to circle until the extraction ping. Caleb steps into humid night air rich with city ozone and imported orchids. He tastes both, finds them bitter, and advances.
The balcony doors surrender to a rake of bionic fingers. Inside, darkness smells of imported sandalwood.
Target one: Diplomat’s son—twenty-three, polymath dropout, screen-name DaddySupreme264—lies sprawled across a four-poster, sheet at his waist, holo-screen dormant but still projecting a faint watermark of MY DOLLHOUSE across the ceiling.
Caleb recognizes the icon and static bleeds black behind his retinas.
He crosses to the bed in three strides, places suppressor muzzle against drowsy lips. Target snorts, half-awake. Purple eyes meet pupils blown wide with shock; Caleb’s finger tightens. The round leaves the barrel with a cough that is no louder than clearing one’s throat.
Brain matter paints pillow; body settles into final stillness.
No poetry—just policy.
Around the suite, his team ghosts through trophy rooms: servers yanked, drives flashed, crypto-wallets vacuumed. One trooper discovers a wall of polaroids—girls from streams. Caleb orders everything torched. Flames bloom inside a marble fireplace, licking faces away like erasing corrupted code. Heat kisses his back while he watches, but he feels nothing but the satisfaction of reclaimed territory.
They exit before 04:00. House AI never wakes—the power node was severed from Skyhaven central before ignition.
Lower Nine is a different beast entirely: vertical slums stacked like rotten dominoes, CCTV patched by gangs who sell footage to highest bidders. Caleb’s hackers hijack that network, inject thirty-minute loop of alley-cats passing through. Team enters via freight elevator long decommissioned for safety violations; they ride cables hand-over-hand, bionic arm hauling two rookies who lack his grip strength. At the fifteenth floor, they breach a studio loft that stinks of soy-oil, testosterone, and stale cash.
Target two: PayPigSupreme—twenty-nine, porn-site coder, spends every paycheck on girls who call him ‘daddy’. He’s awake, hunched over dual monitors streaming a looping clip of her blowing a kiss; his right hand pumps below desk.
The sight lets something feral free behind Caleb’s sternum.
No silencer this time—he uses wire. Bionic arm whirs low as carbon-fibre garrote snaps tight around his throat. Target thrashes, chair screeching. Operatives flank, pinning limbs until heels drum its final cadence. When the body sags, Caleb leans close to cooling ear. “She’s not your kid,” he whispers. “She’s the apple of my eye. You bit. Now rot.”
They ghost out, leaving monitors alive but cursor blinking over an empty room—symbolic vacancy where obsession used to pulse.
Dawn smears violet over Linkon by the time carrier skids back onto Skyhaven tarmac. Mist and engine steam braid into false aurora. Caleb steps onto home stone, lungs raw from cordite and climbing rigs. He pictures her waking soon, stretching under sheets, never knowing borders were redrawn in her honour while she dreamed.
That will change. Soon he’ll give her victories she can taste.
He hits the showers—military stalls, icy nozzles. Water runs pink at first, then clear. Scars on his chest look bolder without shirt: lines of shrapnel, burn lattice from Skyhaven blast, skin grafts that never quite matched tan. He scrubs until city soot sluices away, but he still smells phantom orchid-smoke.
Dresses in fresh monochrome lounge-wear, boots left by the hatch for Josephine to polish.
Routine anchors him, erases night sins under bureaucratic daylight.
06:10—he’s in the officer mess, sipping neural stimulant that eats at his stomach lining while junior analysts file casualty notices no civilian feed will ever link. Diplomat’s son: reported suicide. Coder in Lower Nine: gang retaliation.
Patterns random, motives absent—just the way Farspace likes its myths told.
Caleb signs them off with a flourish, purple gaze flat.
Skyhaven cameras show nothing but fog. Petty, he thinks again, but the word no longer stings; it sits on his tongue like praise.
He returns to the west-wing lift, thumbprint ready, mind already mapping after-mission protocol: breakfast set on sunlit balcony, maybe a gift—something warmer than gemstones. He’s rehearsing how to greet her without baring his teeth when his phone vibrates against his hip.
Priority ping, custom tone: a tiny music box chime he recorded from her childhood carousel.
The screen wakes:
ALERT: MY DOLLHOUSE is LIVE [06:18]
Caleb’s thumb hovers a fraction of a second, then taps the notification.
The feed blossoms across his phone, portrait-mode, low-light filter bathing her in dawn's rays. Earbuds auto-connect, and her voice floods his skull like warm narcotic.
She sits cross-legged on the unmade bed, oversized tee—his shirt still—sliding off one shoulder, hair ribbons askew from sleep. Face scrubbed clean, eyes puffy, lashes clumped. The camera wobbles on a cheap flex-tripod; behind her, the city skyline bleeds sunrise through half-open drapes.
A sleepy pout tugs her lower lip as she hugs a plush bunny to her chest.
“—always gone before I wake up,” she mumbles, cheek pillowed on the head of the bunny. “Leaves notes. Princess this, behave that. Like I’m some collectible he can’t stand to touch.” A brittle laugh cracks. “Fine. I have you guys. Don’t need a coward who can’t look me in the eye."
elysiasasuya: maybe Dad’s scared he’ll lose control
elysiasasuya: or maybe he’s just a dick, baby. drop him
swithdreams: I’d never leave that bed if you were beside me
daddyless: show us those sleepy thighs, doll. let us appreciate what he ignores
Tips ping in rapid-fire; credit counter climbs on the side. She doesn’t brighten the way she did hours ago—eyes stay swollen, voice frayed—but she still palms the mattress, letting thighs part a negligent inch. Fabric rides, baring a hint of cotton panties, shadowed crease; audience coos.
Caleb’s knuckles blanch around the phone. He watches her roll her eyes at the ceiling, exposing the delicate line of her throat, and something inside him snaps clean in two.
He pockets the device, ending the feed.
Let them watch.
Let every last simp witness what happens when they mistake distance for abandonment.
Boots abandoned at his door, he prowls the corridor barefoot and silent, predator-honed. The house AI marks his passage but dares no alert—priority clearance outranks coded domestic etiquette. Her bedroom door stands ajar, same two-finger gap from last night, like fate left it unlocked for the reckoning.
He palms it open, pads inside, closes it with a soft click that nevertheless booms through her mattress.
She jolts upright, bunny tumbling to the mattress.
For a heartbeat, she’s deer-on-railroad: her eyes wide, lips parted in surprise. The lens capture him entering frame—towering silhouette, -shirt clinging to damp skin, purple irises glowing under slit pupils, bionic arm flexing with subdued servo-whirr.
leafinthestream: HOLY SHIT that’s him??
horikashouko: 6’4 of jealous muscle yes please
eli3nas: collar me next colonel
DollHouseModerator(auto-message): Respect Streamer Privacy: no IRL threats
She scrambles to her monitor, forgetting the camera still capturing everything.
“D-Dad? What are you—”
He crosses in three strides, fingers tangling in the collar of his own T-shirt that she’s wearing, yanking her nearly off the mattress so their breaths collide. “Change the fucking way you talk about me,” he growls, tone a gravel landslide. “I’m not one of those pricks who jack off to your photos begging for a sliver of your attention. I’m your fucking father.”
The slap comes before he can leash it—open palm across her cheek, sharp, deliberate. Her head snaps sideways; hair fans like spilled ink.
Silence lingers, chat scrolls freeze, viewers spike from 1.2 k to 1.8 k.
She makes a sound pitched between gasp and sob—sweet, saccharine, drenched in surprise. A moan follows, tiny, ragged, unmistakable. Her thighs snap together, knees knocking, trying to clamp the sudden flood beneath cotton panties.
A visible tremor rolls up her spine, and when she turns back, cheek blooming in the shape of his hand, her eyes are glassy with tears and something darker.
“Sorry,” she whispers, voice cracking on a little hitch. “Sorry, Daddy. I’m sorry, s-sorry!” She babbles it, breathless, palms sliding to grip his forearm, as if holding on will keep her from melting through the floor.
Caleb’s pulse hammers against eardrums, adrenaline coursing hot as rocket fuel. He feels the tremor in her fingers, sees the wet bloom seeping through pastel cloth—proof the slap rewired more than just pride. The scent of her arousal floods the space between them, mixing with jasmine and the iron tang of his own restraint.
nm4546natty: colonel can court-martial my hole ANYTIME
wwssideboo: rip her panties off slower i need that as ringtone
princess-aya-kes: tear that baby cunt UP sir o7
bqlla: someone clip this for the national archives
He spits a laugh that rattles the mattress-frame. “Always fuckin’ sayin’ that, but you always up n’ go ahead n’ do it again anyways.” His grip jerks her ankle, dragging her back across crumpled sheets until knees buckle either side of his hips. “Ya think wavin’ your cute little ass s’gonna make me forget all those times you rolled your eyes at me, ignored me, shut your door right to my face? Huh?”
Caleb slaps her again—same cheek, fresh bloom of print. “Thought I raised you better than this. Thought I taught you to respect your elders, not flash your kidcunt at them on the fuckin’ web.”
She squeaks, shame flooding tears over already-swollen skin. Her hips buck, trying to squirm and crawl backwards, but he’s a statue already kneeling between her thighs.
limdokja121: she’s trying to run from perfection
eli-baeki: hold her down colonel make her TAKE accountability
“Hey—no, you can’t run away,” he snarls, palm slamming beside her ear, caging. “Wanna show your pussy so bad, you do it with your dad’s cock in you.”
A hand fists her hair—strands threading through metal digits—and yanks until her spine arches, throat bared. The squeal she lets loose is part sob, part microphone feedback; the duvet’s plush bunny is crushed under her shoulders, white fur already darkened by drool and tears.
aeeeyese: that sound cured my depression
“N-no, daddy. No, no, I’m sorry, I won’t do it again. I’m sorry!” Words tumble, hiccuped, her knees slamming shut only to meet the immovable bulk of his hips.
Each struggle grinds her sodden gusset against the shaft still pinned beneath stretched cotton, and he knows that she feels every vein pulsing underneath.
Caleb laughs—rich, resonant, almost boyish—while his free hand shoves pants lower. Cock springs free, shaft slapping her belly hard enough to reach the microphone, tip already leaking.
“Daddy’s baby-whore. That what you wanna be, sweetie? Yeah? I can make you a slut, no problem.”
He notches tip to saturated fabric; heat brands through, and she fucking squeals, hips twitching upward, knees drumming against his ribs.
fushifuyuu: broadcast that SQUELCH in dolby atmos
feeblyscarletvirus: someone tell him to rawdog her throat next
“It won’t fit, no, daddy. It won’t fit, s’too big, I can’t!”
Caleb rips her panties away with a single jerk, the elastic burns her hips, fabric tossed aside like spent shell-casing. He shoves her flat, then bucks forward. Thick head breaches without any preparation—slick furnace folds yielding in slow-motion stretch—his groan guttural, like a wounded-animal.
zaddychose: HE ENTERED THE STREAM AND HER CERVIX
ascending-royal: colonel filling more than diplomatic positions tonight
“Oh, baby,” he pants, shaking sweat-damp hair, “daddy feels so bad for those fuckin’ bastards who want a taste of this cunt but never will.” He grinds, carving space, bulbous crown dragging along velvet ridges until her tummy bulges faintly under his palm. “No one’ll fill the tunnel I’m boring into your widdle tummy. Aw, look at you cryin’ ’cause I took your first time.”
Tears slip to her temples but her hips betray her, rolling to meet the intrusion. “N-not… m-my first,” she hiccups—admission wrung out in staccato breaths.
He stills mid-thrust, disbelief flashing to violet fury.
ximeiqq: toys don’t count king, keep drilling
celestialzdiviner: virginity is a patriarchal construct IGNORE and POUND
Caleb’s bark of laughter is razor-lined. “You let a cock that small pop your cherry?” He drags the flat of his hand through his hair, back twinging. “Dunno if I feel bad for you or disappointed. None o’ what I taught you stuck, huh?” He leans close, voice velvet-over-steel. “What, you like your old cock better? Say it. I can pull out—look at me and tell me.”
He draws back until only the crest kisses her entrance. Cold air licks fevered flesh; she whimpers, walls clenching on nothing. Cotton-candy brain melts—she bucks, chasing friction.
“T-toys,” she babbles, nails clawing his abdomen, “got toys—play w-with toys. N-no one, daddy, no one, I promise!”
msteddybear: she’s BEGGING for re-enlistment colonel
inzanekillian: sir please ruin her for toys forever
Caleb smiles, something soft and almost tender, then slams home hard enough to slide mattress and bunny both up the sheets. Squelch floods speakers; chat howls. He bottoms out, tip kissing her cervix, his groan being drawn-out and sounding savage.
He sets a pace—deep, rolling, deliberate—hips snapping so flesh meets flesh in wet claps.
Each thrust nudges that visible bulge under her tummy higher; she gapes at it, dazed, tears drying sticky on flushed cheeks.
miiam0r: he’s writing code on her womb DOT DOT DICK
kinkypinkycuffs: her virginity just got honourably discharged SIR
“Thought o-of 'em as you, dad,” she gasps between hits, “t-too small—never m-made me feel like this.” She presses tentative fingers to the moving ridge beneath her skin; awe flickers through her overstimulated pupils.
“You’re better, daddy—much better.”
Caleb’s rhythm falters, pride swelling hotter than blood. He cages her wrists above her head, metal hand manacling both delicate bones, and drops his forehead to hers—breath to breath, thrust to fluttering heartbeat.
“That’s right, princess,” he croons, voice ragged velvet. “Daddy’s the benchmark. You’re done shopping for upgrades.” He punctuates every clause with a slow grind, ensuring her walls memorize contour, ensuring chat hears every slick syllable.
The first convulsion clamps his shaft so hard he feels the ripple in his spine. Her back bows, a soundless O shaping her mouth before it fractures into a broken sob—high, syrupy, drenched in disbelief that her body could betray her this cruelly; creamy streaks milk down his length, frothing at the base where trimmed hair meets swollen lips.
syil1724: SHE JUST MADE WHIPPED CREAM ON DADDY’S DICK
creamdelacreampie: colonel please KEEP CHURNING that batter
cherrypopper:sir i’ll pay tuition to learn that technique
“Feel that, baby?” he growls, voice gravel dragged through molasses. “That’s you painting me with apology. Good.” He doesn’t slow—hips punch faster, piston-slams rocking the frame until headboard tattoos plaster. “Say the words, doll. Say: Thank you, Daddy, for letting me cum on your cock.”
She hiccups the syllables while tears slick into her hair. “Th-thank you… Daddy—thank you—for letting me—nngh—cum on your cock!” The last word fractures on an upstroke that knocks her cervix.
Caleb rewards her with a lick across the salt of her cheek, then claims her mouth—tongue thrusting in time with his cock, tasting every gasp he already owns.
When he parts, breath fans hot. “Atta girl. Such a good little girl for Daddy.”
Metal hand slips from her wrists to palm between her breasts, pressing sternum flat so he can watch tits jiggle in rippling waves. His thumb finds the underside of one mound, lifts, and squeezes hard enough to make her hitch another broken moan.
obeymenow: those are regulation COLONEL-GRADE tits salute
chaincollarboi: sir please bruise them with rank insignia
“Shh,” he croons, though she hasn’t spoken—only mewls, overstimulated nerves sparking like exposed wire. “Stay still. Daddy’s gonna overstimulate his kidcunt for breakfast. Turn you into a dumb pretty thing, just bouncing on my cock—eyes rolled back, mouth slack, yeah? Chat wants pictures, baby, and Daddy aims to oblige.”
He hikes both her knees over the crooks of his arms, folding her until shoulders lift off mattress—compressed little package of panting flesh. Each downward drive grinds her swollen clit against his pelvic bone; the squelch turns obscene, froth thickening, smearing inner thighs glossy.
“Look at these pretty tits,” he mutters, worship and condemnation fused. He captures one nipple through worn cotton, sharp teeth grazing, then releases to blow cool air across the peak, watching it bead tighter. “Daddy’s tits. Daddy’s cunt. Right?”
She nods frantically, voice thin. “D-Daddy’s tits… Daddy’s cunt—y-yours—only yours—”
dilf4dilfs: certified DILF-brand ownership
prettyluxe: mark that uterus like it’s govt property colonel
“Say it again,” he commands, slowing to circular presses that keep her hovering on the edge without tipping. “Spell it for the cheap seats in back.”
She gulps air, walls fluttering around unmoving cock. “Daddy owns my tits. Daddy owns my cunt. No one else gets to play—promise—promise!” She hiccups the last on a fresh sob, cream dripping down to puddle beneath her ass.
Caleb kisses the corner of her mouth in a gesture that's soft, almost reverent, then withdraws to the crown, letting cameras witness the obscene stretch of her ring clinging to him before he slams back in. Over and over: slow withdrawal, ruthless plunge. Each impact coaxes breathless ah-ah-ah sounds until words dissolve into vowels, until her whole body is a shuddering marionette dancing on his string.
creamdelapies: she’s dissolving into DADDY’S ALPHABET
nymphodot: vocabulary reset to factory d settings
Eventually he hikes her legs tighter, folding her almost in half—knees beside her ears—so he can piston straight down. The new angle rakes crown across g-spot with every pass; her eyes roll white, mouth slack, drool pooling at the corner while tears track down her temples.
He palms her tummy again, pressing so he can feel himself prodding beneath the thin wall of flesh, his cock battering at the gate of her cervix underneath.
“There it is,” he rasps, “my shape inside you. Permanent mould. You feel that, sweetie? That’s your new normal.”
The angle is merciless—cervix kissed, crushed, kissed again—until her breath stalls on a broken choke and every muscle seizes at once. A gush of crystal-clear syrup bursts around his shaft, spraying his abdomen, streaking the lens with silver rivers.
squirtranker: 5/5 stars for colonel squirt
pissfountain: bottle that for troops morale sir
eli3nas: she just broke the dam of daddy issues
“Perfect,” he snarls, voice feral velvet. “Perfect little sprinkler. Do it again.”
He doesn’t slow—hips continue to hammer, piston-blur, each down-stroke punching droplets free to mist the room. The squelch is deafening beneath frantic microphone gain; her thighs spasm in locked-over-shoulder vice, toes curling so hard. Caleb palms her distended tummy, fingers splaying where his cock-head tents skin, and leans in until beard scrapes her cheek. “Should I give you a sibling in this tummy, baby? Haha—flood your widdle womb until it’s big ’n heavy with my spunk?”
She whimpers, head lolling, mind short-circuited by pleasure so acute it borders pain. Words slur: “Y-yeah … yes, Daddy—please—p-please—”
msteddybear: breeding clearance approved by all viewers
dilfdetector: sir please fill her like govt coffers`
“Yeah, that’s it—filthy girl.” His rhythm stutters, balls drawing tight, sack smacking wet skin with heavy claps that echo. “Come on. Take it. Take Daddy’s load like a good girl.”
The final plunge bottoms out, and Caleb grinds, pubic bone mashing clit while the head kisses her cervix again and again. He keeps pulsing, keeps rolling hiships, milking every drop until the excess froths out around the seal and spills in pearlescent ropes across the ruined sheets.
cherryloves: that creampie just paid my rent in serotonin
bvnnygirl: colonel giving her the honourable discharge IN UTERO ME WHEN
When the torrent slows he collapses forward, catching himself on metal forearm so his weight doesn’t crush her. Forehead to forehead, breath shared, he whispers ragged: “Good job. Fuck—I love you, sweetheart.”
Tears slip fresh down her temples, but her lips tremble into a dazzled smile.
“Love you, Daddy,” she croaks, voice weak, breathless. Her tender walls flutter in aftershock milking reflex, coaxing final pearls free.
peachriot: someone nominate this for father-of-the-year award
Caleb stays buried, softening but filling the space he’s claimed, letting camera lens see the overflow, letting every voyeur understand that they can watch but never claim. He eases out only when the aftershock tremors subside—exit obscene, flood following—and immediately cups her swollen cunt, palm sealing heat inside.
“Keep it,” he murmurs, kissing salt from her lashes. “We’ll need it later.”
Sleep now, little doll, he thinks, while his thumb swirls lazy circles through the mess, while chat scrolls praises to the father who finally came home—and stayed.
SAINT'S NOTES ! self-indulgent as always. special mention to the people who allowed me to use their usernames in the chat, you guys saved me the time and effort to come up with usernames ... though writing the chat is the funniest part in this one, i won't lie. i'm so busy these days, it's actually crazy—it's gotten to the point that my screentime went down so much too.
3,125 words * ˛ ✦ ･ She makes a small sound, not quite a word, and he shushes her again, leaning down to press his lips to her forehead. "Sleep, baby. Daddy's here." The possessive pronoun sends electricity down his spine. He has earned this. He has denied himself everything else—women his own age, relationships that might have distracted him, the simple relief of fucking someone who wasn't her. Caleb has been a saint. He has been a martyr to his own desire. And now he will be a god, unmaking and remaking her in the image of his desire.
WARNINGS: third person pov (fem!reader), alternate universe – modern, significant age gap — reader is eighteen, size difference, heavy dubious consent, pseudocest (reader is adopted by caleb), daddy kink, drugging, manhandling, mentions of non-consensual voyeurism and masturbation, cherry-popping, somnophilia (?), overstimulation, edging, implied breeding kink + creampie.
The amber liquid catches the light as Caleb swirls it in the crystal tumbler, watching the condensation slide down the glass with the patience of a man who has waited a long time for this. The pill sits in his palm, small and white and innocent, ground to powder between his thumb and forefinger. He has carried it for six months, tucked in the lining of his wallet, waiting for the right moment; the right excuse; the right moment of weakness in his own resolve that finally mirrors the weakness in hers.
She asked to taste his whisky.
Such a small thing (such a fatal thing) to ask for.
He drops the powder into the glass and watches it dissolve, disappearing into the golden depths like it was never there; like his conscience; like the boundary he has maintained for years through sheer force of will and nightly cold showers and the kind of self-denial that has made him a terror in boardrooms and a monster in his own bed.
"Here, little one," he says, and his voice doesn't shake; he has forced it not to shake right at this very important moment. "Sip slowly. It's strong."
She takes the glass with both hands, her delicate fingers wrapping around the crystal, and he sees the way her throat moves when she swallows. He has imagined this moment ten thousand times before. The taste of his drink on her tongue as she drinks from the same spot his mouth have lingered before, the way her eyes will flutter closed; and the inevitable weight of her in his arms when she goes limp, helpless.
She makes a face at the burn, and he smiles. "Is it too much for you?"
"Never," she says, and drinks again, deeper this time, showing off, proving something to him that she doesn't understand she's already lost.
Caleb takes the glass back, sets it on the side table, and counts. He knows the exact dosage. He knows her weight to the pound, her metabolism, how she reacts to antihistamines and anaesthesia and alcohol. He has studied her like a pilot studies the sky, learning every part of her that is bared to his eyes.
Right on the four minute mark, she blinks slowly. "Dad? I feel—"
"Shh," he murmurs, and catches her as she sways. "I've got you. Daddy's got you."
The words taste like copper and honey. He has never allowed himself to say them aloud, not like this, not with her warm and pliant against his chest, her head lolling back to expose the unmarked column of her throat. He can almost see her pulse fluttering there, rabbit-fast, then slowing as the sedative takes hold.
He lifts her easily. She has always been small. He made sure of that, in ways he doesn't examine too closely—concern about her eating, her safety, keeping her close, keeping her dependent, keeping her his.
She fits against him the way a key fits a lock, the way she was always meant to fit.
The master bedroom is two floors up. He takes the stairs rather than the elevator, wanting to feel her weight shift with each step, wanting to prolong the moment before the inevitable. His heart pounds against his ribs, a war drum, a countdown. Years of waiting. years of watching her grow into exactly what he wanted, what he shaped, what he owns.
Caleb lays her on his bed with a gentleness that belies the violence coiling in his gut.
She is wearing one of his shirts, stolen from his laundry, too large for her frame, falling off one shoulder to reveal the strap of a cotton bra in white that practically screams innocence. He wonders if she chose it deliberately, if some part of her has always known what she does to him and wielded it like a weapon she didn't understand.
Her skirt is short, but he didn't buy it for her.
She did, with the money that he gave her, the independence he allowed her to believe she had. He slides his palm up her thigh and feels the muscle twitch, the last of her consciousness fighting to surface. She makes a small sound, not quite a word, and he shushes her again, leaning down to press his lips to her forehead.
"Sleep, baby. Daddy's here."
The possessive pronoun sends electricity down his spine. He has earned this. He has denied himself everything else—women his own age, relationships that might have distracted him, the simple relief of fucking someone who wasn't her.
Caleb has been a saint. He has been a martyr to his own desire. And now he will be a god, unmaking and remaking her in the image of his desire.
He undresses her slowly and carefully. The shirt first, lifting her arms above her head to pull it free, leaving her in the white bra and the short skirt. Her breasts are perfect, the nipples already straining against the cotton like they are reaching for him. He traces the outline with one finger and feels her arch into the touch as much as her pliant body allows her to.
The bra clasp is in the back. He rolls her onto her stomach to unhook it, and the position sends a jolt of heat straight to his cock. She is face-down, vulnerable, her spine is a valley that he wants to map with his tongue. He leaves the bra in place for now, liking the way it looks on her skin.
Her skirt zips at the side. He draws it down her legs, taking her underwear with it, leaving her bare from the waist down.
She is shaved. He taught her to do that, years ago, explaining hygiene with a straight face while his hands shook. He told her it was for her health, but he knew it was for his pleasure. The smooth skin glistens in the lamplight, pink and innocent and his.
Caleb spreads her legs slightly, just enough to see the folds of her sex, the tight entrance that has never known anything but her own fingers. He knows this. He has cameras in her apartment, in her bedroom in this house, in her bathroom on both living space. He has watched her explore herself with the curiosity of youth, has seen her cry out his name—Daddy, Dad, Caleb—when she cums alone in the dark, and he has stored every image, every sound, every proof that she wants this too, that she has always wanted this, that the drug is merely a formality.
He undresses efficiently; his shirt, his trousers, his boxer briefs straining with an erection that has been constant since he carried her up the stairs. He is thick, heavy, the head of his cock already wet with anticipation. He has not touched himself. He wants to spill only inside her, nowhere else, the first time and every time after. He climbs onto the bed and settles between her thighs, his weight pressing her into the mattress.
She is so small beneath him; he could crush her.
The thought makes him harder, the awareness of his own strength, yet still choosing to be gentle even when every instinct screams to take, to claim, to ruin.
He gathers her wrists in one hand and pins them above her head, stretching her out, opening her completely. With his other hand, he guides himself to her entrance, feeling the heat, the impossible tightness, the resistance of a body that has never been breached. Caleb pushes forward without preparation, without warning, without the mercy of lubrication beyond his own arousal and the faint wetness he can feel gathering at her core.
She is virginal tight.
Perfect.
The head of his cock breaches her, and he feels the moment her hymen tears, the subtle give, the way her body tries to reject him even as he forces himself deeper. She makes a sound—pain, confusion, the ghost of consciousness struggling against chemical chains—and he freezes for one heartbeat, two, letting her adjust to the invasion, letting her feel the size of him, the irrevocable fact of his presence inside her.
"Shh, baby," he whispers against her ear, his voice rough with restraint. "Daddy's got you. Just breathe. Just take it."
Caleb pulls back slightly, feeling the drag of her inner walls clinging to him, then thrusts forward, deeper, harder, seating himself to the hilt in one brutal movement. She is so small, and he has never felt anything like the grip of her, the way she wraps him completely, hot and slick now with the blood of her virginity and the arousal his body is forcing from hers.
He begins to move, slow, deep strokes that grind the head against the opening of her cervix with every thrust. He wants her to feel this tomorrow. He wants her to walk bow-legged, to wince when she sits, to remember with every step that she has been claimed. He increases his pace gradually, losing himself in the rhythm, the slap of skin against skin. He releases her wrists to grip her hips instead, fingers digging into soft flesh hard enough to leave bruises in the shape of his hands. He wants her marked. He wants evidence that will last for days, for weeks, for as long as it takes until he can do this again.
And he will do this again. The drug is a convenience, not a necessity. Now that he has tasted her, felt her, he will neverstop.
Caleb flips her onto her back, wanting to see her face even if she cannot see him. Her eyes are closed, her lips parted, her hair spread across his pillow like a halo. He frames her face with his hands, thumbs brushing her cheekbones, and thrusts back inside, but harder, deeper, angling to hit that spot inside her that makes her moan weakly.
"Look at you," he murmurs, and his voice is barely recognizable, stripped of the civility he wears like armor. "Look at my good girl. Taking Daddy so well; so deep and so fucking tight."
He wraps one hand around her throat, not squeezing, just holding, feeling her pulse beat against his palm. He could. The knowledge is intoxicating. He could tighten his grip and watch her struggle, feel her weakly panic around his cock, control the very breath in her lungs.
Caleb doesn't, not tonight; but he files the possibility away for later, when she is awake and afraid and begging just to please. He releases her throat to slap her face, lightly, nothing more than a little, a sharp crack that leaves a ghost of a handprint on her cheek. She whimpers, lashes fluttering, and he does it again, harder, watching the way her head turns with the impact, the way her inner muscles clench around his dick in automatic response.
"Wake up, baby," he taunts, knowing she can't, knowing he has ensured she won't. "Wake up and tell Daddy how much you love being fucked in your sleep. Tell me this is what you wanted. Tell me you've been dreaming about this too."
He fucks her through the haze of her drugged sleep, relentless in his pursuit of pleasure. He has denied himself for so long that his control is threadbare, held together by willpower and the desperate desire to make this last.
But she is too perfect, too tight, too completely his, and he feels the orgasm building at the base of his spine, heavy and inevitable.
Caleb pulls out abruptly, denying himself, but also wanting more. He turns her onto her stomach again and enters her from behind, yanking her hips up to meet his thrusts, driving into her with a force that moves her across the mattress. He gathers her hair in his fist and pulls, arching her back, exposing her throat, using the grip to control her movements, to angle her exactly where he needs her.
"Such a good little cunt," he praises, the words filthy but utterly sincere. "So greedy for Daddy. Taking every inch of my cock. You were made for this, baby; you were made for me."
He releases her hair to slap her ass, first one cheek then the other, watching the flesh jiggle in response, feeling the heat against his palm. He spanks her in rhythm with his thrusts, each impact driving her forward onto his cock, each withdrawal to the tip leaving her empty and aching before he fills her again.
A thick arm reaches beneath her to reach for her clit with his fingers, finding it swollen and sensitive despite her state of unconsciousness, and rubs it roughly, wanting her to cum even if she won't remember it, wanting to feel her pleasure as well as her pain.
She is wet now, soaked to the point of dripping, her body responding to the stimulation even as her mind floats in the haze of darkness.
He feels her orgasm building, the flutter of her muscles, the way she pushes back against him seeking more. He denies her, stopping the stimulation, laughing softly at the frustrated sound she makes. He will let her cum when he is ready. He will let her cum when he is cumming inside her, when there is no separation between their pleasure, when he has emptied himself so deeply inside her that she will leak him for days.
Caleb turns her again, wanting to see her face when he finishes, feral in his pleasure. He spreads her legs wide, hooking her knees over his elbows, folding her completely open. He enters her slowly this time, watching her expression for any sign of waking, any flicker of awareness.
There is nothing. She is his daughter, his good girl, and he uses her with the single-minded focus of a man who has waited half a lifetime for permission to take what is his by law.
He fucks her hard, in sharp, brutal strokes that shake the frame of the bed, that drive the breath from her lungs in soft gasps even in her sleep. He is close, so close, his balls tight and heavy against her ass. He leans down to bite her shoulder, her collarbone, her breast, leaving marks that will bloom into bruises by morning.
"Take it," he gasps against her skin. "Take Daddy's cum. Take every drop. Let me fill you up, baby. Let me make you pregnant. Let me keep you like this forever, swollen with my child, leaning on me for everything."
The fantasy sends him over the edge. He thrusts deep one final time, seating himself against her cervix, and cums with a groan that tears his throat raw. Pulse after pulse, he empties himself into her, the pleasure so intense it borders on pain, his cock jerking inside her tight heat as he marks her from the inside out.
Caleb stays there, buried to the hilt, feeling his seed leak around him, unwilling to lose the connection. He rocks his hips slowly, milking the last of his orgasm, feeling her flutter around him in aftershocks of denied pleasure.
He reaches between them to rub her clit again, gently now, bringing her to the edge and pushing her over, watching her face as she cums unconscious, her mouth open in a silent cry, her body clamping down on him as if trying to draw him deeper. He withdraws slowly, reluctantly, watching his cum spill from her, thick and white against her pink flesh. He gathers it on his fingers and pushes it back inside, sealing his claim, ensuring that none of it escapes. He wants her pregnant. He has wanted her pregnant since she turned eighteen, since he first allowed himself to imagine her belly swollen with his child, her breasts heavy with milk, her entire existence centred on the family he has created through sheer force of will.
A warm cloth is what he uses to clean her, tender now that his need has been sated, dressing her in one of his shirts, leaving her bare beneath. He carries her to her own bedroom, lays her in her own bed, tucks her in with the care of a devoted father. He kisses her forehead, her eyelids, her parted lips, tasting the whisky he gave her, the drug he used, the trust he has betrayed.
"Goodnight, little one," he whispers. "Daddy loves you so much."
He returns to his own bed, to the mess of blood and semen and sweat on his sheets, and sleeps better than he has in years.
She wakes slowly, consciousness returning like tide, bringing with it confusion and a deep, aching soreness between her thighs. She moves and winces, pressing her legs together, feeling the sticky wetness there, the unfamiliar tenderness. She remembers the whisky. She remembers her father's hands, lifting her, carrying her.
But, she remembers nothing else.
She finds Caleb in the kitchen, making breakfast, wearing his robe and a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. He turns when she enters, and his gaze drops to her legs, to the way she walks like a newborn fawn, to the proof of what he has done written in every movement.
"Did you sleep well?" he asks, and his voice is warm, concerned, the perfect performance of paternal affection.
She opens her mouth to ask, to accuse, to understand, and finds that she cannot. The words won't form. The reality is too large, too impossible, too exactly what she has dreamed of in her darkest moments and feared in her brightest.
"Dad," she says instead, and the word breaks something open in her chest, some door she has kept locked for years.
He crosses to her, cups her face in his hands, thumbs brushing the bruise he left on her cheek, the one she hasn't seen in the mirror yet. "Daddy," he corrects gently, and kisses her forehead. "I'm making pancakes. Your favourite. Go sit down, my baby. You look so tired."
She sits. She eats. She feels his seed leak onto the chair beneath her, and she doesn't say a word. He watches her with those violet eyes, seeing everything, knowing everything, and she realizes with a sudden, dizzying clarity that this is only the beginning.
That he has been waiting for her to wake up.
She calls him Daddy when she asks for more syrup, and the way he smiles, slow and satisfied and terrifyingly tender, tells her everything she needs to know about her future. "Good girl," he says, and his hand rests on her thigh beneath the table, fingers pressing into her cunt that he left dripping with his seed from the night before. "Eat up. You'll need your strength."
SAINT'S NOTES ! uploaded in the server on the 22nd of april, edited again after that prior to posting; i'm rusty with writing like, holy shit. also, tumblr support came back to me and told me the label is there to stay (i crashed out in their email afterwards, so we'll see). whatever, a girl's got to do what a girl's got to do; i also got into graduate school, i'm already tired.
ꉂ ᵎᵎ cw/tw: 18+ (suggestiveness), #1 pro-hero!teasing!ex!izuku, fem!pro-hero!bratty!no nonsense!reader, established relationship, fluffy, flirting, terms of endearment, banter
ꉂ ᵎᵎ a/n: blow him up. now
ꉂ ᵎᵎ synopsis: calling your (annoying) crush (ex-boyfriend) and asking him out on a date for $100
ꉂ ᵎᵎ w/c: 700~
“excuse me, miss?”
oh god— paparazzi? how was this even possible? you were in civilian clothes, your hair was styled completely differently than usual— was this some sort of stalker? you swear, you were gonna—
“if i gave you one hundred dollars, would you call up your crush right now and ask them out on a date?”
your eyes flick over to the small mic in his hand, then to the guy trailing behind him with an iphone camera. oh. a tiktoker. you had seen a couple of these videos before. your gaze returns back to their faces— blank, unrecognizing. did they really not know who you were? huh. fall out of the top ten for one season and suddenly you’re taking the cold plunge into obscurity...
you clear your throat, fighting back a smirk.
“my crush?” you echo, a soft laugh slipping out. you fish out your phone from your pocket, teeth catching your lower lip as you thought the proposition over. “it’s my ex, though, so…”
“ah, really?” the guy laughs with you, “why’d y’all break up? you guys on good terms?”
“we’re good,” you explain cooly. “we just work a lot... makes a relationship… difficult.”
your fingers move languidly over your screen, already bracing yourself for how unbearably smug izuku was going to be about this.
“i don’t even know if he’s going to pick up right now…”
*♪♫♪*
“deku speaking.”
you watch as the interviewer’s expression shifts— eyes widening in surprise as he glances at his cameraman, collective gears turning in sync about who was on the phone and who you were as well. you, on the other hand, just rolled your eyes at the overly formal greeting — definitely a habit from too many work calls — and held the phone closer to the mic to pick up the conversation properly.
“hey,” you breathe.
a chair creaks from his end, as if readjusting his posture, sitting up a little straighter. you can practically hear the annoying ass smirk spreading across his face.
“hey, you,” he says, “what’s up?”
“what are you doing saturday night?”
“saturday? nothing much,” he hums. “hopefully you, though.”
your brow twitches. “you’re funny,” you deadpan, rolling your eyes. “i wanna go out for some sushi. will you be available, or do i need to ask katsuki?”
“katsuki?” he laughs, the sound carefree despite your subtle threat, “are you with somebody right now, sweetheart? you’re not usually so mean to me. what’s with the attitude, huh?”
