lover of mine

21 she/they pansexual i reblog nsfw content sometimes! minors don’t interact with those posts

[cucurb]

hey guysss so unfortunately the rumors are true and im leaving the narrative. Buttt the good news is my absence will create such a gaping hole in your lives that it will become a sort of presence itself, and so in a way it will kind of be like i never left! But i am. Leaving just to be clear.

[rezijellyfish]

👀

[blowingbarnes]

Substance F52.8

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader Word count: 8.5k Warnings: dub-ish con (sex pollen)?, SMUT!! (p in v, face fucking, mating press, oral (m receiving), overstimulation (m&f), tears of overstimulation, begging?, beefy bucky looking that feral is its own warning, BCB (big cock bucky), size kink? Summary: How many times has Steve told you not to touch weird shit in old labs?

Easy mission. In and out. Get intel, meet at the extraction point, get in the Quinjet and make it back to the compound in time to get pizza delivered from Donatello's, watch trashy TV while Sam talking shit about said trashy TV, and pass out on the couch.

At least, it would've been, until Joaquin decided to touch whatever definitely not innocuous shit he found in one of the labs and, in an attempt to get Bucky's old HYDRA expertise, made the small vial explode into a puff of pink smoke right in front of his face.

You were sweeping the lower lab levels when the comms crackled.“Oh wow, this stuff is so old.”

You groaned. “That sounded like the voice of a man about to do something stupid. Joaquin, do not—” And then you heard Bucky choke, cough, and groan like he was about to twist Joaquin's neck like an old farmer would do to a chicken before dinner.

You jogged around the corner, footsteps echoing in the old no-so-sterile halls, and met up with both of them bumping straight into Bucky's chest in the process, making him grunt at the impact.

"Oh, hi." You smiled at him like you always did: sweetly, kindly, like you weren't trying to hide the fact that you'd rearrange the tiles on every subway station in New York if he asked you to. "You guys okay?"

Joaquin shrugged and nodded, "Just got some old school glitter all over grandpa." 

Bucky gave you a breathy "yeah, all good." before all of you nodded your heads in agreement and moved along.

You got to another wing of the old base, and the three of you got stopped by a heavy reinforced door preventing you from moving further into the hallway. “You gotta be kidding me,” Joaquin sighed, smacking the reader with the heel of his palm.

You leaned in to inspect it, raising a brow. “Looks like the power line’s fried in this section. We’ll have to backtrack through—” You didn’t finish, because Bucky swayed out of the corner of your eye.

Not dramatically, not theatrically, just enough that your hand shot out, instinctively catching his elbow. “Woah, hey,” you blinked up at him. “You good?” He didn’t answer.

His jaw flexed, teeth grinding. His breath came sharp, deeper, as if the air had suddenly gotten heavier around him. His pupils were… wide. Obscenely, almost. Swallowing the blue.

Joaquin noticed too. “…Uh. Sarge?”

Bucky squeezed his eyes shut. Once. Twice. Like he was trying to blink something back into order.

“I said I’m fine,” he rasped, voice low and not fine at all. But his shoulders trembled, he felt the fabric of his shirt start to cling to him like he’d just stepped out of a sauna, the collar of the tac vest becoming chafy and uncomfortable.

You felt heat radiating off him—like his skin was cooking under the surface. Bucky inhaled sharply, not a normal breath, a slow, wrecking, deep inhale, eyes closing as he tumbled back, bracing himself on the wall.

“…Buck?” Your voice came out softer this time. You could see the beads of sweat forming on his forehead, and the way his eyes were having a hard time focusing. His head lolled from side to side against the cold steel wall until you steadied his face to look at you. "Hey, talk to me."

"I feel—" He couldn't get words to come out, the throughts were there but his tongue felt heavy, like it wanted to give away secrets his brain hadn't allowed it to."I think I'm sick." And God, the way that you took a glove off and put the back of your hand to his forehead just barely helped relieve the heat his body was producing. 

Heat that went up a degree or two when you touched your cheek to his forehead, and he inhaled the sweet scent of your skin. Nothing perfume-like, or lotion, just… you, right at the space where your neck met your shoulder, like the smell of you had hooked him by the throat and reeled him in.

"You're burning up." He felt a whine bubble in his throat when you pulled away to talk to Joaquin. "What exactly was in that lab?"

“…Okay. So remember that old glitter? Could’ve been, uh—bio-aerosol? Or something from that weird Cold War pheromone vault section?” It was almost cartoonish the way Joaquin's face formed into a wince. A very "we're so fucked and he's gonna kill me" wince. 

You stared. “You mean sex pollen.”

“…I did not want to be the guy to say that out loud.” Both of you turned your heads to the sound behind you, not quite a growl, or a moan, but something animal and hurt.

"Okay, how long do we have?" Your mind was going a mile a minute. "Is he gonna die before we get back?" You walked back to crouch in front of Bucky, looking for his eyes with yours. “Hey,” you murmured, guiding his gaze back to you, “look at me.”

His breathing stuttered. “You shouldn’t—” he croaked, voice shredded raw. “I don’t—this isn’t—”

“I know,” you whispered. "Can you hang on until we get to the jet? Bruce and Tony must have something that can help." All you got back was a nod.

After talking the long way out, you managed to get back to the team, Steve's face like a worried mother hen when he saw the three of you, Bucky insisting on walking on his own, telling Joaquin to stand between the two of you. 

Steve jogged down immediately. “What the hell happened?”

Bucky jerked back like Steve reaching for him was a knife being drawn. “Don’t,” he bit out—voice shredded, almost unrecognizable.

“Why do you look like you’re about to pounce on something?”

Steve pulled his hand back, palms up, tone softening instantly. “Okay. Okay. Not touching you. Just talk to me.” Joaquin stepped forward like he was testifying in court.

“So—fun story—turns out Cold War Russia kept, um… let’s call it biologically weaponized pheromone particulate in some of the older R&D labs and—”

Sam blinked, looked directly at Bucky, then you, then right back to Joaquin when he almost couldn't contain his laughter. “So he just inhaled airborne horny juice.”

Steve’s face did every emotion at once. Concern. Fear. Confusion. A level of Catholic repression so strong it could’ve powered a city. While Sam just exhaled through his nose like someone who was seconds away from clocking out of reality.

Your body went still.

"I just— I need to lie down, and—" You reached out to help him onto the jet, but his hand shot our making you jump back. "Don't—" He sighed, trying to level his voice. "Just stay away from me."

You'd be lying if you said that didn't hurt a little. Like having the guy you've been pining over for the past two years tell you to buzz off didn't sting like lemon and rock salt on an open wound. 

Okay, it hurt a lot. 

It was visible the way that you retreated back into yourself, like it would protect you somehow. "Copy that." 

Steve’s jaw ticked, Sam looked down like he suddenly found the floor very, very interesting, Joaquin winced like he’d just watched someone get smacked with a folding chair.

“Wait—” His voice cracked, caught in his throat. “I didn’t mean—”

“It’s fine,” you said quickly. Too quickly. The verbal equivalent of throwing a sheet over a shattered glass and calling it clean. “We need to get you stabilized. That’s all that matters.”

“No. Don’t—don’t do that.”

You swallowed. “Do what?”

“That.” His eyes held yours, unsteady, and almost pleading. “That look. Like I pushed you into traffic.”

Steve took one step forward, voice gentle. “Buck, she’s just giving you space—”

“I don’t want space,” Bucky snapped. "I want—" Another wave of whatever the compound was hit him, and he doubled over in pain. Steve helped brace him and held a hand out to stop you when you instinctively stepped forward to help. 

“Let’s get him on the cot,” Steve murmured to Sam and Joaquin, gentle, smooth, easing into triage leadership. 

Sam mumbled to Steve on the way there. “We gotta get him to the medbay before his bloodstream goes full Discovery Channel.”

The flight home was torture in slow motion.

Bucky sat hunched forward on the med-cot, elbows braced against his knees, hands fisting and unfisting like he was holding on to the last thread of himself. Every breath shook. Every exhale came rough, uneven, punched through clenched teeth. The fever didn’t just burn—it crawled. Beneath his skin, along his spine, curling up behind his ribs like it was trying to get out. And every time the jet hit the slightest patch of turbulence, every sway of the cabin, every shift in yourbreathing—he reacted. His head would lift like he was tracking you by sound alone, pupils blown wide, like you were the only oxygen in the room.

And you—God—you sat across the jet from him, arms wrapped around yourself like that could hold you steady, eyes tracing the floor, the ceiling, anywhere but him. Because looking at him meant seeing the raw need he was fighting to keep contained. It meant seeing him hurt.

After briefing Tony and Bruce, and getting a “That man inhaled weaponized lust dust?” said over a pair of glasses and raised brows, Tony locked Bucky in a super soldier-proof room with bulletproof glass windows and an amazing vitals monitoring system. But if you asked for Bucky's opinion, the quarantine quarters were sterile in an unsettling way. 

The lights were too bright, the sheets were chafy and uncomfortable against his skin, and everything was too white and clean. He managed to sweat through a shirt already, pacing around like a cautionary tale, and was on his way to doing so a second time. Not even the AC was able to help cool him off. 

His eyes kept flicking—to the glass. To you, every few seconds, like his body knew exactly where you were even when he forced himself to look away.

Bruce was scrolling through old SHIELD and Hydra files on a tablet, voice low, clinical, steady.

“The compound works by hijacking limbic and hypothalamic pathways,” he murmured. “Drives instinctual bonding and reproductive compulsion. Increases cortisol and dopamine at unsafe levels. If we don’t neutralize it, he could go into cardiac stress within the next 12 to 24 hours.”

Your stomach dropped.

Tony glanced over. “But hey, great news. He won’t die from horny. Probably. Unless he, you know—” he mimed an explosion near his chest. “Pops like an over-microwaved hot dog.”

Steve glared. “Tony.”

“What? Humor is how I cope with things trying to kill us. Or in this case, trying to rail someone into a medically concerning state.”