“there’s no attitude,” you shoot back, trying not to scoff otherwise prove his point, “and i’m not with anybody. you wanna go or what?”
he lets the moment linger, savoring every second of this. “can you ask any nicer?”
you glance towards the interviewer, the promise of $100 dangling just out of reach. you click your tongue, before drenching your voice in a syrupy sweetness.
“izu,” you coo, “do you wanna go out on a date with me?”
god. you were already dreading that stupid, inevitable smile of his come saturday. well, at least the following post-date, pent-up sex back at his place would make up for it. with that same godforsaken smirk all too audible through the phone, he answers, “yes, of course.” there’s a beat before he adds, “but i’m picking dessert.”
mumbling out a quick agreement, you say your goodbyes, and promptly hang up— your face is warmer than you’d like when you turn back to the influencer for debriefing.
when the video drops later that week — everywhere, from social media to news segments — people can't help but eat it up. clips of you being unexpectedly snippy with the fellow pro-hero, commentary about how different you were from your usual composed image, edits highlighting how teasingly cheeky and hot number one pro-hero deku sounds—
none of that is the worst part.
the worst part is saturday night— sitting across from izuku, and watching that already-forming grin as he leans forward slightly and asks,
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ꉂ ᵎᵎ synopsis: annoying bf who humps you whenever you bend over
ꉂ ᵎᵎ w/c: ~150
i am sick of the “izuku is such a shy uwu gentlemanly smol bean nerd permavirgin” narrative. Release me. that man is the most annoying person on earth if you were bending over to pick something up he would, without fail, come up behind you, grip your hips, and rut himself against you, all while letting out the most dramatic pornstar-esque moan — “aw, fuck— right there, baby!” — and when you turn around, red in the face, cussing him out, he scrambles away giggling.
to add fuel to the fire, he’d say some shit after like, “mm, you’re so hot when you’re mad…”
“hm? what’s wrong? ah, you don’t like when i do that? well, seeing how you always push your ass up against me, i think you do :)”
“natural reaction? you’re cute. y’know what, why don’t we explore some more natural reactions together, yeah? c’mere.”
does anyone agree with me. let me know.
ꉂ ᵎᵎ a/n: had to put freaking dividers and format this bc this somehow became a top post and was ruining my mobile layout. are you serious….
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤstalker! izuku midoriya x reader ── .✦ university au!
౨ৎ tw / cw (18+); yandere-implied izuku, law student! izuku, possibly ooc izuku, izuku stalks us, dubcon, dry-humping, fingering, face-fucking, missionary, use of panties as a blindfold, praise-kink, piss-kink (izuku pees...in mouth. we pee on him), alcohol & drug use, invasion of privacy, reader has a v, reader has a twt acc, reader is a virgin, angst, hurt to comfort, no protection, reader gives izuku a palm job while drunk, sad implied past from reader
౨ৎ synopsis; izuku midoriya, a motivated law student, all too known for an unshakable moral compass and a charmingly personality, tries to pry into your life.
꒰ part one here!
౨ৎ wc; ~21k
the art room smells the same it always does. old acrylic paint, dust and the comforting heat of the afternoon sun, spilling through the iridescent windows. the rest of the campus hums faintly outside, distant laugher and conversations muted.
he sets his bag down near one of the long tables and exhales. he's earlier than usual, possibly earlier than you'd arrive. it's strange not seeing you fill the space, but in a way, he wonders what you're like in a classroom environment. there's so much he knows about you, but it feels like at the same time, you're just as distant.
he hasn't realized how much he needed the quiet until it settles around him, wrapping the day up into something softer.
izuku flipped open his notebook, the same one he’s carried since middle-school, all battered up and stained yellow at the edges. the same notebook that has almost every detail he knows about you, all dissected into bite-sized information. he sits, pen poised, but doesn’t write right away.
his eyes drift instead, over the scattered art supplies, the half-finished sketches from some art students. the art room is fuller than usual, and he makes no mistake to catalogue it all into memory.
reluctantly, he rose from his seat, moving around the room slowly. he stepped closer to the canvas section, eyeing down each one with a careful articulation. tilting his head slightly, he notices that there’s a recurring motif he can’t quite place at first, repeated across different styles. whether in graphite, water color, acrylic or ink.
must be painted all by the same person..
izuku only realizes it’s yours when he looks closer, spotting the same signature on the bottom right corner with your name.
the last painting is smaller than the others, tucked on the furthest side of the room like it wasn’t meant to draw attention. this time, it isn’t your usual bodily anatomy, no two individuals, no characters. this one doesn’t belong in your category.
it’s a cat.
izuku kinda knew you had a thing for cats, after all, it was in your twitter username. so, this could make sense.
the cat’s curled in on itself, tail wrapped neatly, protectively around its body, head tucked as if it’s sleeping. the lines are soft, opaque around the curves. almost tender. it’s adorable, in fact. there’s nothing obviously jarring or eye-capturing than the others.
it looks peaceful, from an angle.
izuku shifted on his heels, moving closer. his eyes retrace the lines again, slower this time. the way the cat’s body is folded too tightly inwards, joints compressed. the spine is curved much more than it should be, and he thinks there’s no way it wasn’t intentional. you were good at anatomy.
the shading around its ribs is darker than it needs to be, blurred in with a violent red. it’s a heavy sight.
his eyes drop to that familiar corner of the painting where your name lies in cursive.
oh. that’s interesting… it’s nice!
something settles uncomfortably in his chest.
it isn’t violent in the way people expect violence to look. there’s no blood. no movement. no act of violence being committed. but the longer he looks, the more it feels like the cat isn’t resting — it’s enduring.
contained. contained so tightly it almost disappears into itself.
izuku swallows.
he tells himself it’s symbolic. artists do this all the time, you're an artist, he knows that. he’s seen enough work to understand how emotion sneaks into form. still, the image lingers in his mind longer than it should, the quiet tension of it refusing to let go.
he steps back.
from a distance, it’s just a cat again.
cute and harmless, easy to dismiss.
maybe that’s the point. kinda smart from your end.
the door opens softly behind him, and at first, he doesn’t hear it; he’s too immersed in your work. soft footsteps settle into the room, familiar in the way that urges izuku to engage in that performative act.
“oh, izuku.”
he turns just as you stop a few steps inside, sketchbook already hugged to your chest.
your eyes follow his, straight to the painting of the cat.
there’s a flicker of something in your expression — quick enough to miss if he wasn’t watching you with so much intensity. your eyes flood with surprise, then composure. you’re good at that.
a smile reaches your face, sheepish, but something unwilling hidden beneath.
“oh,” you repeat, fading back into reality. “that one?”
izuku straightens almost immediately, bashful. “sorry, i was just looking.”
“it’s okay,” you reply easily, voice tight. “i left it up on purpose.”
your explanation somehow doesn’t help the feeling in his chest at all. it does absolutely nothing to his suspicions, despite the conclusion that it could simply just be, well, art.
you tilt your head sideways, analysing your own work as if you’re seeing it for the first time. “it’s just a cat,” you add, tone almost playful. “i’ve always liked painting cats — it's always been the easiest thing for me.”
izuku glanced back at the image, at the way the cat curls into itself, spine undeniably wretched with tension.
“yeah,” he says slowly, taking a deep breath. “it’s…. really well done.”
you smile at his response, shoulders relaxing. “thank you.”
there’s a moment of silence, and it’s filled with izuku’s thoughts. of you, and the mystery of you, the things he wants to know about you.
he risks it. “it looks kinda tight,” he says slowly, choosing the word carefully. “is the cat…okay?” his eyes flicker back to you mindfully, scanning your expression for something he wasn’t even sure he was looking for.
your smile doesn’t falter, but there’s a stillness to your features. “yeah, i think so,” you reply quickly. “i mean, i think the cat likes small spaces. you know how all cats are, it makes them feel safe.”
izuku nods, even as something in him resists. you weren’t the most vocal person out there off the bat, but his gut is screaming resistance. “right, yeah.”
he can tell — not because you’re lying, exactly, but because you have a tendency to stay within this grey area. you’re good at smoothing the edges, rounding meaning down into something harmless.
you’ve done this before.
and for now, izuku decides to just drop it. he doesn’t ask why the paws are clenched. he doesn’t ask why the spine bends the way it does. he just lets the painting exist in all it’s glory, sunlight swallowing the cat whole.
izuku stilled, giving it one last look. “it looks happier in the sunlight. i mean, the colors are less harsher. is that intentional?”
you nod, tension slipping away now that the moment has passed. “yeah, it’s nice like this.”
you move past him towards the window seat, the conversation already closed. but izuku can’t help but stay where he is for a second longer, mind lingering with the stuff he wanted to ask you, the stuff he wanted to know.
as he moved curtly beside you, he couldn’t help but think maybe the cat was meant to be you.
and he just couldn’t understand it yet.
౨ৎ
the party is already loud when izuku arrives.
hoodie snug around his biceps, music thudding through the floorboards, laughter spilling out through crowds, fairy lights strung haphazardly too low and too warm, contrasted against the heavy purple lights.
red cups, cheap alcohol, the distinguishable scent of vodka and weed intoxicating the air. there’s a nasty citrus bite floating in the air, something explainable that could be poorly made jungle juice. the floor is scarily sticky too.
he came with denki, eijiro and hanta in hopes of reuniting after the rough semester, but denki’s gone almost immediately — swallowed whole by the noise, his voice already loud on top of the music.
“we’re gonna lose him,” eijiro sighed out, clapping a rough hand of izuku’s shoulder before following.
a loud sound is heard from the kitchen, to which hanta and eijiro rush over, yelling something intangible beneath the thumping beats.
izuku laughs despite himself, shaking his head and feeling slightly out of place as he watches them disappear into the mess.
he lingers for a moment longer, taking in the noise, and the overwhelming sense of it all. he shouldn’t feel this much of a wallflower hermit, but to switch from his studies to this kind of scene feels quite jarring.
he’s greeted a few times by some fellow drunken classmates before he even reaches the kitchen. familiar faces, hugs too close for comfort, someone asking how law’s treating him this semester.
denki reappears briefly, slinging an arm around his shoulders and pressing a skeptical red cup into his hand.
“drink, celebrate surviving, you maniac,” he grins, already gone.
“you’re such a lightweight.” izuku hummed out, peering down at how flushed denki’s face was. despite so, he willingly takes a small sip. it’s bad, aggressively citrus and completely stomach acid.
the kitchen is packed, way beyond the acceptable capacity for personal space — there’s too many people, too much noises — but it’s familiar in a way that it doesn’t bother him.
he’s halfway through listening to eijiro argue loudly about something when a quiet voice cuts in beside him, a little lower.
“hey— sorry, are you izuku?”
he turns, a little surprised. the girl’s smiling, a vodka spirit half-finished in his hand, red hair glittering faintly under the lights.
“yeah,” he answers, returning a familiar smile. “that’s me.”
she laughs, gesturing vaguely between the space between the two of them, nails accidentally dragging against his torso. “my friend swears she’s in one of your courses! says you carried the group project this semester.”
izuku huffs, shaking his head. “i don’t know about carried, but— yeah, i mean law does that to people, or group projects in general.”
before he knew it, the two of them fell into a conversation easily after that. something about classes, exams, mutual complaints about how rough the semester’s been. it simmers into something about how well-put-together he looks for someone at a party like this, her laugh gentle on his ears whenever he spoke, clearly engaged.
denki shouts something from across the room that earns a chorus of boos, and izuku turns his head instinctively.
and that’s when he sees you, your hair, your silhouette.
further down a counter, cascading down the marble island, you’re there, half-shadowed by the purple lights, shoulders slightly drawn inward with some forced confidence. you’re talking to people, nodding along considerately, responding with gentle gestures.
izuku’s eyes traced whatever you’re holding in your hand. you keep your drink close. that’s good.
he can’t help but notice the way your sip from it more often than the conversation seemed to call for; as if you’re compensating for your lack of participation with alcoholism. there’s a quick space between each pull, each sip longer than necessary, like you’re trying to keep yourself occupied.
he didn’t expect you’d be here. he didn’t think it’d be your scene. hell, he didn’t even know if you knew about this party.
the girl beside him leans closer, brushing his sleeve once more, saying something playful that he only partially hears.
his attention doesn’t leave you.
you’re wearing the smallest skirt, the tightest top ever. if you bent over just a fraction, he, no, anyone could see what colour panties you were wearing, as well as the curve of your bare ass cheeks.
you shift your weight as the music swell, taking another drink, then another.
and fuck, he wants to go over there, take the cup from your hands and bring you home, but he can’t. he just wished you slowed down.
“—izuku?” the girl prompts again politely, amused but evidently curious.
he blinks, flickering his focus back. “yeah? i’m sorry.”
she follows his gaze this time, expression softening when she spots you. “oh,” she says, tone thick with playfulness. “she looks shy.”
izuku swallows, brows furrowing at her uncalled observation.
“hmm.”
he forces himself to breathe just enough to steady the tightness in his chest. he tears his gaze from you, fingers curling tighter around the cup he’ll know he’ll dispose later on.
hitoshi’s right, he reminds himself. this isn’t okay — monitoring you, the urge to step in and take control.
you weren’t in danger, you’re simply just talking to people. you came by choice. he watches you laugh again, that pretty motion, a little uneven and imperfectly practiced, and he tells himself that this is what normal looks like.
the girl beside him says something again, smiling, bumping his arm lightly, and this time, he makes an attempt to keep himself present in the conversation. he answers her question, laughs when he’s supposed to. he even lets her pull him a step closer when the music crescendos.
he drains the rest of his drink down the sink, grimacing at the aftertaste from prior. the noise starts to feel heavier after that, pressing in on his ears, and onto his thoughts.
it’s too warm in here.
“i’m gonna grab some air,” he tells her politely, nodding outside.
she nods easily, a smirk to her features. “don’t disappear on me, ‘kay?”
he smiles, non commital, and slips away before she can follow. it takes a while for him to shimmy through the crowd, bodies of sweat and the humid air making it particularly hard to breathe.
outside, the air hits izuku like a reset, the cool night brushing faint on his skin. it’s calmer, much more contained and definitely quieter. the bass from inside dulls into a low, distant thrum instead of rattling his chest.
he exhales slowly, rolling the tension out of his shoulders. god, he needed to revisit the gym — ever since…to be honest, you, he’s been more inconsistent.
he leaned against the porch railing, phone in hand, not really reading anything — just giving his eyes something to do that isn’t scanning the nearest making out couple. he contemplates revisiting your twitter account, but it feels wrong, especially when you could be anywhere in this house.
the smell of marujiana hits his nostrils, and for a second, he chooses to dismiss it — just that familiar, earthy smell he’s familiarised himself that one time denki convinced him to smoke.
he stiffens before he means to, a cloud of smoke drifting into his eyes. he glances down the porch, eyes squinted slightly, and you’re there, furthest from the door, gathered with a small group of people he doesn’t recognise.
there’s maybe three, or four people there. you sit slightly apart from them, shoulder drawn in, legs tucked but, obviously not enough because a pair of pink between your legs flashes him.
here is where he draws the line, because why the fuck would he let you smoke with a bunch of strangers?
was this your first time? did you even know these people?
the thought is sharp, immediate, and it completely dismisses everything hitoshi has told him not to do. the sight pisses him off, jaw tightening as he pushes off the railing.
he’s already moving, and everything about you being able to do whatever flies out the window.
his steps are quick, purposeful, cutting through the length of the porch without a second thought. annoyance coils tight in his chest — hot and familiar — the kind that burns his chest more than any cigarette could.
you don’t notice him at first. of course you don’t, you’re fried out of your fucking mind right now.
you’re mid-conversation, eyes droopy and lips curled into a bashful, loopy smile. the joint is passed again and you take it without thinking, fingers clumsy, movements delayed, bum-puffing with an inexperienced inhale.
izuku stops in front of you, close enough that the group goes quiet upon the sight of him. one of them glances between the two of you, immediately sensing the tension — the way his posture is too straight, jaw set tight, eyes sharp.
“hey,” he says, tone unfamiliar to your ears. it’s not raised, but it cuts clean through your cross-faded haze.
your gaze lifts slowly, unfocused, sclera’s faintly red. when recognition clicks in, your smile falters, confusion knitting your brows together.
blinking, you muster a cheesy smile. “hi, izu!—”
“we’re leaving,” he says simply. no question, no preamble.
one of the guys lets out an awkward laugh, motioning around the circle. “uh, we were just—”
“now,” izuku adds, sharper, completely ignoring the other person.
you scramble to your feet immediately at his tone, head bowed. the movement is instinctive, and in a way, it makes izuku’s heart clench.
the world tilts as you stand and you say, just slightly, finding the sleeve of his hoodie, the fabric bunched between your fists.
“okay,” you mumble, still processing his request. “okay.”
his hand settles at your wrist firmly, steering you away from the porch without another word. you don’t ask questions, and the worst part, you don’t even get mad at him. you just follow, feet dragging a little on the concrete, head buzzing, thoughts cotton soft.
“i was just talking…” you say quietly, voice meek as if you’re aware you’re offering an explanation he didn’t ask for. “i didn’t mean to—”
“you don’t need to explain,” he cuts in, eyes laser focused on the path ahead of him. his voice is clipped now, controlled, each word measured as a command.
the night air is colder now that the both of you are away from the party. it seeps through your flimsy clothes, sobering you enough to realize the gravity of izuku’s annoyance. still, izuku opens the passenger door, and pauses, finally turning to face you.
“sit.”
he buckles you in himself, movements precise, almost mechanical in the burning silence. the click of the seatbelt is loud. when he straightens, his eyes linger on yours for half a second too long, taking in your red eyes, slack posture, the faint goofy smile you haven’t managed to wipe away.
his jaw tightens, still hovering over you.
“you can’t do that,” he says, tone softer.
you blink up at him slowly, brows furrowing. “do what?”
“look at me with those eyes and expect me to just…not be upset right now.”
you frown. “...be upset? what about the girl you were talking to.” the words come out slow, slurred and slobbered.
for a moment, izuku doesn’t know how to answer. his hand remains braced against the car door, body angled over you, close enough that you can feel the heat coming off him. his expression shifts, lips tugging downwards.
“that wasn’t—” he starts, then stops himself, succumbing to your soft eyes. his jaw clenches once more. “that wasn’t the same.”
you blink at him, processing. your gaze drifts briefly to his mouth, then back to his eyes, searching. “she was touching you,” you say softly. “you were laughing.”
he exhales through his nose, frustrated. “i was being polite.”
“you looked happy.”
his posture stiffens, shoulders drawing back as if he’s forcing distance where none really exists. he straightens slowly, like standing too fast might make him say something he shouldn’t.
“you don’t get to keep score,” he says, clipped. “not when you were outside getting high with strangers.”
your lips part, then press together again. you look down at your lap, fingers twisting in the hem of your sleeve.
“i didn’t like it,” you murmur.
“didn’t like what.”
“the girl,” you say. quieter. “i saw her first.”
there’s something raw in the admission, in the way that it's fully honest. vulnerable in a way that doesn’t ask for comfort, only acknowledgement.
izuku’s chest tightens.
he runs a hand through his hair, breath heavy. “that doesn’t mean anything.”
you nod immediately.
too fast. your eyes lift again, glassy but intent.
the silence that follows is thick enough to choke on. izuku swallows.
he shouldn’t engage. he knows that. this is the exact kind of conversation he should shut down, redirect, end. hitoshi’s voice echoes faintly in his head, warning and distant.
instead, he says, low and controlled, “what you saw was nothing.”
your mouth curves into the wobbly smile, tense at every angle.
“okay,” you say.
and the ease with which you accept it — no argument, no pushback — makes his stomach twist harder than if you had fought him.
he closes the door, and the sound is final. as he circles around to the driver’s side, you sit quietly, watching him through the windshield. your head feels fuzzy, heart too loud in your ears, but one thing is painfully clear.
you didn’t like seeing him with her. there was this grimace to your expression, brows knitting, eyes heavy with feeling.
and you didn’t need to say it loudly for him to hear.
the drive home is mostly silent, the city lights blurring past the windows, neon lights fading into a kaleidoscope of colours. izuku keeps both hands on the wheel, eyes fixed forward, jaw tight with the memory of you holding that joint, eyes unfocused, empty.
the car hums steadily beneath you, the sound filling in the empty space between the two of you. and by the time he pulls up to your place, the quiet has curdled into something unexplainable.
the engine idles, and you don’t move.
izuku turns slightly in his seat, eyes carefully watching you. “hey,” he says, gentle by instinct. “we’re here.”
you nod, but the motion is slowed, and far too delayed. your chest seems too tight, breaths coming shallow, uneven, syncopated. the haze of your head thins enough for the reality of izuku’s disappointment to finally sink in. his sharp tone, his sweet tone gone, the way he looked at you, the finality of it all.
he’s not buckling your seatbelt for you. he’s not reaching over to hold your hand. he’s not coaxing you with affection or soft praises. he’s not following the script.
your lower lip trembles before you can stop it, hiccups bubbling in your chest.
“izuku…” your voice wobbles, tone pitched just a fraction. “are you… upset with me?”
your shoulders shake in small motions, little broken sound slipping through unmeasured sobs. you try to keep yourself quiet, but at the point in time, it’s the loudest thing.
izuku’s heart sinks instantly, eyes widened just a bit.
fuck.
without thinking, he unbuckled his seatbelt, reaching over to rest a warm hand on your trembling ones. “hey, hey, look at me.”
you try, but your eyes are glassy, vision doubled and hazy.
“i don’t like it when you’re upset,” you admit, voice cracking slightly. “you’re scary when you get quiet like that… i’m sorry.”
his expression softened completely, eyes replaced with that familiar empathy. shit. “god, no, no, no, i’m sorry. i didn’t mean to scare you — this is my bad.”
you sniffle, hiccuping again, fists raising painfully slowly to wipe your tears before izuku beats you, his thumb finding the space beneath your eyes. his touch is careful, thoughtful in that way he tries not to completely smudge off your makeup.
“hey,” he murmurs, voice impossibly gentler now, stripped of anything sharp — anything that could make you overthink. “don’t do that, you’re okay.”
you shake your head weakly, tears still spilling onto izuku’s thumbs, movements still as you allow him to wipe them for you. “i just—” your breath stutters, that embarrassing jolt in your voice. “the way— the way that girl kept touching you and you didn’t even seem to mind, i know we’re— not exclusive but it still hurts, and then when you s—saw me you just looked so disappointed in me.”
your words tumble out unevenly, tangled with tears and shaky heaves. his other hand finds the space between your back, rubbing steady circles into where your spine curves. you’re rambling, spiraling, and each word stabs izuku in the chest with guilt.
“oh,” he says quietly, taking in your words. “i wasn’t disappointed in you, okay?” he says, tone thick with sweetness. “not even a little.”
you shake your head again, disbelief flickering, his words flying past your head as if you’ve settled with the reality that izuku’s not pleased with you. “you looked like you were.”
“i looked serious, yeah,” he corrected softly. “i’m sorry, that was mean of me, i shouldn’t have acted that way to you. i was just scared, seeing you sitting with those strangers.”
his touch is soft, mindful as he thinks of the next thing to say, vocabulary narrowed in a way that could reassure you out of your spiral.
his eyes lock in the defeated expression on your face, lips caught in that awkward tight line as you sniffle through your sobs.
“that girl you saw? didn’t mean anything, i promise, okay? i just wanted to be polite,” he paused, realizing your perspective, where the thick fog of jealousy was coming from. “i can see how that looked, i’m sorry.”
the idea of you being jealous over him should be something to celebrate, but it wasn’t; he didn’t like it. the way you’ve closed yourself off in this bubble, similar to that cat in your painting — it’s all too similar. the last thing he wanted to do was hurt you like this, and he’s mentally berating himself for it.
he watches your reaction to his words, relief seeping in as your shoulders sag, some of the tightness and doubt easing.
“and you,” he continued, voice still low, tone sugary. “i wasn’t upset because of what you were doing — you’re your own person. i was worried, i don’t like the idea of you open and vulnerable like that in group of strangers. but… i think i have to realize you can handle yourself.”
he paused, exhaling when you finally leaned in his touch, nuzzling yourself almost into his palm. this was good. this is how it should be — what was he thinking in the first place? trying to lecture you when he should’ve been adorning you, comforting you.
“i hate that it came across as disappointment,” he said. “that was pretty mean of me, wasn’t it?”
you swallow hard, calming down a bit. “...yeah.”
“i know,” he says softly, his other hand moving from your spine to the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your hair, unmatting it in a way. “and i’m really sorry for that.”
“it’s okay,” you managed out.
“no, no it’s not okay,” he murmurs, guilt sinking into his chest. “I should've said it differently. should’ve checked in instead of shutting you out like that.”
you nodded definitely, peering at him through clumped lashes.
“yeah, i agree,” izuku chuckled, moving his hand down to cup your face, an uncalled amount of intimacy for something that’s far from exclusive.
“think i wanna go inside now,” you mumble out, eyes drooping to your lap, lids falling half-way. your body is leaning subtly forward now, the effects of drowsiness finally taking place.
“yeah, of course,” he says quietly. “okay.”
he should be moving, but he can’t help it. his thumb lingers at your cheek a second longer than necessary, thumb caressing the faintest arc beneath your eye. he catches your chest rise and fall, relieved to see that it’s finally slowed and evened out.
“we’ll take it slow, okay?”
you mumble a response of compliance, sighing as you ease back into reality, vision still delayed. when he pulls his hand back, it’s slow and reluctant, like he’s afraid the absence might upset you.
when he rounds the other side, opening the passenger door, he offers a hand, palm up. you take it immediately, fingers curling into his like you need him.
he contemplates picking you up, but doesn’t want to risk nauseating you. instead, he steadies you with a hand at your lower back, gently guiding you to the door.
“key?”
“mm…” you hum, fumbling for it in your tiny shoulder bag.
izuku peered down at you, frowning at how slow your movements were; a slither of empathy bleeding through his expression at how you must feel. if anything, in the best case scenario, he hoped the high was at least good.
“tired?”
“yeah…”
inside, the quiet hits you. the noise of the night is gone, swelling into quiet shadows and familiar walls that seem to bend in your vision. izuku closes the door gently behind you, locking it with ease.
he moves with rhythm, instantly retreating to your side as he guides you to your room. he knows what to do already.
lights dimmed first, not the big light. curtains open ajar to like the night light spill in softly so you’re not overwhelmed.
“let’s get you into something comfortable first, yeah?”
you nod, eyes heavy. you watch as izuku rummages through your drawers, mumbling to himself something incoherent before he pulled out a pair of pajamas.
“these ones okay?” he asks, turning to you for approval.
izuku makes sure keep his eyes trained on the wall, back facing you as you slip into your nightwear, flinching slightly when he hears you accidentally stumble. after, he guides you into the bathroom, shielding your eyes protectively as he turns on the light.
when you lean against the counter lazily, swaying slightly, he makes a note to keep an arm wrapped around your waist. it’s not much of a hassle trying to clean you up, because deep down, izuku finds this endearing. he enjoys it, yet the guilt from earlier still remains in his chest uninvited.
he finds it tender the way you stare up at him, eyes unfocused as he wipes your makeup off with gentle strokes, a hand cupped at your jaw.
“i must look like a mess right now,” you comment, drowsy.
“no,” he says immediately without a second thought. “just tired, aren’t you?”
izuku’s extra careful when it comes to your eyes, thumb steady on your cheek while he wipes beneath your lashes. he’s even more careful when helping you brush your teeth, acting as an anchor as you lean on him, tiredly performing the simple task.
only then after he’s cleaned you up, does he guide you to your bed, hands warm and sure. he straightens the sheets from when you must’ve left earlier in the night, obviously crumpled from indecisiveness. with thought, a pillow goes behind your shoulder, another tucked under your arm for something to cuddle.
“warm enough?” he asks, taking a seat beside your laying body.
you nod, eyes already half-closed. before succumbing to sleep, your hand finds his, tugging him close.
“...yeah?” izuku hummed out, brows raised.
“i wanna do something,” you say, voice not as shy as earlier, tone clear.
izuku tilted his head. “want me to stay?”
you nod, but as you do, your eyes follow down, trailing to his lap. your hands remain respectively by your side, but izuku can already tell what you’re implying.
“sweetie, i’m sorry.”
you frown, lips jutting out slightly. “we… you don’t have to put it in, izuku, please.”
izuku ran a hand down his face, cock erecting without intention. “you’re only feeling this way because you’re drunk right now, y/n. i don’t want to take advantage of that, you can’t consent either like this.”
as adorable as you look, laying in your sheets, eyes filled with that admiration and affection he loves so much, he couldn’t. not like this. he knew that you were only simply feeling this way because of how much alcohol you had earlier; though he wasn’t sure if the marujiana had anything to do with it.
your eyes shift, moving downcast past where your feet should be, but is covered by the sheets. “i just wanna see it…”
izuku groaned at your words, deciding between whether to cave in or not. it’s undeniable that he wants to be intimate with you, of course he does.
“can’t do that, sweetie,” he says, hand moving to brush the hair out of your face with care — a feeble attempt to calm you down.
you pout, nodding slightly, sulking a bit. “...okay, i understand..”
izuku’s heart pivots at the sight, the slightest movement on your lower body beneath the sheets. “why do you have to be so turned on right now…” he mumbled to himself, the tightening in his pants dimly uncomfortable.
you whimper in frustration to his question, shrugging defeatedly. “‘cause it’s you.”
izuku sighed, inhaling and exhaling with thought. “i’ll let you do one thing, alright?”
izuku's gaze softens as your eyes sparkle with that mix of hope and desire, the alcohol warming sweet in your veins.
“wanna feel how hard i am right now? show you how much i feel too?”
your eyes light up with need, nodding frantically with absolute compliance. “please, izuku, please, please…”
he shifted closer under the tangled sheets, the heat of your body pressing against his side like a silent plea. his hand lingers on your cheek, thumb tracing a gentle circle there before sliding down to cup your jaw. he moves to unbutton his jeans swiftly, pushing it down slightly.
"just... just your hand, okay?" he murmurs, voice laced with that caring edge.
seeing your expression, he guided your palm downward, over the firm planes of his chest, past the waistband of his boxers where his cock strains against the fabric, hard and insistent simply from your eyes.
your eyes move downwards, fingers trembling slightly as they wrap around the thick length through the thin barrier.
“just feel it, okay?” he groaned softly, hips twitching forward into your grip as you start to palm him — slow, deliberate strokes that squeeze and release, feeling the heat pulse beneath your touch.
“you feel big…”
the sheets rustle with the subtle movement, your breaths mingling in the dim light of the room,, shared arousal hanging heavy in the air mixed with the lingering earthy smell on you.
“can we do stuff tomorrow? w–when i’m sober i mean,” you ask, hopeful, breathes laboured as you search his rosy face. “please, please.”
izuku nodded compliantly, grinding against your palm by instinct. “yeah, yeah, we can do that, we can– whenever you wake up– fuck!”
he was going to embarrassingly cum right away by you simply palming him. he thinks about restraining himself, but the way your soft hands feel – fondling his cock like this – he thinks he has no shame left in him to even care.
izuku's free hand finds your hip, pulling you closer so your thigh drapes over his, the intimacy of the moment wrapping around you both like the blankets.
"darling– fuck– you’re doing more than just feeling…" he whispers, eyes half-lidded as he watches your face, the way your lips part in concentration. “gonna cum, oh my god…”
each pass of your hand draws a quiet hitch from his throat, his cock throbbing under your fingers, pre-cum dampening the cotton as you work him with tender insistence.
he leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, then your temple, grounding the building tension with his unwavering affection.
your movements become more purposeful, intention, as you move your palm flat over his tip, cruelly circling it. a loopy smirk finds your face at izuku’s reaction, head thrown back, cheeks adorned with that sweet pink flush, hips stuttering against your hand.
his breaths are laboured now, whimpers louder than he’d like, pretty moans spilling from his lips as he reaches his climax. “c–cumming!”
with a final, merciless circle of your palm, he pulls his cock out – careful so he doesn’t cum in his pants – pressing your palm against his bare, bulbous tip, aiming right against your soft skin.
with a broken whine, izuku came straight into the warmth of your skin, humping weakly as hot thick spurts of cum taint your hand. it pools in the space where your hand is curved, and izuku grumbles at the sight, something twisting in his abdomen.
his eyes flicker back to yours – the way he can already second-guess what you’re about to do.
“don’t lick it, it’s gross,” he sighed out, pulling your hand from his cock gently, laying your palm face up. “let me clean you up, stay put for me.”
by the time izuku has fetched the wipes, you’re out cold, soft breaths filling the hum of your fan. mindfully, he wipes your hand, going over it twice, thrice.
he wonders if he should just go, which is probably the best option by far, but what would you think once you wake up? he remained seated beside you, hand close to your face, pondering the decisions and the outcomes.
his eyes moved cast across the room, scanning the intricate details of your humble abode. posters of your favourite anime, all plastered carefully on the right side of your walls. your clothing display rack, shoes tucked carefully beneath. the flower lamp, resting miscellaneously beside the cum-stained wipes, paired with what he could assume, to be your favorite novels.
his fingers brushed against the pages of one, careful to preserve the location of your bookmark. you liked this. this was the type of stuff you’ve read yourself to bed with, falling into a gentle slumber with the lingering thought of love on your mind.
the thought made izuku’s chest warm with affection. he glanced back at you, tracing your palm with his index finger, outlining where he had sinned. you were fully out, light snores leaving your lips now.
smiling to himself, his attention shifted to a familiar corner in your room; the one you’ve been anxiously looking at last time he came over. a box laid in the corner of the room, adorning the corner in muted, dull and hidden tones. if anything, it was far from obnoxious, hidden beneath a lazy pile of clothing.
he glanced back to you, flickering back to the box.
he knows he shouldn’t, but, he’s made a lot of bad decisions tonight anyway.
that shouldn’t justify snooping around in your room. it’s wrong, and he’s so imperatively aware of that, but there’s this gut feeling – something tight twisting in his abdomen – that tells him he should.
okay, and what if he opened the box, and it was just a bunch of vibrators? what if it was just some explicit toys that you used on yourself in private, then what? it wouldn’t mean anything – considering how much he already knows about you. god, you almost contemplated pissing all over his fingers last time.
with quiet, measured movements, he padded forward to the box, crouching down on the heels of his feet as he pried through the clothing pile.
this should be the moment where he slaps himself for invading your privacy, the part where sense and rationality returns to him and he stops whatever this is. all of it crosses his mind – hitoshi’s words loud and clear: “just talk to her”. all of it wipes from his mind, shoved into a corner of inconvenience and ignorance as he pries the lid of the box open.
what the fuck?
holy shit.
is that fucking him?
the contents spill from a stack, collapsing into a neat spread. it’s photos of him, all taken of him just on campus, and printed in glossy film. there’s stacks of them, shuttered all in spaced out time intervals.
with wide eyes, he flickers through them. thumb dragging down the stack. there’s a photo of him walking with iida, shoto and ochaco on campus, smile wide as ever beneath the cherry blossom petals, sandstone buildings muted out of focus. there’s another one, this time, clipped at one of his law lectures not too longer ago, head tilted to the side as he talks to another classmate. well, that answers one thing for sure: you’re in law.
the rest are all candid angles of him passing by on campus, some taken relatively close to the art room, some scattered around. the angle of his shoulders, curled slightly inward, hair falling forward slightly at something he was reading. the exact line of his jaw when he’s thinking hard.
his hands go cold as he flips to the next. and the next, and the next.
him walking.
him sitting in the library.
him laughing with someone else.
him across the street at a nearby cafe near the campus.
with a shaky sigh, his fingers felt the bottom of the box, a collection of flimsy sketch paper tucked from sight. methodically setting the photos of him back into the box, cautious with every move, he pulled out the less denser pile.
the paper is thinner, cheaper, bent and creased mindlessly at the corners, all smudged with charcoal fingerprints.
they’re sketches – not simple anatomy studies or loose practice lines of mindless doodling. it’s him. over and over again.
there’s this tingle in his hands as he flips through them. different angles, different moments – the intricate detail of the slope of his neck when he looks down, the scar on his cheek. it’s either drawn in careful, delicate thoughtful lines, or rough and frantic. some are less detailed than the others, while some are painstakingly careful, shaded to hell and back.
days.
just how long have you been sketching him for?
“what the hell…” he whispers, barely breathing.
there are notes in the margins. tiny, adorable, miniscule handwriting.
new jacket today! so handsome!
he looked tired today…i feel bad he drove me home.
he looked happier today.
his pulse thundered in his ears as he settled the sketches back into the box, aligning the edges as they were before, carefully sealing the lid back on and rearranging the pile of clothes on top.
his gaze snaps back to you on the bed – curled on your side, mouth parted slightly, face soft in slumber. the same sweet girl who sat in the art room in afternoons, sun pooling on your skin as you innocently doodled. the same girl who cried at the mere thought of disappointing him. it kind of makes sense in a way, but at the same time, doesn’t.
his head spins.
how long…has this been going on?
he straightens too fast, breath shallow, this unexplainable feeling swirling in his chest. tonight’s jealousy, the odd compliance, the way your reacted to his tone. it almost makes sense. too much sense.
izuku doesn’t move for a long time.
the room is dim, the only sound of your breathing – slow and painfully real. he stands there, analysing the shift in your expression with the internal weight of the box still sitting heavy in his chest.
he should leave. he knows that far too well.
he could. grab his hoodie, step out quietly, tell himself he’ll think clearer in the morning; have time to process what the fuck he just saw. distance would be sensible, and it could him time to…
but you’re curled on your side, face relaxed, lashes resting so pretty against your cheeks. there’s this faint crease in your brows, something like discomfort settling deep into your skin. and what’s worse, is that his first written instinct is to reach out with a thumb and smooth it over.
there’s nothing threatening about you. far from calculating. you’ve always been ms sweetheart in the art room minding your own business. this was his fault for digging this far.
how does this change anything?
and for a moment, the version of you in his mind bleeds through what he’d just saw minutes ago.
just you.
his chest tightens painfully.
how could i hate you for it?
for anything?
he cares too much about you. the sketches don’t erase anything, in fact, all it does is complicate things.
he rubs a hand over his face, exhaustion bleeding into his limbs.
the thought that you’d been obsessively watching him like that, cataloguing him, holding onto pieces of him that he didn’t even know exist – it should make his skin crawl. but it doesn’t.
it makes his stomach twist with understanding, familiarity. how could he judge? he was just like you, and you were just like him.
izuku made his way over to where you were sleeping, pulling the sheets over him with care, sliding right in beside you.
your hand drifts blindly, searching till it finds him. your fingers curl softly around his wrist without waking, grip loose but needy.
the last of his resolve crumbles immediately, erasing every ounce of doubt he’s possibly had about you.
he turned just enough to face you, arm slithering under yours and pulling you close to his chest. you relax instantly, cheek pressed against his chest, breathes evening out.
finally succumbing to the warmth of your body up against his, he decided to simply close his eyes.
he’ll figure this out tomorrow. he’ll ask like a normal person. he’ll set boundaries, and do the right thing. he’ll do this the right way.
nothing about tonight could’ve gone any differently. this was meant to happen. how dare he act so hypocritical? this was his fault.
he now knows too much of you.
you’re just like him.