“He’s getting worse,” you whispered. “His breathing’s all over the place. The pacing isn’t helping anymore. We can’t just let him ride this out.”

Steve scrubbed a hand down his face. “Bruce is working as fast as he can—”

“Stop talking about me like I’m not here!” Bucky's voice snapped through the intercom, ragged and pained, and incredibly frustrated. 

The room froze for a second. Steve flinched just slightly—guilt flashing across his face, Bruce and Tony looked up, and Sam turned around from where he was, back facing the windows Bucky was now bracing his hand on. 

And Bucky—

Bucky had turned around, from his pacing back and forth, and settled in front of the glass walls. His chest rose and fell in heavy, uneven breaths. His jaw was set, eyes blown wide and dark, and sweat made his shirt cling to him like a second skin.

What stopped you dead in your tracks wasn't that, though. It wasn't his shirt starting to get soaked through, it wasn't his forehead shiny with sweat, it was the fact that the sweats he changed into did absolutely nothing to hide the state he was in. 

You hadn't meant to look, but like the moon pulls the tide, your gaze found the almost offensive tent he was pitching in his pants. Long, heavy, solid, straining against fabric that was doing absolutely zero work as a barrier—just pressed up the left side, the outline unmistakable.

Your pulse thundered behind your ribs like your heart wanted to sprint out of your chest and run to him. Steve—poor, earnest, helpful Steve—instantly jerked his head away like he’d just accidentally opened a stranger’s bathroom door.

“Oh my God,” Steve muttered, eyes locked firmly on the ceiling tiles. “Yep. Okay. Yep. We’ve reached that stage. Great.”

Sam spoke, turning back around, voice flat and so exhausted it could have been legally declared a sigh. “Yeah, I’m not making eye contact with any of that. I’m barely managing my own dignity today.”

Tony lifted his coffee mug like a toast to misery. “We’re all fighting for our lives right now, Wilson.”

Joaquin muttered something that sounded like holy mother of thirst traps, and immediately shut his mouth when Sam elbowed him.

He dragged a hand through his hair, frustrated and burning and so far past okay he had lapped the field. “This is ridiculous,” he snapped, voice hoarse. “There’s no reason for me to be locked up like some—some feral animal. I said I’m fine.”

“Bucky,” you murmured, tone unimpressed. “Your heart rate is at one-seventy and you are five minutes away from humping the corner of the room.”

“I’m fine.” He snarled the word like it personally insulted him.

He turned again—another pacing lap, another moving target distracting you from the actual problem. Or making you focus on it, depends who you ask. 

Swing. Swing.

Your eyes followed it like it had its own orbit. With every step he took, his breathing got worse, and his cock bobbed and swung with the movement. Did they even bother to get him a pair of boxers? For god's sake. 

You tried to look away and failed. Spectacularly. 

Bucky stopped mid-step when he noticed. Tilted his head once he followed your gaze, and then slowly focused his back on you, like he was studying you. The same way a jaguar tilts its head before crushing a prey's skull between its teeth. So slow, you felt it in your knees. 

He wiped his face with the hem of his shirt—lifting it—exposing the deep, carved lines of muscle, the stretch of his abdomen, the line of hair disappearing down—

You nearly whimpered.

“Yeah,” he rasped, voice shredded, “now imagine what it feels like." Oh, you did. "Inside my skin. Constant. Pressure. Heat. And I can’t fucking touch anything because the second I do—” The thing is, Bucky didn't know every word out of his mouth at any given moment would, in fact, find its way to burrow under your skin. 

Each word from his mouth meant another step towards the glass that was separating you both. 

And against your better judgement, you had imagined it. You've imagined your hands wrapped around it, you've imagined the weight of it on your tongue, you've imagined it so far in the back of your throat that—

"Stop breathing like that—I can hear it.”

Your breath caught, like a well trained animal obeying its master. "I'm not breathing in any different way."

"I can smell you too." And that made your brain short circuit. "It's sweet, and—" He groaned, letting his head fall forward. "Fuck, you smell—" Not even Stevie Wonder could've missed the drool that was pooling on his bottom lip and falling onto the floor. 

“Wanna taste it. Lick you open right here on the floor. Tongue-fuck your pussy until you can’t remember your own name.”

When he lifted his head again, it felt like the entire world narrowed to just you two. With thick super soldier proof glass in between. 

His breath fogged the glass at the same time his eyes narrowed at yours, looking for a sign that he was affecting you as much as you were affecting him. “You’ve thought about it.” Damn him, James Barnes and his ability to read you like a book written in a language only he could speak. “Oh, sweetheart.”

It's almost like he could hear your thighs clenching together. “You smell like you’re already wet—fuck.” Definitely not what you wanted him to announce over intercom to the entire team, but the blush creeping up your neck really didn't allow you to focus on anything other than the image in front of you. 

Bucky Barnes, in a heathered grey shirt that he was sweating through, with a sinfully thin pair of sweatpants that could be an HR violation if anyone didn't know the contect of why anyone in the room with eyes could tell that was a perfect outline of his hard cock swinging around like it owned the place. 

With previous icy blue eyes that were now blown black with lust, looking at you like you were the next meal of a very starving beast. A beast that was frothing at the mouth at the though of the taste of you. 

“You smell warm,” he murmured. “Like your skin would taste soft.” He continued, like taunting you was making anything better and not just riling both of you even more. “And you’re trying so fucking hard not to move,” he said, voice breaking into a whisper. “Not to come closer.”

"You're not exactly making it easy."

Another wave hit him and he winced. "I can't think with you here." He swallowed hard. "All I see when you're near is just your back hitting plaster and your legs around my hips.”

His breathing fractured—like something inside him had finally tipped past reason into pure, raw instinct. “I wish this glass wasn’t here,” he said, teeth gritted like the words hurt. “I’d have you on your knees already… drooling around my cock.”

The air left your lungs. The more he talked the more it felt like one of those moments in the late summer into fall, where the pool is too cold and you jump in anyway. The moment where your lungs feel too small and the atmosphere feels too much and all you can really do is hyperventilate and try to breathe the shock away. 

“You’d let me, wouldn’t you?” he said, like he was discovering something and confirming it all in the same breath. His tongue dragged over his bottom lip without him thinking—messy, desperate. “You’d open your pretty mouth and take me all the way down just to make me stop begging.”

“You’d look up at me while you did it,” he murmured, fever-slow, obscene in how sure he was. “Eyes wide, tears in the corners, letting me fuck your throat until you couldn’t speak.”

“Stop making me picture it.” It was barely above a whisper, really. You're not sure anyone heard it over the sound of both of you breathing as hard as you were. 

The drool slid from his lip again—slow, heavy—hanging for a moment before it fell to the floor. He didn’t notice, he couldn’t. His hips shifted—just a slight forward roll—and you bit your lower lip so hard you nearly bruised it.

Bucky's voice cracked down the middle. “Fuck—please—” His metal hand scraped against the glass, fingers curling. “I need— I need to— I need you—” He swallowed, jaw trembling, breath stuttering like holding himself together physically hurt. “Just let me wreck you,” he whispered.

He asked like your answer would ever be no. Like being that close to him without having him inside of you didn't physically hurt sometimes. Like you didn't have vivid dreams of his teeth on the bare skin of your ass and his hand wrapped around your neck like jewelry that belonged in the Louvre.

Steve stepped in between you two, ushering you away from Bucky. "That's enough." 

Bucky’s head snapped toward him, eyes blown wide and dark like storm clouds about to break “No,” he snarled, voice rough with panic instead of anger. “No—don’t—”

Bruce came forward, gentle hands on your shoulders. A doctor moving someone out of a blast radius. “Come on,” he murmured, soft. “Give him a second. His vitals are spiking—he needs distance to stabilize.”

“He doesn’t need distance,” Bucky barked, hands slamming against the glass—palms flat—every tendon in his arms standing out in painful, shaking relief. “He needs her.”

“Buck. You need to stop.” Steve kept his voice low, even. “Listen to yourself.”

Bucky’s chest was heaving—breaths quick and hot and uneven. "I'm sorry, fuck— I—" He didn’t look at Steve, didn’t look at Bruce. He didn’t look at anything except you as Bruce’s hand eased you back.

“Don’t take her away. Please. Please—” Bruce kept moving you carefully, slowly—gentle pressure between your shoulders.

You tried to go about your night. You really did.

You showered. You changed. You sat on the edge of your bed with your hair still damp, staring at the wall like it might offer you a door out of your own head. But every time you closed your eyes, you saw him—forehead pressed to the glass, voice cracking when he said please, the kind of sound someone makes when they’re falling and they already know the ground is going to hurt.

You lay back, staring blankly at the ceiling. You tried to count your breaths—steady, even, controlled. But your breathing only reminded you of his. That ragged, uneven, burning inhale that came when he was trying to keep himself from breaking.

You turned onto your side. Then your back again. Pulled the blanket up. Pushed it off. You tried to be rational. To be logical. To be the good, responsible, emotionally stable adult in this situation.

But there was something tugging at you, something far deeper and quieter than lust. Something warm and sore and impossible to ignore.

So you did what any sane (not) person would do, and snuck away from your quarters, through the corridors, and into the med bay to be alone and unsupervised with a super soldier under the influence of super soldier viagra mixed with preworkout to say the very least. 

The med bay was washed in low overnight lighting, the kind meant to soothe but doing absolutely nothing to calm the electricity tangled in the air. Bucky had been pacing for long enough that it was surprising the floor hadn't given in to the shape of his path. 

His hair clung to his temples, damp and curling where it stuck. His breath came in harsh, uneven bursts, chest rising too fast, like his lungs couldn’t catch air fast enough to match the fire under his skin.

Every few steps his metal hand flexed involuntarily, fingers clenching like he needed something—someone—to hold on to.

He didn’t see you.

He was somewhere inside the fever.

“Fuck—” he grit out, stopping long enough to brace both hands against the wall, muscles in his back rippling as he bowed his head, throat exposed to the floor like he was trying to bleed the heat out of himself.

He took another step—stumbled—caught himself on the exam table— and then something in him just broke. He dragged his hand up his chest like he was trying to tear the heat out of himself, jaw clenched so hard a vein pulsed at his temple.

Your voice came out softer. “Buck.” He froze completely. He had hallucinations of your voice earlier that day, sweet little mewls you'd let out if you were there with him to siphon them out of you, while he tried to take care of the issue on his own. 

Slowly, he turned his head toward the sound, and his eyes found you. And something in his entire body gave out. His breathing stuttered—hard—like his ribs were suddenly too tight to contain the relief.

He took a full, instinctive step toward you—body moving before thought—and then something in him seized. The sensible part of his brain stopped him from getting closer to the glass. 

"Get out of here."

Your brows furrowed in confusion. "Bucky, I—"

"Get the fuck out of here." He doubled over in pain again. "It hurts worse when you're so close and I can't—"

Your voice came out thin—fragile—almost unrecognizable to your own ears. “Bucky… I’m begging you. I can’t just stand out here and watch you suffer.”

"It wouldn't— I could—" If his brain started leaking out of his ears, you wouldn't be exactly surprised. "It's not safe for you." He flinched like the words actively hit him.

"You'd never hurt me."

"You could beg me to stop and I wouldn't be able to." 

He was still bent over, hand braced on the wall, every muscle in his back trembling from restraint. His breath dragged ragged through his chest, sweat rolling down his sternum in a slow line that made your own pulse stumble.

“I’m begging you,” you whispered. “Let me help.”

He shook his head once—sharp—like the motion hurt. “Don’t sound like that—”

“Like what?”

“Like you want me.” The words tore out raw, like he’d ripped them straight from the center of him.

The room went quiet for a moment, and you had yet another brilliant idea that wouldn't get you in trouble bigger than you could handle at all. Your feet moved you to stand by the control panel, and his head snapped up—eyes blown wide, panic flaring under the fever.

“Don’t do that. Don’t come in here. I’m telling you—I can’t—” You typed in your override code with steady hands, changed a single setting in the lock, and despite Bucky's protests, the door hissed open, and you bolted into the room before it latched closed again.

“I’m not leaving you alone in here.” Bucky grabbed you by the arm and attempted to open the door, not knowing you locked it from the outside. 

"Are you insane?!" He didn't sound angry, he sounded terrified. Terrified of not being able to hold back from everything he wanted to do to you. 

You moved toward him—not with impulse, but with a quiet, controlled resolve that came from somewhere deep in your chest. Bucky didn’t step back this time. He just watched you, breathing unevenly, shoulders tense like every muscle in his body was wound tight enough to snap.

You lifted your hand slowly, giving him time to stop you if he needed to. He didn’t. So you let your palm settle against his bare chest, right over his heartbeat. His skin was hot—fever-hot—but under your hand the fire shifted, softened, just enough to change from a burn to an ache. The air left him in a long, shaking exhale, like your touch let him breathe for the first time in hours.

His forehead dropped to your shoulder, not in collapse, but in relief. A small shudder went through him, his ribs expanding against your hand as he tried to steady himself. You could feel his pulse hammering, fast and uneven.

“It’s a little better,” he murmured, voice rough against your collarbone.

“Not enough,” you said quietly.

He shook his head, and you felt the motion against your skin. “No. Not nearly enough.”

Your thumb traced a slow, grounding arc just beneath his sternum, the simplest touch offered as reassurance. His metal hand hovered near your hip, not touching you, shaking with restraint. Every part of him was working to not grab, not pull, not give in to instinct.

“Bucky,” you murmured. Your hand slid up, fingers brushing the line of his collarbone before you cupped the side of his jaw. His skin was hot beneath your touch, flushed. “Let me help.”

His eyes squeezed shut, his brow furrowing like the words physically hurt.

“You don’t know what you’re asking.”

“Yes, I do.” Your voice stayed soft, steady. “I know you. I know you would never hurt me. And I’m standing right here choosing you.”

His breath caught, a shaking inhale that didn’t quite make it all the way in. You leaned in slowly, giving him time to stop you—even now—and pressed your lips to the sharp angle of his jaw.

He made a sound—low, involuntary—something between a groan and a gasp, his grip tightening on your hip without meaning to. The heat of him was overwhelming now that you were fully inside his space, and when you shifted closer, your thigh brushed the unmistakable, urgent press of him against the front of his sweats.

He jolted—like the contact shocked him—but he didn’t step back.

You whispered against his jaw, your lips barely moving. “Let me help, Buck.”

His breath stuttered, chest rising too fast against yours.

“Please,” you whispered, the word soft and warm and devastating. “Let me take care of you.”

His resolve buckled—not shattered, not broken—but gave.

You slid your hand down, slow and deliberate, until your palm hovered at the waistband of his sweats. He didn’t pull away. Didn’t breathe. Didn’t speak. His eyes locked on yours—wide, dark, waiting.

So you touched him.

Your palm cupped him through the fabric, the heat and weight of him filling your hand instantly. He let out a sound that came from somewhere deep in his chest—raw, ragged, helpless. His forehead fell forward until it nearly touched yours, his breath shaking against your cheek.

You kept your touch slow. Gentle. Controlled. No teasing, no sudden movements—just steady pressure, your hand molded to him through the soft cotton, up and down in a rhythm meant to soothe the fever thrumming under his skin.

His fingers dug into your hip—not hard, just anchoring.

“Sweetheart—” His voice was barely a voice, just breath and need. “If you—if you keep doing that—I’m not gonna—”

You kissed his jaw again, slower this time.

“That’s the point,” you whispered. His breath collapsed against your neck and you stroked him again—firmer this time.

The roughness in his breathing started to shift, not easing but changing, gathering into something more focused, less chaotic. But the fever was still burning too hot, crawling under his skin like an electric current with nowhere to go.

So you sank to your knees.

The floor was cold beneath you, a stark contrast to the heat bleeding off of him. Your fingers found the waistband of his sweats and tugged. He didn’t stop you. Couldn’t. His head hit the wall behind him with a dull thud, chest heaving as he tried—failed—not to look down at you.

You freed him from the confines of the fabric, and he sprang forward—thick, flushed, already leaking, and twitching with need. Your breath caught as you wrapped your hand around him properly for the first time.

He let out a strangled groan so loud it echoed off the sterile walls. One hand reached down blindly, threading through your hair like it was the only lifeline he had left. He whispered your name like a curse, like a prayer, like salvation.

Your tongue flattened against the underside of him first, tracing the thick, pulsing vein that ran along the length of his cock. You felt him twitch in your hand, heard the harsh stutter of his breath above you as his grip in your hair tightened just enough to sting. When your lips wrapped around the flushed, leaking tip, Bucky actually whimpered.

“Fuck—” he choked, hips jerking despite himself. “Jesus, baby, that mouth—”

You hollowed your cheeks and took more of him, inch by inch, until your lips kissed the base and your throat fluttered around him. The way he gasped—it was like he’d been drowning and finally broke the surface.

“God, you’re—fuck, I knew it, I knew you’d take me like this,” he hissed. “So good. So fucking good. Like you were meant for me.”

His knees almost buckled.

The sweat rolling down his chest gathered at the sharp lines of his abdomen, and he looked down, glassy-eyed and wrecked, watching his cock disappear past your lips over and over. You stroked what you couldn’t fit, twisting your wrist, drool slipping from the corner of your mouth to join the obscene, wet sounds echoing off the walls.

He didn’t last long.

He couldn’t—hadn’t been touched in hours, hadn’t let himself feel anything in months, maybe years, and now here you were, mouth full of him, eyes blown wide with submission and need, and he could feel the fever receding under your touch, like you were the cure he didn’t deserve.

His head slammed back against the wall again, both hands in your hair now as he held you there, not forcing—just anchoring—just begging. “Just a little more, baby. Just—fuck, I’m so close, please—”

“It’s still bad, isn’t it?” He didn’t answer. “You don’t have to hold back with me.” You rose up just enough to press your mouth to the inside of his thigh—soft, slow, intentional—then looked up again, voice thready but determined. “Take what you need from me, Bucky.”

You take him into your mouth again—no hesitation this time, no slow pacing. You hum around him; you don’t even realize you do it. His whole body jerks—hips twitching forward, instinct overriding restraint for a split second.

His hips roll forward—slow at first, testing, like he’s afraid of how much he needs this. But when your hands grip his thighs and you pull him closer, the last of his restraint just… slips.

“Sweetheart—” His voice drops, a gravel-soft moan. “Okay. Okay, I—shit—”

His rhythm finds you, and it pushes his cock inside of your mouth over and over again, bruising the back of your throat, making your eyes water. 

Bucky, on the other hand, was losing his mind. He feels like this could only really be a fever dream. The vision before him being one that he only saw seconds before waking up in a sticky mess of his own cum in his room some nights. 

“You have no idea—” A thrust, shallow but desperate. “I’ve wanted—” Another, deeper now, hips stuttering. “God—this—this—” He chokes on your name.

Your moan around him sent him right to the edge.

He came hard, with a broken cry that echoed with pain and relief and something that sounded suspiciously like your name. Hot, thick ropes spilled onto your tongue, down your throat, and you took every drop, swallowing around him while his body trembled, legs unsteady, heart thundering behind his ribs.

He looked down at you afterward, wrecked beyond recognition, jaw slack and pink lips parted like he couldn’t believe you were real.

“…holy fuck,” he rasped.

You didn’t even need to say anything—your eyes said it all. Your fingers curled tighter around the base of him, guiding him back to your lips, already red and slick with spit and the remnants of his release. You pressed a slow kiss to the tip, and Bucky swore under his breath, hips twitching.

“You’re still hard,” you murmured, voice low, almost disbelieving. “You need more.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you—head cocked, eyes wild and glassy, like he was still fighting himself even while his cock throbbed in your grip, fully hard again. His breath hitched when you opened your mouth, letting your tongue flatten against the underside of him again, licking him like you missed it.

That was all it took.