౨ৎ
izuku's eyes flutter open, green depths hazy with sleep and sudden shock. there’s this wet sensation engulfing his cock, slobbering and erotic beneath the sheets.
with tired eyes, he peered down, eyes widening at the movement beneath the sheets, between where his legs should be. lazily, with a drawn out whimper on his behalf, he pulled the sheets back, eyes widening upon the sight.
you, eager and desperate, suckling on his cock, foreskin pushed back with one hand while the other fondled his balls. your eyes, heavy and tired, peering right up at him, brows furrowed in concentration as you moaned against his cock.
holy shit. holy shit.
you were sucking his cock. you. you. you. you, ms sweetheart, pretty lips sealed over his erection, tongue swirling greedily the tip.
“you…you said we can do stuff when i was sober.”
“i know, sweetie i know, but–,” he mumbled, voice rough from slumber, one hand reaching to cup your cheek. “you're hungover... we should—ah—stop.”
but you don't. you pull back just enough to swirl your tongue around the sensitive slit, teasing the underside with firm laps, then sink down again, throat relaxing to take him deeper.
your tongue was so pretty, your lips plump and so full with color. izuku felt like he was going to explode from the sight. the way you gagged around his length, pushing yourself further against his pubes had him leaking inevitably in your mouth.
“i’ll get your mouth dirty–” he sighed out, eyelids fluttering as you shifted your hips over his relaxed knee, humping shamelessly. “feels so g–good…oh my god.”
you pulled back, eyes heavy with desire and luck. “wanna make you feel good too izuku… need it in my mouth.”
izuku stared down at you, mouth slightly agape. you weren’t even hiding it anymore. you weren’t even bothering to be that sweet, pure girl who hid herself in sketchbooks and flimsy sweaters. this was you in your pure form, filthy and fully desperate for him.
he watched you, breath hitching as your filthy determination sinks in — eyes locked on his, lips stretched wide around his girth, drool trailing down your chin.
he should’ve known.
you’ve always been so dirty-minded. he should’ve predicted you would’ve been eager to fuck him right as soon as you woke up – he even suggested it.
he could push you off, tell you that he could fuck you better later on – but he doesn’t want to. he doesn’t want your soft lips leaving his cock, saliva dripping greedily over his length and dripping to his base.
how could he deny you when this is something he wanted as well? the sight of you, so eager even in the morning light, humping his leg like a bitch in heat. it spurred him on, possession twisting in his gut from just how similar the two of you were – arousal flooding his veins, cock throbbing fully hard now against your tongue.
“fuck... you really want this, don't you?” he groaned, fingers threading into your hair, not pulling yet but holding you there. the praise in his tone makes your pussy clench, another grind against his knee as you nod minutely, nose buried in his pubes.
izuku doesn’t bother muffling his soft whimpers, hips pushing lazily against your mouth, tip hitting your uvula with each grind.
it felt so good like this – your lips, your pretty face, hair messy. it felt so good that each shift, each thrust, brought something warm and tingly in his abdomen.
with frantic panic, izuku jolted, senses awakening at the pressure building in his bladder.
“oh no, wait— i–,” he admitted, voice strained, trying to gently ease you off.
you don't let him. instead, you double down, lips sealing tighter around the head, tongue pressing insistently at the slit — the most sensitive spot — flicking and probing like you're coaxing it out.
“nonono, i mean i’m gonna piss in your mouth if you don’t–” izuku cried out, head plush against your pillow as you swirled your tongue over the slit of his cock once more, trying to prevent him from softening. “please, sweetie, it’s gonna be gross…”
your eyes plead up at him, filthy invitation clear as you blubbered against his cock. “use me, please, izuku…relieve yourself.”
what the fuck?
count two. he should’ve predicted that. you freaky, filthy little thing, taking this singular chance to fulfill your disgusting piss kink. he should’ve known. but there was one thing he was certain about, something that solidified further in this moment – he’d do anything for you.
with a blinding sensation of your mouth bobbing up and down his cock, sinking your lips down to the base and right up against his pupes–
his hesitation cracked under your relentless suction, the pressure in his bladder mixing with the building pleasure. “y/n! shit—”
the first hot spurt hits your tongue, salty, sharp and bitter, flooding your mouth as he relaxes. you moan around him, swallowing greedily, the taboo warmth sliding down your throat while you keep stimulating that slit, tongue lapping at it through the stream.
it doesn't stop you; if anything, it fuels you, pussy dripping as you hump his knee harder, the scent of his piss mingling with his musk.
“mmm…”
izuku's eyes widened, shocked seeing how much you enjoyed that — throat working to take every drop, not spilling a bit, your free hand squeezing his balls to milk him dry.
he was sick in the head. he enabled this, fed into your nasty piss kink. and he liked it, every little bit of it. there was nothing about it that didn’t arouse him.
“god, you're swallowing it all...” he rasped out, mind switched off, the sight breaking his restraint.
his grip tightened in your hair, hips bucking up as the last trickles fade. now it's just his cock, slick from your mouth and his release, and he doesn't hold back.
he face-fucks you like you begged for it in your mind — thrusts sharp and deep, cock slamming into your throat with wet gags echoing in the room.
“take it— take it, beautiful.. make sure nothing gets on your sheets.” his voice was heavy, shaky with each breath, voice laced with dominance, freckled cheeks flushed as he watched your lips drag along his shaft.
you nodded compliantly, tears pricking your eyes from the stretch. izuku expected you to tap out, push his hips away from how rough he was being, but that was far from the truth.
you push forward, nose grinding into his pubes with each plunge. your hand never leaves his balls, tugging gently to heighten his pleasure, while your hips rut against his leg, chasing your own edge.
he pounded your face relentlessly, the head bullying your mouth, saliva bubbling at the corners of your mouth. something twisted, mixed with frustration, confusion, and desire burns hot in his stomach.
“look at you, my dirty girl — humping my knee while i fuck your face. you were made for this, yeah?” the words send you spiraling, orgasm crashing through you from the friction alone, body shuddering as you clench around nothing.
izuku followed soon after, thrusts erratic, cock swelling before he buried deep and cums — thick ropes painting your throat, forcing you to swallow around him. he held you there until he's spent, panting, his grip releasing from your hair.
with a loud sigh, he sunk further into your mattress, waiting for you to pull off, exhausted eyes watching as you spluttered all over his cock, keeping your head there.
“wait– ah… wait, breath for me,” izuku gasped out, pulling you softly off his cock.
you pulled off with a loud satisfied sigh, face flushed, baby hairs clinging to your forehead.
“that was... intense. you okay?” his touch turned tender, pulling you up for a kiss, tasting himself on your tongue, the morning light casting a soft glow on your shared obsession.
“mhm, thank you izuku,”
izuku stared right back at you, his hand against your cheek. he didn’t know why you were thanking him – but thinking about it now, you've always seemed to soften up when he was gentle. it should make sense to understand the cat now.
“...you’re welcome.”
౨ৎ
uni and coursework resumes as if nothing ever happened.
izuku turns up to lectures on time, people still complain about readings. izuku still takes notes – all detailed, scribbled all in his liking, all legible. yet, all of it just feels so redundant compared to what he found inside of that box.
he never got the chance to talk to you about it: the box, the sketches, the candid photographs.
he keeps thinking he feels eyes on him and for some reason, it isn’t unsettling. it’s just there.
it’s stupid, he knows that.
still, every time he looks up from his notebook, there’s this sharp jolt in his chest – like he’s currently being observed in this present moment, catalogued into your little collection of izukus.
by the time izuku is at the cafe, his head is pulsing.
“you look shit.”
izuku blinks, turning to find hitoshi leaning against his chair, arms crossed, expression unimpressed.
“thanks,” izuku said weakly, slumping in the chair across from him.
hitoshi squinted at him, sighing. “okay. what did you do this time.”
izuku winced, shrinking comically. “i–” he starts, then stops. exhaling as he thought of a way to sugarcoat his own actions. “i know i should’ve have... not, but i saw a box in y/n’s room.”
hitoshi’s brows furrowed. “what box.”
“a pretty personal box…”
“...midoriya.”
“in my defence i didn’t go looking on purpose!” izuku said quickly. “i really didn’t. it was just there, and i had this gut feeling.”
“well, what was in it,” hitoshi interrupted, tone awfully flat.
izuku hesitated, letting the memories of your detailed sketches boil back into his mind. “stuff of me, actual photos of me. drawings of me.”
the silence that follows is immediate, dull on the ears, but heavy in spirit.
hitoshi closed his eyes, dragging a lazy hand down his face. “you’re joking.”
“i think i wish i was.”
“you think?”
hitoshi let out a sharp, humorless laugh, turning away to hide the grimace on his face. “holy shit.”
izuku swallowed, nodding. “there were even dates.”
hitoshi straightened up promptly, eyes moving back to stare at izuku’s evergreen ones. “dates? what do you mean.”
“times,” izuku added. “notes, like, little observations.”
hitoshi groaned, a realization dawning in on him.
“ms sweetheart might not have a crush on you,” hitoshi said finally, ripping off the bandaid. “she might have a fixation, or simply just be obsessed with you.”
izuku nodded, jaw tight, the truth bleeding into light and into the perception he had of you. “i know – but it’s just so jarring, because i never expected it.”
“did you?” hitoshi shot back. “because you’re telling me this like you found something embarrassing, not something genuinely concerning.”
izuku frowned, head lolling forward in an obvious defeat.
“did you confront her.”
“...no.”
“why the hell not?”
izuku paused, thinking, before answering honestly. “she was asleep.”
hitoshi stared back at him, eyelid closing in disbelief. “izuku.”
“i actually stayed,” izuku finished quietly.
hitoshi exhales hard and facepalms, dragging his hand down his face again. “of course you did.”
the words aren’t angry. they’re exhausted.
“you cannot be serious right now.”
“I didn’t know what else to do,” izuku says. “she was— she had a rough night. she was vulnerable.”
“and so you decided the correct response to discovering someone’s been documenting your existence was to… stay the night,” hitoshi deadpans.
izuku doesn’t argue.
hitoshi shakes his head slowly. “you know that’s crossing a line too, right.”
“I know,” izuku says. “i just— i didn’t want to leave her like that.”
“okay,” hitoshi says, holding up a hand. “cool motive, nice. still a terrible decision.”
izuku huffs out a weak, humourless breath.
“I’m not saying she’s evil,” hitoshi continues, tone shifting, more serious now. “i’m just saying this didn’t come out of nowhere. and you don’t get to pretend you’re not involved.”
he pauses, then adds, quieter, “you like being important to people. you always have. well, there you have it.”
that lands harder than izuku expects.
“so what,” hitoshi asks finally, “are you going to talk to her?”
izuku looks down at the floor.
“I don’t know how,” he admits.
hitoshi studies him for a long moment.
“then you need to figure out whether you’re scared because she crossed a boundary,” he says slowly, “or because part of you doesn’t want to walk away.”
izuku doesn’t answer. he can’t.
the silence stretches between them, thick and unresolved — and for the first time since that night, izuku realises something with cold clarity.
whatever he does next, he doesn’t get to pretend it was an accident.
adam catches izuku outside of the law building unexpectedly. izuku almost doesn’t recognise him at first.
there’s a washed out blue tone to his face, shoulders sloped forward, his one functional arm stiff at his side. there’s still that nasty bruise along his jaw, yellowed out. a split lip that’s healing terribly, crust building around the exterior of the cut.
“for fuck’s sake,” adam mutters when he sees him. “you’ve got to be kidding me.”
izuku paused, chest tightening at the sight of adam. “you shouldn’t be here.”
“save it,” adam cut in, voice irritated in a way that’s far past resentment. “i’m not here for an apology.”
izuku frowned, head tilting. “wasn’t planning on it, but okay.”
people pass them, oblivious, continuing on with their mundane days. adam shifts closer to the wall, steering out of the main foot of traffic, eyes flickering around worriedly before landing back on izuku.
“i promise i’m not here to start shit.” he paused, glancing around once more. “ i see you’re still seeing her,” he says, tone filled with obvious implication.
izuku stiffened, fingers wrapped tight around the strap of his backpack. “that’s none of your business.”
“it is,” adam snapped quietly, tone hushed. “i fucking saw her weird sketches of you. i caught her taking photos of you by accident.”
izuku’s chest tightened, brows furrowing.
“i recognised you instantly,” adam continued, tense. “i confronted her, told her she was a weird cunt for that. because what the fuck was i meant to do?”
izuku swallowed, words clipped in his throat. so much of him wanted to try and defend you, but in this conversation, he had no leverage.
“she didn’t even try denying it,” adam said. “she just started panicking, asking me what i planned to do now that i’ve caught her.”
a chill crawled up izuku’s spine, movements halted, fist unclenched.
“i told her i’d tell you how much of a creep she was, warn people. warn you.” he let out a short, bitter laugh, eyes shifting down to his battered arm, cast staring back at him like a reminder of what izuku had done. “and then you happened. probably put the water works on you. huh?”
izuku’s lips tightened into a fine line, fists tightening. had you really orchestrated this? was this the type of person you were? he wasn’t too sure if he should believe adam, because it was always going to be you above anyone else on this campus, but staring into adam’s eyes, it didn’t seem like he was lying either.
“you thinking she made you do it?” adam added quietly. “no. she just knew you would. she’s fucking calculative like that.”
that landed like a punch to izuku’s chest.
“i’ve known her since first year law, i’m not saying she’s evil. god, she might be the furthest thing from it,” adam continued. “but, i think she’s smarter than she lets other people on, and she uses it to her advantage.”
izuku stepped back, already disengaging. he wasn’t going to listen to adam. whatever he had to say about you, whether it was true or not, he was going to confirm it himself.
“this conversation is over–”
“no. no, it’s not. stay away from her,” adam said frantically, stepping closer. “you’re exactly her type. if the fucking sketches i saw weren’t enough to prove it, then i don’t know. and you don’t even realize it either!”
izuku maneuvered around him, blocking adam’s words from his ears.
“she’s got you wrapped around her finger. probably let her suck your di–”
“enough,” izuku cut in sharply, spinning around to shove adam hard against the sandstone walls, an uncomfortable crack ripping through the air on impact. “you think i care what else you have to say about her? to me? you don’t think i already know?”
adam heaved, coughing violently. “y–you already know? what the fuck, man!” his chest is heaving now, eyes wild with a mix of fear, disgust and vindication. “maybe the two of you were meant to be.”
izuku paused, releasing his grip on adam’s neck.
yeah. yeah, that’s exactly it.
once izuku takes off, he doesn’t turn back. he keeps walking, jaw tight, adam’s voice dissolving into the noise of the campus behind him. god, he should be worried about the people who saw, but he’ll deal with that later.
his pulse is loud in his ears, too loud. every step feels heavy, intentional, like he’s forcing his body to move while his mind splinters into a dozen directions all at once.
he watches his phone light up once, twice. your name sits there, unread. he flips the screen face-down like it might burn him.
who cares what adam has to say about you – he already knew the truth.
౨ৎ
it took you a while to understand that it wasn’t longing, or fear, or even love. it was grief, something slow and heavy and familiar.
there was grief for a version of yourself that had learned too early how to disappear; how to sink within the cracks of someone’s comfort just to diminish yourself.
once, you were a teenager who figured out quiet without guidance, that attention was something you earned by respect. that affection came with conditions; it was transactional.
sometimes, you wonder if this is the kind of sadness people feel near the end of their lives.
you wondered if in those last seven minutes, they felt that same quiet grief when everything finally slowed down. the kind that comes from looking back into their memories, the things they loved, the things they wish they’ve done, but weren’t able to do.
you felt something adjacent to that. you wondered how many moments you swallowed, how many versions of yourself you folded away because they felt inconvenient.
you imagine it happens late, when the noise fades and there’s nothing left to prove.
maybe that’s why this ache feels so old.
because it isn’t about izuku, not really. how could it be? the sweet, kind boy who’s done nothing but take care of you.
it was the accumulation of all the times you learned to survive instead of live. all the ways you taught yourself to endure quietly, believing that if you asked for less and contoured yourself into the shadows, the world would hurt you less in return. it would just… forget about you.
and then someone comes along — gentle, unassuming — and offers you the thing you didn’t know you’d been missing.
and suddenly, the sadness changes form, something softer around the edges, rounded into something warm.
izuku doesn’t know he’s touching that place in you, nor does he know that his kindness feels like both salvation and grief intertwined. that every moment of being seen makes you grateful and unbearably aware of how long you went without it.
and maybe that’s the most human sadness of all.
not that life hurts — but that it didn’t have to hurt this much.
it comes up from somewhere deep in your chest, sudden and wrenching, like your body has finally decided it doesn’t need to hold the line anymore. your breath stutters, once, twice — and before you can stop it, the tears spill over, heavy and hot, pulling something raw out with them.
you curl in on yourself without meaning to, a quiet, broken sound catching in your throat. the art room is empty.
crying like this doesn’t feel like falling apart — it feels like letting go. like your body recognizing that it’s safe enough to stop bracing. you take the time to imagine, closing your eyes for a moment as you sink into the warmth of your arms.
this feels nice.
you imagine izuku through a blur, sunlight still warm against his skin, that familiar crease between his brows as he studies, the way his mouth tilts when he’s concentrating.
all that warmth. all that light, it’s too much. but selfishly, you want it all to yourself.
it burns in your chest, not painfully — but deeply, like something thawing. like the past is finally loosening its grip. like the present is opening something new in its place — something worth staying for. something worth fighting for.
you imagine what it's like with izuku in this moment, how it's been for the past few weeks. you imagine finally telling him everything on your own accord, the guilt spilling out like it never has before. a compensation for everything you've done behind his back.
sitting here with izuku, under this fading sunlight, with his quiet care and his unknowing kindness.
you'd imagine how warm izuku's arms would be around you, how gentle his words would be, tone thick with that sweet honey delight.
“hey— hey, whoa,” izuku would say suddenly, chair scraping softly as he turns toward you. his voice is gentle but startled, hands already reaching for you without hesitation. “what’s going on?”
you'd shake your head, unable to speak, tears still coming in waves you didn’t expect. he doesn’t ask again, doesn’t demand words. he’s so patient with you.
you can already predict the plot. he'd move close, one hand warm and steady at your back, rubbing slow, grounding circles like he’s done before.
you'd lean into him instinctively, face pressing into his shoulder, and the sob that breaks free this time feels final — like something leaving you for good.
“you don’t have to explain,” he adds quietly, almost like he knows. “you can just… be…here. i'm here.”
you'd cry it out under the warm light, with his steady presence anchoring you, the past finally loosening its hold as something gentler takes root in its place.
for the first time, the ache doesn’t feel endless. for the first time, you believe this moment — this warmth, this care — is something you’re allowed to keep.
you cry because it’s over. it’s over.
relief is the first thing you feel.
izuku, there beside you, steady and warm, his hand firm at your back. he doesn’t rush you. doesn’t try to quiet you. he just stays — and something about that simple, unwavering presence tells your body it’s safe to stop running.
the void doesn’t ache the way it used to.
sunlight still lingers in the art room, warm against your skin, catching on izuku’s freckled face, softening the lines of him as he looks at you. and when you lift your head — really look — you see it.
his presence wraps gently around the wound you’ve carried for so long, not tearing it open, not rushing it closed — just internally stitching carefully, patiently, moment by moment, because he cares too much not to. that was the izuku you knew.
this is real. this is real. this is real. you’re real, he’s real. this happiness is real, and it’s allowed to exist now.
you’re not alone.
and for the first time, you can feel the warmth without flinching.
it doesn’t burn, it doesn’t overwhelm. sunlight brushes your skin like a promise, like the beginning of something you’re finally allowed to step into.
this is what it feels like to heal.
the past settles behind you, its chapter closing without bitterness, without force — just understanding. and ahead of you, faint but unmistakable, is something lighter. something possible. a future that doesn’t demand survival as its entry fee, because now you've found someone who truly sees you for you.
through the last of your tears, the thought comes to you again — softer now, almost disbelieving.
was this all it took?
izuku didn't come to the art room today, though.
once you lift your head from the comfort of your arms, sunlight brightening and burning your vision slightly, you notice the space where izuku usually is.
the stool beside yours is empty. the door doesn't open when you expect it to. the familiar weight of his presence, the intoxicating smell of him never comes.
you tell yourself maybe he's just busy. after all, he does have some days where he doesn't show up. you try focusing on your work instead.
you finished up on the latest readings with ease, because it was all you really did. school work, twitter, think about izuku, draw izuku, dream about izuku. that was the mundanity of your life, and there was nothing else to it. still, you were satisfied.
charcoal smudged your fingers as your mind drifted, graphite dust gathering along the crease of your palm. you sketch mechanically without thought, drawing nothing in particular. it's easy that way.
still, your eyes keep flickering to the door.
maybe he's late, yeah. he should've been here by now, but maybe...
he isn't. he isn't coming.
when the afternoon stretches on without him, soft pastel colors fading into a dull navy blue, something tightens in your chest. something's wrong, but you can't quite pin-point what it was. it wasn't the fact that izuku wasn't here; that was fine, that was okay. it was something else tagging onto you, sinking in deep like a knife in your gut.
you pack up slower than usual. outside, the evening air feels colder, sharper. you check your phone out of curiosity, intent sealing in far deep. you swipe to your contacts, a nervous thumb hovering over your delivered message.
don't be annoying.
you wait outside the room, even though you know the last bus was coming in five minutes and the walk to the station is ten.
you wait, eyes flickering up with that soft smile on your face expectantly.
he's not coming.
that's when it really sink in, ugly and overthinking.
izuku always drives you home, even if it was out of his way. had you... become too comfortable? too expectant for him to just do things out of kindness for you? were you becoming too dependent and inconsiderate?
you make your way out of campus, walking a usual path that's now unfamiliar ever since your new established routine. it feels strange, standing near the curb, eyes scanning the familiar shapes of passing cars not out a window.
by the time you arrive home, the pressure in your chest has finally grown teeth.
you drop your bag by the door, a heavy feeling settling deep in your heart. countless times throughout your walk home, you told yourself that izuku was simply just busy. there was nothing else to it.
but maybe, perhaps the reason you were feeling this way was because—
your eyes drift, not consciously at first.
your eyes scan to the box. it's still there, still tucked carefully into that hidden corner peaking through the pile of clothes. but something's off. the arm of your jacket is creased.
you step closer slowly, heart beginning to thud in your ears. the lid is untouched, not ajar, no contents spilled. but faintly misaligned. the box has shifted, barely. the left corner of the box is angled a degree too close to the desk.
you know your room.
oh.
izuku didn't just sleep with you that night you were drunk. he looked. he figured something out. he had caught you red handed.
you sink back against the edge of your bed, fingers curling into your knees, your mind racing, recalibrating, berating yourself for letting him into your room.
you should've caught it. but you were fucking asleep, charmed by the warmth of his hand through your hair, your hands, and how horny you were that you forgot how observant he was in the first place.
oh my fucking god.
you press your lips together, tears boiling in your eyes, face warming, world spinning.
a strange calm settles over you, threading through the ache that maybe that was the last time you'd ever see izuku. you should've known this was always going to be a possibility.
you were going to tell him, that was the thing. you just didn't want it to be like this. you were going to explain, you were going to try to dim down the severity of your obsession, then work inwards to fix it. you were going to change yourself.
you glance at the box again from afar, the room spiraling outwards into an uncomfortable illusion.
he didn't take anything.
if he were angry, would he have left it open? what if he was disgusted? would he have let you suck his dick after?
your shoulders sag slightly. he still stayed, but what if he was uncomfortable that whole morning? what if he was planning out measured responses because he thought you were a genuine threat. did he figure out about adam? that was a one time thing! you hadn't expected izuku to actually send him to the fucking hospital. you just thought that, if you got izuku to confront adam, maybe it would've alleviated the issue at hand, and that you'd have him.
did you cry too much? it was only meant to be a small cry, but seeing how warm and kind izuku was, cooing you, talking you through it, you couldn't help but cry even more. and it didn't help that adam was probably figuring out how to tell izuku the next day. what were you meant to do? maybe you should've just done nothing and let things play out. maybe if adam just told izuku, he wouldn't have believed him.
you lean back, laying flat on your back, knees hanging over the edge. the ceiling looks daunting, and your pulse is only quickening.
he knows.
and he hasn't come back, hasn't said anything. you might've just fucked everything.
౨ৎ
he hasn't driven you home in three days, nor has he come and visited you in the art room.
you try to convince yourself that it's normal. routines change, and people get busy.
that night, you got a message from izuku. embarrassingly, you scurry over to your phone, dialing in your passcode and click on his contact without second thought. at least he's talking to you, that's the first relief.
izuku: you got home late.
you stare at the message, frowning a bit. your fingers hover over the screen, tongue sticking out thoughtfully as you pondered over a way to keep the conversation going somehow.
y/n: yeah! late night haha wbu?
izuku: figured, i guess the buses are worse at night.
you did take the bus that night instead of walking. lucky guess.
your thumb pauses, then resumes its easy rhythm. you tell yourself it's obvious, everyone complains about public transportation. you have once.
y/n: yeah lolol tell me about it
y/n: haven't seen your around lately though :c
the response doesn't come right away.
izuku: i've been around, just busy.
you sigh, tension relieving from your shoulders. you accept it immediately, because of course he has!
you set your phone down, comforted after messaging him a sweet goodnight.
somewhere, beneath the comfort of your sheets, you allow yourself the one. you pull a pen from your bedside, the one you snuck from izuku's case before, and press the blunt end inside of you.
yeah, you were just overthinking things.
the sun shines brighter the following day, but it feels undeserved.
you wake up with a dull weight in your limbs, gravity crueler than usual. your throat burns, sandpaper rough, and when you sit up, a wet, obnoxious cough claws its way out of your chest, bubbling into an uncomfortable build up of phlegm.
"ugh," you mutter, rubbing at your neck.
you drag yourself through the morning anyway. a nice warm shower, comfy clothes, and off to campus. the workshops dragged on longer than they should've. you hang around the art room, course work open lazily across the table as you try to keep your head up straight.
you don't realize how late you've stayed till the art room filters one by one — voices fading, lights licking off down the hall till it's just you, your things, and the painful throb in your head.
upon realizing the time, you pack up carefully, fingers stiff, stomach churning and an uncomfortable pain in your lower neck. you don't feel like walking the long way out of campus, so you decide to take a different route out.
not for any reason in particular, the main hallway feels too exposed tonight — too cold, and definitely not good for whatever sickness you've got bubbling up. you turn down the narrower corridor instead, sighing with relief as your body retains some heat.
your footsteps echo softly as you fumble in your pockets for your earphones. it's kind of scary right now, faded green florescent lights dawning down the main circumference of the corridor, spreading faintly into the shadows.
with an exhausted sigh, you round the corner—
"ah!—"
you stop short, heart leaping straight to your throat, limbs shakier than usual as you regain your breath.
izuku stands there, just beyond the turn, too close that you have to take a step back. he's not startled, just looks slightly guilty that he jumpscared you.
"oh, hey," he says quietly, smiling.
your breath comes out uneven, jagged with forceful inhales as you swallow down your saliva. "hi— wow, you scared me there."
"sorry," he replies immediately, tone gentle as he took a step closer. "i didn't mean to do that."
you laugh, a little breathless, sheepish now that izuku's standing in front of you. it's been a while, just as handsome as ever. "i didn't know anyone else was still around."
he hums, noncommittal. "neither did i."
you nod, awkwardly and meek, then cough again — harsher this time, chest-deep, ugly, and far too embarrassing in front of izuku. you turn your face away instinctively, throwing your face into your elbow.
when you look back, you're about to mutter an apology, but his brow is furrowed with a knowing look.
"you don't sound too good," he commented, reaching over.
you shrug weakly. "it's so cold nowadays, isn't it?"
it feels weird — this conversation feels weird. it has no sustenance, none of the warmth that izuku normally embodies. it's just a fill in conversation — empty with no purpose.
he doesn't comment, simply shifting his bag off one of his shoulders and opens it, movements practiced, the sound of zipper unsetting in the empty hall.
then, with a confident hand, he pulls out some cold-and-flu tablets.
"here," he says kindly, holding them out. "take two tonight, two in the morning and make sure you eat before taking them."
you stare at his palm, then up at him. "are you sick too?"
for just a second, something flickers across his face, something like recalibration.
"no," he hummed simply, pressing the medicine into your hand with a gentle nudge. "you don't usually take care of yourself well, so i figured i just carry them around for whenever you feel sick. i guess today was the day."
your chest warms with this new information. the words settle oddly, still.
you curl your fingers around the packet, plastic crinkling softly under your sweaty palms. "that's really thoughtful, izuku. thank you," you say, smiling a bit.
"it's nothing," he replies, tone warming the insides of your ears with easy care.
you check your phone, eyes widening at the time. "oh— i really should head home, a lot of work to catch up on."
"oh, yeah, of course," he agrees immediately, stepping aside. "get home safe."
you can see the way his gaze softens at your hidden disappointment, as if he's reading right into your mind — as if he knows you're just a tad bit disappointed that he isn't dropping you home.
you nod, a curt forced smile making its way to your tired features. at the exit, you turn back once more to wave at him, and he's still there. watching, unmoving.
you lift a hand in a small wave, head tilting a bit. "bye bye."
"message me when you get home," he echoes, pointing to his phone.
the door swings shut between you, glass reflecting your own tired expression back at your briefly before you turn away.
outside, the night air feels sharper than it should. as you walk, the warmth in your chest slowly simmers, replaced with something harder to name. something like a faint, persistent awareness — like you've stepped out of a room without quite leaving it. it's a weird feeling.
as you reach the end of the path and glance back without meaning to, the building behind you is dark and quiet, swallowed by dim lights and lush trees.
you can't see him anymore.
you get home without incident, the walk home being oddly calm.
the door clicks shut behind you, locks sliding into place with a familiar finality. your shoes come off by the door. your bag lands where it always does. everything is normal enough that it almost convinces you.
your phone buzzes in your hand before you’ve even taken three steps. you still at the openness of your home, eyes fixed on the blue light staring back at you.
izuku: home?
you smile reflexively, thumbs moving without hesitation, clumsily kicking off your shoes simultaneously.
y/n: just got in!
the reply comes quickly.
izuku: good to hear :).
you pocket your phone and head to the kitchen, pouring yourself a glass of water. your throat still aches, but the medicine is already working — or maybe it’s just the comfort of knowing someone noticed, perhaps a placebo.
you lean against the counter, staring at nothing in particular. you contemplate what to make for dinner, frowning when you realize all you have are some bananas, maybe a frozen salmon sitting in the fridge amongst the other food.
your phone buzzes once more.
izuku: did you eat yet?
you blink. you hadn’t – you were about to. you type back anyway, mind still fixed on the pantry.
y/n: about to lol
izuku: make sure it’s something warm.
your chest tightens, just slightly. with compliance, you rummage your fridge, smiling to yourself when you spot some left over chicken you made a few days ago. you heat up your meal, sit on the edge of your bed with the bowl balanced in your lap. the room feels quieter than usual, but you can’t find the energy to fill it.
you check your phone again.
no new messages. with a sigh, you continue to finish your meal, scrolling on your phone absentmindedly at the same time. afterwards is just mundanity. you shower, wash your hair, stand in the shower longer than usual. you slip into your comfy sleepwear, feet warm with fuzzy socks and a warm cup of tea by your bedside.
your movements feel slower, heavier, the day finally catching up to you. when you crawl into bed, you exhale deeply, letting the mattress swallow you. that’s when you notice it.
your curtains aren’t drawn.
you’re sure you closed them this morning. you always do — a habit drilled in by too many late nights working under the harsh light of your study lamp.
you stare at the window for a moment. the street outside is dark, still. nothing unusual. just the same trees staring back at you, the same light from the house across the road.
must’ve forgotten
you reach up and pull the curtains shut, plunging the room into dim comfort. you settle back down, heart rate easing.
your phone buzzes.
this time, you don’t check it right away. you let it sit on the bedside table, screen lighting up the room faintly. your fingers faintly reach out to the device before falling by your side, fatigue hitting you all at once.
eventually, you turn your head.
izuku: you should sleep. you look exhausted.
you stare at the message. you look exhausted.
you haven’t sent a photo. you haven’t said anything about how tired you feel. your fingers hover over the keyboard.
then, slowly, you type.
y/n: looked** btw LOL anyway i think i will. night izuku ♡
you smile to yourself cheesily at the heart you attached, warmth spreading gently across your chest – as if izuku never found your box. as if he never looked through what was inside. as if nothing had happened in the first place.
izuku: night :). get some rest.
you set the phone face-down and curl onto your side, pulling the blanket up to your chin. your breathing evens out gradually, exhaustion finally winning.
sleep takes you gently.
outside, the night remains still.
you wake up slowly, sunlight heavy through the curtains. you groan, rolling over lazily and shoved your face into the pillow, fully intending to go back to sleep. your body feels heavy in that post-sick, over-rested way, limbs impossibly sluggish, brain foggy. you attempt to swallow only to wince at the pain nestled at the back of your throat.
your phone buzzes somewhere near your head. you ignore it, brain thick with that unbearable ache. five seconds pass, then it buzzes again.
you squint one eye open and fumble for it, screen blinding you immediately. with one eye, you register that it’s 2:07pm.
“oh my god,” you mumble, voice raw. “that’s… so bad.”
your notifications load in slowly, some from twitter, some emails. a message from izuku sits there, timestamped an hour ago. groggily, you open up izuku’s message, the words swimming across the screen.
izuku: good afternoon, late day?
your lips curl unknowingly, not even questioning the precise timing of his message. you prop yourself upright, hair tangled, sheets twisted around your legs. you type back slowly, temple pounding with that sickening throb.
y/n: i just woke up haha
y/n: guess i was really tired
izuku’s reply comes soon after, spaced in a way that it isn’t intrusive but rather attentive.
izuku: i’m glad you had a good rest. how are you feeling?
you pause, considering.
the ache in your throat, while scratchy and sore, has softened to something manageable now that you’re able to distract yourself. your head, still throbbing with that syncopated pulse, has simmered into something dull in a matter of seconds. you’re not well, exactly, but it’s somewhat better than yesterday. maybe it was the blessing of izuku messaging you.
y/n: better a bit
y/n: still tired, but better!
there’s a longer pause this time, thicker with that anticipation that gives you time to stare at the ceiling, tracing the faint crack near the corner you’ve always ignored, then moving to the whirring fan that’s been cranked to the highest setting. your phone buzzes once more.
izuku: then let me take you to dinner tonight, something warm. get you out of the house at least :)
izuku: only if you’re down for it of course.
dinner with izuku. his words settle into you with a quiet, unexpected weight. you reread the message once, then again, aware of the way your chest swells in on itself. your cheeks flushed at the idea, face burning against the existing sickness.
y/n: would that be like a date then, wouldn’t it?
you imagine him thinking. precise and careful, his thumb thoughtful against the keyboard.
izuku: if that’s what you want
izuku: then yes, it can be
you don’t hesitate, immediately pushing the sheets off your feet and sitting up promptly, a new found energy spilling into your sunken limbs.
y/n: okay! sounds good! : D
izuku: i’ll pick you up around 5:30pm. that way it can be an early dinner and you’ll have some time to rest up later tonight.
izuku: wear something nice :)
you set the phone back beside you, sinking back into the headboard. outside, the afternoon hums along without you, the world content to wait. whatever tension that existed throughout that week before, no longer exists, momentarily suspended in whatever izuku’s figured out on his own. maybe it was never you. maybe he never saw the box.
you let yourself sink back into the bed, opting to recover before seeing izuku. the blanket is warm against your skin, a private smile tugging at your lips.
by the time 5pm rolls around, the light outside has softened into something honeyed, warm and calming.
you’re slower than usual getting ready, moving carefully, choosing comfort over your own ambition. but, that’s why you started getting ready earlier. you choose a nice sundress lace dress, corseted lightly around your bust, and flowering out just right above your knees. you make sure to wash your hair once more despite washing it the night before.
your heart pounds heavy in your chest as you wrap up the finishing touches, spritzing a generous amount of perfume and sealing on some casual heels.
the knock comes right on time.
you glance at the time on your phone, rushing over to open the door, a small thrill curling in your chest.
izuku stands there, tall and towering over you, with his hands tucked into the pockets of his coat. his posture is relaxed, expression brightening for the first time in a while once he sees you. yet, you can’t get over how good he looks.
“...hey,” he says, swallowing, cheeks tinted with a hint of pink.
“hi,” you reply, smiling and suddenly shy.