A rough groan tore from his chest as his hips surged forward, pushing himself back into your mouth. You moaned around him, taking him deeper, your throat already used to the stretch. His grip tightened in your hair, holding you steady this time—not pushing, not yet, just anchoring as he began to roll his hips, slow at first, dragging himself against your tongue.

But he couldn't hold back. Not when you looked like that. Not when you made those sounds.

“Open wider,” he grit out, voice almost guttural. “Let me—fuck, let me use your mouth.”

You did. You relaxed your throat, looked up at him through heavy lashes, and let him have it.

He began to thrust—deep, slow at first, but building with every breath. Each time he bottomed out, your throat flexed, gagging just a little, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes. And he loved it. Ate it up like a man starved.

“Shit—shit, baby,” he groaned, hips stuttering. “Look at you—taking it so fucking well, like it’s what your mouth was made for.”

He was leaking again, throbbing inside you, grunting with every pass of his cock down your throat. You could feel him fighting the edge again already—his whole body shaking, hair falling into his eyes, thighs tense beneath your hands.

He came again. Harder this time. The first shot hit the back of your throat as he choked out your name like it was the only word he knew. His hips didn’t stop moving. Even as he emptied himself into your mouth, he was still hard, still needing.

When he finally stilled, breathing like he’d just run ten miles, he looked down at you—ruined, wrecked, flushed—and exhaled your name like a plea.

“I still need more.”

Your lips were swollen, spit-slick, eyes glossy and dazed as you slowly released him from your mouth with a wet pop. Bucky was panting above you, flushed all the way down his chest, body still trembling from his second orgasm—and still hard. Angry and flushed and leaking again, like his body didn’t understand that two should’ve been enough.

You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, but your gaze never left him. Not for a second. And he looked down at you like he was about to fall to his knees. Or break through the floor. Or both.

Then you stood.

Without a word, you reached for his wrist and guided him—slowly, steadily—toward the exam table. The padded med bed sat cold and untouched, the thin clinical comforter shuffled under your grip as you leaned against it and looked over your shoulder at him.

His hands were on your hips before you even breathed, gripping you like you were the only tether he had to this fucking world. He yanked your sleep shorts and underwear down in one swift, rough motion, groaning when he saw how wet you were—slick, glistening, thighs trembling.

“All this for me?” he muttered, almost in disbelief, dragging the tip of his cock through your folds. You gasped—more from the weight of it than the tease.

“I’ve been yours,” you panted, looking back at him over your shoulder. “You just haven’t fucked me like it.”

That did it.

He lined up and shoved in with one brutal, gorgeous thrust—splitting you open on his cock so deep you almost screamed. Your hands scrambled for purchase on the med bed, fingers clawing at the sheets as your body struggled to accommodate him. He was thick, long, heavy—and unrelenting. No time to adjust. No warning. Just full.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he hissed, bottoming out inside you. “You feel like heaven. Hot, tight—fuck, I can feel your pussy fluttering already—”

You were already trembling under him, already dripping down your thighs. He grabbed a fistful of your hair and tugged your head back gently, just enough to murmur in your ear as he rocked into you.

“You wanted this,” he growled. “Wanted to help? Mmm? Did you? Or did you just want an excuse to have my cock inside of you?”

You whimpered, unable to speak—your brain blank, body overstimulated, mouth falling open.

“Say it,” he snarled, thrusting harder. “Tell me you begged for this cock.”

“I—I begged for it,” you gasped. “Bucky—oh my God—you’re so—fuck—you’re so deep, I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he said, and then he was railing into you—brutal and beautiful and ruthless—his cock driving into you so hard your toes curled and your walls clamped down around him. Your stomach was pressed to the cold med bed now, knees buckling as he fucked you through it, chest bouncing with every thrust.

“Please,” you sobbed. “Please don’t stop—”

“Never,” he growled. “I’m not stopping until you’re filled up and leaking for me. Until you can’t walk straight. Until they smell me on you.”

His rhythm faltered.

You could feel it—how his thrusts turned erratic, his breath shortened into harsh, broken gasps against your skin, every nerve in his body set to burn. He was so deep inside you, so swollen and throbbing, and even though he’d already come twice, he was barely holding on now, just riding the edge with ragged desperation.

“Too—fuck—can’t—” he growled, hips snapping hard and fast as his chest collapsed against your back. “You’re gonna—ahhh—milk me dry, baby.”

You barely got a gasp out before he slammed into you one last time and bit down on the curve of your shoulder—hard.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t controlled. It was animal.

Teeth sinking into skin just below your neck, like claiming you was the only thing keeping him alive. The sting of it only made your orgasm crash harder, clenched around him like a vice just as he spilled inside you—thick and hot, cock pulsing violently through the aftershocks, moaning into your skin like it broke him.

But Bucky didn’t pull out.

Didn’t move away like someone who just had his third orgasm in less than an hour. No—he collapsed over your back for a moment, panting, shaking, and then lifted his head, wrapped his arms around your waist, and lifted.

You gasped as your spine straightened, as he manhandled you into the center of the bed with strength that made your head spin. 

“I need to see your face,” he muttered, voice wrecked and low. “Need to watch you come around me this time.”

He flipped you over, sweat-slick hands gripping the undersides of your thighs and pushing them up, folding you into a tight mating press before you could even think. Your knees were practically pinned to your chest, legs spread wide, cunt exposed—wet and puffy and already leaking with him.

Bucky looked down at you like a starving man finally given permission to devour. And even though his cock was still twitching from the last orgasm—sensitive, too sensitive—he lined himself back up, and pushed inside again with a groan that bordered on agony.

“Fuck, fuck—hurts so good,” he panted, hips rolling slow this time, deep. “Too much. Too fucking much, but I can’t stop.”

You moaned, head thrown back, fingernails digging into his arms.

“Look at me,” he growled. “Want you looking at me when I fuck you full again. Want you remembering who did this to you. Who made you this wet. This messy.”

His hands pressed your thighs deeper, nearly folding you in half, angle so intense you could feel him in your stomach.

“Feel that?” he whispered, voice rough and wrecked. “That’s me. Right fucking there.”

Your fingers reached for him, tangling in his sweat-damp hair, needing him closer. He dropped his forehead to yours, breath mingling, mouths nearly brushing as his cock dragged slow and deep inside you—wet and squelching from how much he’d already spilled.

“Tell me you want it,” he panted. “Tell me you want more.”

“I want it,” you breathed. “Want everything.”

His cock twitched at the sight. At the mess he’d already made of you.

But it still wasn’t enough.

“Fuck, look at this pussy,” he groaned, lining up again. “Stuffed and still begging for more. You’re leaking down the backs of your thighs and I haven’t even gotten serious yet.”

Then he slammed back into you.

You whined, mouth falling open, hands scrabbling at his arms, nails dragging down his sweat-slicked biceps. The sound of his cock driving into you, the wet slap of skin against skin, was obscene—echoing off the cold med bay walls. Each thrust was brutal, hungry, unrelenting.

“Yes,” you gasped, back arching, eyes wide and wild. “Fucking ruin me, Bucky.”

He snarled like you’d just handed him a license to break you.

“Gonna stretch this pussy until I mold you to the shape of my cock,” he growled, sweat dripping from his temples as he drove deeper, harder, each thrust punching a breath out of your lungs. “You were made for this. For me. Just like this.”

Your thighs trembled where he held them pinned. Your cunt clamped down on him like your body didn’t want to let go, and it made him growl—low, animal, primal.

“I can feel you squeezing me—fuck—milking my cock.”

“Because you’re fucking perfect inside me,” you moaned, wrecked. “So fucking deep, Bucky—I feel you in my throat.”

He didn’t let up. He wanted you boneless. Brainless. Gone. He needed you raw and crying and fucked full. His balls slapped against your ass, cock driving into the tight, wet clutch of you over and over, chasing the next high like a man possessed.

“Gonna breed you, baby,” he whispered in a wrecked, breathless voice. “Wanna fuck it in so deep you’ll be dripping with me for days. Wanna see your belly swollen from how much I put in you.”

You cried out—clenching around him like your body wanted that, like it needed it.

His thrusts turned downright feral, pounding into you so hard the med bed squealed beneath your bodies. You held onto him like you’d fly off the earth otherwise, like he was the only real thing in the universe.

“You’re mine,” he snarled into your ear. “This pussy? Mine. This fucking body? Mine.”

“All yours,” you sobbed, overwhelmed and blissed-out. “Please, Bucky—don’t stop.”

“I won’t.” He pressed your legs even tighter to your chest, bent down until his chest was against yours, and fucked you into the bed like the world was ending.

You didn’t know how long it had been.

How many times he’d come. How many times you had. You were shaking, soaked, stretched so wide around him that it felt like you were being fucked into another dimension. Your thighs burned from being pinned open in the tightest press imaginable, your body locked beneath his. Sweat pooled between your bodies, his skin slick and hot, his muscles trembling with effort.

You sobbed when he thrust again—slow, deep, dragging the head of his cock along every oversensitive inch of your cunt.

“Bucky—” you whimpered, voice broken. “I can’t—I can’t—”

“You can,” he groaned, still moving inside you. “You are.”

Your tears were hot as they spilled down your cheeks. Not from pain. Not from fear. From bliss. Pure, ruined, brain-melting pleasure that had nowhere else to go but out through your eyes.

And still—he didn’t stop.

He couldn’t stop. Not when your walls were fluttering around him again, your cunt choking his cock like your body was begging for one more release.

“Baby,” he rasped, voice wrecked beyond repair, “I can’t—fuck—I’m so close—again—”

You were babbling now, hands clawing at his back, words slurred through cries. “Please, please, come again—fill me up, Bucky, don’t stop, don’t stop—”

That shattered him.

His hand found your jaw, gripping it firm but careful, tilting your face to the side, tears still streaking your flushed cheeks. His mouth dropped to your jawline, teeth grazing your skin before he bit down—just enough to make you cry out. To mark you. To claim.

His lips dragged against your wet cheek, breath hot and ragged as he whispered filth directly into your skin.