“you look really pretty,” he commented quickly, eyes fixed on your face.
you flush, lips tugging embarrassingly. “thank you…you look really nice as well.”
the evening air slips in around your ankles, swarming delicately beneath your dress. it’s cooler than you expected, and honestly, due to the fever you had, it was almost unpredictable from the inside of your home.
as you turn to lock the door, he shrugs his coat off without breaking conversation, draping it around your shoulders in one smooth motion. his build is visible now, biceps taut against his white dress shirt, tucked in perfectly with a belt.
“you’ll get cold,” he says, thumbs lingering on the blades of your shoulders a fraction too long.
the fabric is still warm with him, filled with the woody scent. it settles around you, significantly heavier than your dress, but comfortable. you blink, then laugh softly, tucking a loose strand behind your ear.
“i’m okay,” you start.
“i know but, still, just–” his fingers slip beneath the collar of the coat, flipping it upright. “looks warm on you.”
you don’t argue, because this, this is enough. you’re even lucky to be standing beside izuku right now. he should’ve disappeared, ran away and hid from you, but instead, he decided to still take you out of a date. which was quite surprising considering the first few days of unbearable distance between the two of you.
the drive is calm, conversation slipping into familiar rhythms – catching up on classes, small frustrations, and a singular dry comment from him that makes you smile into yourself meekly. you keep your eyes trained on the road again, dusk folding the city into bustling lights.
the restaurant is modest and warm, tucked away on a side street filled with other cuisines. inside, the light is low and amber-toned, minimal lighting, the air carrying a smell of something slow-cooked and savoury.
“this is really nice,” you murmur as he holds the door open for you, his eyes following yours with that familiar delicacy.
“i thought you’d like it,” he replied curtly, hand lingering by your side but not quite touching.
once seated at the reserved table, izuku pauses behind you, carefully prying the coat off your shoulders and tucking it into the back of your chair. the absence of its weight is noticeable, but freeing.
you skim the menu, then glance up. you should have enough to cover the costs of your meal. “everything sounds good, i mean everything looks incredible,” you laugh.
“i think you’d like the chicken soup,” he says mildly, just a simple suggestion.
you tilt your head, lips sucked in slightly. “do i?”
“yeah,” he replies easily. “something warm would be good for your throat. brothy.”
you smile, a little sheepish and you glance back down at the menu. “i guess i do.”
“get whatever you like,” izuku hummed out, pondering himself on what to get.
once the server has taken both of your orders, the silence between the two of you has gone cold. you sit back mindfully, folding your hands in your lap against the lace fabric. the chair is comfortable, and the lighting is working its magic of softening the edges of everything.
across from you, izuku settles into his seat, posture relax and attention, elbows politely resting loosely on the table.
deceptively it feels normal, but you know, you can just tell that this – this whole date – wasn’t out of nowhere.
“i’m glad you agreed to this,” he says after a moment, voice smooth and even, grateful.
you smile truthfully, body already agreeing before the words come out. “yeah, me too.”
there’s a pause, but it isn’t awkward. he watches you for a second longer than necessary – not in a way that should make you self-conscious, but in that thoughtful, gentle way, like he’s committing your features into memory. a part of you wants to cover yourself and hide away from the intimacy of it.
“you look better,” he adds quietly, his index finger tracing circles mindlessly against the table cloth.
you blink. “really? it’s probably just the makeup.”
izuku chuckled, shaking his head. “no, you just look less tense. there’s some light in your eyes now.”
you laugh softly in response, shoulders shrugging up. “well, i did sleep until two in the afternoon.”
the food arrives not long after. steam rises from your bowl, fragrant and comforting, thick noodles soiled beneath the broth. the first sip is exactly what you needed.
“okay,” you say, exhaling, blowing into the spoon for another bite. “you were right, it is good.”
you expect him to counteract a bit, maybe mutter a cheeky “i told you so,” but he doesn’t. he just nods once, satisfied, lips curling lightly.
for a while, the conversation drifts back easy – observations about the food, the restaurant, how cold it’s been lately, how busy izuku’s been, and how impossible law has become. it’s almost enough to make you forget the undercurrent that brought you here in the first place, as well as the disastrous realization you had earlier in the week.
halfway through your meal, izuku sets his fork down, fingers resting lightly against the edge of the table. the movement is subtle, but it draws you attention anyway, shoulders immediately bracing for whatever impact you’re about to face.
“there’s something i want to talk to you about,” he says slowly, tone unchanging from earlier, still thick with that smooth honey.
the air shifts uncomfortably.
you meet his gaze, your heart giving an anticipatory thud, sinking into your stomach in a preparing way. “okay.”
he holds your eyes, steady and unreadable. he pauses for a moment, waiting till you’re ready.
“i didn’t want to bring it up when you weren’t feeling well, so first i’ll apologise for that,” he continues, tone careful and light, almost cooing. “and i didn’t want to do it somewhere that felt inappropriate.”
you nod slowly, understanding settling in your chest, your appetite quickly disappearing.
“that’s why i asked you out,” he finishes.
the soup cools between your hands as you sit there, lace noticeably warm against your skin, the corset suddenly tight against your ribs and chest.
you inhale, then exhale shakily, nodding. “okay,” you say again, softer this time.
“i saw the box,” izuku admits, tone straight-forward.
the silence that follows after is daunting, timed.
this isn’t a date. this is a goodbye dressed up as kindness. your chest tightens, breath catching shallowly as he continues. you were fucked.
it feels like the floor just dropped out from beneath you.
for a moment, you consider lying and denying it – instinctive, reflexive – but the thought dies pathetically before it can reach your mouth. he saw it.
you simply nod, throat tight, chest heavy now. “i figured you might’ve,” you manage, voice thinner than expected. “it was night of the party wasn’t it?”
izuku’s eyes dial in on the way your brows furrow, a violent red seeping up your neck in guilt, as if you’ve been caught. bullseye.
“i shouldn’t have looked,” he admits, words chosen carefully upon your visible suppressed distress. “that was a boundary i crossed.”
your throat burns. “that’s not nearly as bad as what i did.”
a pause stretches between you, taut and calculative on the surface, but fully vulnerable beneath.
“i wasn’t angry,” he continues, frowning a bit. “sure, i was confused. but i was mostly…worried.”
you let out a shaky breath, the confession spilling before you can stop it. “i–i didn’t mean for it to get this bad, i promise. i swear. it just started small, you saw it the first time. and, you said it was nice and thoughtful so i thought i could just keep drawing, but– and, before– before i knew it, i just kept going and…”
your hands tremble slightly in your lap, an uncomfortable shiver settling rhythmically in your bones now.
“i– i don’t know what you know, but i never meant for it to get this bad,” you add quietly. “that part– with adam i mean– i didn’t expect that. i just thought that if you’d confront him, he’d back off. i didn’t think–” your voice breaks, words wobbly but contained. “i didn’t think you’d go that far. i mean– it’s completely my fault, not yours…”
izuku’s jaw tightens firefly, before relaxing, shoulders easing at the sight of your frame shaking.
“i know,” he says quickly, voice even in that reassuring way. “and i need you to know something too, though.”
you look up at him, eyes glassy now, lips tucked between your teeth.
“i stayed,” he admits, his eyes moving downcast now. “after i saw it all, i still stayed. that’s on me.”
your stomach twists, and you swear everything you just ate might just come back up. he had to stay the night, the morning, with the knowledge of your pathetic obsession and pretend it was okay. you were in his arms that night, sleeping soundly while he was probably stressing on what to do next. and the worst part, you sucked his dick after.
“oh my god… i am so sorry,” you whisper out, hands moving to your mouth. the world zeros in on you for a brief second, narrowing in on your windpipes, spreading evil across your chest. “so this… this is it,” you say quietly, the words tumbling out unwanted. “you’re telling me… goodbye.”
he blinks, cocking his head to the side. “i didn’t say that…”
“but you’re explaining– this–” you say, words rushed and almost incoherent, a small brittle smile forming unapologetically on your face. “people explain when they’re leaving.”
your chest aches, pressure building fast and alerting. you can feel the tears in your eyes threatening to fall, and you hate yourself for it. because why should you be crying? you hate how predictable this conversation makes you feel.
the server arrives then, oblivious to the scene, setting the bill gently on the table.
the moment fractures, breaking you out of your trance.
“oh–” you say quickly, posture straightening as you reach for your phone. “i’ll transfer you my half, just– just give me a second.”
izuku frowns, brows knitted with confusion. “what? no.”
you look up, startled. “izuku, i–”
“i asked you out, on this date particularly,” he says plainly, pulling out his own wallet. “i’ve got it.”
he reaches for the bill before you can argue, handing his card over with finality. full stop.
the rest of the dinner passes in a haze, the last few minutes of your moments with izuku finally slimming to a silence.
you walk out together into the cool night air, his coat hung cautiously on you. there’s this disengaged look to izuku’s eyes upon seeing your bare shoulders. his hand reaches out, before dropping to his sides.
you eye your eyes forward, blinking hard, swallowing down the dual ache in your throat – one from your fever, and the other from trying not to burst into tears.
this is it. it was nice while it lasted.
you’re halfway through composing a dignified goodbye in your head when he stops walking, pace stilling to a complete stop.
“hey,” he says gently.
you turn, already on the verge of tears, doing your absolute best to keep them in. “y–yeah?”
he gestures down the street, where a small dessert place glows warmly, pastel colours blending into soft hung fairy lights.
“you didn’t finish your soup,” he commented, voice soft and considerate. “and– i don’t think we’re done talking, either.”
your heart stutters, brows raising.
“dessert?” you ask quietly, hopeful.
he nods, polite. “dessert. my treat?”
you don’t trust your voice, so you just nod back frantically, following him inside like your legs have a will of their own. because truth behold, your body knows what it wants, and it knows that it craves izuku – no matter the circumstance.
later, much later, after another thirty minutes of delayed silence, you’re back in his car, hands wrapped around a warm cup. a warm, hot chocolate with a greedy amount of toppings and whipped cream.
the car ride passes without a single word. you don’t know what to make of it. but a part of you, a democracy, decides that this might be the final farewell gift.
you don’t trust yourself to look at him, and izuku keeps both hands on the wheel. there’s an invisible line between the both of you now.
with every red light, every turn close to your street, the certainty settles deeper in your chest, final and confident in your conclusion.
this was it. you were so close, yet so far.
a first date that doubled as a final one. a careful, somewhat kind conclusion to something that will never be named again. a bittersweet ending.
you tell yourself you should be grateful – it could’ve ended far worse. it could’ve been angrier, messier, and maybe ended in a lifetime resentment.
still, your throat burns, because you don’t want to end things with izuku. you don’t want to never talk to him again.
when he pulls up outside your place, the engine idles softly, and deja vu comes spilling back from the night of the party. he parks in your driveway, this time not on the curb.
with a bitter taste in your mouth, you reach for the door handle.
“hey.”
his voice stops you. you freeze, fingers still curled around the metal.
“...yeah?” you ask, already bracing yourself.
he was going to say something like: “it was nice knowing you,” or worse, “good luck with life”. even that was pushing it – you were undeserving of either.
there’s a pause, then a sigh from his end.
“can we go inside?” he says. “just for a minute.”
your heart lurches. now, you don’t know what to think. the path has changed, and you’re scared of where it’s going. this might hurt even more.
you think of turning him down, telling him just to go home, but unsurprisingly, you cave in.
“sure.”
you step out of the car quickly on legs that feel unsteady, convinced that this is just him trying to tie up loose ends. a final, closing kindness before walking away.
inside, your home feels too quiet.
you flick on the lamp on your bedside. the light is softer, and somewhat calming to what the situation is calling for. izuku lingers near the door, unsure if he should step in further. after a moment, he tracks inside, finally settles before you – standing still.
“i didn’t finish what i needed to say,” he begins.
you nod, arms folding loosely around yourself. “it’s okay, i get it.”
he looks at you then, sucking in sharply. “i don’t think you do.”
the way he says it isn’t unkind – but it’s enough to stop you cold. yep, here it comes.
“i wasn’t trying to end things tonight, and i kept trying to convince you i wasn’t,” izuku continues. “i was trying to tell the truth.”
your chest tightens.
“there are parts of this i handled badly. it wasn’t just you,” he admits, voice firm. “wrongly.”
he exhales, slowly and steady, preparing himself for the truth he’s about to tell you.
“i had paid friend look for your twitter. far before we even had our first conversation. i invaded your privacy. all because i wanted to know you in places you weren’t offering yet.”
your eyes widen, jaw falling agape.
“i watched where you went after class. i waited, searched for you in patterns. i told myself it was concern because, i really wanted to look out for you. i cared a lot about you– there was just something about you that just made me want to.”
he swallowed, eyes blinking.
“the truth is – i liked the version of us we were building in that art room. even when i drove you home, too. and i was afraid that if i didn’t understand you completely, i’d lose it. and that i wouldn’t have been in your life as much as i thought i wanted.. you were this sweet girl in the art room that i wanted to get to know.”
the room feels too small now, the curves of the shadows softening.
“i crossed lines,” he says. “i know that. i– after i figured out about your thing, i got my friend to track your phones locations and activities, and that was too far.”
you don’t speak, you can’t. you don’t know how to feel. this whole thing is so sick, and your mind is scrambling to reconcile the gentleness you know with the precision of what he’s confessing.
“i didn’t want to control you,” he adds quickly, still standing a distance from you. “i just wanted to just keep us the way we were. and i thought maybe i pushed you a bit too far. what i’ve done is far worse than what you could ever do.”
his voice cracks, just barely, chin dropping to his chest, head hung in shame.
“i’m telling you because you really deserve to know, and if you want to walk away after this… i won’t stop you.”
you stare at him, heart pounding, something sick and affectionate swarming in your gut. something cruel pulsing beneath your dress.
“so, you’re not ending this?” you ask quietly, voice reduced to a hush.
he shakes his head. “no, not if you don’t want to.”
you remain settled on the edge of the bed, hands braced beside you. “i thought tonight was goodbye – that was really scary.”
izuku rushed over beside you, his knee brushing up against your bare one. “i know,” he says softly. “i’m sorry i let you think that.”
you laugh weakly, pressing a hand to your face. “god, i was about to cry in the car!”
“i almost asked you if you wanted dessert again,” he admits, sheepish as the tension died down. “then, i realized that would’ve made… that worse,” he says, motioning to the tears breaking free from your eyes.
that earns a small, shaky smile from you, tears gentle against your face. when you look back up at him, your voice is steadier. “you should’ve talked to me sooner… you were so scary.”
“i know,” he sighed out guilty, pressing a hand through his curls. “i’m trying to work on that now.”
the truth has now been laid bare.
izuku doesn’t move closer right away. he remains at a respectable shoulder distance, like he’s reflecting on how he made you feel. silence settles again, but this time it’s comfortable. warm an expectant; like the waves of a tsunami have finally ceased.
“you’re not scared?” he asks finally.
you shake your head honestly. “how could i be scared of you, izuku? truthfully.” you pause, taking in the moment to get your feelings out. “i–i really like you, so much. i mean– weren’t we just talking about how weird i was over dinner?”
the corner of his mouth lifts, faint. “i never said you were weird, though.”
you huff out a quiet breath. “you didn’t exactly say normal either.”
he exhales at your quick response. “well… you aren’t wrong there. but who am i to judge, right? i think i like knowing that you're just as into me as i am with you.”
your fingers curl into the fabric of your dress, nerves buzzing under your skin still, checks scarlet at his words. “i know but… i really thought tonight was you letting me down gently.”
his brows knit together, a lips tugging down. “nonono, not at all – wait, was dessert really not that convincing?”
you shake your head, a smile finding your lips again. “it was a bit.”
izuku sighed, moving closer to you. “i was scared too, you know,” he admits, his radiating warmth bouncing onto your skin. “scared that if i didn’t end up saying this out loud, i’d just keep justifying things to myself, and maybe ruin things. i just needed to stop this mystery game between the two of us.”
you look up at him, chest tight, eyes hopeful. “yeah, i agree.” the silence stretches among the both of you, heavy with implication.
“i don’t regret it,” you say instantly, voice coming out confident. “liking you. any of it.”
something in his expression shifts, something delicate beneath the surface finally coming to light.
“neither do i,” he replies. “i’m kinda glad we had tonight.”
his hand lifts, hesitating midair, before settling at your knee, warm and steady. the touch sends a quiet shiver through you, an undispellable heat pooling between your legs.
“this doesn’t make what i did okay,” he murmurs.
“i know,” you say softly. “me too.”
“at least this at least clears the air now, right?”
you nod, shifting your body, forehead tipping forward until in rests lightly against his chest. your body instantly relaxes at the contact, smiling to yourself. this is was you belong.
his breath stutters, his other hand coming up instinctively, hovering near your back before settling at the middle.
you lift your head slowly, eyes flickering to his mouth before you can stop yourself. he notices, of course. he always does. just like with everything else.
“y/n?”
“yeah?”
his breath leaves him in a slow exhale. he leans in till his lips meet yours.
the kiss is soft, tentative in a way that almost feels reverent. your tongue pushes past his lips, your hand slides up to his chest, fingers pressing into him.
without thought, he deepens the kiss instinctively, pulling you closer till you're on his lap, bare panties resting on his groin. you move against him, insinuating, soft movements stirring a groan from him.
he pulls away just enough to rest his forehead against yours, breath uneven, cheeks a pretty shade of pink.
“you want this?” he murmurs, hand still protective on your back.
you nod, words coming out fast. “please…”
izuku's eyes search yours, a flicker of hesitation in his green gaze – the heat between you undeniable, cock twitching hard against the thin fabric of your panties, already straining with need.
“okay... we'll go slow,” he promises, voice low and reassuring, his fingers tracing soothing circles on your spine. he kisses you again, softer this time, guiding your body as he shifts on the bed, laying back and pulling you with him until you're straddling his hips fully.
your heart races, nerves twisting in your stomach like a knot you can't untie. everything feels too bright, too exposed, even in the dim light filtering the circumference of your room.
“izuku... wait, wait,” you admit in a whisper, cheeks burning as you avoid his eyes. you take a shaky breath, words coming out bubbled and stammered. “i– i think i’m nervous, i don’t know. i know i want this with you but– can we... i don't know... i'm sorry, i'm probably turning you off right now.”
he pauses, brows furrowing in concern, but then understanding softens his features. "you're a virgin?"
you nod, cheeks flushing at your indirect confession.
"that's okay, you're not turning me off. i think i'm a bit harder now," he chuckles out, the sound soft and reassuring. "would this help for the time being?"
without a word, he reaches down, hooking his fingers into the waistband of your panties — the ones already damp from your arousal. he slides them down your thighs slowly, the cool air hitting your bare pussy with a shiver.
“feel better?” he asks gently, bunching the fabric and tying it around your eyes, the soft cotton warm against your skin from your body heat.
the world fades to black, and suddenly, every touch feels amplified — the brush of his calloused hands, the scent of him filling your senses, his clothed cock pressing up against your slick folds.
"yeah..." you agree, sighing as the pressure to perform lessens.
“there’s nothing to be nervous about, i’ll take care of you real good, okay?”
carefully, izuku undresses you, pulling your dress through your head, fingers careful as he treads your hair through the material. in a nervous silence, izuku places you to the side momentarily, stripping from his own clothes as well.
“can i put it in?” he asks, his voice closer now, lips grazing your ear. you nod, biting your lip as relief mixes with the building ache between your legs.
"please, izuku, need you," you manage out, voice meek.
you really want this. blindfolded, it's easier to let go, to focus on the way his hands grip your hips, lifting you slightly so he can line himself up. the tip of his cock nudges your entrance, thick and hot, parting your lips with ease.
“tell me if it's too much,” he breathes, and then he pushes in — slow at first, inch by inch, your pussy stretching around his girth. it burns a little, the fullness overwhelming, but the pleasure follows quick, walls fluttering as he sinks deeper. you gasp, hands bracing on his chest, nails digging into his skin.
“izuku—oh god, you're so big,” you whimper, rocking your hips instinctively to take more. “making me feel so full.”
he groans, head falling back against the pillow, his hands tightening on you. “fuck, you're tight... feels amazing, just like that.”
once he's fully seated, balls pressed against your ass, he holds still, letting you adjust, his thumbs stroking your thighs. the blindfold heightens it all — the throb of his cock inside you, the way your clit pulses against his pubic bone. with a cautious bounce, izuku whimpers, his grip tightening just a fraction as he rolls up into you.
almost immediately, pressure starts to build low in your belly, not just from arousal but from your full bladder. you'd drank too much earlier, the dessert, the chicken soup, the water, and now it's nagging at you, making your muscles clench tighter around him.
you try to ignore it, grinding down on him instead, chasing the sparks of pleasure. izuku takes the cue, his hips bucking up gently, starting a slow rhythm that has you moaning.
“that's it, ride me... you're doing so good, so pretty like this– wish you could see what i see, god,” he praises, voice husky with restraint and that velvety sweetness. his hands slide up to cup your breasts, thumbs rolling your nipples until they're stiff peaks, sending jolts straight to your core. “your breasts are so pretty, too.”
“aah– you’re making me feel so good right now,” you heave out, your hands planting where his firm chest would be. with confidence, you bounce up and down his length, slamming down shakily on his hips. each plummet of your hips sends something tight and sweet in your abdomen, clitoris tensing with each bodily contact.
the pace quickens, your body moving on instinct, pussy slurping wetly around his shaft with each bounce. but inevitably, your bladder pressure mounts, turning urgent, a desperate need that makes you tense.
“izuku, wait—i have to pee, i think,” you plead, slowing your movements, but he doesn't stop. instead, his grip firms, flipping your positions with surprising strength — shifting you now on your back, legs hooked over his shoulders as he folds you into a mating press.
“yeah?” he coos affectionately, his harmonious voice close to your ear now. "you're so cute."
his hips pressed firmly against your bottom as he grinded against your folds, his tip kissing that soft spot inside of you.
"ngghh, izuku!"
the sensation becomes blinding, pathetic whimpers leaving your lips with a whine as you try to hold it in. with your knees pressed toward your chest, ass lifted off the bed, his cock driving deeper than before, hitting spots that make stars burst behind the blindfold – it's hard to not.
with care, one of his hands slides over your body, palm pressing flat against your tummy, right over your lower abdomen where the pressure throbs the hardest.
the added weight makes it worse — or better — your bladder compressing under his touch, forcing a whimper from your lips.
“izuku—please, i can't hold it,” you gasp, the words tumbling out as his hips snap forward, cock spearing into your depths.
he rips off the blindfold in one swift motion, the fabric tearing slightly as it comes free, his eyes locking onto yours — intense, affectionate, filled with a hunger.
“i know about your little piss kink,” he admits, voice rough and shaky as he continues fucking into you, his free hand grabbing yours, fingers interlacing tightly as he pins it beside your head. his other hand stays firm on your tummy, thumb rubbing circles that only heighten the urge, making your pussy clench around him involuntarily.
“izu! that’s– no… that’s so embarrassing!” you whimper out, hands immediately moving to close around your face before they’re immediately pried away. “it’s gross…that’s gross– you don’t have to.”
“no, no — let it happen, please,” he urges, thrusting harder, the mating press allowing him to grind deep, his balls slapping against your ass with every plunge. “i want all of you, everything, please..”
the words shock you both, but the way his gaze burns into yours, hand squeezing yours for reassurance, pushes you over the edge, coaxing you to a satisfying release.
“izu!–”
you can't hold back — the first hot stream bursts out around his shaft, soaking his groin, running down the space between you and puddling on the sheets.
izuku's breath hitches, a momentary flicker of surprise in his eyes at the warm flood, lips fallen open slightly as he watches you release all over him.
“fuck, yes— so pretty– oh my god,” he moaned out, his hand on your tummy pressing down harder, coaxing more out of you in rhythmic spurts that match his thrusts. “come on, i know you got some more… it’s okay, i’ve got you.”
the slick mess makes everything wetter, louder, his cock sliding through the mix of your arousal, piss, and his precum with obscene squelches.
“f–feels really good, i– i can’t izuku, ahh!” tears brim your waterline, threatening to fall as izuku rides out your release, kissing that tender spot that makes your toes curl.
he leans in closer, forehead to yours, his hand still gripping yours tightly, thumb stroking your knuckles, grounding you both in the filth.
your eyes stay locked on his, the vulnerability of seeing his face — flushed, freckles stark against the red of his cheeks, lips parted in a groan — making the release even more intense.
“that’s it, pretty girl, so good for me,” he praises, hips pistoning relentlessly, the angle bullying your g-spot until tears prick your eyes. more piss leaks out, triggered by each deep fuck, coating his abs and thighs, the warmth spreading between your bodies. “oh– god, i can’t believe this is real. can’t believe i’m– fuck!– inside of you like this..”
he shifts his grip, his hand on your tummy sliding up just enough to let you breathe freely, adjusting briefly so both hands hold yours, pinning them above your head as he pistons inside you, rhythm dominating quickly.
“y/n, i think i’m close– think i’m gonna cum… cum with me— wanna feel it.”
his voice is higher now, cracked and whiny, his own eyes warming with overwhelm. his cock swells inside you, veins dragging against your walls, thickening at his near release.
you let out a high-pitched whimper at the sensation, eyes threatening to cross as he repeatedly hits that spot. “m–me too, izu… gonna cum!”
the pressure builds unbearably, your bladder emptying fully in hot jets that splash against him as you shatter — pussy convulsing, gushing more fluid as an orgasm rips through you, cries spilling from your lips. your vision blurs for split second, whitening pleasantly with a blinding warmth. it feels incredible, nothing like you've ever felt before.
izuku's thrusts grow erratic, his face twisting with pleasure, eyes never leaving yours. “f–fuck did you just squirt too?”
you nod unknowingly, that tight knot in your stomach lingering with a gentle presence. your legs lock around his hips instinctively, urging him to release, your body spent as he continues humping into you.
“you're perfect, so fucking perfect,” he gasps, voice breaking as he feels his own release barreling down. “gonna– fuck! n-need to pull out!”
just as the first rope threatens to spill, he pulls out with a wet pop, his cock slick and throbbing, laying it heavy over your spread pussy.
“i love you, i love you, i love you so much,” he heaves out frantically, the words in a breathless chant, hand pumping his shaft furiously as thick spurts of cum erupt, painting your folds white.
both of you watch in awe as thick spurts land on your clit, dripping down to mix with the piss-soaked mess below. he aims every shot carefully, coating your entrance and lips until you're glistening with his seed, his hips jerking into his hand with each pulse.
your watch with sparkly eyes, pussy relaxing from the absence of his cock. he looks so undeniably pretty like this, checks flushed pink, brows furrowed with need, body slick with sweat as he spills all over you, the moment never ending.
he grinds the tip against your sensitive pussy one last time, smearing the cum into your skin, before collapsing forward, careful not to crush you in the mating press. his hands release yours to cup your face gently, forehead pressing to yours as he catches his breath.
“i love you,” he whispers one more time, softer now, lips brushing yours in a tender kiss amid the sticky aftermath. "so much. would do anything for you."
with a sleepy response, you smile back at him, running a slow hand through his hair. “i love you too…”
and in that moment where the two of you are intertwined, you realize that this — not the sex, not the unhealthy obsession — just an open confession, was all it really took.
౨ৎ
there’s no moment where everything clicks into place all at once, no sweeping promise about the future, no guided pathway that determines what's going to happen next. life simply resumes — altered in small, meaningful ways, all so gentle.
izuku starts driving you home again, but now he asks.
sometimes you say yes. sometimes you don’t. either way, he smiles like the answer matters more than the outcome.
almost immediately, he took you on another date — the one that went the way both of you wanted it to go — a proper one filled with laughter and unhidden shame where he asked you out, apologizing profusely for the last.
you spend afternoons together in the art room, him half-working beside you, pretending not to watch while you sketch. he still notices everything — the way you chew on your pencil when you’re thinking, the way you tilt your head when a line isn’t right — but now he says it out loud instead of cataloguing it into the depths of his mind.
and he’ll just shrug, fond and unashamed. “exactly that.”
you go on dates that feel almost mundane in the best way — grocery runs that turn into dinners, quiet cafés where he orders for you without asking and gets it right every time. you stop wondering how he knows. he stops pretending he doesn’t.
at night, when you’re curled together, you talk about things you used to keep to yourself, him doing the same. the lines are clearer now. softer, shared in that unified way.
sometimes you catch him looking at you from across the room, that familiar focus in his eyes, and instead of shrinking under it, you hold his gaze.
he always looks a little surprised when you do, but there's always that warm truthful smile that follows after.
one evening, weeks later, you find the old box tucked away in the back of your closet. you and izuku have gone through it together, this time, there's no sugarcoated meaning. you told him how you felt at the time, and why you did it. izuku never shamed you.
you consider it for a long moment before closing the lid again — not out of shame, but because it no longer feels necessary. sometimes, whenever izuku comes over, he likes to joke about a particular photo you took of him where he thinks he looks bad, but in reality doesn't.
you don't have to be the secret admirer anymore.
he’s right there beside you, hand warm in yours, watching openly, loving deliberately.
and when he leans in to kiss you, quiet and familiar, it feels like the most natural continuation in the world, something you’re so undeserving of, but too selfish to let go.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤstalker! izuku midoriya x reader ── .✦ university au!
౨ৎ tw / cw (18+); yandere-implied izuku, law student! izuku, possibly ooc izuku, dry-humping, fingering, face-fucking, missionary, use of panties as a blindfold, praise-kink, piss-kink, alcohol & drug use, invasion of privacy, reader has a v, reader has a twt acc, violence [if some tags don't show up in this part, it will be in the next part]
౨ৎ synopsis; izuku midoriya, a motivated law student, all too known for an unshakable moral compass and a charmingly personality, tries to pry into your life.
꒰ care to note, this part is very like internal monologue, though...the next part i fear...oough prepare... part two here!
౨ৎ wc; 21k
"oh," izuku hummed out, amused as he soaked in the layout of your twitter blog. his eyes scanned the cute cat profile picture, smiling tenderly at your bio. it was nothing explicit — to be honest, there was nothing about it that seemed relatively interesting.
there was nothing about the account that indicated it could've been you; no trace, no sign, nothing about an age, or a name. he scrolled absentmindedly through your account, singing a quiet melody to himself, absorbing the person you were, the stuff that made you happy, the stuff that made you sad, little quiet blogs of your day that no one cared about. this was you blended into the internet without a care in the world.
his attention flickered to the tabs of your profile, noticing your likes were public. this was great for him! he could know actually what you liked, your interests, the content that you indulged in. maybe from there, he could slowly bleed into your life...
with a fast tap of his thumb, the page loaded almost instantly. izuku propped a pillow behind his neck, arm supporting his tussled hair as he began binging your likes.
you liked romance anime, that was cute. shounen, specifically. it was a undeniable observation that you loved other people’s daily rants, stories of nonsense, ‘am i the asshole’ stories that you’d find on reddit — all posted and liked within a timeline of 3-days.
izuku scrolled further down, bottom lip tucked between his teeth. something warm swelled in his chest from being able to digest parts of you like this. in a way, this was intimate to him, never would he have been able to know you like this just from your instagram posts alone. he’d have to pay hitoshi extra for this, simply just for gratitude, of course.
as he further swiped, the content began changing, bit by bit.
“f—fuck, right there!”
izuku’s eyes widened, quickly turning down the volume on his phone. heat bloomed across his freckled cheeks at the video, eyes dazed as his focus trained on the explicit movement on his screen: a close up shot of a man fucking into a woman, pussy making obscene slick sounds as she moaned.
“the fuck?” izuku frowned, scrolling further, only to come across a plethora of porn, all taken with a similar low quality resolution — all liked by you.
he didn’t want to pry further, all he wanted was to see what you were interested in, the things you liked, stuff that he could use to his advantage to merge into your life — not this.
but he couldn’t stop. the videos were filthy, majority of the short clips consisting of some form of explosive cumming from the male. so, you had a little breeding kink? that wasn't something he was sure he liked; besides, he didn't want kids yet.
he scrolled further, a faint tent growing in his sweats. it wasn't the porn that turned him on, it was the fact that you were leaving yourself bare and open for him, openly liking these filthy pornos, probably getting off to these, knowing you don't even have a man to recreate these with. he wondered if you touched yourself to these, did you like having your fingers inside of you? or were you the type to stimulate your clit. he thinks the latter.
his face turned into a grimace at a particular video that caught his eye. piss. golden shower. the first video was of a woman opening her mouth, lips spluttering as she drowned in piss, gurgling with a sweet smile on her face. the next was of a woman pissing on her partner mid cowgirl.
eurgh... to be honest, this was disgusting. izuku felt his cock soften at the videos, quickly swiping out off twitter — he'd seen enough. he stared up at his ceiling, eyes moving to watch the fan, an unchanging heat simmering in his chest.
his thoughts of you didn't change. how could they? you were this sweet thing he's had his eye on ever since bumping into you at the art club, so what if you got a little piss and breeding kink? maybe he could accommodate, or if that didn't work, maybe he could fix the way you thought — get rid of that porn addiction you obviously have. yeah! that sounds like a good idea, and in a way, he'd be saving you.
happy with his decision, he set his alarm for the next morning, snuggling in his sheets with a grin on his face. he knew exactly what to do, and how to make it work — how to make you fall for him.
𐙚
in the art room, you sat snugly in your leather seat, eyes eager as you drew in your sketchbook of some of your favorite fictional characters. the room was quiet, dust particles floating in the air, sunlight beaming through the glass windows and onto your skin.
for as long as you could remember, you loved drawing, painting, sketching, you name it. the feeling of graphite smooth on the underside of your palm, imagination coming to life on grained paper, brought something pleasant in your chest. it was a gateway from of your stressful academic life.
"that's a nice drawing," a gentle voice hummed out from behind you.
you almost flinch from the sound, instinctively covering your sketches with your arms. the page crumples a bit, bending at the corners as you turn to look at the voice.
oh, just your luck.
of course it had to be the cute law student, izuku midoriya.
you closed the notebook completely, leaning your chest over the cover, mustering a kind smile in an attempt to cover up the heat creeping up your neck. embarrassment twisted in your chest.
it’s childish, he shouldn’t see this.
you've seen him a couple times around here, nose buried in his note-book, scribbling notes no one's ever seen before. he was pretty popular around here, always bringing friends over, using the art room as a third-space. you and him have never talked before, but, you always noticed him. how could you not?
izuku was the law student everyone seemed to like without trying. he was soft-spoken, unfailingly kind with a voice that sounded like honey on toast, and eyes that always lingered like he was really listening.
he carried that boyish warmth in his features — gentle unruly curls, an expression that softened easily — balanced by his more mature features. a sharper jawline, a scar drawing down the right side of his cheek that wondered where he'd got it from, quiet confidence settling into the angles of his face, making him… distracting in a way you tried not to think about.
he was unfairly very nice to look at. you knew you never had a chance with him, so you never really thought about it.
you’d heard he’d recently received some sort of recognition award from the dean, mentioned in passing during lectures and whispered about in the halls, though he never brought it up himself. he didn’t seem like the type to.
izuku took a step back, moving into the chair swiftly beside you. "sorry, i didn't mean to scare you," he said, syllables practically dripping with honey, tone quiet and measured. "i just noticed you sketching some anime. i also like anime, too."
you scratched the nape of your neck awkwardly, arm still guarded on top of the cover. "y—yeah, it's nothing, though. just saw something like it the other day, so..." your lips thinned into a tight line, something panicked swarming in your chest. "i don't really know that much about anime so..."
izuku's lips curled upwards, leaning against his palm as he saw through your lie, noticing the undeniable blush on your cheeks. "if you don't mind, can i please look at your drawings? i won't judge," he asked, gesturing to the protected notebook as if he was testing his luck. "promise."
you paused, eyes drifting somewhere else in the room. suddenly the dried and crusty paintbrushes, brittle from misuse looked interesting.
you thought about his words, fingers trembling as you slowly pried the book open. it didn't take much convincing for you to nudge your book towards him, your pinky remaining secured on the edge of the page. "sure...yeah, yeah you can."
izuku shuffled his chair closer to yours, shoulders faintly brushing as angling his head so he could inspect you sketchbook. "thank you."
oh god.
he smelt so nice, especially up close. you almost felt as if you've just been winded.
the air around him hung with something masculine, warm, woody. you tried replaying to his words, but all you could think about was how pleasant he smelt, and the way he was practically invading your senses.
izuku waited for a fraction of a second for your response. seeing that you weren't going to say anything, his eyes narrowed onto your drawings, fingers thoughtful as he traced each sketch.
his eyes fell on a sketch of two characters kissing, thoughtful as he noticed a more intimate, vivid sketch below — a saliva string connected by two heated tongues.
"oh! um, please ignore that," you stammered out, face deepening a shade of red. a familiar twist of shame nestled in your chest as you resisted the urge to cover your face with your hands, wishing to melt into your seat and disappear.
izuku laughed, thoughtful as he turned to page to calm you down. "don't be embarrassed, it's really detailed. i like this detail here," he pointed at a fresh page which included a plethora of suggestive hand sketches. "these hand drawings are really good, mind me asking what they're meant to be doing?"
"i don't really know," you mumbled, pulling the sketchbook away already. you hadn't realized how explicit your sketches were until someone else was seeing it.
"seems pretty intimate," he commented, letting you close the cover once more. "i'm sorry, i hope you aren't embarrassed — there's nothing wrong with the content of your drawings at all. i hope you know that."
you nodded, chin tucked downwards as a feeble attempt to avoid his kind gaze. "i'm sorry i can't show you more."
izuku leaned back against the chair, observing you with understanding eyes. "okay, that's alright. i just want you to know that you're a very talented artist."
you turned to him, eyes still partially drawn away from his. "do you really mean that?"
"yeah, of course," izuku replied. "does it seem like i'm lying to you, y/n?"
your movements paused, hands stilling on the wooden table. "y—you know my name?"
izuku chuckled at your shock, his laugh warm against the quiet. "of course i know your name, y/n. you're always around here."
with an awkward laugh, "oh, that makes a lot of sense."
"my name's izuku midoriya, just if you were wondering as well," he added in quickly, hand reaching out.
of course you knew who izuku was. but you weren't surprised by his humbleness.
after staring at his hand for a while, you reached forward, your sweaty palms connecting with his calloused one — the contact so light and feathery. izuku, upon noticing the stiffness in your shoulders, adjusted immediately, loosening his grip.
“Izuku,” you repeat quietly to yourself, as if the name was something new.
he smiles at the sound of his name, small and careful. when he speaks again, it’s even softer, measured like he’s choosing each word with intention.
“...i really hope you didn't think i was judging you,” he says gently.
your shoulders sink a fraction, tension easing out of you in a way you hadn’t noticed was there. you look down at your sketchbook, thumb worrying at the bent corner of the page.
“i always feel like… if someone sees it, they’ll think it’s weird,” you admit, barely above a whisper. “or immature, or something.”
Izuku hums — quiet, understanding. he doesn’t contradict you right away, doesn’t rush to fix the feeling.
“i don’t think that at all,” he says eventually, voice low and reassuring. “didn't i tell you before i like anime? i wouldn't lie.”
you glance up at him, caught off guard by how certain he sounds—still soft, still gentle, but anchored. his expression is open, kind, unbelievely charming.
“just thought you were pretty cool, is all,” he adds quietly, almost like a vow, “I won’t ask you to show me anything you don’t want to.”
the words settle deep in your chest, warm and steady. that was the first time the two of you had properly talked.
the following days were filled with izuku popping by the art room. he didn’t hover invasively around you, solely maintaining a gentle greeting every now and then.
you’d nod curtly, passing him a quiet smile as your gaze followed his back down the sand-stone hallways — light filtering onto his curly hair.
you drew a little sketch of him absentmindedly, eyebrows fixed as you tried envisioning him from your last interaction. it wasn’t meant to be anything stalkerish or obsessive, it was just something that popped into your mind one day!
with your bottom lip tucked beneath your teeth, you carefully outlined the angle of his jawline, moving to draw his kind eyes. when you were done, you held your sketchbook back, analyzing the sketch from a distance, only to frown in response.
he looked insanely off here. was it the eyes? his nose maybe? or did you draw his lips too low.
“woah, my brows are pretty thin in this.”
“oh—omphh!” you scooted in your chair, almost sending yourself into an accident. “i—it’s not…if’s not what it looks like, i’m really sorry, i can rub it out if you feel uncomfortable, i swear!”
izuku’s intrigued eyes softened at the tremble in your lip, the way your hands began to shake as you reached for an eraser.
“hey hey hey, it’s okay,” he whispered out, hands reaching to pry to sketchbook back open. “may i look?”
your heart slowed in jagged rhythms, the remnants of your shock lingering as soft thumps patted against your ribs. you nodded, choking out a short response. “of course… go ahead.”
izuku eagerly pulled out the chair from beside you, plopping his bag beside him on the floor. the thump was relatively loud against the marble — an obvious indication of the volume of textbooks in his bag.
he leaned close, giving enough room for proximity. “you make me look pretty in these,” he commented thoughtfully, fingers drifting to trace the faint graphite where you’d erased and redrawn.
your face heated, a wobbly smile making it hard to even speak at all. “ah, really? heh.”
“yeah! i look really charming here,” he smiled as he pointed to another sketch at the corner of the page. “goodness, you’re incredible.”
his praise sent a shiver down your spine, sending heated waves across your chest. “i…i just drew what you looked like.”
izuku smirked to himself before it was quickly neutralized by surprise. “well then… i must be pretty then, is that right?”
you remained silent, eyes fixed on the sketch before you, mustering half a nod.
izuku noticed immediately.
izuku let out a quiet, thoughtful hum. “hey,” he said softly, leaning just a little closer. “you’re okay, right?”
you nodded again, fingers fidgeting with the edge of the page. “yeah. i just… didn’t expect you to see it.”
“mmm.” his smile was small, reassuring. “i kind of figured.”
you glanced up at him, startled. “you did?”
“a little,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “you get that look when you’re nervous, not that hard to tell.”
your heart squeezed at how easily he noticed.
he looked back down at the sketchbook, eyes gentle. “i really like these though,” he said, voice calm but sincere. “i'm kinda flattered.”
“i'm glad,” you murmured. “yeah...”
izuku chuckled quietly, the sound warm. “do you draw everyone you meet? or am i a one off exception.” he paused, glancing at you through his lashes. “if so, i don’t mind that at all.”
your face heated, your expression already giving away the answer. “this is so embarrassing.”
“yeah,” he said softly, smiling. “but not in a bad way.”
he reached out, fingertips hovering before lightly touching the corner of the page. “the rest of me looks accurate,” he noted gently. “i liked how you included my scar.”
you swallowed. “i didn’t want it to look wrong.”
“it doesn’t,” he said immediately. then, quieter, “it looks really nice.”
he closed the sketchbook carefully and slid it back to you, his fingers brushing yours in a way that felt electrifying.
“if you ever want to draw me again,” he added, voice almost shy despite the confidence beneath it, “you don’t have to hide it. i’d be okay with it.”
the way he said okay with it made your chest ache — gentle, steady, sincere. izuku midoriya was so kind...
𐙚
izuku grumbled to himself, staring at the pile of work layering the corner of his desk. he'd already completed a whole two, maybe it was three, hours of full-focused study, and he still had another case-study to go through. luckily, he started already, so he wasn't too stressed.
and besides, he deserved a break. after all, he's managed to maintain a smooth, impressive gpa after all this time, who's telling him he isn't allowed to have other hobbies outside of academia?
deciding so, izuku checked your twitter blog, refreshing the page with a swift swipe, eyes focused on the immediate difference of your posts.
misocats353368p
19012026.
today was really nice! i did some really cool sketches (won't show them), but someone saw them, which is kinda rare. anyway, i did some baking after my lectures and tutorials, this is what i made!
that was really sweet.
izuku smiled to himself, clicking on the photo of the blueberry cheesecake you had made, that honestly, looked underbaked. he doubted it'd taste any different, and it'd still taste delightful and flavorful, filled with the most delectable jam beneath the cream, and...
izuku turned his phone off, face down onto his desk. he stared down at the tent in his pants, sinking against his chair as he tilted his head back to inspect the ceiling without purpose. he softly palmed himself through his sweat, eyes fluttering as he mounded his hand around his erection.
he didn't know necessarily why he had this much interest in you to begin with. he wasn't sure if it was a crush, infatuation or boredom for some change in his life.
to start off — if he thought hard enough — he'd realize that he didn't really have any romantic feelings towards you, and that he was just chasing something interesting.
need less to say, that didn't mean he didn't want to get closer to you; to know you inside and out, but the feeling in his chest, it wasn't tender, nor was it delicate. he didn't know what it was, and a part of him knowingly felt bad about it.
maybe he just wanted to be your friend.
with a grunt, izuku came in his pants, sticky, and opaque against the grey of his sweats. he watched unintentionally, eyes fixed on the way it oozed through the material, beading into thick clumps on the surface of his crotch. it was so unexpected, but he had no time to question his body.
after izuku took a shower, washing off his sins and the haunting thoughts of you, as well as his feelings, he found himself back under the study lamp, warm against the back of his hand.
a notification dinged on his phone, loud and obnoxious. with a slightly impatient sigh, izuku unlocked his phone, reading the short brief message sent to him by a fellow member of the same society he was in — under a phone number izuku forgot to save.
xxx-xxx-xxx (maybe from ua. university???)
hey man, we proceeded with your management details for the networking ball, so it should be all sweet for next week.
also catering is all sweet and planned.
also iida said he was all good to scan tickets on entrance.
izuku felt relief settle into his shoulders, a tension he's been aware of for weeks finally coming to a cease. networking ball was coming, and it's taken quite a significant toll on his own mental health, despite it being something that should be fun. the planning, all rigorously thought out by him, took an absurd chunk of his time, and he was hoping by the time this was all over, he'd be able to have more free time.
maybe he'd go back to normal after this.
the following days, were probably easily described as hell. there was always someone in the committee that found a loophole to his organizing, even though there really wasn't any.
at the final meeting till the ball, izuku wanted to rip his hair out. the room casted with stale lighting, hung over the faces surrounding the oakwood table. familiar faces shared across different majors, all dedicated to get the ball running smoothly. yet, it felt that the workload all this time, has been placed onto him.
"izuku, have you considered the other employers that have made last minute—"
"yes, yes i have. i've already done that ages ago," izuku mumbled out, tone flatter than he'd intended.
"okay, then... just also checking, ITP wanted to run their program—"
izuku peered up from his laptop, a smirk filled with annoyance simmering beneath his expression. "riko, yes. i've considered it. everything you're listing down just to list, i've already dealt with it."
the other faces in the room laughed nervously at izuku's words, eyes flickering back down to their screens to organize any last finishing touches.
izuku took a moment to breath, posture straightening. "i just wanted to focus on our positions for next week, which shouldn't be too hard," he said, a little more softer now. "after this, i reckon we can wrap it up."
for the next following hour, conversations filled with thoughtful decisions and meaningful inputs filled the air, and by the end of it, izuku could feel light flitering from the end of the tunnel.
"thank you all for your hard work! i'll see you guys the day of the ball, 4pm sharp," izuku hummed out, nodding to each member, waiting patiently for the room to filter out before he locked up.
he already knew where his body wanted to take him, and he already knew what he wanted to see.
the afternoon sun casted a warm glow, long shadows slanting across the pavement, painting clouds with amber hues. the air felt cool against izuku's neck, anticipation nipping at him as he made his way to the art block.
by the time he reached the room, pearlescent rainbow glass muting the shadow of you inside, he felt all the oxygen he's been depriving himself of finally come back. of course you'd be here.
instead of sneaking behind you — a silly habit of his — he decided to make his presence known.
"hi," he said softly, careful to not disturb the other students in the room minding their own business.
you smiled softly, movements slow as you adjusted to his presence unrushed. this was good, just what he wanted.
"oh, hi izuku!" you squeaked out, voice a bit wobbly, despite him knowing it wasn't on purpose. the way you said his name sent a satisfied swell throughout his stomach, cresting into something victorious as he settled beside you.
"what are you working on today? how were classes?" he asked, tuning in on the way you didn't flinch this time, fingers continuing to sketch soft details on the open page.
you flushed at his question, a look of surprise spreading across your face. it was as if this was the first time someone's asked you this many questions. "it was okay..." you replied, almost too fast and dismissive. "oh, i'm just drawing some anatomy, i got inspired today."
izuku leaned further, attention fully fixed on the careful movements from your hand. he tried to give himself time to understand your dismissiveness to the latter of his question, but decided maybe it was nothing. "really? inspiration from?"
you paused at his words, lips tucked into each other.
izuku's eyes creased tenderly at the sight, amusement written all over his face. "anime, maybe?"
you nodded, subconsciously leaning into your palm to hide the faint blush on your cheeks. "yeah...something like that."
izuku laughed as he pulled out his equipment from his bag, opting to savor this moment with you as much as possible. after all, he deserved it.
"mind if i stay here, and get some work done?"
you glanced up fully, wandering eyes skimming over his hands, prominent veins and tethered skin clasped around his ridiculously-sized textbook as he fiddled through the pages worn with time.
"yeah! that's okay," you replied, voice rejecting your quiet nature as you quickly turned back to your drawings. "if...if you want to talk, or if you just want to sit in silence— just let me know.."
izuku perked at your words, surprisal blooming his features. "what would you want? i can do both."
you kept your eyes on the ligament you were sketching out, brows furrowed. "maybe...sit in silence?"
izuku nodded, happy. "we can do that. of course we can do that."
with that, izuku strained his focus to the work before him. suddenly, the load of content and high-volume reading didn’t weigh heavy anymore.
maybe this is what he wanted the whole time. maybe he really just wanted to be your friend; to bask in your delicate nature as you lived in the center of it. maybe he just liked the calm within you, the brightness in your eyes that flickered whenever you were in your own little world.
the scent of you, powdery and light, brought a calm haze to him that he couldn’t even phantom. it worked like meditation within him, drawing out a euphoria as his mind filtered from all the stress earlier. with you beside him, everything wrong, everything stressful in his life, seemed to water in your essence.
the room hummed quietly, the ac whirring at a freezing temperature by the time the sun kissed the horizon, deep blue cascading the sky into a lilac purple.
he hadn’t noticed this whole time, but somewhere within the hour, you’ve switched from drawing to studying too. he wanted to question you on what you were studying, but the way your brows knitted in concentration, lips pursed in thought — he couldn’t have. he didn’t want to.
instead, his eyes flickered back to the case study he was meaning to wrap up.
he waited till you initiated the goodbye, which never came. izuku set down his pen, a smile faint on his face. “we should pack up, hey?”
his eyes scanned through your unbreakable focus, furrowing at the way your shoulder tensed when you wrote something down.
“y/n?” he said softly, careful. he closed his textbook, the sound alerting you from your trance.
you startled, eyes blinking rapidly as if you’d just surfaced from underwater. “oh—” your gaze flicked to the window, then back to him, sheepish. “i’m sorry. i didn’t realise how long i was… like that.”
izuku smiled, small and apologetic. “no, it’s okay. i just—” he hesitated, fingers brushing the edge of his notebook. “it’s getting kind of late. i didn’t mean to interrupt you if you were in the middle of something.”
“no,” you shook your head quickly. “thank you, actually.” you let out a quiet laugh, breathy. “if you hadn’t said anything, i probably still would’ve been here.”
his brows knit, just slightly.
“…still?” he echoed, not questioning, just simply processing.
you shrugged, a little embarrassed. “yeah. i tend to lose track of time when i’m trying to get something right.”
izuku leaned back in his chair, eyes drifting to you in that thoughtful way he had — like he was carefully rearranging pieces in his mind. “so,” he said gently, “you’re kind of a perfectionist.”
you froze for half a second, then smiled crookedly. “aha… i guess i am.”
“mm.” he hummed, nodding once. “that makes sense.”
you glanced at him. “does it?”
“yeah,” he said easily. “the way you focus. you don’t stop until it feels finished to you. not just done.”
the warmth in your chest was unexpected. “…you noticed that?”
he laughed softly, rubbing the back of his neck. “i notice a lot, i think.” then, quieter, almost uncertain, “i mean— i do the same thing. i think. maybe.”
you paused, studying him now — really looking. the way his shoulders held tension even while relaxed. the way his notes were meticulously annotated, all messy, but still there, detailed.
“…i think you have perfectionist tendencies,” you said gently.
he blinked. once. then smiled, slow. “yeah,” he admitted. “i was afraid you’d say that.”
your laugh came out softer than you expected.
and for a moment, neither of you moved — like you’d both just recognised something familiar in each other, something quiet and unspoken, sitting comfortably between you.
the two of you packed up slowly, neither rushing, the quiet stretching comfortably between movements. izuku slipped his pens back into their case with practiced neatness, while you carefully slid your notebook into your bag, fingers lingering on the cover as if reluctant to close it.
outside, the campus had softened into night.
lamps lined the pathways, casting warm halos over the concrete, cicadas humming faintly from the trees. the air was cool — not cold, just enough to raise goosebumps along your arms. you adjusted your bag higher on your shoulder as the two of you began walking, steps falling into an easy rhythm.
it felt natural. too natural.
izuku walked beside you, hands tucked into his pockets, posture relaxed but attentive. every so often, his gaze flicked your way — not staring, just checking. like he wanted to make sure you were still there.
“did you park on campus?” he asked casually.
“no,” you replied. “i usually just walk.”
he slowed a fraction. “all the way home?”
“yeah,” you nodded. “it’s not too bad.”
he didn’t respond right away. instead, he glanced at the darkened stretch of road beyond the gates, brows knitting almost imperceptibly.
“…it’s pretty late,” he said after a moment.
you shrugged lightly. “i don’t really notice the time when i’m studying.”
he smiled at that, fond. “yeah. i can tell.”
the gates creaked softly as you passed through them, the world outside campus quieter somehow, more exposed. cars passed occasionally, headlights washing briefly over the pavement before disappearing again.
izuku cleared his throat. “hey,” he hesitated, then glanced at you. “i could give you a ride, if you want.”
you stopped walking.
not abruptly — just enough that he noticed immediately and halted too, concern flickering across his face.
“oh— sorry,” he said quickly. “i didn’t mean to put you on the spot or anything, i just thought—”
“no, no,” you shook your head, heat creeping into your cheeks. “it’s really nice of you, i just… i think i’m okay. i wouldn’t want to bother you.”
his eyes widened slightly. “bother me?”
“yeah,” you laughed quietly, embarrassed. “you’ve already been here so long, and i know you’re busy, and—”
he cut you off gently. “hey.”
the single word was soft, but it stopped your spiral instantly.
he turned toward you fully now, expression earnest. “you wouldn’t be bothering me. at all.”
you hesitated. “i mean… it’s my choice to walk. i don’t want you to feel like you have to.”
izuku exhaled slowly, thinking. “it’s not that i feel like i have to,” he said. then, more quietly, “i just don’t think i’d be able to sleep if i let you walk home alone this late.”
your heart stumbled.
“…oh,” you murmured.
he rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly a little bashful. “that probably sounded dramatic. sorry.”
“no,” you said quickly. “it didn’t, i get it.”
the streetlamp above you flickered softly, bathing his face in warm light. you noticed things you probably shouldn’t have — the faint tiredness under his eyes, the loosened collar of his shirt, the way his shoulders relaxed when you didn’t immediately shut him down.
you looked away first. “you’re… really considerate.”
he smiled, small. “i try.”
the two of you resumed walking, a little closer now than before. your arms brushed once accidentally and neither of you moved away.
“where do you live?” he asked.
you told him. his brows lifted. “that’s not close.”
“…i know.”
he hummed, thoughtful again. “yeah. i’m definitely not letting you walk.”
you laughed, startled. “izuku—”
“i mean,” he corrected quickly, smiling sheepishly, “only if you’re comfortable. i don’t want to pressure you.”
you slowed again, turning the decision over in your mind. you weren’t afraid — not of him — just unused to being… looked after like this.
“…would you really be okay with it?” you asked quietly.
he met your gaze without hesitation. “yeah. i would.”
something in his voice — steady, certain — made your chest ache.
“…okay,” you said at last. “if you’re sure.”
his smile bloomed instantly, brighter than the streetlights. “i am.”
he led you toward the parking lot, steps light, like a weight had lifted from him. his car wasn’t far — a modest thing, clean, well-kept, obviously not within your budget. he unlocked it quickly and moved without thinking to open the passenger door for you.
“oh,” you said softly. “thank you.”
he froze for half a second, then laughed quietly. “right. sorry. habit.”
you climbed in, smoothing your skirt over your knees as he shut the door gently. the interior smelled faintly of clean fabric and something warm — coffee, maybe. comforting, woody.
when he slid into the driver’s seat, there was a brief, charged silence before the engine turned over.
“…i’m glad you said yes,” he admitted, eyes still on the road as he pulled out.
“me too,” you said before you could overthink it.
he glanced at you, surprised, then smiled with that boyish look.
the drive was quiet in the best way. not awkward, just calm. the kind of silence that felt shared rather than empty. streetlights blurred past, casting soft shadows across the dashboard.
the road unspooled quietly beneath the headlights, a familiar route izuku could probably drive with his eyes closed, but tonight, he was more aware of the way the steering wheel felt under his palms, the way the accelerator felt more sensitive tonight, the low hum of the engine, the steady rhythm of his own breathing. and you.
you sat beside him, small movements only, tucking your hands into your sleeves, gaze drifting out the window as the city lights passed in soft blurs. you looked calmer now. like something heavy had finally been set down, and you were trusting him. he realized, dimly, that his chest felt lighter too.
izuku had been calling it a lot of things in his head. concern. attentiveness. curiosity. he’d analyzed it from every angle, turned it over like a case study, tried to label it cleanly so it wouldn’t spill into anything messier. obsession felt too sharp a word, but it hovered there anyway, the way his thoughts circled back to you without permission, the way he noticed the smallest changes in your expression, the way silence felt different when you were in it with him.
but sitting here now, he felt something shift. it wasn’t urgency. it wasn’t even that familiar, buzzing anxiety he got when he cared too much. it was ease, simplicity.
he liked the quiet with you — they way that it didn’t demand conversation, didn’t make him reach for explanations or justifications. the kind that let him exist without performing, without solving, without proving anything at all.
he glanced at you from the corner of his eye, just once, careful not to linger. your lashes cast soft shadows against your cheeks, lips parted slightly as you breathed. peaceful. present.
he thought, suddenly, that maybe he’d been wrong to frame it as obsession at all.
maybe he just liked being around you.
liked the way time softened when you were near. the way the world felt less sharp at the edges. the way he didn’t feel the need to be switched on — heroic, driven, composed — but could just be... izuku, quietly driving a car through half-lit streets with someone he trusted beside him.
a breath of air, he thought. that’s what you felt like.
his grip on the wheel loosened without him realising.
maybe he hadn’t wanted anything complicated from you at all.
maybe he just wanted to sit next to you, walk with you, study in the same room, make sure you got home safe, hear you talk about the things you cared about. notice the way you furrowed your brows when you were thinking too hard and gently pull you back before you disappeared into yourself.
maybe he’d wanted to be your friend this whole time.
the thought didn’t disappoint him the way he might’ve expected. it didn’t feel like a step down, or a consolation prize. it was normal, how it should've been.
he breathed out slowly, a small smile ghosting across his lips as he turned onto your street.
you shifted beside him, glancing over. “is everything okay?”
“yeah,” he said easily, meaning it. “just thinking.”
you smiled, soft and tired, and looked back out the window.
“…you know,” he said eventually, “about earlier.”
you looked at him. “yeah?”
“the perfectionist thing,” he continued. “i didn’t mean it as a bad thing.”
“i didn’t take it that way at all.”
“good,” he said. “because i feel like you care a lot. but… that’s not something i’d want you to lose.”
when the car slowed near your place, your heart sank just a little — the night already slipping away from you.
he parked and turned the engine off, the sudden quiet settling between you.
“thank you for the ride,” you smiled bashfully.
“anytime,” he replied. then, softer, “really.”
you hesitated, fingers tightening on your bag strap. “um… maybe next time, i won’t stay so late.”
he chuckled. “maybe next time, i’ll just remind you earlier.”
you smiled, stepping out of izuku's line of vision.
𐙚
izuku had memorized the schedule down to the minute.
doors at seven, opening remarks at seven-fifteen, first rotation at seven-thirty. networking clusters evenly spaced, lighting adjusted warm but not dim, music low enough that conversations wouldn’t strain.
he’d triple-checked the seating chart, colour-coded the committee roles, walked the ballroom twice before guests even arrived.
everything was set. that was supposed to be reassuring.
instead, he felt oddly restless as he stood near the entrance, blazer smooth against his shoulders, tie sitting exactly where it should. people filtered in steadily now, familiar faces, polite smiles, introductions layered over one another like static. he greeted them all easily, instinctively slipping into the role he knew well: capable, composed, dependable.
this was what he was good at.
“midoriya,” one of the committee members called quietly, clipboard tucked under her arm. “the west tables are ready.”
“great!” he nodded. “thank you.”
he took a breath, scanning the room.
it looked beautiful — he could admit that much to himself. soft gold lighting reflecting off polished floors, banners hung just right, the low hum of conversation building like a living thing. maybe over exceeding the budget was worth it.
and yet, his eyes kept drifting back to the entrance.
he told himself it was habit, he was just monitoring flow. making sure check-in was smooth. but every time the doors opened, something in his chest tightened, then eased — a quiet, unconscious rhythm.
don’t overthink it, he told himself. he’d done that enough lately, especially with you.
“you okay?” another committee member asked as she passed him a glass of water.
“yeah,” he replied easily. “just making sure everything’s running on time.”
she smiled. “of course you are.”
as she moved away, izuku let out a slow breath. his reflection caught his eye in one of the tall mirrors lining the wall. he looked put together, more than usual. he’d spent longer than he cared to admit choosing his tie, adjusting his collar, smoothing his hair, curls still messy.
still, there was that faint, persistent thought he hadn’t been able to shake all evening — the sense that something was missing, or perhaps waiting.
the doors opened again.
and this time, his breath caught for real.
it wasn’t dramatic. no music swell, no sudden silence. just the simple, unmistakable feeling of his attention snapping into focus.
you stepped inside.
for a second, he didn’t recognize you, not because you looked unfamiliar, but because you looked different. dressed up, softer and sharper all at once. the satin fabric you wore moved when you did, catching the light, and suddenly he was acutely aware of how underprepared he felt for this version of you.
you glanced around the room, tentative but curious, fingers brushing the strap of your bag before you let it fall. you looked like you were deciding where you belonged, how to blend in, but really you stood out.
izuku forgot the schedule.
forgot the rotation times, the carefully planned flow of the evening. all he could do was stand there, heart doing unhelpful and frantic in his chest as he watched you take a few steps forward.
you hadn’t told him you were coming.
the thought landed with surprising weight.
of course you hadn’t, you weren’t on the committee. you weren’t required to update him on your plans. and yet, a small, irrational part of him felt caught off guard in a way he couldn’t quite explain.
you looked… so nervous.
he noticed it immediately. the way your shoulders sat just a little tense, the way your gaze flicked between clusters of people before settling on nothing at all. it was the same look you got when you were thinking too hard, when you were quietly bracing yourself.
without thinking, his feet moved.
he stopped himself halfway.
you're your own person.
still, his attention stayed tethered to you as he forced himself to greet another guest of another company, respond to a question about seating, nod politely through small talk that suddenly felt distant and unreal.
when he looked back, you were further inside now, talking to someone he didn’t recognize. you smiled politely, hands folded in front of you.
that was… new. a warmth swelled across his chest at the sight of you easing.
but, something unfamiliar tugged at him, not jealousy, exactly. just awareness. the quiet realization that you existed in rooms he didn’t always control, that people saw you the way he did, maybe even for the first time.
it shouldn’t have unsettled him, but it did.
izuku retreated to the side of the room under the pretence of checking timing, though he already knew everything was running smoothly. his thoughts felt louder than the ballroom now.
he wondered what had convinced you to come to this. curiosity, maybe. obligation, or perhaps you’d simply wanted to step outside your usual orbit, test the edges of something new.
the idea made his chest tighten, and that's where he caught his obsession for you. it was filled with a careful kind of concern, one that might have been compromising.
would you be okay?
he watched as you laughed softly at something someone had said, the sound lost in the larger noise of the room but visible in the way your shoulders loosened. okay, okay, good. you weren’t uncomfortable.
still, he felt that familiar urge rise to check in, to ground you, to make sure you weren’t disappearing into yourself.
he resisted it. for now.
this was your space too, after all. you weren't this little project for him anymore, you were a genuine person.
as the first official rotation was announced, the room shifted, people rearranging themselves as planned. everything working exactly as it should. izuku straightened, refocusing, slipping back into his role, he had to focus.
but every so often between introductions, between nods and handshakes his gaze drifted back to you.
and each time, he felt it again. that quiet, undeniable truth settling deeper with every passing moment:
he’d organised the entire night. every detail, every position, every outcome. except for you.
he wasn't sure if he could handle that.
“midoriya,” a familiar voice called, pulling him from his thoughts.
he turned just in time to be greeted by a small cluster from his law cohort, all dressed sharper than usual, expressions bright with that polished ease people wore at events like this.
“wow,” one of them laughed lightly, eyes flicking over him. “charming as per usual. the venue's gorgeous.”
another nodded in agreement. “seriously. better than first year.”
izuku felt heat creep into his ears. “ah— thank you,” he said quickly, waving it off. “it was a team effort.”
“still,” the first added, teasing. “you always look like you belong at these things.”
he smiled, polite and practiced, answering their questions, accepting the compliments with a kind of careful gratitude. this was familiar territory, his domain — praise delivered cleanly, friendly.
past the hum of conversation, past the clink of glasses and low laughter, his gaze landed on the far side of the room — near one of the smaller tables tucked just off the main flow.
he was halfway through excusing himself from another conversation when it happened.
not a sound. not a call of his name, just the feeling, similar to a gravitational force.
that sudden, unmistakable pull in his chest, like something tightening and warming all at once, made him look up without thinking.
and there you were, all kind and polite. you’d spotted him across the room.
he saw it instantly, the way your posture shifted, how your eyes widened just a little before brightening completely. your mouth curved into a smile that was entirely unguarded, relief and recognition woven together so naturally it caught him off balance.
oh.
his breath hitched, barely noticeable, but real.
you raised a hand in a small wave, already stepping toward him, weaving through the clusters of people with careful determination. he watched you approach, unable to look away.
he hadn’t realized, not really, how much he’d wanted you to see him here.
“izuku!” you said when you reached him, voice warm, eyes still shining. “i was wondering if you’d be here.”
he laughed softly, a little breathless. “yeah. um—” he gestured vaguely around the ballroom. “i kind of had to be.”
you blinked.
your gaze swept the room — the banners, the committee members, the smooth orchestration of movement — then snapped back to him, incredulous.
“you didn’t tell me you planned this whole thing.”
his ears flushed instantly, all solid confidence flushed down the drain under your warm eyes. “oh—i didn’t plan all of it. i mean, i was on the committee, and—”
you stared at him for a second longer before laughing, the sound light and genuine. “izuku.”
the way you said his name, fond, amused, all in that pretty tone, sent that tingle through him again, sharper this time, lower.
“you’re incredible,” you added, shaking your head. “this is amazing. it's really nice here.”
he rubbed the back of his neck, smiling shyly. “i’m really glad you think so.”
“of course i do,” you said easily. “i mean—look at this.” you gestured around again, eyes sparkling. “it’s kind of perfect.”
perfect. the word landed heavier than it should have, more meaningful, more like a praise.
he glanced at you, noticing the way your excitement softened the edges of your nervousness, how standing here with him seemed to ground you just a little. your shoulders weren’t as tense now. your smile came easier, you weren't like the person he talked to a week ago.
and something in him eased in response — it meant you were getting comfortable with him.
“are you enjoying it?” he asked gently. “really.”
you hesitated, just a fraction, then nodded, a bit certain. “yeah. i am.” you smiled again, smaller this time. “i just needed a second to breathe earlier.”
he nodded, unsurprised. “yeah. i thought maybe.”
you tilted your head. “you did?”
“mhm.” he smiled. “you get this look when things get loud, didn't we talk about this before?”
your eyes softened. “you really do notice everything...”
he laughed quietly. “i try not to.”
there was a pause. and in that moment, izuku was aware of how close you were standing now, how easy it would be to stay here all night. how easy it would be to just drift away from the crowd and be with you.
“i’m glad you came,” he said finally.
your smile returned in full. “me too. especially now.”
the room shifted around you as the next rotation was announced, voices rising and moving in waves. someone brushed past, apologizing quickly, the noise swelling to a loud crescendo.
izuku hesitated, then gestured toward the quieter edge of the room. “do you want to walk for a bit? i can show you where we planned the less overwhelming spots.”
your eyes lit up again, all in that way izuku adored. “i’d love that.”
as the two of you moved together, izuku became aware of how different this felt from everything else he’d orchestrated tonight. schedules could be adjusted, lighting could be fixed, conversations could be guided. everything would've been fine.
but this — the warmth in his chest, the way your presence softened the sharpness of the evening — wasn’t something he could ever plan.
it just happened and for the first time all night, he stopped thinking about whether everything was running perfectly, because standing beside you, watching your face light up like that — that felt more than enough.
izuku heard the next rotation announcement clearly this time.
seven-forty five. cluster b and c transition. something about the west table rotate clockwise. exactly as outlined. exactly as prepared.
he felt the familiar reflex rise — the instinct to move, to oversee, to ensure nothing slipped through the cracks. it had lived in him for so long it felt automatic, like breathing, especially in this lived role.
but then he stopped, he didn’t need to.
every contingency had been accounted for, every loophole closed. he’d walked the room twice, briefed the committee, adjusted for worst-case scenarios that never came. the system didn’t hinge on his constant presence anymore, there was nothing more he could do.
tonight was already perfect.
the thought settled, solid and calm.
all he just needed to do was enjoy the night himself.
he let his shoulders drop, just slightly.
he glanced at you again, the way you stood beside him, eyes following the movement of the room with a quiet curiosity rather than obligation. you weren’t measuring outcomes or impressions, you were just like him. just trying to enjoy the night.
and suddenly, the choice felt easy.
fuck talking to other people.
fuck the endless cycle of introductions and polite interest and performative charm. he’d done his part — more than his part. the night didn’t need him to keep proving it.
what it hadn’t planned for was you.
he slowed his pace, matching yours again, attention narrowing deliberately. when another committee member’s eyes flicked toward him from across the room, searching, he met her gaze briefly, calm, assured, then nodded once.
a silent it’s fine.
he turned back to you, voice warm. “hey. do you want to sit somewhere quieter, even quieter?”
you looked surprised, then thoughtful. “aren’t you busy?”
he smiled. “i was. not right now. i think they can handle.”
something in his tone made your shoulders ease immediately. “okay,” you said. “i’d like that.”
as the two of you moved toward the edge of the ballroom, the hum of conversation continued uninterrupted. people rotated, laughed, exchanged cards. the night unfolded exactly as he’d designed it to.
he took a seat across from you, the space between you unhurried, intentional. the windows beside you reflected soft light, the city beyond blurred and distant.
for the first time that evening, izuku wasn’t tracking time.
fuck talking to other people, he thought again, this time without heat. without rebellion.
the ballroom noise had softened into something distant here by the windows, the music reduced to a low thread beneath conversation. the table between them was small, round, intimate — two glasses of water, one abandoned dessert plate, the soft reflection of light rippling across its surface.
izuku rested his forearms lightly against the edge, posture relaxed in a way he rarely allowed himself. he should’ve been scanning the room, checking on guests, but he didn't want to.
instead, he was watching you.
you were speaking — something about your classes, your schedule — your hands moving slightly as you talked, fingers tracing shapes in the air without you realising. every so often, you paused to think, gaze lifting briefly toward the ceiling before returning to him.
he nodded along, listening. really listening. at least, he tried to.
“so i’m technically in law,” you were saying, voice calm, a little hesitant. “but it’s a double degree.”
that caught his attention properly.
“you are?” he asked, surprised. “law?”
you laughed softly, shyly. “yeah. i don’t usually advertise it.”
“why not?”
you shrugged, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. the motion was small, unconscious, yet it did something unsettling to his chest. “i don’t know. i guess i don’t feel very… law-coded.”
he smiled at that. “what does that even mean?”
“you know,” you said, amused. “confident or outspoken. ready to argue at any given moment. kinda like you.”
he huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “that’s not all of us.”
you glanced at him, eyes warm. “i suppose...”
something about the way you said it — not complimentary exactly, just observant — made his breath hitch.
“what’s the other degree?” he asked.
“arts,” you replied. “i like the balance. something structured, something… softer.”
he nodded slowly. “that makes sense.”
and it did. everything about you made sense in that quiet, inevitable way, like if he’d been paying attention properly all along, he would’ve seen it coming. you were this ball of comfort that bleed into his life, filling it with sunshine.
you continued talking, explaining how you ended up there, how one degree grounded you and the other let you breathe, the one that let you be yourself. he watched your face as you spoke, the way your expression shifted subtly with each thought — earnest, careful, a little self-conscious when you worried you were rambling.
“sorry,” you said suddenly, smiling apologetically, flashing him that meek look. “i’m talking a lot.”
“no,” he said immediately. “please don’t stop.”
you blinked. “oh.”
he cleared his throat, heat creeping into his ears. “i like hearing you talk.”
your smile softened, something gentler settling into your features. “okay.”
you kept going, and that was the problem.
because the longer you spoke, the harder it became for him to stay anchored to the words themselves. his attention drifted — not away from you, but deeper into you. into the way the light caught on your cheekbone when you turned your head. into the faint curve of your smile when you found the right phrasing, all so sure of yourself when you did. into the way you looked at him when you were trying to make sure he understood, the slight furrow in your brows.
he did understand, of course he did.
he realised, with a quiet jolt, that he’d stopped thinking in sentences. stopped analysing, categorising, planning, everything around him, you. his thoughts came slower now, softer, reduced to simple impressions.
beautiful. you were so beautiful it dulled everything around him.
there was no other word that fit.
not in a dramatic sense. not in a way that demanded attention. just… undeniably, painfully beautiful in the way you existed so naturally in front of him.
he’d seen you before, of course — studying, walking through campus, sitting across from him with notebooks between you, you were sweetly addicting like that. but tonight, something was different. maybe it was the way you’d dressed, or the way the dim lighting softened everything it touched. maybe it was the way you seemed more open, less guarded, like you’d decided — just for tonight — not to hide. this was you.
he swallowed, forcing himself to refocus as you asked, “what about you?”
“me?”
“yeah,” you said. “how did you end up in law?”
he almost laughed at the timing.
“uh,” he started, then paused, collecting himself. “i think i always knew. in a way, i think it was something i always wanted to get into.”
you leaned forward slightly, attentive. “because of justice stuff?”
he smiled. “that obvious?”
“kind of,” you admitted. “you have that look, like you care a lot.”
the words landed gently, but they stayed, bringing him a sense of deja vu.
“yeah,” he said quietly. “i do.”
you nodded, satisfied. “that makes sense.”
he found himself smiling back without thinking, something warm and gnetle spreading through his chest.
this, this was dangerous.
not because it felt wrong, but because it felt easy, because sitting here with you didn’t require effort or performance or vigilance. because for the first time all evening, his mind wasn’t split between ten different responsibilities.
it was just you. it was the only thing filling his mind at this point.
you paused, noticing his silence. “are you okay? you’re doing that thing again.”
“what thing?”
“staring,” you said gently, observant.
his breath caught.