“You’re gonna be ruined for anyone else,” he growled. “No one else’ll ever fuck you this deep. No one else’ll fill you like I do. You’ll think about this—every time you sit down and feel me leaking out of you.”

You gasped, your pussy clenching tight again, and that made him snarl.

“Oh, you like that,” he panted against your cheek. “You like knowing I’ve come in you three times and I’m still fucking going—filling you to the brim like this pussy belongs to me.”

“It does,” you sobbed. “It’s yours—it’s only yours.”

He bit down again—right beneath your cheekbone—and his hips bucked hard, cock twitching, and then he spilled inside you again.

Hot, thick, endless—your body taking it all, your womb aching with how much he was pumping into you, filling you again and again like some primal need had taken hold and wouldn’t let go.

You clung to him, nails dragging down his sweat-slick back, body convulsing with overstimulation, your own orgasm cresting again, tears slipping freely down your cheeks, wet between your legs and everywhere else.

And through it all—his voice stayed right in your ear.

Sunlight filtered through the high, frosted windows—gold and soft, painting long lines across the floor and sterile white counters. Machines hummed faintly. The scent of antiseptic still clung faintly to the air, but it was dulled now, overpowered by the unmistakable smells of sweat, sex, and fabric softener.

Tony pinched the bridge of his nose before they even turned the corner.

“I’m just saying,” he muttered, tablet in hand, “if he exploded in the middle of the night, it’s your fault, Rogers. You’re the one who insisted on the glass enclosure.”

“He didn’t explode,” Steve replied, voice calm but tight. “But we need to check his vitals. And see if the fever’s gone for good.”

“And you don’t think maybe knocking first would be—”

The door hissed open.

Tony stepped in first, looking up from his tablet. Steve followed—and froze halfway through the threshold.

There, on the exam bed, tangled in sheets and wrapped around each other like two vines too stubborn to separate, were you and Bucky.

Naked.

Dead asleep.

His arm was slung over your waist, metal hand curled possessively around your hip. Your leg was draped over his. His nose was buried in your neck. One of your hands was splayed on his chest, and both of your mouths were parted in very unflattering, very loud, synchronized snoring.

And the sheets?

The sheets were barely covering anything.

“Oh Jesus,” Steve hissed, immediately turning around so fast his shoulder knocked into a tray of sterile wipes. “Nope. No. That’s—nope.”

Tony took one look, blinked, and quietly said, “So the mating press was successful.”

Steve groaned. “Tony.”

“What?! They’re alive. They’re breathing. No heart attack. Just a—y’know—thorough night of… clinical bonding.”

“Stop talking.”

Tony didn’t stop talking. He just raised the tablet and started typing. “Gotta say, though, Barnes is kind of a legend.”

Steve made a strangled noise somewhere between a cough and a choked-off scream. “I am not listening to this.”

“You know,” Tony continued, ignoring him completely, “most guys tap out after two. Maybe three if they’ve got performance enhancers. But your boy over there looks like he went five, maybe six rounds. Give the man a medal.”

Steve was red in the face now. “Tony.”

And on the bed, completely oblivious, Bucky grumbled something about peaches and tight little throats in his sleep, nuzzled deeper into you, and pulled you even closer.

Tony paused.

“…okay, maybe a warning label instead of a medal.”

a/n: as always, if this is buns don’t perceive me!!!!

💌 permanent freaks taglist: @chateaubarnes @houseofhyde @heldbybarnes @opheliabbarnes @iamthatonefangirl @superbassbuck @its-in-the-woods @wildflowersandvibranium @unificsation @flockoff-featherface @sheriff-bodecker @54nboo @earthsmightiestbenders @winterdecember18 @juniebjonesin @barnesonly @bckyslover @buckyfmd

[blowingbarnes]

guys i just realized substance is at over SEVEN THOUSAND notes??!!! holy shit thank you!!!!

[belchyra]

Let me take care of you

[ SYNOPSIS ] — You try to be the "perfect" partner to Megumi by hiding your own needs and pain so you wouldn’t be a nuisance. This habit becomes dangerous when you get badly hurt on a mission and lie about it, leading to a tearful confrontation when he finds you bleeding in secret. w.c: 4.8k

[ PAIRING ] — megumi fushiguro x people pleaser!reader

[ TAGS ] — gn!reader, established relationship, canon compliant (?), hidden injury, blood, reassurance, hurt/comfort, use of [Name] once, megumi is a sweetheart as usual. Lmk if I missed anything! art by: @/hong_nock

​"You wouldn't mind taking care of these mission reports for me, would you? You're a lifesaver!"

​Satoru Gojo didn't even pause to wait for an answer, dropping a stack of heavily redacted, coffee-stained files onto your already cluttered desk. His iconic blindfold was pushed up, a devastatingly charming smile plastered across his face—the kind of smile that made it entirely impossible for anyone to refuse him.

​Your head was pounding. A dull, rhythmic thud echoed right behind your eyes, a souvenir from a consecutive string of sleepless nights. You had your own reports to file, a history exam to help Yuji study for, and Nobara had explicitly told you to be ready in twenty minutes to carry her bags through Shibuya. Your throat tightened, the word no forming perfectly on your tongue.

It was right there. All you had to do was push it past your teeth.

​"Of course, Sensei," you heard yourself say, the voice sounding entirely detached from your own body. "I'll have them on Principal Yaga's desk by three."

​"Knew I could count on you!" He gave you a cheerful salute and vanished in a blur of limitless space, leaving you staring at the mountain of paperwork. You swallowed the sigh building in your chest, picked up your pen, and started writing.

This was simply how you survived. You made yourself a skeleton key, filing down your own edges, your own needs, and your own exhaustion until you perfectly fit the lock of whatever anyone else required. If you were useful, if you were accommodating, if you smoothed out the friction in the lives of the people around you, they would never look at you and decide you were too much trouble to keep around, that's how it should be, right?

​But nowhere was this exhausting performance more prevalent than in your relationship with Megumi Fushiguro.

Megumi with his quiet nature, Megumi with his storm-clouded eyes, Megumi who shouldered so much— with Tsumiki's curse, with the expectations of having a powerful cursed technique, Megumi who you were so so so afraid of losing.

You still have a hard time believing you two are dating. The way it happened was so casual it almost felt unreal.

It wasn’t a grand confession, just a quiet surrender to everything that made you fall for him. The hallway was still buzzing with leftover energy from Yuji’s and Nobara’s laughter, but at your door, the silence felt heavy. Megumi lingered, hands shoved in his pockets, before his fingers grazed your wrist as you were about open the door. When he leaned in, it was with the soft gentleness of someone who had finally found a place to let his guard down. The kiss was brief, but you both knew exactly where you stood in each other's lives.

Yet, being his partner did not cure your affliction; it magnified it even further. You treated your relationship like fragile glass sculpture you had to constantly balance on your fingertips. You altered your entire existence to fit the mold of what you assumed was his ideal, low-maintenance partner.

You drank your tea unsweetened because he preferred bitter things, forcing the astringent liquid down your throat every morning while secretly craving sugar. You slept rigidly on the absolute edge of his mattress, your muscles cramping by dawn, just to ensure he had the lion’s share of the blankets. When he was exhausted from a mission, you swallowed your own awful, lingering trauma from the day, hiding your bruises beneath long sleeves and painting a bright, serene smile on your face so you wouldn’t add to his mental load.

And Megumi knew.

He was incredibly perceptive, and the forced perfection of your behavior was beginning to wear on him like coarse grit against his skin. He saw the way your hands shook when you agreed to take a double patrol shift. He noticed the barely perceptible flinch when he absentmindedly turned the television to a channel you secretly hated, only for you to vehemently agree that it was a great program to watch. It frustrated him.

Megumi loved you, he loved you so much it pained him, but he felt like he was dating a shadow, only moving when he did. And he did not know how to bring it up without fearing for what you would do.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The mission was supposed to be a standard Grade 2 curse eradication in an abandoned subway terminal. It was a joint assignment for the two of you, a rare opportunity to work together. But the intelligence from the auxiliary managers was flawed, as it so often was. The curse was a Grade 1, a massive, grotesque amalgamation of rusted metal and rotting flesh that moved with terrifying speed.

The battle was chaotic in the claustrophobic underground tunnels. Dust choked the air, illuminated only by the flickering, dying fluorescent lights overhead. Megumi had summoned Nue to provide aerial attacks, the electrical discharge illuminating the grim determination on his face. You were covering his blind spots, your own cursed energy manifesting in sharp and precise strikes.

It happened in a fraction of a second. The curse, recognizing Megumi as the greater threat, lunged toward him with a massive, scythe-like appendage. Megumi was mid-incantation, his hands clasped together, momentarily vulnerable.

Your body moved before your conscious mind could register the decision. The ingrained instinct to protect, to serve, to sacrifice, propelled you forward. You shoved Megumi hard, knocking him out of the trajectory of the blade.

The impact was deafening. The rusted metal sliced through the air and tore into your left side, ripping through your uniform and biting deep into the flesh of your waist. The agony was instantaneous, a blinding flare of white-hot pain that stole the oxygen from your lungs. You hit the concrete floor hard, the taste of copper flooding your mouth.

"Nue!" Megumi roared, his voice cracking with a rare, raw panic. The shikigami descended in a blinding flash of lightning, obliterating the curse in a concussive shockwave of cursed energy.

The dust settled, heavy and silent.

Megumi was beside you in an instant, his breathing ragged, his hands hovering over you as if afraid that touching you would shatter you completely. "Are you alright? Where did it hit you?" His eyes were wide, the usual cold indifference entirely stripped away, revealing the terrified boy underneath.

The pain in your side was excruciating, a throbbing, burning sensation that suggested the curse’s rusted blade had been laced with some kind of venomous energy. Blood was already soaking the fabric of your shirt, hot and sticky against your skin. You needed Shoko. You needed a stretcher.

But as you looked up into Megumi’s panic-stricken eyes, the old, familiar terror clawed at your throat. You caused this panic. You are making him worry. You ruined the mission. You are a burden.

The people pleaser within you seized the reins of your vocal cords.

You forced the agony down, burying it beneath a mountain of sheer, desperate willpower. You pushed yourself up on trembling arms, twisting your torso to hide the worst of the bleeding from his line of sight. You plastered on a smile that felt like it might crack your face in two.

"I'm fine," you lied, your voice painfully steady. "It just grazed me. I knocked the wind out of myself when I fell."

Megumi frowned, his dark brows knitting together in suspicion. He reached out to inspect your side, but you swiftly shifted away, standing up on shaking legs. The world tilted dangerously, black spots dancing in your peripheral vision, but you dug your nails into your palms to ground yourself.

"I swear, Megumi. I'm okay. Let's just report and go home. I'm exhausted." You kept your tone light, almost apologetic. "I'm sorry I got in your way. I should have been more careful."

The apology tasted vile. You had saved his life, yet you were apologizing for being in the way.

Megumi stared at you for a long, agonizing moment. The tension radiating from him was evident, his jaw clenched so tight a muscle ticked in his cheek. He knew you were hiding something. He could smell the blood. But your adamant refusal to acknowledge the danger built a wall between you that he didn't know how to breach, yet he trusted your judgment, he trusted that you would tell him if the injury was serious.

"Fine," he muttered, his voice dropping an octave, thick with frustration and repressed anxiety. He recalled his shikigami, the shadows swallowing Nue whole. "Let's go."

The car ride back to the college was nothing less than silent torture. You sat pressed against the passenger door, your arms wrapped tightly around your waist, secretly applying pressure to the wound that was continuously oozing blood. Every bump in the road sent a jolt of agony up your spine, but you bit the inside of your cheek until it bled rather than make a single sound. Ijichi drove in stony silence, his knuckles white on the steering wheel, every now and then apologising for the mistake in the mission logs, and then expressing his relief at your well-being.

By the time you reached the dormitories, you were running purely on adrenaline and the need to lock yourself in your bathroom before you collapsed.

"I'm going to take a shower!" you announced the moment you stepped into his room, your voice breathy and strained. You didn't wait for a response, practically fleeing into the adjoining bathroom and closing the door behind you.

The moment it was locked, the facade crumbled. Your knees gave out, and you slumped against the cold tile door, an agonizing gasp escaping your lips. You peeled off your ruined jacket and the blood-soaked shirt beneath it. The wound was horrific. An angry tear across your oblique, the edges blackened with residual cursed energy. It was deep, bleeding sluggishly but persistently.

Tears of pain and exhaustion finally spilled over your eyelashes, tracing hot paths down your dust-streaked cheeks. You had to clean it. You had to wrap it. You couldn't bother Shoko this late; she had been pulling all-nighters all week. You couldn't bother Megumi; he was already mad at you.

You dragged yourself to the sink, turning on the faucet. You grabbed a washcloth, soaked it in hot water, and pressed it against the wound.

A choked, pathetic sob tore from your throat. The pain was blinding, a sickening wave of nausea crashing over you. You squeezed your eyes shut, your entire body trembling violently as you tried to scrub away the blackened, infected tissue.

Click.

You froze. The sound of the lock turning from the outside. You had forgotten Megumi kept a spare key on the upper frame of the door for emergencies.

The door swung open, revealing Megumi standing in the threshold. He had changed out of his uniform, wearing only a loose t-shirt and sweatpants. He looked exhausted.

But whatever exhaustion he felt vanished the instant his eyes landed on you.

He took in the scene in a fraction of a second: your pale, shivering form hunched over the sink, the blood-soaked washcloth in your trembling hand, and the gruesome, gaping wound on your side that was currently dripping crimson onto the pristine white tiles.

The air in the bathroom seemed to drop ten degrees. The shadows in the corners of the room physically writhed, reacting to the sudden, violent spike in his cursed energy.

"What," Megumi breathed, his voice barely a whisper, yet it resonated with the force of an earthquake, "is that."

Panic, cold and sharp, flooded your veins. You scrambled to cover the wound with your arm, backing away from him like a cornered animal, your eyes wide and terrified.

"It's nothing!" you stammered, the words tumbling out of your mouth in a desperate rush. "I was just cleaning it. It looks worse than it is, Megumi, I promise. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to make a mess. I'll clean the floor, just—"

"Stop."

The command cracked through the air like a whip. Megumi stepped into the bathroom, kicking the door shut behind him. His face was a mask of cold fury, but his eyes—his deep, beautiful, stormy eyes—were wide with an emotion that looked terrifyingly like devastation.

He crossed the small space in two strides, grabbing your wrists. His grip was firm, inescapable, but agonizingly gentle as he pulled your hands away from your side. He sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth as he finally got a clear look at the injury.

"You call this a graze?" he demanded, his voice shaking with a terrifying, suppressed rage. "It's entirely infected with cursed energy. You need reverse cursed technique, immediately. Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you say anything in the tunnel?"

Your chest heaved as you struggled to pull oxygen into your lungs. The panic was taking over, suffocating you. You were trapped. You had failed. You had made him angry. You had become the burden you fought so hard not to be.

"I—I didn't want to worry you," you choked out, fresh tears welling in your eyes. "You were already stressed about the mission being a Grade 1. I didn't want to slow us down. I'm sorry, Megumi. I'm so, so sorry. Please don't be mad. I can fix it, I'll go to Shoko right now, you don't have to deal with this—"

"Stop apologizing!" Megumi yelled.

You flinched violently, your shoulders instantly hiking up to your ears, your head bowing in an automatic posture of submission. The silence that followed his shout was deafening, broken only by your ragged, hyperventilating breaths and the steady drip, drip, drip of blood hitting the floor.

Megumi stared at your cowering form, the anger draining out of him in a rush, leaving behind a profound, hollow ache in his chest. He realized, with a horrifying clarity, that you were not flinching because of the pain of your wound. You were flinching because of him.

He dropped your wrists as if they burned him, taking a step back, his hands taking place behind his neck.

"Why do you do this?" he asked, his voice cracking, the anger replaced by a desperate, agonizing confusion. "Why do you lie to me? Why do you let yourself bleed out in a bathroom rather than ask me for help? Am I that unapproachable? Am I that terrible of a boyfriend that you think I would be annoyed by you almost dying?"

"No!" you cried, your voice breaking, the absolute terror of him thinking he was at fault tearing at your heart. "No, Megumi, you're perfect. You're the best thing that ever happened to me. It's not you, it's me. I'm just… I'm just trying to be good. I'm trying to be easy. I don't want to be difficult."

"Easy?" Megumi repeated, the word sounding foreign and ugly in his mouth. He stepped forward again, crowding you against the edge of the sink, his hands gripping the porcelain on either side of your waist, trapping you in. He didn't touch you, but his presence was demanding your full attention.

"You think I want you to be 'easy'?" he pressed, his eyes searching yours frantically, demanding an honesty you didn't know how to give. "I want you to be honest! I want you to tell me when you are hurt so I can take care of you!"

You shook your head furiously, the tears flowing freely now, hot and unrelenting. Your entire body was trembling, your heart hammering against your ribs, threatening to break. You were breaking apart, the foundation of your entire coping mechanism crumbling beneath his gaze.

"You say that now," you sobbed, the ugly, deeply buried truth finally clawing its way up your throat, bitter and raw. "You say that now, but you don't know. You already have so much on your plate, I don't want to make it worse. If I don't do it, you will hate me, I don't want you to hate me."

The confession hung in the humid air of the bathroom, heavy and devastating.

You squeezed your eyes shut, waiting for the blow. Waiting for the agreement. Waiting for him to step back, to look at you with cold realization, and walk out the door. You had finally revealed the ugly, pathetic core of your soul. You were a coward, terrified of abandonment, buying love with servitude.

But the silence stretched. And then, you felt it.

The gentle, hesitant brush of his knuckles against your tear-soaked cheek.

Your eyes flew open. Megumi was looking at you with an expression that shattered your heart into a million irreparable pieces. It wasn't pity. It wasn't disgust, but heartbreak. His eyes were glassy, his lips parted as he struggled to find words that could possibly combat the magnitude of your self-hatred.

Slowly, carefully, as if approaching a wild, frightened animal, Megumi reached out. He didn't grab your wrists this time. He slid his arms around your waist, mindful of the gaping wound on your side, and pulled you flush against his chest.

He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath ghosting over your skin.

"You are so stupid," he whispered, the words muffled against your skin, devoid of any malice, dripping only with a desperate, heavy sorrow. "You are an incredible person, so beautiful, so incredible, but stupid."

You stiffened, your hands hovering uselessly in the air, terrified to touch him, terrified to ruin this moment. But Megumi just held you tighter, his strong arms wrapping around you like a shield against the very demons inside your own head.

"Listen to me," he murmured, his voice trembling slightly. He pulled back just enough to force you to look him in the eye. The intensity of his gaze pinned you in place."Stop acting like your existence doesn't matter, it matters to me. You don't get to decide that you're expendable."

You let out a choked gasp, your hands finally, tentatively coming to rest against his chest, gripping the fabric of his t-shirt like your life depended on it.

"I care about you, so much," Megumi continued, his voice dropping into that serious, unwavering tone he used when making vows. "I care about protecting the people who matter to me. And you… you are at the very top of that list. If you are hurt, my world stops. If you are in pain, I am in pain. Hiding your suffering from me doesn't protect me; it destroys me."

He raised a hand, his thumb gently wiping away the steady stream of tears falling from your eyes. His touch was warm, grounding.

"You are not a burden," he said, enunciating each word with fierce, desperate clarity. "And I am begging you, please… let me take care of you. Let me be the one who carries the weight for a while. You don't have to earn your place beside me by bleeding in silence. In fact, you don't have to do anything but be here."

The dam broke.

You collapsed against him, your legs finally giving out, and he caught you effortlessly, sinking to the bathroom floor with you held securely in his arms.