“sorry,” he said quickly. “i don't mean to.”
it was your turn to interrupt him. “it’s okay, i'm not judging.”
you held his gaze, unbothered. maybe even a little curious, something inviting beneath your gaze.
for a moment, once more, neither of you spoke.
the space between you felt fragile, like something easily broken if either of you moved too quickly — izuku didn't want that.
izuku felt the yearning then — properly, unmistakably. not sharp or desperate, but deep and steady, like a current pulling at him from somewhere beneath his ribs.
he wanted to reach out. not to touch you, not yet — just to exist a little closer. to stay in this pocket of quiet longer than the night technically allowed.
he wanted to know you. not in fragments or shared moments, but fully — your habits, your contradictions, the way your mind worked when you weren’t trying to be careful. he didn't want to just know what you liked, what your interests were surface-level, he wanted to know the mundane things, your routine, which food you liked because it reminded you of your childhood. he wanted to absorb all of you.
and the realisation scared him, just a little.
because he didn’t want to rush it. this wasn't just the meek girl in the art room who stayed afterhours, this was someone he genuinely...
whatever this was, it deserved patience.
“…i’m really glad you came tonight,” he said softly.
you smiled, something tender in it. “me too.”
and as the night continued around them — the networking, the conversations, the perfectly planned flow — izuku stayed right where he was, trying to memorize the feeling of this moment.
he wanted to engrave you into his skin, breath you in like oxygen and hold you like you were the only form of matter on this planet. the sound of your voice. the warmth in his chest. the quiet certainty that for once, wanting something didn’t feel like a problem to solve.
it just felt like something to hold.
he tried, really tried, to follow what you were saying.
but you looked too pretty. so fucking pretty, it almost felt unfair.
the golden lights hitting the shine of your dress, caught the warm light every time you moved, clinging to you. it glowed softly, the fabric pooling and shifting when you breathed, constricting around your chest when you leaned forward, when you laughed under your breath.
and your eyes — god.
they looked endearing under the lights, softened by the glow, thoughtful and gentle in a way that made his chest ache. you listened the same way you always did, fully. like every word mattered. like people were worth holding space for. there was something so mindful about you, so careful, and it made him want to be careful too.
your cheeks were flushed, not with nerves exactly — with kindness. with warmth. like the room hadn’t overwhelmed you after all, like you’d found a way to exist inside it without losing yourself, allowing yourself to be free around him. the color bloomed there naturally, and he had to stop himself from staring at it, from wondering what it would feel like to cup your face and feel that warmth beneath his palms.
and your hair.
pulled up, neat and intentional, a careful updo that spoke of time and patience. not rushed. not careless. soft intentional curls framed your face, falling just loose enough to shadow the softness of your cheeks. gentle. deliberate. beautiful in a way that didn’t try to be anything else.
he swallowed, pulse loud in his ears.
if he had known how gorgeous you'd look under these warm lights, under the disco ball above iridescent against your skin, he might've just planned a second ball just to see you like this again.
get it together, izuku.
but he couldn’t stop thinking about how much care must’ve gone into this. how you’d probably stood in front of a mirror, adjusting, fixing, hesitating — wondering if this was too much or not enough. how you might’ve almost undone it, almost chosen something safer, something smaller.
and yet here you were.
sitting across from him, hands folded neatly, voice soft, eyes bright — completely unaware of the way you were undoing him piece by piece.
he realised then that this wasn’t just attraction. it wasn’t novelty, or the dim lighting, or the elegance of the night.
it was the way you existed so gently in the world.
and fuck — he didn’t know what to do with that yet, so he stayed quiet. he listened. he held the moment carefully, filing this image of you carefully into his mind.
because wanting you like this — silently, reverently — felt too important to rush, far too valuable to treat as a little project.
the ball thinned out gradually.
not all at once — just in small, polite waves. conversations wrapped up. coats and blazers were collected. laughter softened into goodbyes. the music dimmed, almost imperceptibly, like the room itself was beginning to exhale.
izuku noticed it the way he noticed everything.
he’d already been thanked three times; already assured that it had gone beautifully, that the night was a success, that the committee could handle the rest of the cleanup. someone mentioned the afterparty in passing — a loose plan, informal, nothing he needed to oversee.
he nodded. smiled. filed it away. and then forgot about it entirely.
because you shifted in your seat beside him, smoothing your dress as you glanced toward the exit.
“i should probably head off soon,” you said softly, eyes creasing in that apologetic sense. “it’s getting late.”
something in his chest tightened — not sharply, just enough to register.
“yeah,” he replied. “i was thinking the same.”
you stood first, slipping your bag over your shoulder. the movement drew his eyes again, traitorous, lingering. the golden shimmer of your dress caught the light one last time, and he felt that familiar ache settle low and steady.
you waited for him without asking.
he stood, too.
the walk toward the entrance was unhurried. the room looked different now — emptier, less demanding. the work was done. the night had unfolded exactly as planned.
except for this part.
he stopped near the doors, the cool air from outside brushing faintly against his neck.
izuku hesitated.
he’d offered before. a few days ago. the night at that time, felt simpler. because he didn't feel this strongly not too long ago, but this felt different — heavier somehow, more deliberate.
“um,” he started, then cleared his throat. “do you want a ride home?”
you blinked, surprised — then smiled apologetically. “oh, it’s okay. i can just grab a taxi.”
he nodded automatically.
and then, in his head, something stalled. what was he thinking?
a taxi meant waiting. standing alone under streetlights. a stranger behind the wheel. it meant letting you disappear into the night like you were just another variable, another thing he didn’t need to think about.
and that, that felt wrong.
uncomfortable. an inconvenience.
the thought surfaced unbidden, clear and undeniable.
it’s never an inconvenience when it’s you.
the realisation startled him with its honesty.
he looked at you again — the way you stood there, composed but tired, eyes slightly lidded, still soft around the edges despite the long night. the way your fingers curled lightly around your bag strap, like you were already halfway gone.
“please,” he said instead, more firmly this time. “really. i’m heading that way anyway.”
it wasn’t a lie.
not exactly.
you hesitated. “are you sure? you’ve probably had a long night.”
he almost laughed.
“yeah,” he admitted. “but this part’s easy. can't let a pretty girl going home alone can i?”
you studied his face for a moment, like you were weighing something — then nodded. “oh! uh— okay, if you’re sure.”
“i am,” he said, without hesitation, already guiding you.
outside, the night air was cooler, quieter. the exterior of the venue's lights cast long shadows across the pavement as you walked side by side, close enough that your arms brushed once, neither of you moving away.
his car wasn’t far.
as he unlocked it, you paused, glancing back at the building. “you did really well tonight,” you said. “everyone could feel how much care went into it.”
the words settled warm in his chest.
“thank you,” he replied. “that… means a lot.”
you smiled at him — soft, genuine — and he felt that ache again, deeper now. how was he going to handle this...
you slid into the passenger seat, dress gathering carefully around you. he closed the door gently, then took a second before walking around to the driver’s side.
as he started the engine, he felt the pull of the rest of the night somewhere behind him — the loose invitations, the unspoken expectations, the afterparty he hadn’t even mentioned.
he didn’t think of it as a sacrifice. he thought of it as a choice.
and as he pulled away from the curb, the city lights stretching ahead, izuku realised something quietly, undeniably true about himself, and about you.
there were a lot of things he was willing to rearrange.
but when it came to you, nothing about this felt like an inconvenience at all.
the car settled into a gentle hum as he pulled onto the road, the city lights sliding past the windshield in slow streaks of gold and white. the heater was on low, just enough to take the edge off the night air. everything felt muted in here — insulated, almost private.
you broke the silence first.
“i talked to a lot of people tonight,” you said softly, gaze turned toward the window. “more than i thought i would.”
“yeah?” he glanced at you briefly, then back to the road. “how was it?”
you smiled, small and thoughtful. “good! a little overwhelming at first, but… good.”
he nodded, encouraging, letting you set the pace.
“there was this girl from corporate law,” you continued. “she was really kind. she told me about her clerkship and how scared she was at the start.” you laughed quietly. “which helped, actually. made it feel less… impossible.”
“i’m glad,” he said. and he meant it — deeply. of course you could handle yourself.
you shifted in your seat, fingers brushing the fabric of your dress absently. “i don’t know if i’ll hear from any of them again,” you added. “but it was still nice. like… proof i can do it, you know? talk to people. be in those spaces.”
his chest warmed at that.
“that’s not nothing,” he said gently.
you looked at him then, eyes catching the dashboard light. “yeah. i think i needed to be a bit like you tonight.”
there was a pause, comfortable but full. the kind that let thoughts stretch without pressure.
he listened to the way your voice softened when you spoke about the night, the way pride threaded quietly through your words — not loud or boastful, just earned, rightfully so. he found himself wanting to catalogue it all. the cadence of your speech, the way you chose your words carefully, like you didn’t want to overstate or undersell the experience.
he admired that about you. the balance. god, you were so pretty.
“i kept thinking i was saying the wrong thing,” you admitted with a small laugh. “but then i realised… most people are just happy someone’s listening.”
he smiled, nodding as this thumb drummed against the rim of the steering wheel. “that’s true.”
you glanced back out the window. “i think that’s why i liked it more than i expected. it wasn’t about impressing anyone, just connecting.”
the word lingered.
connecting.
tonight was a success. no, it was more than a success.
he felt it settle somewhere deep in his chest, heavy and warm. he wondered if you realised how naturally you did that — how you drew people in without trying, how your attention felt like a gift rather than a transaction.
he wanted to tell you, how your caring nature drew him in effortlessly with the least amount of words possible. he didn’t.
instead, he said, “you’re really good at that.”
you hummed, unconvinced but pleased. “maybe. i’m still not sure i belong in rooms like that.”
he tightened his grip on the steering wheel for just a second.
“you do,” he said quietly. “even if it doesn’t always feel like it.”
you turned toward him again, studying his profile. “you really think so?”
“yeah,” he replied without hesitation. “i wouldn’t say it if i didn’t.”
something softened in your expression — relief, maybe. trust. it made his chest ache in that familiar way, the yearning curling gently rather than sharply now, beckoning him to feed into it.
you leaned back into the seat, exhaling. “thank you. for tonight. and for the ride.”
“anytime,” he said. then, softer, “i’m glad you came.”
you smiled to yourself, eyes drifting closed for just a second. “me too.”
the rest of the drive passed quietly, but it wasn’t empty. it was filled with the sound of your breathing, the rhythm of the road, the shared understanding of a night well-lived.
izuku kept his focus on the street ahead, but his thoughts stayed with you — with the way you spoke about the people you met, not as stepping stones or opportunities, but as moments. experiences. proof of your own growth.
he realized then that this was what he wanted to know about you. not just your ambitions or your plans, but the way you processed the world. the way you took meaning from small, human interactions. he wondered how you felt about him.
as he turned onto your street, something in him tightened again — a quiet reluctance.
the car slowed. the moment thinned.
but he held onto it carefully, storing it away.
because even if you never heard from those people again, even if the night faded into memory, this — this conversation, this calm — mattered.
and as he pulled to a stop, izuku knew one thing that was absolutely true. tonight hadn’t been about networking at all.
it had been about you finding your place.
and him realizing how badly he wanted to stay beside you while you did.
𐙚
the networking ball might’ve been the best thing izuku’s ever planned yet.
not in a technical sense — sure, catering as beyond expectation, speeches inspired and the schedule ran without collapsing in on itself. those were things he already accounted for, no surprise there.
the following week, izuku received praise. not just from the students, but also professors he was working closely with.
he hadn’t done it for recognition — god, no, that never even entered his mind. nor had he done it for the networking, not really. he wanted something that felt intentional, a means for students to still enjoy their university days without feeling guilty for compromising on studying. something that didn’t feel hollow or transactional.
and somehow, after all of the budgeting, negotiations, it worked.
students were able to line up with companies for further work, people got to have a good time, new perspectives were unveiled for those stuck.
committee members drift past him in the hallways, offering quick appreciative thanks, light teasing about finally relaxing. someone claps him on the shoulder, while another jokes about him being “charmingly competent, as per usual”.
izuku smiles, polite and warm, accepting the praise with content that all went well.
and, he should feel done. the mission was complete, it should just be back to the books now, the days should unfold normally.
he grabs lunch on the go, grumbling to himself about forgetting to meal-prep the night before. he tucks himself into a quiet spot in the law library, answering emails, cleaning up any missed content he might’ve let slip through the cracks of his schedule before moving to his next lecture.
the campus hums around him, familiar and unremarkable. this is the moment he gets to sink in the sun’s warmth on his skin, the noticeable cool breeze on his arms and neck.
at one point, while crossing the quad, he thinks he catches a glimpse of you near the arts building — just a flicker of your hair blending with the moving crowd. by the time he looks again, you’re gone.
he remembers the way you’d looked at the ball — endearing, beautiful, everything tender and loving in between. it was enough to have him spiralling, doing everything he could to make you his, but that wasn’t right.
he shook his head slightly, refocusing on the green ahead of him. things should be ordinary, but the only thing out of place, was his mind.
the lecture ended with a collective mundane sigh. this lecture was particularly content-heavy, and by the time the professor had taken off his glasses and shoved his laptop into his bag, izuku already knew he’d be reviewing the whole thing from scratch tonight.
on the way from the lecture hall, he decided to take a detour. his feet shift direction, pivoting him down a familiar corridor without much thought.
the day had been long, but manageable. but really, it’s only been manageable because a part of you has occupied his thoughts, while the other half blurred with case notes and the low hum of the aging professor echoing faintly in his head.
the art building is quiet at this hour.
he slows as he reaches it, already feeling your presence, already anticipating you. the air changes immediately — it’s warm, welcoming with the faint smell of paint and paper, and definitely something mineral he hasn’t dealt with before.
he should head home, review the notes in his room, add to the pile of work he already has accumulating on his desk. but, how could he not see you? just because he felt guilty about getting hitoshi to practically discover your twitter account, and that he may have jacked off to your liked videos. but he’s changed, right? he only wants to know you for you, now.
the hallway is mostly empty, footsteps echoing softly against the marble floor as he walked past closed doors, ongoing tutorials till heard from within. for the majority, most of the lights are off, and the vast of the building had already begun settling into its evening rest.
except for one sector, the one he goes to most afternoons, the one he used to go to just to ease his mind, but was now just to see you.
a glow spills from the art room, rainbow panels dull against the sun’s setting, a thin line of the afternoon’s last sun cutting across the floor.
izuku slowed, breathing shallowing. this was, undoubtedly, his favorite part of his day whether he wanted to argue it or not. he approached closer, peering in through the open doorway with an idle intention of saying hello — or maybe just confirming if you weren’t even there at all.
just when he was to enter the room, the sound reaches him first, soft, uneven, pained.
his chest tightened instinctively as the realization settled in.
you’re seated at your normal spot, shoulders hunched, sketchbook open and forgotten beneath your trembling hands. your head is bowed, hair falling to cover your face, but can already tell what state you’re in with the way your body shakes.
his body moves before he can even think of what to say.
“hey hey,” he says softly, tone gentle as he slots himself beside you, careful to not invade your personal space.
your head snapped up, panic flashing evident across your face, raw as if you’ve been caught. you scrub at your cheeks with the heel of your hands, shaking your head frantically.
“i—i’m fine, izuku,” you sniffle out quickly, too quickly. “sorry, i didn’t think you were going to come by—”
“no no no, please don’t apologise, please don’t. it’s okay,” izuku reassures, tone softening even more. “i didn’t mean to intrude, i just heard you…couldn’t leave you crying here alone.”
you look like you might bolt. your breath stutters at his words, feelings collapsing even more, chest hitching like it’s trying to decide on imploding in on itself. you turn away purposefully, shoulders curling inward.
izuku recognizes it immediately — the way you're panicking even more now.
“okay,” he murmured, calm even as his heart hammers against his ribs. “okay, okay, it’s okay, deep breaths for me. you’re safe.”
you shake your head, fingers digging into the edge before they move to hold izuku’s, body still turned away from him. “i’m being stupid.”
izuku’s eyes widened at your words, more than your touch. “hey, no you’re not.”
he moved around you, crouching down before you slightly so he’s not towering over you, keeping his movements slow and visible, gently grabbing your clenched fists and rubbing small circles over your knuckles.
“i am, izuku,” you sob out, hot tears spilling down your cheeks and falling onto izuku’s hand. your breathing stutters again, before easing at his patience. “i am… i’m sorry. so so sorry…”
“hey,” izuku says again, quiet, thumb still tracing slow circles, completely ignoring the way your tears patter against his skin. “you don’t need to be sorry, not for this, just let it out, okay?”
you shake your head at his words once more, frustration making its way to your pained features. your grip tightened in on itself as you try to make sense of izuku’s touch, warm and comforting.
“i didn’t mean to make it weird,” you whisper, words barely holding together, though it seems like you’re speaking more to yourself. “i swear i didn’t…”
his brows knit, confusion and concern flickering across his face. “y/n…what’s going on, sweetie?”
the endearment slips from his lips accidentally, and it definitely doesn’t go unnoticed by you, but you’re too distressed to even care.
you don’t answer right way, your eyes focusing on his kind ones as you try to calm down, your breathing evening out a little now, just enough for you to swallow, shoulders still curled inward.
“someone said something about m—me,” you say finally, voice choked and raspy.
his thumb stills, hovering mindfully over the delicate skin of your knuckle. “yeah?”
you nod, the dam of tears almost unleashing. “they—they said i was weird.”
the word sits heavy between you, ugly and sharp in your mouth.
honestly, it wasn’t as bad as izuku thought it would be. but, that being said, he’d never undermine your feelings if that was something that really hurt you.
izuku exhaled slowly through his nose, processing your words. “i don’t think that’s true. how could that be true?”
you let out a small, broken laugh. the sound ripped from your throat raw, eyes downcast now. “you don’t really know me. they’re probably right.”
“maybe not,” he says gently, shifting himself closer so your knees are almost touching his chest. “but i know that crying over something like this doesn’t come from nowhere.”
your lips tremble at that, nodding shamefully.
“i didn’t mean to,” you repeat, quieter now, voice hushed. “i wasn’t trying to— i wasn’t trying to do anything wrong.”
he doesn’t ask you to elaborate, seeing that you’re obviously devastated about something that had happened throughout the day. the thought set something ablaze and uncomfortable within him, heat swirling in his chest at the thought of someone hurting you like that.
“i don’t think you’re someone who does things with bad intentions,” izuku started. “i think people mistake your quiet, thoughtful nature for indifference.”
your shoulders sag, tension leaking out of you with exhaustion. tears spill freely now, more devastatingly calm this time, as if he’s just cracked a code.
“i’m sorry,” you whisper again, voice cracking. “i don’t know why i’m like this— i thought— i thought that the networking ball, i proved myself…”
izuku frowned at the sight before him, you collapsing in on yourself, defeat cementing painfully in your chest. “don’t apologise for being yourself. if you want, you don’t have to explain everything to me.”
that, seems to be what finally breaks the lock you had on.
you let out a sob, real and pained. your head dipped forward as you struggled to pull yourself back together.
izuku stays right where he is, patiently carrying whatever weight he can. he doesn’t rush you, doesn’t fill the silence with reassurances. he just keeps that same, steady tempo of circles into your knuckles, like he has all the time in the world. because with you, he really does.
eventually, your breathing eases out again, sniffles filling the silence instead.
“thank you,” you sighed out, worry still painted all over your face.
“of course,” izuku replied kindly, tone still careful and mindful of your emotions.
you sit there together for a moment longer, allowing the art room to settle back into its usual hush. when you finally straighten, posture recorrecting itself, your hand slips from his, wiping at your cheeks with the sleeve of your jumper.
he was meant to do that. it’s too late now.
he doesn’t comment on it, instead he moves to sit in a chair, legs slightly strained from the crouched position he was in. his eyes drifted briefly to the sketchbook still open on the table before returning to you.
“hey,” he says after a beat, voice still hushed. “can i ask you something?”
you glance at him with a wary look before it’s neutralised. “okay, go ahead…”
he offers a small, reassuring smile at your dismay, assuring you that he wasn’t going to interrogate you.
“do you mind telling me who said that about you?” he asks gently, tone clipped more than he’d like. “only if you want to.”
“i don’t want to make it a big thing,” he adds easily, like an afterthought to what he’d originally asked. “i just don’t like the idea of someone making you feel like that, is all.”
you hesitate, the name cautious on your tongue. your fingers twist together, a grimace making its way to your face, worry etched into every small movement.
“it was adam,” you say finally.
the name comes out oddly softer than it should.
izuku blinks once, registering the name before filing it away.
“adam trideschi?” he repeats, the name falling off his tongue slowly, simply making sure he heard you right.
you nod. “yeah, he—” you stop abruptly, lips pressing together in thought. “maybe he— i don’t know, izuku. i don’t want you to like go up to him or anything, or talk to him about this. i don’t think he was trying to be cruel. it was probably just a joke. i’m just— i guess i’m just sensitive.”
izuku’s jaw tightened at the sight of you overexplaining yourself for him, as if you’re trying to compensate for whatever flaw you’re insecure of — though to him, there’s nothing you need to prove to him.
“what kind of joke is that?”
you shrug, shoulders lifting and falling quickly. “the kind that lands wrong i guess. i mean, i’ve always been a crybaby…”
that’s all you say, nothing more.
he took a deep breath, gaze drifting somewhere past the table as he absorbed this new information. adam. law cohort, same year as the both of you. the name rings a bell, familiar in a way that he can place a face to the name, despite the fact they’ve never been close.
“thank you for telling me,” izuku hummed out after a moment. “that was really brave of you.”
you look up at him, eyes bloodshot and tired, uncertain. “you’re not upset?”
he shakes his head immediately. “never. why would i be upset with you?”
your shoulders ease at that, relief swelling across your features as let out a choked laugh. “i just don’t want drama,” you add in quietly.
“i know,” izuku assures. “and it doesn’t have to be, okay?” he pauses, still lost in thought. “if he says something like that again, you don’t have to deal with it alone. okay?”
you nod, eyes shining faintly as tears line your waterline. “o—okay.”
izuku gives you an empathic smile, warm and considerate as he pushed himself up from the chair. he hesitates for half a second, fingers curling at his side like he’s debating something personal.
“for what it’s worth,” he mumbled, rubbing at the back of his neck, moving up to his undercut, a little sheepish. “i’m kind of a cry baby too.”
your brows lift, surprised.
“seriously.” he huffed out a quiet laugh, the embarrassment settling into something certain and natural. “i just hide it better now.”
something in your creased brows soften, a tiny smile tugging at the corner of your mouth despite everything.
“so,” izuku continues lightly, bag by his shoulder, “you’re in good company. no judgement here. i think i cry harder than you.”
he could never leave you alone like this — especially after what happened.
the walk to the car is quiet, and the ride home was already implied by the way he clung to your side. the campus is hushed around you as you move beside him, steps small, arms folding loosely around yourself as if you’re still bracing yourself.
the drive is gentle. no music, just the soft hum of the engine and the streetlights sliding past the lightly tinted windows.
you talk a little — unsurprisingly not about what has happened. just smaller things, and he knows it’s your way of distracting the thoughts in your head. you talk about how cold it’s gotten at night, how the semester feels longer than it should. and all izuku offers is attentive nods, meaningful comments that make you huff a breathy laugh.
when he pulls up outside of your place, neither of you moves to get out right away.
he can still see it. and it hurts for him to realize the truth.
you’re still hurting, and from whatever really happened today, something you definitely didn’t let him know about — you’re drowning in it.
the engine idles before he completely turns off the car decisively.
you stare at the dashboard, fingers picking at the strap of your bag. izuku watched you from the corner of his eye, heart tugging uncomfortably in his chest.
“hey,” he says softly, filling in the silence of the outside, the distant sound of the wind whistling.
you look at him, as if you’re silently pleading something.
“do you feel okay going inside by yourself?” he asks, hand hovering over the steering wheel.
you hesitate, and it’s written all over your face, the way your lips tremble say you choke out a reply. “i’m okay.”
he nodded slowly, choosing to accept it, watching as you slowly step out of his car. then, pauses. swallowing. he shouldn’t take advantage of this moment. he shouldn’t take advantage of this moment—
“this is— okay, you don’t have to say yes.”
you wait, movements halting immediately at his gentle voice.
“but,” he continues carefully, seeing the way your shoulders relax. “would it be okay if i came in for a bit? just to make sure you’re settled. i can leave whenever you want.”
there’s no expectation hidden in his sugared tone, no leaning closer, no pressure. just a kind offer.
you turn, searching his face — the earnestness, the concern he isn’t trying to hide — and something inside you eases.
“yes, please….”
the relief that crosses his face is immediate, but restrained, concealed beneath the rationality of the situation. “okay, let me carry your stuff then.”
you almost refuse, but izuku can see the way your eyes gather down to his biceps, a light blush coating your puffy cheeks before you hand over your bag.
“thank you, izuku.”
“hmm.”
you step inside first, flickering on the light as izuku lingers just behind you, your bag bunched at his shoulder with ease.
the house is quiet, empty. simple.
you freeze for half a second, urgency swirling into your expression as you pad to — where izuku assumes to be — your room.
“um—” you say quickly, voice slightly pitched with a nervous laugh. “i just— just need to clean my room really quickly…um, you can grab your stuff from your car while you wait if you want to stay for a while and— um, study…since it takes you a while to get home.”
izuku’s eyes light up at your invitation, nodding eagerly, your words flying over his head. “sure.”
as he made his way to the front door, he turned to look at you who’s still standing in your original spot. “by the way, your home is really nice, i promise you i’m not judging if your room's a bit messy.”
your face heats instantly. “i know! i just—it’s embarrassing.”
the sight of you flushed like this, to him, it’s endearing. he nods in response to your flusterness, a light look on his face as he jogged to his car, gathering his bag from the boot.
izuku returns back inside of your house a minute later, unable to hide the smile flush on his face, bag slung over his shoulder, shoes nudged off neatly outside like he’s trying not to impose.
“sorry,” he says lightly, maintaining eye contact with your shy ones. “you’re right. it is so cold out there.”
“it’s okay,” you reply, a little too quickly before softening your tone, steady. “um, you can come into my room now — unless you want me to make food, we can do that.”
“that’s okay, thank you for the offer. but if you haven’t ate, i don’t mind hovering around either.”
you shake your head, pointing to the empty containers where you must’ve eaten from throughout the day.
you hover for half a second, fingers intertwining playfully as you gesture down the hall. “my room’s just— here.”
izuku nodded, following behind you without question.
the space is meek. small, but warm. it’s lived-in in a quiet way, a neat bed, desk pushed up against the wall, soft amber light from a flower lamp pooling the walls. everything looks tidy, but not sterile. in fact, it’s cozy.
you step aside to let him in fully, giving him a curt look. “sorry if it’s cramped.”
“it’s fine,” he intercepts immediately, waving a hand. “it’s really nice in here, y/n.”
he means it. he likes— no, he loves it. it’s adorable. it’s you. this is you, the version of you he’s been searching for, where you rest, where you hang out. it’s as if izuku’s unveiled another intimate layer of you, and you’re entrusting him with it.
you move around him cautiously, straightening something unnecessary on the desk, fingers brushing the edge of one of your heavily annotated textbooks before pulling away awkwardly.
“you can, uh, sit wherever,” you add, nervous energy creeping back into your voice. your eyes dart around the room, shrinking in on yourself when you realize the only place to really sit…is your bed or the floor.
you perch on the edge of your bed, smoothing your skirt out of habit. the room settled into a quiet that feels different from the rest of the house, charged. closer. something intimate but not quite.
izuku glanced around once more, polite and unobtrusive. “you have a lot of books,” he observed.
you laugh softly, playing with the ends of your hair. “yeah, kind of a problem.”
“i get it,” he beamed, a warmth spilling from his cheeks and out his ears as he realized just how in your life he was. “same.”
he sat down beside you, his stronger frame sinking the mattress. his posture is precise, attentive in the way he’s trying to respect your humble abode.
for a moment, neither of you spoke as he plopped his bag down on the floor.
then, izuku breaks the silence gently. “do you…want to study? or we can just sit and talk, either’s okay with me.”
you hesitate, rooming the options. “we can study,” you say. “yeah, that’d be good. i mean, yeah we probably have a lot of work to do.”
izuku’s already reacting with compliance, reaching into his bag and pulling out his laptop. “okay.”
you stand again, too fast as you stumble to your desk. “i’ll just grab something,” you say quickly.
“take your time,” he hummed out easily, already flickering his eyes back to his screen, reviewing his typed out notes from today’s gruelly lecture.
you turn away, and just for a moment, izuku catches the way your gaze flicks to the one place in the room you were careful not to touch, a closed box.
whatever’s there stays hidden, and izuku assumes it’s best not to pry. if he were to guess what was inside of that box, tonight might turn into something else. and tonight wasn’t that night.
you plop yourself back down across from him, taking the headboard, expression calm, hands steady. the night resumes its quiet rhythm. you question if he’s comfortable where he is, and he says it’s fine.
it’s until he’s about three quarters of his notes and the syllabus when he notices the air in the room shifting.
attentively, he gave you a glance, noticing your attention drifting from your own work and onto him.
it’s subtle, fleeting almost. but he catches it swiftly. he sees the way your gaze lingers, the almost imperceptible pause when it lands a little too low, a little too close to his mouth, and even lower. when you notice he’s caught you, yor dip your head into your laptop, humming quietly.
it makes his breath hitch, a heat spreading uncontrollably throughout hin.
you clear your throat softly, breaking the silence. “thank you…for earlier, you know…comforting me, even though you really didn’t have to.”
his fingers pause on the keyboard, screen dimming. “of course,” he replied, voice steady even though his chest feels strangely tight.
“even if i probably looked really gross. heh.”
there it is again, that self-deprecation you wrap yourself in. it’s softer now than when you were crying, but all in the same way, damaging. this is what he was worried about earlier — going inside, sitting in your room in silence, allowing adam’s words to replay in your mind. that wasn’t okay.
izuku closed his laptop, giving you his full attention, not before autosaving his work.
you’re sitting cross legged across from him, shoulder relaxed against the headboard, eyes earnest in a way that makes it hard for izuku to think properly. there’s a faint blush tacked onto your cheeks, the rosy hue lingering from something emotional rather than embarrassed this time.
“you didn’t.”
you blink. “pardon, sorry?”
“look gross,” he clarified, fingers clasping over his politely, not intentionally.. “you just looked like you were having a rough time, which you were. that’s excusable and it’s okay.”
you smile softly, as if you were trusting yourself with this, before dropping your gaze to your lap. “still.”
a sigh left izuku’s lips, leaning back against the heels of his palms. “if that’s gross,” he says lightly. “then i think i look horrific crying.”
you laugh at his words, allowing his comfort to ease into the room, filling it with a warmth that overpowered the amber tones from your lamp. there was a pause, and somewhere in that silence, izuku notices a lot about you.
he’s aware of you in a way that feels new now — it’s not overwhelming, just a lot. and he’s happy to take that load. the way the lamplight catches in your hair, relaxed and effortless, the way you keep worrying your soft bottom lip between your teeth like you’re holding something back. his gaze instinctively flickers down there before he can even stop it.
to your lips.
your soft, plush, kissable—
he looks away almost immediately, heart thudding, fingers curling into themselves. he should focus.
he doesn’t realize what you’re doing at first. he’s too busy focusing on slowing his heartbeat and quieting his mind to even notice.
you’re on your knees, a needy look in your eyes, shifting closer, slowly and careful until you place yourself right beside him — shoulder to shoulder.
“y/n…”
your hand finds the fabric of his sleeve, fingers curling there as if you’re testing your proximity.
“hey— “ he starts softly, but you lean in instead.
your arms wrap around him, tentative at first, as if it’s something foreign to you. then, tighter, melting into something you’ve been longing for. your cheek pressed against his shoulder, breath warm through his jumper, and izuku freezes for half a second before instinct takes over.
his arms come up around you, just as gentle, securing you in a blanket of affection. he holds you like he’s afraid of startling or hurting you. god, the thought of him even making you uncomfortable sickens him.
your grip tightens once, and it’s an uncharacteristic notion from you, but izuku just lets it happen. he simply takes it.
you pull back slowly, your hands lingering on his chest as you lean away, still within close proximity. when you lift your head, your eyes flicker, once to his half-lidded eyes, then to his slightly open lips.
izuku swallows, suddenly vulnerable in your orbit.
he sees it then, the clear opening, you hesitating to take it. there’s a want hidden beneath your lashes as you peer straight at his lips.
the room feels very small all of a sudden, hot and charged. electrifying at his tips.
“you’re not weird or gross,” he says quietly, almost without thinking. “god, how could you ever be…”
your lips part, like you’re about to say something, like a response to his dialogue. but he doesn’t let you.
fuck it.
izuku leans in first, closing the distance slowly enough that if you wanted to stop him, you could. when his lips meet yours, it’s soft, velvety, moving against yours unhurried.
you taste so good.
you make a small sound, something quiet and needy muffled between your tongues. your hands tighten around the fabric on his chest, anchoring him and pulling him closer. the kiss deepens, gentle, unmeasured as izuku pressed his tongue against yours, groaning.
his hands move to your jaw without thinking, slotting it perfectly just beneath your ear. and for a moment, nothing else exists. not the art room, not the crying that happened earlier, not izuku questioning his feelings for you — because now it’s true.
kissing you like this, finally tasting you, this was worth the obsession. it was worth figuring out if he liked you, or if it was infatuation. because now he’s certain; with you in his arms, all mush and affectionate against his lips, he wouldn’t want to be anywhere else but here.
when he finally pulls back, a string of saliva connecting between your tongues, izuku’s face heated a warm red.
“was that okay?” he whispers.
you nod, eyes bright and almost desperate, cheeks that pretty tinge. “more…”
he smiles, soft and relieved, a little awed at your affection.
he leaned in once more, a little more passionate now, rougher. one second, you’re leaning into him, knees brushing his, the next his hands are on your hips, gilding you closer until you’re settled onto his lap.
you let out a quiet, surprised breath, hands flying to his shoulders.
“izuku—“
he paused, pulling from the kiss once more, eyes searching yours with a generous concern. “is this okay still?”
your answer is in the way you stay, the way your hips move lightly against his, nudging the growing tent in his pants.
that’s all he needs.
his arms wrap around you, sliding beneath your top to feel the bare skin of your back as you lean in again. the kiss deepens, lips moving together with a familiarity that makes his chest ache, like this has been waiting just beneath the surface the whole time.
your weight settles fully in his lap, movements warm and pressed close, and izuku becomes acutely aware of how this is making you feel right now. he can feel it. the way your delicate fingers slide up to the back of his neck, fingers threading through his curls with need, the way he can feel your heat beneath your skirt and through your panties.
fuck, you weren’t wearing shorts underneath.
he lets out a soft sound against your mouth, moaning into the kiss as you rock against his erection, tiny mewls spilling out in response.
the kiss grows unhurried but hungry in a quiet way — all lingering touches and stolen breaths. his hand settles at your waist, thumb brushing slow, grounding circles like earlier, only now it sends a different kind of heat through him.
you pull back just enough to breathe, forehead resting against his, both of you flushed and unsteady.
his heart is pounding. yours too — he can feel it.
“…we can stop,” he murmurs, even though his arms don’t loosen. “anytime.”
you shake your head, breathless smile tugging at your lips. “don’t want to.”
something in his chest twists — soft and overwhelming all at once.
he kisses you again, slower this time, like he’s savoring it. like he’s afraid if he rushes, the moment might break and rewind.
and as you sit there together — tangled, warm, entirely focused on each other — izuku realises this doesn’t feel reckless.
he knows he shouldn’t have come inside your home. he saw you crying earlier, chest heaving with panic. you should be resting up, probably sleeping. but he just can’t help it. he might be the most selfish human alive right now.
it feels right. too right, even with that quiet, guilty voice in his head. but he doesn’t care, not right now. not especially when you’re so compliant on top of him, grounding your pussy against his crotch like you need him.
and for once, he doesn’t overthink it. he just holds you closer and lets the moment carry you both.
still, he couldn’t believe it. him being in your room, the soft glow of your lamp casting warm shadows across crumpling sheets, wrinkling from movement.
his heart pounded unrelenting in his chest, hammering against his ribs as he soaked in the scent of you, the essence of your lips, the soft warmth teasing his cockhead beneath his pants.
you were driving him absolutely insane.
the way you moved, your clothed pussy unforgiving against him, felt as if you’d claimed every inch of him for yourself. it was greedy the way you were humping him, needy sounds flooding the room.
he could feel the dampness spreading, warm and slick, marking him. and the worst part about it, izuku wanted to return the act. he wanted to put his warm cock inside of you and take you right here, ruin you from anyone else if there was any. but this isn’t how he wanted things to go.
“y/n,” izuku murmured against your mouth, breaths coming out short, breaking the kiss.
you shook your head, eyes dazed as your tongue chased his, not letting him pull away for too long. you rocked your hips harder, the wet slide of your clothed pussy lips against his bulge sending jolts of pleasure up his spine.
izuku gripped your waist trying to slow you down, something primal inside of him igniting in the way you were desperately chasing this.
he wanted to slow this down. he didn’t want to have to shove his cock in you tonight, especially not with how distressed you were earlier.
but fuck, you were a needy little thing; humping him through your soaked panties, the fabric of his jeans memorising the curve of your pussy lips. he almost remembered the type of porn you liked to watch when he stalked your twitter account.
this was you, you just weren’t afraid of hiding it anymore.
he didn’t really want to stop you, because a part of him deep down, wanted to claim you too. he was just simply trying to be rational here.
“izuku,” you breathed out, voice sultry with the way you uttered his name. there was a clipped hunger in your voice, shaky and unrestrained. you nipped at his bottom lip, a bit too hard, before soothing it with your warm tongue. “p—please don’t stop…need you…”
your hands slid under his shirt, palms flat against his rigid torso, careful as you only allowed your fingers to rest stationary against his muscles.
he hesitated, pushing you back at bit, fingers hovering around the hem of your skirt. “we should…you know i want this, but i don’t want to take advantage of you, okay?” his words felt weak as he said them, because he knew he wanted to take you here. if it was any other day, he’d have you bent over the art table, cock deep against your cervix if that’s what you wanted.
you frowned, the tender whine from your lips as you nodded. “oh— okay. that’s okay, ‘m sorry…”
izuku reached up to grab your face, thumb caressing your jawline. “nono i mean, we can keep going if you’d like. just wanted to check in with you first, nothing more than this, okay?”
you nodded, leaning now into his shoulder, face hidden against his neck as you continued rocking, hips circling deliberately now, your clit caught with each bump against his erection.
“feels nice, izuku…don’t wanna stop…” you shuddered against him, a fresh wave of wetness soaking the space where the two of you were connected.
“i know, i know, you can keep moving, i got you.”
izuku began grinding against you, gentle movements as he humped your pussy through your soiled panties. something dark, a familiar thrill, twisted in his gut, a beckoning truth that was just waiting to be acted upon.
he wanted this just as much as you. in fact, he probably wanted this more. from when he saw you at the ball, back to when he saw the filthy shit you probably touched yourself to, he should’ve known how sweet this pussy would be. he didn’t want anyone else to have access to this.
no, he couldn’t let anyone have access to this.
not especially how pretty you look, your sweet nectar soiling his erection.
“i’m so close…’m so— close!” you panted, nails moving to dig into his shoulders, your back arching as you desperately chased the edge.
izuku wrapped his arms tight around you, grounding you closer to him, whimpering lightly as he felt your pussy clench against the barrier of your panties. his heart raced, a possessive surge rising in him at your soft sounds, the way it should be so wrong to know what you sound like, all close and horny. but he wanted to swallow it all, take it in for himself, file it into memory so he can replay it the next time he jacked off.
“i got you, sweetie. come on, ride it out for me…you’re doing so good.” his words came out commandingly more than he’d intended, tone wrapped in tenderness. he thrusted up slightly into your caged form, meeting your grind with his own restrained buck.
“fu—hnnggh— “
you pulled back suddenly, shuddering at the loss of contact. your cheeks flushed deeper, scarlet hues softening your features. you bit your lip, eyes drooping to his chest before flickering up, vulnerable.
“you okay?” izuku asked, caressing your back in comforting circles.
you nodded, thoughts evidently trapped in your mouth as you tried navigating your next request.
“y/n?”
“can i have your fingers in me?”
izuku’s eyes widened, processing how small your voice sounded, almost hesitant. he searched your face, searching for any overlap in the moment that could’ve had you feel this way. but there was this look in your eyes, something beneath your gaze that held an underlying hunger, a faint promise beckoning him in.
the request hit him, stirring shadows in his mind where he wanted to corrupt you and mold you into this little sweet thing that was untouched from the world outside. he paused, his hands stilling on your back, processing his own buried impulses.
he wanted to, he wanted to. he wanted to do more than just finger you. he wanted to have you all pretty over his cock as he fucked you with the most upmost tender care, slow deep movements that’d seal everything unexplainable between the two of you.
he imagined visiting you at the end of each day, sitting in that art room, sunlight faint against your skin. the way your eyes lit up when you saw him, sketchbook open to whatever erotic-implied concept you were working on that day. he wanted to be the one who drove you home, the one you turned to when things went south. the one who was in your life like it mattered.
he wanted every inch of your life, every little cozy bit of your reality. he wanted to be in it. no, he wanted to be it.
the vision was fleeting, but vivid. it was his bound to you, the way your eyes locked on his as if he was the only person in the world.
the sight made his cock twitch, guilt and desire warring inside him. he wanted to give in, to feed that madness burning in every fiber of him.
he swallowed hard, pushing the dark visions down, but not far enough. maybe tonight, this could just be about you. making you feel good.
“yeah,” he said finally, voice rough with self-control as he nodded, giving in to the gravitational pull. “i can do that, of course.”
your eyes lit up, tears brimming your waterline as you allowed izuku to ease you off his lap, shifting the two of you back onto the bed. izuku carefully fluffed the pillow beneath your head, arranging the sheets thoughtfully around your legs, his touch reassuring as he positioned himself beside you.
“spread your pretty legs for me, okay?” he hummed out, slipping an arm beneath you and around your other shoulder, pulling you close to his chest. “i’ll take care of the rest.”
your body relaxed slightly under his attention, a soft sigh escaping your lips as you settled against him, knees parting meekly.
izuku smiled as he slid one hand between your thighs, brushing the drenched cotton aside — quickly noting to himself that you liked floral panties. your pussy was on display, folds slick and swollen, dripping with need.
izuku groaned, his erection twitching in the confinements of his jeans. you were so pretty. so undeniably, unmistakably gorgeous. he couldn’t see all of you, and he wish he could, but the sight was enough.
“your fingers are ticklish,” you commented, voice slightly shaky as you peered up at him.
“is that a good thing?”
you shrugged, blush deepening. “i think so.”
he traced your entrance, collecting the arousal on his fingertips, shuddering at the way you whimpered.
slowly, he pushed his index finger, feeling your walls snug around him, hot and velvety.
"a—aah!"
you were incredibly tight, your walls fluttering around the intrusion as he sank in knuckle-deep, enveloped by your velvety heat and the obscene wetness that coated him immediately.
“oh... you're so cute,” he breathed, his eyes widening at the sensation, watching your face for any sign of discomfort. but there was none — only pleasure, your lips parting in a soft moan as your hips lifted slightly to meet him.
he moved slowly at first, sliding in and out with deliberate care, letting you adjust to the stretch.
“that's it, just like that... you're doing so well for me,” he praised, his free hand coming up to stroke your hair, thumb brushing your temple in reassurance. the words spilled out naturally, sweet and encouraging as he added his middle finger alongside the first, stretching you further.
your pussy clenched greedily around them, pulling him deeper, and he curled his digits upward, searching for that sensitive spot inside.
“izu! nghh!”
when he found it — rubbing firmly against the spongy wall — you gasped sharply, your back arching off the bed as a rush of your juices soaked his hand. “yes, right there... my sweet girl, you're so responsive. i love how you squeeze me like this, so so pretty.”
he began to pump his fingers with more purpose, the initial gentleness giving way to a building rhythm.
the slick sounds of your arousal filled the room, mingling with your breathy cries, izuku's gaze stayed fixed on where his hand worked between your thighs, mesmerized by the way your folds parted around him.
“you look incredible taking my fingers... so wet and perfect for me,” he continued, his voice dropping to a husky murmur, praise dripping from every word as he watched your body respond. "want me to go faster?"
your clit peeked out, swollen and begging, so he brought his thumb to it, circling the nub in firm, steady strokes that made your thighs tremble.
sensing your growing need, without response to earlier, he picked up the pace, thrusting his fingers faster now, deeper, the motion turning insistent as he chased your pleasure.
your walls gripped him tighter with each plunge, your moans escalating into desperate pleas of his name. izuku smiled endearingly as he curled his fingers, massaging that spongy spot inside of you.
“izuku... oh god, please…” you gasped, and he leaned in closer, his forehead nearly touching yours, breath mingling in the heated space between you.
“i've got you... you're so close, aren't you? come on, let go for me— fuck, you're beautiful,” he encouraged, his tone sweet yet urgent, fingers pistoning in and out with rapid precision, thumb flicking your clit harder to push you over the edge.
he could feel it building — the way your body tensed, thighs quivering uncontrollably, breaths coming in sharp, desperate gasps.
“izuku! think— think i’m gonna…something's!”
izuku sighed, chest heavy with the thoughts of your piss kink, but he was sure, he was so sure, that wasn't the case. his fingers moved faster, deeper, knuckles deep. god, he hasn't put this much concentration into something before.
“come on, baby, let it all out for me,” he whispered, his voice thick with adoration, thumb grinding harder against your clit to tip you over. "you're so perfect, taking my fingers so deep... i want to feel you come undone."
it hit you like a tidal wave. your back arched sharply off the bed, a high-pitched whimper escaping your lips as the orgasm crashed through you. your pussy spasmed wildly, squeezing his fingers in powerful pulses, and then you squirted, a hot gush of your release spraying out around his hand, soaking the sheets beneath you in a warm flood.
"that's it..."
he watched in mesmerized awe, the sight of your body convulsing, twitching against his touch, your folds fluttering and dripping with your arousal. every quiver, every soft cry that followed, sent a jolt straight to his core.
the intensity of it — the way you surrendered completely, vulnerable and beautiful in your ecstasy — pushed him past his limit. izuku groaned low in his throat, his hips bucking involuntarily against the air as his cock throbbed painfully in his jeans.
he couldn't hold back; the pressure built unbearably, and with a shuddering gasp, he came hard in his pants. thick ropes of his cum spilled out, soaking through the fabric in sticky warmth, pulsing with each aftershock as he rode out his own waves.
his free hand gripped your thigh tightly, grounding himself in the feel of you, that possessive fire flaring brighter in his chest.
”that's my girl... you came so hard, so good for me.” finally, he withdrew his fingers with a wet pop, bringing them to his lips for a quick, instinctive taste—salty-sweet, just like you.
"izuku..."
he gathered you into his arms then, pulling you against his chest as your breathing evened out, the warmth of your body seeping into his. that fierce protectiveness swelled again, tinged with the unspoken obsession that mirrored your own hidden depths, even as you both lay there, not yet bound by any label, but undeniably connected in this raw, intimate moment.
that night, he watched as your breathing settled into rhythm, conscious descending into a peaceful slumber.
𐙚
it was nice like this. the routine of seeing you, not forcing you into his orbit because he knew you were always just there, waiting for him. this was incredible, and with adam dealt with, you were happier than ever.
it isn't until later — much later — into their sweet, innocent routine, that the thought returns.
he's sitting in lecture, half-listening as the professor speaks at the front, pen moving mindlessly across his notebook before he scraps that measly idea and moves to typing on his laptop. the words blur, cases stack on top of each other, and everything still feels normal.
too normal, in a way that's so mundane to him, something must be off.
i've never see her here.
he frowns faintly, eyes drifting around the room without really looking at anyone in particular. he knows his cohort, he's good with faces, and incredible with pattern. he notices who sits where, who skips weeks, and who always shows up late.
and yet, he can't place you here.
not in this room, not in the shared common study areas where law students nest their noses into heavy, dusted textbooks.
but you told him you were in law.
law. double degree.
you'd never lie, and he believed you without question — so why does it feel so strange now?
maybe your timetable's different, maybe you took up different electives, tutorials at odd hours. law is like that sometimes — its fragmented, and makes students scatter across the buildings at unfavorable times.
still.
he's seen adam, he's seen people he barely knows. he's seen faces once, and filed them forever, but never you.
wait, but that wouldn't make sense. you had to be in law, how else would you have known adam?
the thought shouldn't matter, and yet, it lingers, prickling at the back of his mind. maybe he didn't know you as much as he thought he had.
most importantly of all, he needed to stop.
he catches himself, and exhales quietly, settling into the uncomfy chair he was on.
he needed to stop. he needed to stop noticing absences, filling in unnecessary gaps that potentially antagonised you.
you said you were in law, and that was enough.
he forced himself to tune back to the front, drawing his attention back to the lecture and the contents on the board that would most definitely be on the final. but, as much as he tried to let the words flow in through one ear, and out the other, the unease never quite disappeared.
you’d never lie — izuku knew that was one thing for certain. maybe this whole time, he realises with a faint, uncomfortable twist, that he’s been paying so much attention to you in the art room, all quiet and adorable with your sketchbook that he couldn’t comprehend you here. maybe you quietly linger the same halls as him.
maybe this is something he should bring up with hitoshi.
the cafe is tucked just off campus, far enough from the lecture halls where the noise thins out. the ground smells of rain-soaked concrete by the time izuku arrives, hair slightly damp by the afternoon shower.
hitoshi is already there when izuku arrives, slouched in his chair with a coffee thats gone lukewarm, eyes half-lidded at the sight of him.
“you’re late,” hitoshi said, taking a sip. “you know that i’ve got a study schedule outside of this sketchy business?”
“five minutes,” izuku replied with a light apologetic smile, sliding into the seat across from him. “that’s not late, come on.”
hitoshi hummed, rolling his eyes at izuku’s annoyingly kind, bright eyes. “for you? it is.”
izuku exhaled in defeat, slouching into the seat. “you know i’m one of your favorite people…why so mean today.”
“because,” hitoshi starts off, voice flattening, “every time you say that, you’re about to ask me for a favour. don’t even try denying it, i know.”
izuku paused, blinking. “...okay, first of all—”
“no,” hitoshi cuts in, setting the cup down. “second of all, what stalker crime do you want me to do for you?”
izuku winced, sinking shamefully. “you didn’t even let me start…”
hitoshi arched a brow, a light smirk daunting his tired features. “you don’t need to — i already know.” he paused, watching izuku’s eyes hang on the space before them. “come on, spit it out.”
“it’s about y/n,” izuku added, light returning to his eyes.
hitoshi sighs. it’s long and exaggerated, drawn out in a purposeful way to shame izuku. “why am i not surprised,” he says, disbelief threated through his words. “you’re still on this girl.”
izuku leaned back against his chair, scoffing as he folded his arms. “i’m not—”
“uh-huh, you’ve been ‘not’ on this girl for weeks.”
izuku opened his mouth, before closing in again. “...i’m just— i’m just trying to figure out if i’m overthinking.”
hitoshi remained silent, a laugh bubbling up his throat at his friend’s distress. “you most definitely are,” he says immediately after. “but, that doesn’t mean you’re wrong to check yourself, and i’m damn glad it’s with me, god— hey you know this is illegal, right?”
izuku relaxes at his words, pouting at the quarter end of hitoshi’s sentence. “of course i know it’s wrong, but you came to me with your business…so as a good friend…”
hitoshi studied him for a moment, reaching forward for his cup once more, swirling the last inch of coffee. “as a good friend,” he repeats dryly, “i’m obligated to tell you that i hate when you preface things like that.”
izuku huffs. “you’re the one who said you were glad it was you.”
“i am,” hitoshi says easily. “that doesn’t mean i like being morally compromised — this is so weird, but go on. just spit the rest of it out.”
izuku hesitates, brief and telling. “she said she’s in law,” he begins carefully, “and i believe her, i do. it’s just—” he frowns, eyes drifting toward the window. “i’ve never actually…seen her in any of the usual places, lectures, study rooms. nothing.”
hitoshi stared blankly, unimpressed. “and? you realise that people may have different schedules?”
“i just don’t know though,” izuku admits, quieter in thought now. “or if i’m just noticing things i shouldn’t be now that i’m so involved in her life.”
hitoshi snorted. “you definitely are.”
izuku shot him a look, brows knitted. “can we please be serious here.”
“i am,” histoshi says, settling the cup down after finishing it. “you’re great at pattern recognition, and that’s not always a blessing.”
he pulled his laptop out anyway, because of course he does. it’s not the same one he uses for all his other uni work, or anything personal. “double degree students get split all over the place,” he mutters, scrolling. “law’s a scheduling nightmare — ever thought of that, genius? different cohorts, rotating tutorials, electives in random buildings—”
his thumb paused, then he nods once, assured. “yeah, she’s enrolled. law. no funny business.”
izuku’s shoulders dropped noticeably, a sigh of relief immediate and unguarded. “i knew it.”
izuku doesn’t argue, still sitting with the confirmation.
“tuesdays and thursdays for tutorials, mid-day if you wanted to know,” hitoshi added. “arts-heavy electives this semester. that explains why you keep seeing her in the art room instead of your concrete nightmare.”
izuku let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. “okay— that explains why we never see each other. while i’m in my lectures, she’s in her tutorials and— okay.”
“okay,” hitoshi echoes back with a mocking look. then, “so what exactly were you planning to do if she wasn’t?”
izuku stiffens, hit with the brutal alternate. “nothing…”
“right,” hitoshi says. “that’s what everyone says right before doing something stupid. especially you. look what happened,” he sighed out, motioning to the scar on izuku’s face.
izuku groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “i’m not planning anything, i just— well, someone said something to her. made her feel weird about herself.”
hitoshi’s expression sobered slightly. “and that didn’t sit right with you, hey?”
“no,” izuku said immediately, expression serious. “it didn’t.”
it most definitely didn't. but, the damage couldn't be reversed, especially with the way adam's been limping around campus now, a notable jaggedness to his breathing. what was done, was done, and izuku couldn't be more happier.
hitoshi watched him for a second, a faint smile at his friend’s commitment. “you’re lucky i think you’re a good person. okay, then here’s your answer.”
izuku looked up, eyes softening as the spiral in his mind ceased.
“she’s in law,” hitoshi began. “she didn’t lie. you’re not uncovering some hidden truth, and as your friend, if you keep digging past there, it stops being concern and starts being…something else, which i fear is already happening but that isn’t my business.”
izuku nods slowly, guilty. “i know.”
“do you?”
“...i’m trying to.”
hitoshi leaned back in his chair. “good. because you’re allowed to care. god you’re just so weird sometimes..”
izuku’s lips pressed together, thoughtful.
“also,” hitoshi adds, already reaching for his bag, “if you ever say ‘as a good friend’ to justify dragging me into this again, i’m charging you coffee. for the week.”
izuku smiles faintly. “deal. thank you, again.”
as they stand to leave, izuku feels steadier than he has in days. the facts are simple. clean.
before the two parted ways, hitoshi turned back to him, nodding certain. “just to talk to her, i’m sure she’d be ecstatic. oh, and it wouldn’t be as weird that way, too.”
you’re in law. you told the truth. he doesn’t need to fill in the gaps. why would you ever lie to him in the first place? that wasn’t you at all.
and yet, as he steps back out into the damp afternoon air, the unease doesn’t fully disappear, and he berates himself for it.
because knowing you’re here doesn’t explain why you always seem just out of reach.
and that question, quietly, stubbornly, stays with him. this isn’t something hitoshi can figure out for him. this is something he had to figure out for himself.
꒰ part two here my laptop genuinely hates long-worded fics so it was a bit hard to edit </3 but i hope you guys enjoyed...and are ready for part two!! if while reading this part, and you caught something....
incl. nsfw/suggestive content 17+, fluff, nicknames (pipsqueak, baby, beautiful), praise, soft dom caleb (?), nudity, non-descriptive allusions to sex
if you weren't so blissed out, you'd be wondering how the ravenous beast that had just been all over you is the same man caring for you so gently now.
you're still sticky with remnants of him when he flips you both over carefully, pulling you on to his warm, broad chest as he wraps his arms around you.
"did so good for me, baby, so good." caleb murmurs, praising you his second nature, especially at times like this. "you okay?" it's a quiet but familiar check-in, and you hum affirmatively and nod, eyes fluttering shut as you soak in his warmth. even though you hate the grey of winter, you think you could go a while without seeing the sun as long as he's there.
"words, pips, need to hear you say it." he asks again, soft but firm in his quiet demand, his fingers working soothing circles into the bare skin of your back.
"'m good. y'always make me feel so good." your voice cracks on your words, throat a little dry from a long night's activities, but he can feel your sincerity, your whole aura blurred at the edges where you're curled in his arms but glowing, warm and bright and soft and it has him awestruck. he'll spiral if he's not careful, but can that really be a bad thing if it's brought on by the beauty of the sight of his most beloved in his arms?
"good." he whispers, planting a kiss to your hair as he holds you tighter. you nuzzle into him, letting out a long, low hum, and it feels like you're a cat purring on his chest.
he lets the quiet stretch for just a little bit before stirring, though not long enough that you're likely to have fallen asleep quite yet. when he does try to shift you off of him, though, you whine in protest, hands pawing at him in attempt to grip on to something, anything to make him stay.
"need to clean you up, beautiful, i'll be back in a second, i promise. is that okay?" he asks softly,
you let out an unhappy sound before eventually conceding and releasing him. true to his word, he's back in moments with a warm damp cloth and some pyjamas.
"arms up, baby." he requests, pulling your (his) shirt down over your head so you won't get cold. "that's it. comfy?" he checks, features lighting up even in the dark with a soft smile when you nod. then, he pushes the duvet out of the way, carefully prying open your sticky thighs so he can clean you of the mess you've made together. you let out a tiny whimper, your body tensing when he brushes your still-tender clit with the cloth. the combination of the contact, the slight chill of the night air and lingering sensitivity makes you twinge - he kisses the soft skin at the inner side of your knee.
"sorry. almost done." caleb murmurs, drying off your skin before gently pulling on the softest pair of shorts he could find. "lift your hips f'me, there we go." he slides a hand under your lower back to help you get into your shorts, briefly lifting your shirt to leave a smattering of kisses on your tummy. it tickles a little, especially when his hair brushes your skin, too, making you let out a sleepy giggle before he tucks you under the duvet. he pulls on his own shorts, forgoing a shirt in favour of body heat and the unobstructed contact he so deeply craves with you, even right now.
then, he's pulling you close to him, hands roaming under your shirt, holding firm like he's trying to fuse with you. he can feel your heartbeat hammering hard through you where he wraps his arms around your middle, and he's sure you can probably feel his, too, heat blooming from his chest and enveloping you while he does the same with his arms.
you snuggle into him, curling up like a cosy little bird in its nest as you squish yourself backwards into the safety of his chest, letting out a warm, happy hum as you get comfy. caleb isn't even sure if you know you're doing it, or that you do it every time he's holding you like this. and you definitely don't know that it's one of his favourite things about being the big spoon.
his heart does that thing where it does a million somersaults, dives, flips, rolls, or whatever is is that olympic gymnasts or divers or ice-skaters do - he's not sure exactly what in the haze, but he knows that butterflies are swarming his stomach, so strong he's sure you can feel them too.
and who can blame him, really? it's not his fault that his girlfriend gives him heart-shaking cuteness aggression.
he channels it by giving you a just-about controlled squeeze, strong arms wrapping tight around you and making you feel all warm and fuzzy inside. home, your brain whispers to you, and despite the daze of sleepiness and exertion, it's achingly clear. he feels like safety, feels like home.
"goodnight, pipsqueak. i love you. sweet dreams." he murmurs, kissing the nape of your neck tenderly, a couple of times and then once for good measure before he's tucking his head close against yours where he rests on the pillow, the soothing scent of your hair sending a serenity through his mind that feels like fresh air.
"g'night, caleb, i love you, too." you whisper, sleep creeping through your voice as you bring your hands to rest over his, your fingers curling loosely around his larger ones.
and as ever, sleep comes without a fight when caleb's holding you close.
a/n: hiya hope you enjoyed! sitting here wishing i had a caleb so he could take care of me so sweetly after wrecking me but i dont so heres how we cope </3 anyways sry if this is inaccurate or just straight dogshit im afraid of both men and sex irl
“Goddammit,” you hiss, body slumping. Your switch is flashing a mocking defeated screen at you as you try your best not to rage.
Caleb peeks up from below you, lips pulling away from your swollen folds. “Lose again, pips? You really can’t play this game without gege’s help, huh.”
Rolling your eyes you shut him up again by pressing your body weight back down onto his face, clit sliding against the straight bridge of his nose. “Shut up, Caleb. Last time I checked you were busy.”
Caleb’s tongue probs against your hole in retaliation, pouting. “…I am,” he replies, voice muffled. “Buuut, I could be busi-er if you would just put down your switch and-”
“Fuck,” you groan. “This stupid lynel keeps kicking me off the mountain. How am I supposed to get across?"
The sounds of your button mashing and your irritable complaints interrupt Caleb’s attempt at gaining your attention. His hips have been humping at the air for hours, his hands gripping your thighs tight as he keeps his mouth and tongue busy.
“Pips,” he starts again.
“Caleb, shut up, you’re breaking my focus.”
Caleb groans into your pussy in frustration, trying to be patient. “You’re literally sitting on my face and you still won’t look at me,” he mumbles, then suctions his lips around your clit roughly. “C’mon, pips. Ten minutes is all I’m asking…”
His eyes stare up at your bare tits with no shame, mouth absentmindedly lapping at your cunt.
“Oh no!” You yelp, thighs clenching around his head as you tense. “No! I’m at one heart…!”
Caleb's hands tighten around your thighs in desperation, his tongue working frantically against your folds. He whines pathetically, the vibration making you squirm and falter.
A moan tumbles out of your lips at the extra stimulation, hips wriggling and hole clenching.
Caleb's eyes light up at the accidental moan, his tongue immediately becoming more intense as he sucks, licks, and nips at your pussy relentlessly, trying to coax more sounds out of you while you're distracted by your game.
His length is hard and leaking, waistband tucked under his balls. Even as he thrusts his hips into the air, cock desperate for friction, all his attention stays focused on making you moan. He looks up at you with pleading eyes, his tongue darting out to lick a stripe up your slit.
The eager attention your pussy receives makes you lose concentration again, thumbs slipping from the buttons as your vision starts to unfocus. “Caleb-”
Caleb groans triumphantly against your folds at your slip-up, knowing he's distracted you enough to make you falter. “Caleb~,” he echoes mockingly. “That's what you sound like." He slides two fingers inside you while his mouth returns to your clit, tongue flicking rapidly as his thumb rubs slow circles.
“Mmph, Caleb!” Your voice is whiny, console forgotten on the bed as you grip the wooden headboard.
The sound of you pleased and whining out his name has him frantically jerking at his pathetic cock, hips lifting off the bed to fuck his hand faster. You can hear the slick sounds of him working his throbbing length behind you.
“Gotcha… good girl. Cum with me, pips.” His mouth sucks hard on your clit, the combination sending you flying over the edge. Caleb boyishly grins against your pussy as he feels you grind down on his face mindlessly, your game now long forgotten.
He doesn't stop even after you finish, lazily licking you clean while his fingers stay curled inside you, keeping you sensitive. His other hand chases his release desperately until he cums, jets of warm, sticky semen shooting out his thick mushroom tip and onto your arched back. His hips finally still as he moans hotly against you.
“Stop that,” you lazily bat at his shoulder when he doesn’t stop tonguing at your swollen clit. “I just came, it's sensitive.”
Caleb relents, giving your clit one last hard suck before releasing you. His fingers slowly pull out of your pussy with a wet sound and he brings them to his mouth, sucking your juices off of them lewdly.
“Gege, I still need help with this level.” When did you get your hands on your switch again?
“Say, ‘Caleb is the best’ first, then maybe I’ll think about it.”
tw: manipulation, toxic siblings relationships, suggestive (mdi)
2,6k words
your jealousy got the best of you.
it was during lunch break.
you were in class, sitting at your table with two friends, when you overheard girls from another class sitting a few tables away with some of your classmates, talking about your big brother caleb out of all people….
fawning over how responsible, handsome and trustworthy he seemed… you discreetly rolled your eyes.
was he the last man on earth for them to gush about him like that, in the same room as his little sister? couldn’t they talk about some celebrity instead? it made your blood boil.
one of them noticed you–a girl who had never bothered acknowledging your presence before–asked gleefully if he was always this reliable even at home.
confusion and irritation made you almost choke on your meal, carefully made by said brother, but you tried to feign indifference as you stubbornly swallowed your food and emotions, faking a smile as you quickly recovered:
“hahaha, trust me… he’s not that great. he’s kinda annoying even…”
the lie almost made you bite your tongue, but it didn’t stop them.
“well, he’s your brother, of course you wouldn’t understand…”
“haha, right. you’re just too immature to see it yet!”
“annoying? caleb? i don’t believe it!”
it made you clench your teeth. what made it worse was that your own friends doubled down..
they nodded along, one of them even blushing at the thought of him, making you blink several times as if to make sure exasperation weren’t making you see things.
the other one mumbled, poking at her food, that she wished her idiot of a big brother was even a third of what yours was.
you don’t even know how you got through the day with this amount of anger inside you; your handwriting was so messy and the bottom of your notebook was filled with “caleb is a big dummy!”
when the bell rang, you hastily shove your stuff into your bag and headed directly outside.
as you almost reached the gate, you heard hasty footsteps followed by your name in that familiar voice you’d recognize anywhere:
“well, you’re going home without me now?”
he was slightly breathless, though he quickly recovered from the jog he just had to catch up to you. his smirk always ridiculously made your heart flutter, yet it got on your nerves just as much, because it was always followed by him teasing you and, oh God, it didn’t wait:
“aren’t you scared to get lost? do you even know your way back?”
his light tone and the way he couldn’t hide his amusement would have been so endearing… if you didn’t feel like punching a wall right now.
you puffed your cheeks and crossed your arms over your chest; he let out a soft laugh, at least he was amused…
and as if it wasn’t enough for today, just when he tilted his head to the side with a grin, waiting for your comeback, a girl waved him goodbye with a sheepish smile: “see you tomorrow, caleb!” you automatically squinted your eyes, your upper lip curving a little…
“what? who–again? hasn’t it been, like, the fourth time this week?”
he, in response, just nodded before looking back at you.
you hated the way this whole situation made you feel–stupid, greedy, reacting way too much for what it was.
it also made you act like someone else entirely, someone you barely recognized, someone who resented how her brother kept growing more popular as the years went on. shame started settling as you couldn’t understand why it affected you this much… he’s your brother, for fuck’s sake!… but why did it feel impossible to stop?
you couldn’t suppress the voice screaming inside you that he was your brother, yours only, and you weren’t ready to share him with anyone.
caleb was about to reach out to you, ready to take your bag like he always did, wanting to make things easier for you when you walked home together, but you jerked away.
“you gotta have them all, huh?”
confusion took over his face as he asked you what you were going on about.
“neighbor girls, my friends, my classmates and now some random girls too?”
he was taken aback. what on earth were you going on about? still, a faint smile returned to his lips.
“pip-squeak, you’re not making any sense right now…”
you clenched your teeth–was he playing dumb on purpose? gosh, you couldn’t believe he didn't see how everyone was at his feet.
it ultimately got the best of you: you started throwing a tantrum.
“i don’t wanna go home with you. i can’t be seen with my brother who’s slowly turning into some playboy,” you made air quotes with your fingers. “what would people think? ‘look at them… guess being easy runs in the family…’ you want me to get bullied or what?”
you could see his eyes slowly widen as you went on, and you cowardly looked away so you wouldn’t lose your resolve. his mouth opened, but you cut him off before he could say anything:
“… cause, honestly? i’m starting to think you’re nothing but an attention whore.”
you turned around and started walking.
your heart was pounding so hard, your ears were ringing, your face was flushed.
it’s not your first fight with him–and far from being your last–but you’ve never been this cruel to him! attention whore… seriously? the word echoed in your mind.
as you kept walking, the cool air of the late afternoon calmed you down a bit and that’s when you picked up on the footsteps behind you.
his, of course. you could recognize them so easily–they were careful, purposeful, light, keeping their distance, giving you space…
you could feel a lump slowly forming in your throat as regret started creeping in, but your pride made you swallow it faster than a pill.
when you got home, you kicked off your shoes by shaking your feet, sending them flying carelessly against the old wooden shoe cabinet and stormed straight to your room without even acknowledging josephine’s presence, startling her in the process.
still at the entrance, caleb naturally picked up your shoes and set them aside before removing his own.
“what happened?” josephine frowned, worry creeping into her voice.
but of course your brother was always quick to smooth things over and found an excuse for you about how school has been exhausting these past few days.
“she’s just tired.” he added, putting your grandmother’s mind at ease.
caleb, though, seemed awfully out of it, his eyes lacking their usual light.
but he fell back into his routine anyway: changing his clothes, putting on a load of laundry, doing his homework, starting dinner, going for a jog while it cooked, showering, setting the table…
when dinner was served, josephine called for you from downstairs but no answer came.
caleb set a carafe of water on the table before turning his gaze at the top of the stairs silently.
“don’t worry, i’ll make her a plate for later.”
she thanked him, as she returned to the table.
and you? you were in your own world.
stretched out on your bed, your legs up against the wall, wrinkling posters of celebrities as you scrolled through your phone with your earphones in, your school bag long forgotten after you threw it across your bedroom.
your foul mood slowly began to fade. you even found yourself thinking about sending caleb some videos that would make him laugh for sure… only to snap back to reality when you noticed how dark it has gotten outside.
you’re such an airhead.
you hadn’t done anything since you got home, and you were still in your uniform.
you quickly grabbed some clothes and stormed to the bathroom to shower. when you finished, you headed downstairs.
all the lights were off, but you could still navigate pretty easily through the dark, thanks to the streetlamp outside and the soft glow of the oven clock.
you found a plate covered in film.
you heated it as you paced a bit in front of the microwave and ate it quickly; it was delicious as usual, just the way you liked it.
you put your plate in the dishwasher and headed upstairs to brush your teeth, phone in hand, not even bothering to close the door–granny was surely reading in bed at this hour.
as for caleb…
he had just entered the bathroom to retrieve the now dry clothes, just as a meme made you laugh so hard you almost choked on your toothpaste.
you rinsed your mouth, dried it with a towel and turned your phone toward him.
“haha! hey caleb, look! isn’t it—”
but you found yourself facing a somewhat different caleb, one that stopped you in your tracks.
his expression was calm, yet heavy, his eyes fixed on you with a weight you’d never seen before. it took you aback, firstly because he had never looked at you that way before, but mostly because you had completely forgotten about that afternoon, like totally!
you could only stare at him as you lowered your phone, your smile long gone, guilt slowly creeping back in.
he let out an unamused huff at your reaction, shaking his head as he looked to the side. without a word, he tossed the piece of clothing he was holding into the basket of clean laundry, then finally looked back at you.
“so… after how you spoke to me before and ignored me, i suddenly exist now…?”
his tone was devoid of anger; only sarcasm… disappointment… and hurt. his long lashes cast shadows his trystine eyes. you found it hard to look at him right now, it filled you with remorse…
so you tried to apologize for your stupid tantrum.
“caleb… gege… listen, earlier–”
you couldn’t even finish your sentence when you noticed something falling quickly.
no…
you looked up–and saw something you didn’t think you’d ever see in him.
tears…
…clinging to your big brother’s lashes. falling from his eyes. actual tears.
panic rose in your chest as you settled your phone near the sink and stepped closer.
you reached for him and grabbed his sleeve, tugging gently so he’d focus on you.
he met your gaze–his eyes glossy and unfocused, the skin beneath them reddening, his nose flushed.
it tugged at your heart instantly, and like an invisible bond linking you two, your own eyes began to sting. tears welled up, and soon enough, you were a crying mess.
he pulled you closer, cupping your cheek as he tried to wipe your tears away while you sobbed, a small breath escaping his lips–half surprise, half amusement.
the irony: him consoling you when it should be the other way around. he really spoiled you rotten…
your words came out tangled, broken by hiccups and sniffles.
“g-gege… i’m so sorry… i-i was just… mad… i don’t even know why! and… and i hate that i said that, i’m so mean!… and i wanna walk home with you by my side, like before… and… i-i won’t be mean to you ever again… p-please…”
he wrapped his hands around your smaller frame, letting you cry against him, his hand gently stroking the back of your neck as your shoulders quivered with every sob.
he softened, reassured, a small smile forming as he ruffled your hair, silently showing you he wasn’t holding it against you anymore.
“it’s okay, i’m not sad anymore, hm? do you really think i could stay upset with my precious baby sister?”
you looked up at him and was met by his usual warm gaze, his confident, reassuring and youthful smile–making the fat under his eyes a bit more prominent–you felt like you had found your big brother again… finally.
but you couldn’t shake the guilt still weighing on you, so…
you jumped into his arms, and he instinctively caught you–legs around his body, arms around his neck, forehead resting on his shoulder as you inhaled his warm, sweet, familiar scent.
something you’d done countless times before, whenever you selfishly needed comfort.
“how am i supposed to fold clothes with my little gober clinging to me like this?”
his usual teasing tone eased your mind. you tightened your embrace, your voice muffled against his neck.
“’m sure you’ll manage, like you always do.” you felt him chuckle softly.
“sooo, what was this thing you wanted to show me earlier?” he asked, resuming his previous task.
his voice was low and rumbled through his chest, soothing you as you answered that you’ll show him later. he hummed softly, a hint of satisfaction in his tone.
you couldn’t see his face right now… yet, if you could…
it would have surely sent shivers down your spine, as you would have certainly caught on to his not-so-innocent designs.
there was this disturbing smile that didn’t match his earlier distress, nor the tears that had previously reddened his features.
and the way he had to contain a small moan when you gave him that puppy-like expression…
the way his eyes rolled back in his skull as you cried against him? absolutely disgusting.
he also felt a small sense of relief that you were perched a little higher in his arms right now… any lower, and you might have noticed the effect you had on him.
so… was that all it took for you to come back to him? a pitiful expression and a few tears?
he had spent the whole evening thinking about how to get you back to him.
your silence, the way you turned away from him, it tortured him.
and being ignored by you? it unsettled him in a way he couldn't name, frustration tightening in his chest during all the way back home.
but he knew why you reacted this way, you couldn’t fool your big brother, even if you tried.
your jealousy was something he found absolutely adorable, how could you even think he’d care about anyone else but you? your naivety only makes him cherish you even more.
… and your previous tantrum? it made you so irresistible. your possessiveness over him actually had his stomach fluttering… a slow warmth curling even lower.
but he needed to do something to make sure you–his dear sister, who’s bound to him far deeper than you understood, who’s meant to remain at his side alone, with every inch of you rightfully his–would never ignore him like that ever again.
if he hadn’t caught up to you after school, you would have headed home alone, and he couldn’t risk that…
no. not after he noticed the way some boys dared to look at you, just waiting for an opportunity to get close when he wasn’t around… it truly made his blood boil.
he didn’t want to have to take matters into his own hands. again.
he would make sure they understood–quietly, efficiently–that you're more than off-limits.
heck, if it were up to him, he would show it to everyone, make it crystal clear, leaving no room for doubt… but he couldn’t risk rushing you or scaring you.
not now. not yet.
you were still trying to figure it out after all, not even realizing yet what you had for your brother was more than simple fraternal love.
so he put on this little act, pretending to be hurt, secretly savoring the thought that every time you will remember how hurt he was when you ignored him, it would prove how fully he consumed your mind–a small punishment for thinking you could escape his grasp.
the guilt he’s stirred in you devouring you, making you crawl back into his arms. back to him, where you belong, just like now.
your reliable and devoted big brother had just imprinted himself on your mind, and you would never be able to forget it.
so he’d be the only one left to occupy that space ever. he would make sure of it.