You wept. You wailed. It was an ugly, guttural, heart-wrenching sound that tore from the very depths of your soul. You buried your face in his chest, clutching at him desperately, crying for the pain in your side, crying for the exhaustion in your bones, crying for the terrified little child inside you who had spent their whole life terrified of being left behind.

Megumi didn't shush you. He didn't tell you to calm down. He sat on the cold tile floor amidst the blood and the discarded bandages, holding you. He rocked you slowly, one hand gently stroking your hair, the other resting firmly against your back. He let you fall apart completely, creating a safe, impenetrable fortress within his arms where you were finally allowed to be shattered, loud, and inconvenient.

Hours seemed to pass before the sobs finally subsided into heavy, exhausted hiccups. Your throat was raw, your eyes swollen and burning. The adrenaline had completely left your system, leaving you weak and painfully aware of the throbbing agony in your side.

You shifted slightly in his lap, sniffing pathetically. Megumi immediately loosened his grip, looking down at you with a softness that made your chest ache.

"Are you done?" he asked quietly, a tiny, sad smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

You nodded numbly, wiping your nose with the back of your hand. "I ruined your shirt," you rasped, noticing the dark stains of your tears and blood on the grey fabric.

"I don't care about the shirt," Megumi said softly. He gently shifted you off his lap, standing up and reaching down to help you to your feet. You swayed dangerously, the blood loss finally catching up to you. He caught you around the waist, easily supporting your weight.

"Come on," he murmured, his voice gentle but brook-no-argument firm. "We are going to Shoko. Right now."

The instinct to protest flared up instantly. It's 3 AM. She's sleeping. I can just bandage it tight. But as you looked up at Megumi, at the deep circles under his eyes and the lingering terror in his posture, the words died in your throat.

You swallowed hard, the word feeling foreign and incredibly heavy on your tongue.

"Okay."

Megumi let out a breath he seemed to have been holding for hours. He didn't say anything, but the relief in his eyes was blinding. He practically carried you down the silent, moonlit hallways to the infirmary.

Shoko was awake, smoking a cigarette out the window when Megumi kicked the infirmary door open. She took one look at Megumi’s pale face and the blood soaking your side and immediately crushed the cigarette, immediately tending to you.

The process of healing was agonizing. Shoko’s reverse cursed technique was a miracle, but extracting the foreign cursed energy from the wound before healing the flesh was a torturous sensation. You lay on the sterile white cot, your teeth gritted, a cold sweat breaking out across your forehead.

Through it all, Megumi sat beside the bed. He held your hand in both of his, his grip tight enough to bruise, grounding you in reality while the pain threatened to pull you under. He didn't look away, even when the wound looked its most gruesome. He stayed exactly where he promised he would be.

When it was finally over, and the flesh was knit cleanly together leaving only an angry pink scar, exhaustion hit you like a physical blow. Shoko handed you a clean t-shirt and kicked you both out, muttering something about needing sleep.

The walk back to Megumi’s dorm was slow. You leaned heavily against him, your body utterly drained. You felt hollowed out, incredibly fragile, like a glass blown too thin.

When you reached his room, he didn't turn on the overhead lights. He guided you gently to the bed, pulling back the heavy comforter. You crawled in automatically, immediately scooting to the absolute edge of the mattress, curling into a tight ball. It was muscle memory at this point.

Megumi stood at the edge of the bed, watching you in the dim moonlight filtering through the blinds. He sighed, a heavy, exhausted sound. He kicked off his shoes, discarded his ruined shirt, and climbed into the bed.

But he didn't lie down on his side.

Instead, he moved to the center of the mattress. He reached out, grabbing you gently by the hips, and physically dragged you away from the edge, pulling you across the sheets until you were flush against him in the very middle of the bed.

You gasped softly in surprise, stiffening. "Megumi—"

"Stop," he murmured, his voice thick with sleep. He wrapped his arms tightly around you, burying his face in your hair. He tangled his legs with yours, pinning you to him, ensuring there was no physical way for you to retreat to the cold periphery. "You are exactly where you belong. Take up the whole bed if you want. Kick me out if you want. But stop going all the way there."

You lay rigid in his arms for a long moment, your brain struggling to process the sensation of being held so securely, of being allowed to take up space without apologizing for it. The warmth of his body seeped into your cold skin. His heartbeat thudded steadily against your back, a rhythmic, grounding lullaby.

Slowly, agonizingly slowly, you forced your muscles to uncoil. You let out a long, shaky breath, letting your weight sink fully into his embrace. You closed your eyes, his scent surrounding you, pulling you down into a deep, dreamless sleep.

The next morning, you woke to the smell of brewing coffee and the sound of birds chirping outside the window. The sunlight streaming into the room felt unnervingly bright.

You sat up slowly, testing the newly healed skin on your side. It twinged slightly, a dull ache, but the agonizing burn was gone. You looked around the room. You were alone in the bed, the covers tangled around your waist. You were dead center in the mattress.

The door to the small kitchenette opened, and Megumi stepped in, carrying two mugs. He looked rested, his dark hair a chaotic mess, his eyes softer than you had seen them in months.

He walked over to the bed and handed you a mug.

"Morning," he mumbled quietly, sitting on the edge of the mattress near your feet.

"Morning," you replied softly, your voice still gravelly from crying the night before. You wrapped both hands around the warm ceramic mug, seeking comfort in the heat. You brought it to your lips, taking a tentative sip.

You immediately paused, your brow furrowing in confusion.

It wasn't black coffee. It wasn't the bitter, acidic brew he drank every morning. It was warm milk, steeped heavily with a sweet, floral chamomile tea, and generously laced with honey. It was incredibly sweet. It was exactly what you actually liked.

You lowered the mug, staring at the golden liquid, a sudden lump forming in your throat. You looked up at Megumi. He was watching you carefully, his dark eyes analyzing your reaction.

"You didn't make coffee," you whispered, stating the obvious.

Megumi looked down at his own mug, taking a sip of the black sludge he preferred. "I know you hate it," he said simply, not meeting your eyes. A faint, barely perceptible pink dusted the tips of his ears. "I noticed a while ago. You always grimace when you take the first sip. And you always buy that sweet stuff when we go to the convenience store, but you never drink it around me."

Your breath hitched. He had noticed. He had known, and he had been waiting for you to say something.

He reached out, his long fingers gently wrapping around your ankle over the blankets.

"I'm not asking you to change everything in one day," Megumi continued, his voice quiet, steady, and infinitely patient. "I know it's a habit. I know you're terrified. But I am asking you to try. With me. Just with me."

He paused, a tiny, teasing glint momentarily breaking through his stoic demeanor. "For example. I was thinking of making eggs for breakfast. But I know you like pancakes, even though you always say eggs are fine. So. What do you want for breakfast?"

It was a test. A small, seemingly insignificant question, but between the two of you, it carried the weight of the world.

The instinct rose up instantly. Eggs are easier for him to make. He likes eggs. Tell him eggs. The familiar panic fluttered in your chest, the fear of demanding too much, of being an inconvenience.

You opened your mouth, the word 'eggs' forming on your lips.

But you stopped. You looked down at the sweet, warm tea in your hands, the tea he had made specifically for you, acknowledging your preferences, honoring your comfort. You looked at the hand resting gently on your ankle, grounding you, keeping you safe. You remembered the desperate way he had held you on the bloody bathroom floor, demanding that you exist loudly.

You closed your mouth. You took a deep breath, fighting the tremor in your voice. You forced yourself to meet his gaze directly.

"I…" you started, your voice barely above a whisper. You cleared your throat, trying again. "I would really like pancakes, Megumi. If that's okay?"

The silence in the room stretched for a single, terrifying second. You braced yourself for a sigh, a roll of the eyes, a sign of annoyance that you had requested the more difficult option.

Instead, Megumi’s face broke into a smile. It wasn't his usual smirk, or a polite curve of the lips. It was a genuine, breathtakingly soft smile that reached his eyes, illuminating his features and making your heart stutter in your chest.

He stood up, taking his mug of bitter coffee with him.

"Pancakes it is," he said softly, turning back toward the kitchen. He paused at the door, looking over his shoulder at you, his eyes filled with a certain amount of serenity that was so rare for megumi.

"And [Name]?"

You looked up, your hands gripping the mug tightly. "Yeah?"

"It's more than okay."

© belchyra. All rights reserved. Do not republish, translate, steal, or feed my work to AI.

[riotsgrl]

★ ROUND 1! | bakugou, k.

pairing: katsuki bakugou x reader

summary: a sparring session with kirishima gets a little out of hand, and being the only medic able to deal with katsuki bakugou, you’re left with the aftermath.

content: fluff + SMUT - mdni ! boxer!bkg + medic!reader. kiri feature! blood & injury. feelings!!! tension. lots of banter. clear consent. semi-public. making out. thigh riding. slight marking / hickeys. fondling. titty sucking. fingerfucking. cum eating. bkg does not get off but he is fine w that. there is a quite a bit of build up before the smut lol. wc: 5.2k.

note: #needthat

masterlist. | header art credit: @ ami_ranthao on tiktok !

In the ring, he came alive. An absolute powerhouse, brute force and flawless technique bleeding together to create Katsuki Bakugou, one of the best up and coming boxers of your time. Everyone was a little enamored— a perfect face paired with such a vulgar tongue, an ego backed with the skill to match.

His win-or-nothing attitude led him to the top, but also caused complications with his medical staff. A few too many outbursts had scared them into backing down, allowing him to keep pushing despite his injuries.

 Until you were hired a few months ago.

The first day you were assigned to him, the other medics had either snickered or grimaced, having each had their own share of bad luck with him. It seemed to be some rite of passage among them. When you met him, you understood exactly what the others had meant. There was enough fire behind that stare to send anyone skittering away.

But, to their surprise, you had returned back in one piece, with a perfectly bandaged Katsuki trailing behind you; glowering with something like an irritating smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, but tended to.

You were the only medic that could handle him.

Which is why you were spending your Saturday evening with your knees drawn to your chest on a bench at the edge of the boxing gym as he sparred with his close friend, and fellow boxer, Eijirou Kirishima.