CALEB’s words held a calculated eloquence, always smooth and outright dominating when he wanted to be—it was no wonder he swept you off your feet as soon as you tried to leave him.
the first time you mentioned leaving back to linkon after being there for a few days, caleb had convinced you to stay a little longer.
“oh, c’mon. you’d only just got here. why not stay for the rest of the week, hm?”
his boyish smile and captivating charm played with your heart like always: “don't you want to spend more time with me? i never get to see you as often as i’d like, y’know.”
and of course, you gave in.
he was right.
your career was taking up much more of your personal time than you'd like to admit, so finally having vacation days to spend felt like a luxury. taking advantage of being away from work and being with caleb in peace was something you couldn't let slip by you.
but as the week had finished and started anew, you brought it up again, only for caleb to shake his head, laughing as if he tried to lighten the mood, “what’s the rush? don't tell me you're growing sick of me already, pips?”
his hand caressed the top of your head playfully, twiddling with the apple hair clip in your hair for a moment before speaking again: “you should stay for a while longer—for your safety. i was informed that there was a wanderer attack in the city today, so we’ll do a mandated lockdown tonight and perform a clean-up sweep. it’ll be better to lie low here until it’s all over. who knows what else will show up within the next day or two?”
as you opened your mouth to speak, wanting to protest that it wasn't necessary, he was quick to shut you down.
“there's no need to leave skyhaven right now.” caleb’s tone grew sharp, yet still maintained that sense of gentleness as he grabbed your hand and tugged you away from your bedroom door, “we can talk about it later. come, i’ll make you a quick snack for the movie you wanted to watch.”
you would come to realize that he didn’t want you to leave.
his possessiveness over you was like a whisper, silent and hidden from sight.
with time, it grew louder and clearer, suffocatingly intense that it began to consume you. suddenly, you weren't living in linkon anymore, and you found yourself trapped for weeks in shyhaven, in the clouds above. caleb’s home, which felt like a safe place, slowly became an unfamiliar environment to you.
“this is your home…” breathless, he’d kiss your trembling, sweat-slick skin as you came, hands claiming you in a tight embrace as you fell apart in his arms, one orgasm after another, “our home. no one will be able to—ah, shit…”
oh, how good it felt to feel your walls flutter deliciously around his cock, making caleb groan into your neck, whimpering as his hips chased after yours that dared to lift and grind for more.
through the drunk pleasure that swallowed you whole, his words began to register in the back of your mind.
our home.
“n-no one… will find you here… i’ll make sure of it.”
a promise, you were sure.
and it was.
his purple eyes, which once shone a comforting light, now held a sense of darkness, looming over him every time he looked at you, watching your every move as if you'd scurry away like a mouse from a cat. his arms, filled with warmth, now entrapped you like a cage, too firm and too strong for you to break free and fly away. everything that you've come to know and love about caleb was changing before your very eyes at a dangerously fast rate, and as much as you didn't want to let go, you didn't know how much more you could take.
you said it as soon as he came home from work, sitting him down in the living room before he could take off his colonel uniform. despite the seemingly loving smile he gave you, the way he didn't look like your caleb made it even harder to say what you would say. and when you did, it was like a switch went off, his ‘warm’ expression turning into one you didn't want to read.
it was silly to think you could leave caleb.
he loved you too much even to think about letting you slip away.
he'd tell you so, holding your face close to his, promising to love you with everything he had and give you what you needed to live a happy life with him.
what wasn't enough for you to stay? was life so miserable in skyhaven that you wanted to go back home to linkon? he’ll go back with you if that's what you want, as long as you're with him.
caleb would continue whispering promises of security and protection, confessions of never-ending devotion and desire for you and your love. he'd tell you never to leave him, to stay by his side, that all he wanted was for you to be kept from everyone and their cruel intentions. he only wanted to protect you, after all. it was safer being here with him in skyhaven than anywhere else; he’d make sure of it—repeatedly convince you with his honey-slick words and tender kisses. it was hard to say no when you didn't want to let caleb go, and as you gasped his name at the feeling of his lips leaving blooming red marks on your neck, you could only think of one thing.
losing him once was more than enough.
as much as you wanted to be free, losing caleb was a sacrifice you weren't willing to make.
not now, not again.
even as you looked into those eyes you loved more than anything and watched them fill up with desperation, hunger—you couldn’t help yourself from falling into his embrace. you felt your breath taken away as his lips took claim of yours, feverishly delectable, heavy. through blurry eyes, you could see the moon shining on you from above as clouds crept closer, slowly engulfing the light until nothing was left.
pitter-patter of raindrops was the only sound you could hear amid heavy breathing, your cries echoing through your dark surroundings.
one, two, three—again and again as tears pricked and fell from your eyes that orgasm after another sent you into delirium—it wasn’t nearly enough to satisfy him. bent over the couch you were, caleb’s fleet jacket draped over the cushion and gripped between your shaky fingers as he fucked into you from behind. his hat lay abandoned on the floor, along with most of your clothing, as the sweater you wore stretched and nearly ripped in his iron grasp.
a bumpy melody of wailing followed each snap of his hips, sweat-slick skin slapping skin, so good and so lewd that your thighs were trembling, your knees ready to give out at any second. his hand, holding your head, cupped the underside of your face tenderly, tilting your body in a way that made your back arch deliciously for him. leather fingertips touched your swollen bottom lip, almost like a tease for you to bite down on the edges and pull at his glove. and you did, taking the rough material between your teeth and tugging at it.
it was like an unspoken request, and you could hear a breathy laugh from behind before you felt your body being hoisted up until your back was against his chest. he sounded breathless in your ear as he stopped all movement, his lips brushing just enough on the skin of it that you were left twitching in his hands.
caleb chuckled again, his voice low, almost sweet, nothing like how he was taunting you some minutes ago, “try taking it off yourself. you can do it, can’t you?”
you shook your head slightly, nearly gasping once you felt a sneaky hand find its way to your neglected clit.
“oh, i see. you’ve done it before, though… don’t you remember?” his words made tears sting in your eyes, “yet you can’t seem to do it now. i wonder why that is.”
a hiccuping wail was all you could muster in response, your hips rocking involuntarily, greedily chasing after his touch that he continued to deny you for the past ten minutes. you grit your teeth, panting for air that felt like it was suffocating you, and it was all a punishment that became too much to bear.
“you're becoming quite spoiled, don't you think?” a deep grind of his hips made your eyes roll into the back of your head, “i won't reward bad girls like you that don't do what i say.”
tw 💌 : dark themes, suggestive/sexual themes, papa caleb, violent thoughts, mommy AND daddy issues, power imbalance, misogynistic themes, 1910s ambient, no dialogues, plotwist at the end (i love a plotwist yk) . . . same old same old ^_^
you would be lying if you said your life was any easy. being in your 20s with a mother who cannot see beyond her own ego was enough reason for you to want to leave that house. an alcoholic with a pretty face but bad heart that got depressed the second your father left to fight in the war. the only motivation for her to wake up every morning was spending all the money your deceased dad left behind, besides a notification from the army informing about his “disappearance”.
and you? you got to see not a single penny. that’s why you worked an 8 hour shift five days a week at a cafe near by your neighborhood. the unreasonable temper your mother had was a good training for all these drunk mid-aged men after all. the pay wasn’t good but it was enough, it allowed you to survive without the help of that woman.
little did you know you’d find a pleasant surprise when leaving your shift; your mom waiting for you at the door while talking to a tall and handsome stranger. mahogany locks turning grayish and uniform still clinging to his shoulders. a colonel apparently. due to the war it wasn’t odd seeing them walk around the area, some of the soldiers even came to the cafe to drown their sadness on the little alcohol you kept locked away behind the counter.
the wrinkles adorning his eyes caught your attention, not realizing the way they deepened each time he dedicated a sweet and manly smile to your mother. she didn’t even waste time in telling you about him once you got home, bragging about how she was planing on sleeping with him and then dump him.
you felt sorry for the guy, why on earth would someone with his status even bother with someone so wasted like your mother? you would’ve never guessed.
guessed how he noticed you the first day he stepped in town, the way he glanced your way every time while waiting for his morning coffee. you didn’t even remember him being a customer, but he remembers every mole in your arms.
he would leave his office everyday at 9:00 am to go visit his darling, waiting for the perfect opportunity to step into your life in the most subtle way, so subtle you wouldn’t notice how practiced every move and sentence was. he honestly couldn’t give less fucks about your mom, her eyeliner way too long and thick and her breath way too stinky; far from being the beautiful and delicate lady you were.
god, how bad he wanted to save you. save you from the precarious situation you lived in. he wanted to give you all the money in the world, he actually had more money than that.
buy all the designer clothes you stopped to stare at the windows on your way back home, dress you in the prettiest gowns to brag about you at fancy dinners. travel around the world all over again just with you. shit, even buy you lingerie as delicate and innocent as you were and take it off after slowly with gloved hands just to test your patience.
he would fantasize about how you’d taste, was your breath minty or sweet? was your hair as soft as it looked? were your hands as warm as they felt when you handed him his coffee? what color panties you used? how did your arousal smell? were your moans high pitched or shy? were you bratty or a good girl? did you—
anyway, as much as he wanted to know he would have to get his way first with your mother, and how he despised her. he knew how much of a bad mother she was, how she couldn’t give less fucks about you and your life. and you surely needed a dad, right? a daddy. pretty girl like you shouldn’t be walking around without a manly figure to protect her. these days women thought they were powerful, smarter than men. but caleb knew you needed someone who really took care of you.
so he did end up marrying that ungrateful bitch no longer after fucking her for the first time. how much she grossed him out every time she even dared to kiss him with those yellow teeth, but he would really do anything for his darling. anything.
you grew fond of him in just about two months. even if your little silly head couldn’t understand why he would choose to be with someone as awful as your mom, you enjoyed the time you got to spend with him. he was such a wise man, in his 51 years of life he lived and learnt way more than anyone at their 80s. some days after work you would stop by his office at central. to anyone it was a gray and despicable place where journalists were kidnapped and all sort of nasty deals were made. caleb was no angel, at the end of the day he was fighting a war from within.
but for you it was your safe place, the woody walls, the velvet carpet, the scent of ink and tobacco . . . you were fond of this office and all the books you had at your disposal, that comfy but crunchy leather couch you took your naps on and that woolly blanket he gifted you after the wedding.
yeah, gifted you, not his freshly married wife.
because it was always about you, it was about talking about countries you didn’t even know existed while you played with his gray hair sitting on his lap; he gaslighted you into thinking this was sweet and innocent, but his ego couldn’t get bigger when he noticed how vulnerable you let yourself be in these intimate moments.
he would tell you about all these spicy and delicious foods he tasted, promising you to take you day in a nearby day while caressing your sides with his thumbs, allowing you to unbutton his jacket, your innocent mind not noticing the effect you had on him.
while he spoke he would pay attention to your fresh french manicure that he obviously payed for, he would take in the sweet vanilla scent of your new perfume, the details of the lacy trim on your dress; you were covered in his money.
his manicure, his perfume, his dress, his step daughter. you were his.
and you would always rely on him, just the way it was supposed to be. you’d always ask him to pick you up from work and then take you on a walk, ask for help every time you had to sign a document or set up an appointment. he eventually convinced you to drop out from work. women as beautiful and porcelain-like as you didn’t have to work.
you just had to sit pretty for him, sweet face and perfect body next to him while he toyed with people’s lives just so you got everything you wanted and deserved.
and oh, how happy he was he signed your father’s execution that summer noon. he got him out of the way as he will get your mother out of the way, maybe force her to drink until she passes.
anything for his darling, the little girl he’s been obsessing over about 11 years. and now you were about to be all his; he was done waiting.
a/n: I’m baaaack! >_< got carried away with this one and i wrote a lot and nothing a the same time hehe. lmk if you’d like to see more with papa!caleb or you prefer gege!caleb back. just wanted to try smth new!
the urge to spit on caleb’s cheek during an argument, but I know this degenerate would just scoop it up very slowly and lick his thumb clean without breaking eye contact.
content °✧୨ৎ pseudocest + use of gege/meimei, smut w/o real plot, blowjob, mentions gagging, cum eating, masturbation, pillow riding, voyeurism/exhibitionism, size kink, use of “good girl”
wc °✧୨ৎ around 1.1k (likely contains typos + grammar mistakes)
You can’t stop thinking about him in every way you shouldn’t. You’re forced to endure it silently, mocked by the circumstances. It’s torture—he’ll do pushups in the living room, walk around in a towel, groan loudly while stretching. Each bite given is sickeningly delicious, while carrying a bitter reminder.
It’s an unattainable craving.
You’ve attempted to hush it—riding your pillow to the snores seeping through the thin wall. It never felt close enough. An idea surfaced for an alternate approach. Tried on a whim, it was doomed to become a pattern.
Whenever conditions are met, you can’t help but indulge.
Today, everything aligned flawlessly. A note on the counter informed you of his whereabouts, granting you an empty house for a few hours.
Within seconds, you’re invading that space of pure him. His energy still lingers, radiating from every surrounding object. It’s especially potent in the sheets. Burying your nose there, every inhale carries that unique scent, like he’s being injected into your veins.
But you go far beyond that, fully harnessing the opportunity.
Lowering onto the pillow, you mentally replace it with the man who owns it—who owns you; the shirt draped over your flushed skin is a testament to that. It’s his, every fibre charged with such an intimate feeling, as if he’s participating in each moment.
Typically, when you do this, a layer of separation is maintained. However, the urges are too powerful. Mind ridden with lust, there’s minimal room for much else. Just this once, you’ll make an exception, swap the evidence with a clean replacement.
Your cunt is exposed, directly hitting the fabric underneath. It’s practically him—lathered in his dna, now blending with yours. You’re submerged deeper into fantasy, held captive by vivid scenes.
Moderating your volume becomes increasingly difficult. A low noise is nearly missed, almost assumed to be imagined. But, it’s your ears that register it—externally—meaning behind you,
is a very real Caleb.
Frantically swathing yourself in the duvet, you refuse to turn.
Anticipating your confusion, he offers the explanation. The amount of time he’d be gone was deliberately overstated. He was aware you’d been up to something. What roused suspicion wasn’t specified, leaving you to drum up various possibilities.
You’ve been herded into a trap of your own making.
“Why so silent? You weren’t a few moments ago. hmmm…what was it you were saying?” He pauses, entering your line of vision. “Ohh, I remember…It was something like ‘gege! harder—keep going—ah!’”
Hearing it aloud is nauseating. Desperation rips a rushed apology from your throat. You’d do anything for a sliver of grace, to get away from this situation.
“Show me what you’ve done. If you’re truly sorry, you’ll take full accountability.”
Panic ensues as he gestures to your lower-half. No way you can do what he’s alluding to. You stammer those words but it’s pointless. He doesn’t budge.
“I know you can do it. You’re not leaving until then.”
There’s finality in his tone. It’s not a request or suggestion, but a fact that can’t be negotiated.
Aware of what’s impending, your arms tremble, rejecting instructions. Signaling you to continue, he just waits and waits, until the bedding is shifted aside. It takes every ounce of bravery for you to do so. The length of your (his) shirt provides coverage, but not enough for true reassurance. Your thighs press together diligently, hiding what’s between them.
The demands still haven’t been met. You’re told to raise up. Tugging the hem, you shift onto to your knees. Looking straight ahead, you avoid what’s below.
“Aww, don’t get all shy on me now. How are you gonna acknowledge your actions while starin’ at the wall?”
With a reluctant sigh, your eyes lower. The process is gradual, ending with their doubled size. There’s a puddle beneath you, far more incriminating than expected.
“Wearing my clothes, dripping all over my stuff…so greedy,” he tuts, voice effortlessly seductive.
Like a siren’s song, it lures you deeper into desire. You’ve already been sinking without a chance of resurfacing, all you can do is drown in him.
The affliction you’ve harbored is stronger than anything else. Shame, once bubbling under his observation, already seems less prevalent. All focus is channeled in a single direction—what’s in front of you; he's visibly enjoying this, straining against his pants. The outline makes your mouth water.
You sit back down, whimpering as friction returns to your swollen clit.
“Such a good girl…following orders before they’re even given. Now pull up the shirt a little, show me how pretty my meimei’s pussy is.”
His words bind you like a spell, they’re obeyed automatically. You grind against his pillow, ruining it—ruining yourself. Watched so intently, you’re compelled to fully showcase your depravity. It’s all for him, because of him.
All pride has been abandoned.
You beg for his touch, whining his name, but the pleas are denied. Instead you’re teased. Just of reach, he rubs himself over his pants, ravenous expression locked onto you.
He’s such a bully.
Thankfully he can’t refrain for too long. He soon caves. His dick is unleashed, smacked onto your face. It extends past your head. The difference is a threat to his sanity. He loves how small you are compared to him. “To atone your behavior, you gotta help me out, okay? Just this once.”
Your hips slow. “How do I…”
He finds it amusing, after such lewd acts you now appear so innocent. “Don’t worry, I’ll teach you.”
You familiarize yourself with his cock, handling it so cautiously. After studying its weight, you trace the shaft, gently cupping his balls. With a timid lick, you gather the liquid beading at his tip. Gazing up at him unsure, you search for approval. The sight makes him curse. It’s a miracle he didn’t cum on the spot.
A breathy hum and a nod cues your descent. A few inches down and you’re already choking. His fingers weave into your hair, guiding you. Even shaking and overwhelmed, you’re determined to devour more. You’re so fucking cute—clutching his leg like a lifeline, drool dribbling to your chin, teary eyes locked to his.
He’ll train you to take him, in all ways.
Because, It was never going to be just once.
Now experiencing exactly what he’d abstained from, there’s no reverting to ignorance. This will happen, again and again, harnessing every opportunity, constantly arranging more. And it's verbalized, alongside everything he’s going to do to you. Those filthy descriptions flood you with anticipation.
Your hips roll faster, moans becoming consecutive—one crashing into another between intermittent gagging.
He’s equally loud, just as close as you are.
Both orgasms coincide perfectly; you gush onto his pillow while he fills your mouth. Winded and dazed, you slump against each-other.
there's a certain tragedy to her life she had never been able to quite put her finger on.
living with caleb in itself was torture enough. puberty had hit him like a truck— or really, he had hit it like a brick wall. he was built like one, at least. pectorals that only the gods themselves could have carved, muscle by muscle. his body hair grew darker and denser, a happy trail paving the way to a crevice of his body she could only dream of touching.
and then there was that deep-rooted guilt, the kind that gripped her by the throat and made her choke each time a warm feeling pooled between her legs. she wanted to bury herself inside his bones. to feel every inch of him surround her.
agitation could be another way to describe it.
the older she got, the more difficult she found it to be around him without getting roused up. just the scent of his skin was enough to make her thighs clamp together, knuckles turning white as they gripped the kitchen chair during dinner.
'what's got you so deep in thought, pips?' that smile, his sun-kissed skin. those evil, unfamiliar eyes that had changed after his return from the d.a.a.
of course josephine was as clueless as ever, only yapping on about frivolous things while they eye fucked each other. their lust was an invisible beast, thrashing and eager to be set free from its cage. it existed only through those small, insignificant moments where boundaries seemed non-existent. even then, caleb usually knew where to stop, leaving more to be desired for.
intimacy was no stranger to their complicated relationship. when they cuddled, he left ghost kisses on her neck. if he wasn't on time with shaving, she could feel his stubble graze onto her shoulder as he licked downwards. he would laugh, mouth crooked with his canine poking out sheepishly, excusing it by saying something dumb like 'just taste so sweet, baby'. she never questioned it, only pushed herself closer to him so he could get a better taste.
'like... riiight here.' his hand squeezed onto her wrist, enough to cause her skin to turn purple under it's weight, exposing her armpit. he spat into the dip of it, then began scooping it back up with his tongue.
her wriggling made him chuckle even more, his other arm tucking into her lower stomach to subdue her.
she also knew how big his cock was. the shape of it was imprinted on her mind like a seething hot branding iron (couldn't forget it even if she wanted to, with how often it slotted between her ass). it looked the most delicious when he wore sweatpants and no shirt while they napped together. she could feel it then, twitching and curving to the swell of her ass.
it was something they never talked about, of course. in a way, they didn't really need to. it would mean putting a label on whatever the hell was happening, but there were no words in the entire universe to describe the hole in her chest that only her big brother could fill. it was why they watched each other, waiting and seeing to witness who would take the first fall. as always, she ended up the loser.
when he had left the door to the bathroom cracked, she felt the pull of his gravity. the crack of light through the door cast onto her iris, trying her hardest to be invisible.
she touched herself later that night to the memory of him holding his cock as he relieved himself. thoughts swirled around and around as her hips rose off the mattress, climaxing when she imagined herself licking the toilet seat with the bowl full of his urine inches away from her face. she bit her fist to stifile her moans, legs shaking and pussy clenching on her pathetic fingers.
he would begin leaving the door ajar regularly after that day.
"mei mei."
it was a saturday when he stood at the end of her bed, his large palm running up her bare calf.
“grandma’s gone. move over.” he murmured, pulling his shirt over his head in a manner that showed off his biceps. she watched as the span of skin stretched as his arms rose over his head, dog tag jingling softly.
“for how long?” it took everything inside of her to form those three words.
shaking his head like a dog, his dark chocolate hair rested back to it’s normal fringe. he patted her butt, kneeling onto the bed and causing it to creak with his hefty weight. finally settling behind her, he inhaled deeply at the back of her scalp.
“mmm… dunno, probably late. come closer, dummy.” he doesn’t leave room for argument, forcing her back to his chest like superglue.
“i hope it’s all night.” the truth lingers in the air like a bad stench.
a pregnant pause fell over them, only the sound of their pulses syncing together. he doesn’t try to break it either, just sighs into the nape of her neck. his fingers fiddled with the ends of her hair, pulling them back so more of her skin was available for him.
it's not unusual for the world to fall so silent when they embrace like this. but something felt different this time, like she was at the edge of a cliff and he was centimeters away from pushing her off. every movement of his body lit a fire under her, sneaky fingers curling at the hem of her shirt. she froze, breath catching sharply.
“caleb—“
“if i tell you to do something, will you listen to me?” his voice was lower than usual, as he leaned up on his elbow, resting his cheek on his hand, and watched her carefully. her expression told him everything he needed to know.
nodding, she looked back at him.
“good girl.”
he had called her that before, but this time, it had intention woven into it. she didn't dare ask what he was thinking, just let his hands wander up her shirt with the pace of a snail.. caleb had always been good at dragging shit out until she couldn't handle it anymore, begging and kicking at his feet for mercy. but for now, she remained a statue, allowing herself to slow down. to take it all in before he decided enough was enough.
that's how it usually went, anyway.
there's a certain tragedy to her life she had never been able to quite put her finger on— until then. until he opened his big mouth, that soft yet demanding cadence to his voice.
"take your shirt off."
had it not been for his tight grasp on her, she would have flinched out of pure panic. knowing her face was red, she did her best to remain obedient, her fingertips brushing over his as she guided her top over her stomach and past her breasts. it's a struggle; her nipples were so taut that they snagged onto the fabric.
he didn't comment on her not wearing a bra, knowing that she preferred to let her breasts hang freely around the comfort of their own home. his hands came up to help tear the shirt over her head, holding her hair, then patting it back down once he threw the garment across the room.
her arms automatically flew up to cover herself, earning a displeased grunt as he forced them away.
"why're you hiding?" he whispered, breath hot and curling sensually into the shell of her ear "i know everything about you."
"it's embarrassing..."
"you're beautiful," he interjected immediately, fingers still tracing lazily at her navel.
she suddenly realized he was holding himself back, her heart swelling with an irritation that she had never felt before. it's a sibling thing, getting so frustrated so easily with his politeness.
"stupid ge..." she huffed, impatiently wrapping her clammy hand around his and pulling them up to grope her tits.
he exhaled like he had been holding his breath the whole time, growling as he kneaded them like a starved man. her cheek dug into the pillow more and more as he planted wet, open-mouthed kisses along the meeting between her neck and shoulder.
rolling her nipple between his index and thumb, he watched her unravel. realizing just how sensitive she was, he pinched it softly, wanting to hear her whimper a little louder. as always, he got his way. she was no better than a handful of play-doh, completely at his beck and call. arching into his touch, she reached back to grab a fistful of his soft strands. hissing, he used his other hand to tilt her head towards him.
"behave."
squinting her eyes through the bliss, she looked drunk off of every touch he gave her. another pinch, then flick over her bud.
"kiss me." it was barely audible, the way she spoke it.
"not yet." his palm smacked across her tit, unabashed as he shifted his eyes to watch the exaggerated jiggle of fat. he did it once, twice, and a third that he almost didn't act on.
"do you know," hands removing themselves, he began to get up, sitting onto his haunches "what cum tastes like, pips?"
she's gobsmacked, absolutely frozen in place as he begins to pull his pajamas down. the indentation of his adonis belt, the dark curly hair that maps down to his cock, everything— it made her cunt throb with a heat like none other. the slap of his cock against his abdomen pierced her ears like a gunshot. pre-cum leaked out of his mushroom tip, dribbling onto her forearm and he shuffled closer to her. it felt like acid, the way it collected on her skin.
"answer me."
"n-no."
"no?" he mocked her tone, jutting his bottom lip out in a pout that resembled her own.
she smacked his thigh in retaliation, only to regret it because it hurt her more than him. a brick wall, for fuck's sake.
"my baby sister's got her pretty tits out for me. is gege being too greedy?" he pretended to ponder, gripping the base of his shaft, wiggling his cock like bait at the end of a fishing line.
submissive, she leaned up onto her palms. he clicked his tongue, thumb hooking onto her chin to yank it millimeters from his erection. her eyes fluttered up at his, brows bowing all cutesy.
"you like to watch, right?"
feeling like she could puke, her whole complexion painted red. but the humiliation didn't turn her away, it only made her wetter. she tried casting her eyes downwards, but he shook her face like a command to come back to him.
"mhmm. yeeeah, you do." he decided.
"please." she wasn't sure exactly what she was asking for, but big brother always knew how to take care of her. and would do just that.
his hand began to move, jerking himself real nice and slow for her. she watched as the veins moved underneath his touch, the silky skin shifting with it. the twist of his wrist was intriguing to study, the sound wet and sticky as he smeared his pre-cum up and down himself. his moans made her muscles tighten, enough for her to whine out of frustration.
"you're not allowed to touch yourself. this is punishment." he sighed shakily, adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed thickly.
a sound of pain left her, nails digging into the back of his thigh. like she couldn't bear the atonement for her own sins.
"b-but—"
the unexpected whip of his cock against her face left her speechless, her fingers coming to soothe her cheek. tears welled up in her eyes, bottom lip wobbling. but she didn't complain, she scratched at him, pawing and beseeching him.
"pleasepleaseplease, again, please do it again, caleb!"
he did, the hardness of his cock bruising her face. it busted her cupid's bow, blood blossoming from the wound. drooling, she moaned into his palm as he caressed her apologetically.
"m'sorry, baby. your face just looks so adorable next to my cock. making me get cuteness agression reeeal bad."
she wanted to tell him it was okay, that she would do anything to have him touch her. let him do anything. but she couldn't make her voicebox work, only nodded feverently and sobbed incoherently. her crying only made him more worked up, splaying his palm out for her.
"spit."
she responded without thought, hacking up a nice fat glob for him. he praised her, using it to lubricate his cock impossibly more (as if it weren't already sopping). his continued assault on his own dick made her breathing pick up, chest rising and falling each time he flicked it with expertise. the faster he went, the closer he got, slouching over when he seemed closer to his orgasm.
"being such a good fucking girl, pips. just sitting there and watching me jack off. tell me you like it."
"i like it, gege, i love it!" she leaned forward, hot breath mingling with his tip.
"uh-huh. wanna taste my cum so bad, hm?"
"yes, i want it so fucking bad!"
a dark, gravelly 'fuck it' emitted from deep in his chest as he took the back of her head and impaled her mouth onto his cock. she gagged violently at the intrusion, but steadied herself by grabbing onto his ass. he was too big, too girthy, to fit all the way down her throat. if he did, she would most likely get sick.
her eyelids felt heavy, but she still managed to look up at him, searching for his approval. i know everything about you. he brushed hair from her sweaty forehead, affectionate and reassuring despite face-fucking her.
"look so good with my cock in that mouth of yours, angel. gonna teach you what cum tastes like, so make sure to drink every drop for me, yeah?" she couldn't even nod, jaw feeling like it would dislocate if she did.
his hips faltered and she could feel his cock begin to pulsate, a strange, warm substance spurting down the back of her tongue. his release made him roar loudly, moaning her name over and over again as he fed her his load straight from the source. she took it like a god damn champ, only slightly choking from the ordeal.
after few final thrusts, he pulled out of her mouth with a lewd pop! he shook his cock like he did when he finished peeing, letting whatever drops he had left splash onto her flushed face. he patted her cheek a few times with the tip, sticky plaps! sending waves of arousal throughout her core.
"this," he pried her mouth open again "is your reward."
nothing could have prepared her for what was next.
the stream of his piss hit the flat of her tongue, the sound hollow and vile. she coughed, trying her best to keep up with his release trickling down her esophagus. choosing not to swallow, she let it pool up until it spilled out over her chin and down her chest to her lap. It tasted salty, and bitter, and unbelievably fucking hot, much more intense than the cum she had just consumed. she longed to use it as lube to rub her clit, to do anything with it.
but caleb is a tough-love kind of guy; his one rule still stood: she couldn't touch. not unless he were to say otherwise.
when he finished, he let his cock go, leaning down to get on her level. he finally pressed his lips onto hers, kissing her like his life depended on it. she deepened it the more tongue he granted her, sucking it into her mouth with inexperience. it wasn't terrible— just sloppy and uncoordinated. he tasted blood, cum, and piss and he loved it. he loved her.
there had always been this twisted yearning in him, the kind that could destroy nations. the craving to defile her down to the bone until she was entirely and utterly his. he wanted her to destroy him, too. all of these complicated emotions, just forming into a giant black hole in his mind. now, here he was, being a big ol' meanie to his poor mei mei, and the worst part of it all was that she wanted it. needed it.
all of this, only to realize he had taken the fall first. he was a loser. it made him huff out an acidic laugh.
his cock didn't go down at all, if anything, it grew harder. she stuttered, feeling sadness take hold of her. it felt like he was going to abandon her, leaving her there to drown in her own consciousness and questions of what the fuck just happened to her.
"no, hey. stop. look at me," his hands gripped her face firmly "it's okay. you're gonna soak in the bath, naked and waiting for me. i just need five minutes to clean up. sound like a deal?"
"are we still brother and sister, caleb?" she later pondered, hand skimming the top of the bath water he drew for her.
the cup he filled with water was dumped over her shampooed head. she'd rather get soap in her eyes than see him gain any satisfaction from her moping. he continued to massage the product into her scalp, smile translating through his tone.
"duh. what, did my dick scare ya away?"
she splashed him with water, his body curling inward to sheild himself. he laughed uncontrollably, sticking his hands up as a white flag.
"ca-leb!"
"i hope not, cus now you're in biiig trouble."
"whatever that means." she shook her head, only to be stopped abruptly by his fingers around her neck, squeezing with considerable pressure. his other hand descended downwards to her crotch.
"you already know."
when josephine arrived later that night, they fell back into their usual habits. the type where doors aren't closed, but left cracked as an invitation. yeah, her life felt like an absolute greek tragedy. there really was no escaping the stranglehold he had on her, especially now that a line had been crossed. he would remind her time and time again, finding new ways to destroy and rebuild her.
a/n: yo!! wtf. i can't believe we're already at 3,000! it seems like yesterday that i was blabbing about 2k. i'm eternally grateful to every single one of ya for letting me continue to fap so freely on tumblr about our brothusband caleb. like it's genuinely hard for me to fully process this information. so ykw i did about it? wrote copious amounts of caleb cumming (and pissing) about it. that's what. dsfajkslfjdsa THANK YOU I LOVE YOU ALL and i hope u enjoy what i've puked out for u 🤍
Caleb was fine with your hectic schedule. It would not bother him if you had to leave early because of things since sometimes, he'd do it too. But even the most understanding brother in the world would have his limits.
In the beginning, it would just be something easy enough to brush off.
"Hey Caleb, I need to pick up this call, sorry. I'll be back in a few."
"Oh, I have an event that day. Can we go to the theme park a few days later?"
Yes. Of course. He understood you had your own agendas.
He couldn't always hog up all of your time—as much as he wanted to. You always made sure to make it up to him too, so all was fine and well.
Then it slowly started to grow. Last minute cancellations, because you realised you had forgotten a deadline was actually due that day. Excuses for your absenteeism whenever Caleb dropped by Linkon, only managing a brief kiss and an apologetic look on your face, showing how bad you felt. He didn't like that.
There were times you couldn't even manage to go to Skyhaven, even though you always said you missed him.
But did you, really?
Did you actually want to see and meet up with him, making up for all the lost times as much as he wanted it too?
Or was Caleb becoming more of an afterthought you'd only think of once your never ending pile of work was done—which seemed to be less frequent? Many occasions there were that included Caleb feeling a sort of agitation run up his veins, the kind that he never wanted to show around you. Yet it was becoming more prominent, an annoyance pulsating through his body.
His patience, admittedly, was running thin and thinner. The last straw was when you couldn't even pick up his calls anymore. His texts? All left on seen.
As busy as you were, replying to him was the bare minimum. Answering his calls and letting him hear your voice was the least you could do.
This was no way to treat your brother. He gave you the freedom you kept begging him for, so why were you misusing it? Now you were going against his words, taking away promises—leaving him all alone to be a fool.
Maybe he should've been more strict with you after all.
On this night where he finally held you captive, pinning you down on the bed of the room he gave you in his house—the room that used to belong to him—he was going to remind you that you were still his too.
And even if you wanted to struggle, he would just take it as an act of defiance. Since you were never the easiest to tame. Until your voice remembered how to tremble upon seeing and hearing him, Caleb would continue to keep you as is. Trailing his fingers along your jaw, down the column of your neck, light pressure on both sides of your neck as a threat.
"Ge- I'm sorry, okay? I've been so busy and-"
"And that somehow gave you the confidence to disrespect me," He cut you off, an off smirk on his lips, twisting your words into something more vile and out of your mind, "it seems to me that you've forgotten who I am, so a reminder needs to be done."
You shivered, hairs raised. "Caleb, let's just talk this out. Please…?"
He looked down on you, a stare that was ever piercing. It was cold and harsh as brisk wind, but you saw the tiniest crack hidden beneath the potency of purple disguised as black.
You had to dive in and crack it more while you could.
"I'm really sorry for not responding to your texts or picking up your calls," you explained with a rush, trying to not squirm at the feel of his broad hand beginning to explore under your shirt, "in truth, I was just tired and I didn't want you to see me like that. I wanted to still appear as the cheerful little sister you adore and rightfully deserve. Same goes for all of our missed dates, all the times I couldn't welcome you properly as you dropped by, all the missed opportunities for me to come see you here. I just really, really fucked up, gege."
Caleb had your shirt fully lifted up by now, above your chest where he began fondling with your chest. He flicked your nipples, igniting a reaction out of you. It was like all the words you poured out for a sliver of his sympathy just went through one ear and out from the other.
"You're aware of your mistakes," he acknowledged that much. "Good."
But the real fear started to kick in when his thumbs hooked onto the waistband of your pants and underwear, pulling them down in one fell swoop.
You panicked. "Gege, not this— please, please…!"
"Shh, behave." His voice was oddly calm. Against your pounding heart, he sounded as if he was just putting down a rabid puppy that liked to bite. It was the lack of emotion that terrified you more; the inability to guess what he was thinking.
"There's just no other way to teach you, baby sis."
He did not even give you a fair warning. The crudeness of your brother always came at the cost of your body. His lips that pressed insistently against yours were enough to silence your cries, as together with his hands that pulled you closer to his crotch, a bulging outline which made you tense up, and he felt it.
The taste of your terror was the sweetest kind he indulged in, as he took you with force. Everything he missed about you—he acted with greed. This was how he forgived you for all the times lost; by remembering how you couldn't push him away. His cock filled in every inch of you, and you screamed about it. Your own hands shielding your crying face, unable to resist his thrusts that were too much.
"No, no— stop, it hurts so much…nhn…"
Caleb laughed.
He laughed, with all the audacity he gathered from your pleas, right into your face, pupils shrinking.
"I don't wanna hear any more of that from you. This is what you owe me, remember?"
Lifting your hips, his thrusts began to hit deep, meeting the start of your cervix. "We're just bonding and spending time together as we always should be."
The last thing that went through your functioning mind was the tight grasp of his hands on both your ankles, and then a sharp pain that pierced through your flesh and went right into your bones—
*crack*
Maybe you had screamed for help just then.
Maybe you had just went silent.
You couldn't recall even if you tried. Nothing but endless white was left in your thoughts. And it seemed that after so much struggling, your body gave in and finally grew limp.
Caleb could do whatever now. You wouldn't fight back. He fed you with his seed, over and over. Until it spilled out of your gaping hole, and you failed to react. The kisses he left on your lips were met with no response either.
Your legs were numb. No sensation was left to be felt in them. And somehow, the rest of you decided to act the same, as if it was mourning together with the loss.
Only, just barely, could you register the sound of your voice—whatever was left of it, as you tried one last word.
"Ge…ge…"
Caleb stood up, leaving you in the violent mess of his affection; white and red.