The sound of their collective panting filled the air, the thud of fists against skin echoing off the walls as they tested each other.

Quick jabs, hits to the ribs; it was push and pull as they were nearly on equal ground, two decorated professionals with national titles.

You had to keep a close eye— track his movements to take note of any injuries, run over how exactly you would deal with each one. It was your job to.

But, admittedly, you found your gaze wandering against your will lately. More often than you wanted to admit.

It was difficult to ignore the way his biceps flexed with each jab, how soft blond tufts fell over his face, stuck to the sweat lining his forehead, the low hang of his boxing shorts highlighted his abs straining with each motion.

"Fuck!"

The sharp curse broke your trance, eyes snapping up, immediately alert.

Eijirou's hands flew over his mouth, his fighter's stance softening, hesitant hands reaching out towards his friend whose head was angled down, fighting to not reel.

"Woah, man, I am so sorry—"

Katsuki slapped his hand away, wiping at the blood beginning to drip down his nose with the back of his hand, unyielding eyes meeting Eijirou's.

"Keep it goin', Shitty Hair. And you,"

He didn't bother to look at you as you approached, keeping his burning stare on his opponent while waving you off with a harsh motion of his free hand. "Get back."

His bite was nothing new. You didn't bother to fight the eye roll, stepping closer to assess the extent of the damage. "Don't be dumb. Let me look."

"You deaf or something? Beat it."

More blood trickled down, coming over the curve of his lip. You had worked with Katsuki long enough to know that he pushed himself until he was battered, had nothing left to give.

Your job was to keep that from happening.

With a sigh, you grabbed him by the crook of his elbow.

"You are gushing blood. Come on—"

"Get your fuckin' hands off me, you piece of—"

"Again, don't be dumb—"

Eijirou blinked between the two of you, watching as you wrestled to keep Katsuki's arm in your grip, ineffectively attempting to drag him away. With a smile that didn't quite meet his eyes, he began to take backwards steps towards the bench where he kept his water, knowing there was little else he could do in this situation.

"I'm gonna take five. Go with her, man."

Feeling Katsuki's resistance give in just enough, you tugged him towards the med bay, giving Eijirou a grateful look over your shoulder. You hoped he didn't feel too guilty. Sparring was never supposed to get this intense, after all. But, mistakes happened.

You offered soft apologies under your breath to the few nurses on the same late shift as you were with a tight smile as you rushed past them to guide him into the room at the very back, shutting the door behind you.

It was just you two now.

Katsuki was still panting, worked up from the fight. There was probably enough adrenaline in his system to keep him from feeling the real pain of his affliction.

You pushed him back onto the bed against the wall to your right with a hand over his chest, feeling the warm muscle rise up and down under your palm before you turned to rummage through the cabinet, fishing out a medical kit with a crease forming between your brows.

"Are you trying to get yourself put on medical leave before your match next week?"

He didn't say a word, only the sound of his heavy breathing filling the room as you felt his glare against your back.

You sighed.

"Right before I get off too..."

"Yeah," He scoffed, a mocking edge to his voice. "'Cause I did that shit on purpose."

"You kept pushing. That was stupid and you know it, the best athletes know when to call it quits."

Katsuki scoffed, his jutted lower lip pursing as you set down the kit beside him, opening it up to fish out some gauze. "Maybe we should get you in the ring. Since you're such an expert."

You pushed his thighs apart with an unimpressed look, standing between them to get as close as you could.

A hand went behind his neck, gently tilting his head down so the blood wouldn't trickle back into his nose, go down his throat.

You carefully pinched the sides of his nose bridge to stop the blood flow, wiping away at what had escaped with clean gauze.

“You love making my life harder,” you muttered under your breath. “Can’t you just admit I'm right? Say you’ll be more careful?”

“The day I say that shit you can put a gun to my head.”

You rolled your eyes, but he continued.

"I don't say shit I don't mean," he sighed out, abs flexing as he winced slightly. “If your meddling ass didn't get in the way, I would've won.”

“Or you would've gotten your ass beat, but whatever.”

“I've had worse. A fucked up nose is nothing."

"Is that supposed to be a good thing?" you raised a brow, getting a new piece of gauze. "You never know when to stop, Katsuki. That's your issue."

The room settled into silence only the hum of the AC, your shifting, and the quiet, reluctant winces that slipped past as you tended to him.

His eyes never left you.

Sometimes, you wondered why.

Why he allowed you to treat him, why he let you get close. But you shook yourself out of those thoughts, reaching down to grab an ice pack. No time to get sidetracked, not now. Especially on something that was very likely nothing.

"Bleeding stopped."

He didn't respond, eyes downcast as you alternated between pressing it to either side of his nose bridge.

When he finally spoke, his words were quick. Quiet.

"I was going for his blind spot."

Said like he had to explain himself to you, or maybe himself.

But he didn't have to. You knew that his slip ups were extremely rare, he never made the same mistake twice— he beat himself up over every error, obsessed over earned perfection, victory.

His high standards for himself were what got him so far, but you knew they got to him. That, quietly, he sometimes needed reassurance, like anyone would.

“I know you were.” you finally responded, voice gentle, without pity.

"Eijirou's right side was open and he was getting tired. That was the right move. You would've gotten him."

He blinked down at you, as if assessing your honesty before a slight smile touched his lips. He gripped the edge of the small bed a little tighter, leaning down closer.

"Knew you were starin'."

Your heart jumped in your chest, but you pushed it down.

"Well, that is my job."

"It's your job to watch for injuries. Not stare."

You couldn't help what came out of your mouth next.

"Maybe I was staring at Eijirou."

"You think you're so funny."

"I think your ego's inflated."

"Wanna say that again?"

You pressed the ice a little too harshly into the side of his nose, drawing a small groan from him.

"Save it, Katsuki."

You packed up your kit and gathered the bloodied gauze to throw away, rinsing your hands before coming back to assess your work.

Blood clean, no signs of continued bleeding. A small bruise forming under his right eye from the trauma, expected.

It took everything in you to ignore the weight of his eyes, how he looked at you with an intensity reserved for his oppenents in the ring. Calculating, searching. You could feel the burn crawling up the back of your neck. Professional, keep it professional.

You nodded a little too quickly, turning on your heel. "Yep, all good. No more sparring, but you can go back now."

He tugged you by the back of your shirt collar before you got too far, pulling you back between his legs, face only inches away from yours.

"You don't want that."

The sudden proximity along with his words made your heart spike, as if caught.

What did you want? The question made you uneasy.

(Or, maybe it was the answer that you knew deep down that made you want to crawl out of your skin.)

You pushed back slightly, deflecting.

“I want you to see Dr. Tanaka as soon as you can. I'll make an appointment for tomorrow morning since he left for the day. I think your nose is broken.”

“No it's not.”

It wasn't. If it had been broken, you would've known from one look, you would have been angrier with him. But that was your out, your excuse to get away. And he had called your bluff, gaze unmoving.

"Don't play dumb right now."

“I'm not playing dumb." the words came snappy, brave; but you were just so close, that fire faltered. His hand that had gripped the back of your collar had shifted carefully to the front, so close to your neck that you were afraid he might feel your heart try to burst out of your throat.

"You're just…" you trailed off, struggling to find your words. "…difficult. You're being difficult.”

"Difficult?" a dry sort of laugh. "You're the difficult one. For someone smart you can be pretty fuckin' dense."

You bit the inside of your lower lip, eyes darting between him and the door.

You knew what he meant. This back and forth between you was nothing new. But when it got too real you had always gotten away, said something and acted like nothing had happened once you cooled down.

The sounds outside seemed to be getting louder, closer. These doors didn’t have locks. Anyone could come in, find you like this. One of the nurses checking in, a gym goer looking for band-aids.

“Or maybe you do know. Hm?”

The question pulled you from your thoughts in an instant, made your eyes snap to his— first mistake. Once his crimson stare bored into yours, you couldn’t look away.

Could you have been that obvious? You thought your moments of distraction were fleeting, imperceptible to the average eye.

He had never commented on it before, slipping back to his normal self even after your closest calls.

But you should’ve known better. Katsuki Bakugou was not average in any sense of the word.

(Of course, he noticed. Of course he did.)

You sputtered something before you could think, just wanting to hear something other than the sound of your own thoughts.

"Some…someone could—"

"No one's gonna come in." his voice flat, dismissal easy. All matter of fact as he craned his neck down closer to you.

"Unless you want Eijirou to come in. Since you were, what, staring at him, right? That what you want?"

"What?!" the word was almost a squeak, high and taken aback. "That's not— "

You fought the strange heat crawling up your face by shooting him a look, eyes narrowing.

"Katsuki. I was joking."

He hummed.

(Unbelieving? Amused? A bit of both?)

"Sure you were."

You opened your mouth, then closed it. The defelctions that had once come so easy were heavy on your tongue. There was no joke, no eye roll, nothing you could say to slip away. Not this time.

You sighed, next words defeated.

"What do you want me to say?"

"I want you to be real with me." you could feel his breath against your lips; hot, charged. "Tell me you don’t want this, that you haven't thought about it.”

“Katsuki…”

It came out weaker than you wanted. Small, kind of breathless. Almost pleading.

For what— to let you go?

(To keep going?)

He kept egging, eyes not once leaving yours. “Say it. I'll stop.”

And you knew he would. Because he was being serious, you could tell by his voice— how it was low under his breath, softened. 

For you, he was being intentionally careful.

Just the thought made you want to cave. But the entire reason your relationship worked, why you were able to handle him, was because you didn't give in.

"There are rules about this sort of thing—"

"You think I give a fuck about bullshit rules?"

"Yeah, I know you don't." you gave him a look. "But I do. I could lose my job, you could get me fired, or…"

You swallowed back the rest of it.

He didn't have to know how it made you afraid, testing the fragile nature of this relationship. How giving in meant that all of this could shatter, that this could all amount to one big mistake.

Katsuki blinked, taking in your expression. He looked off to the side for a beat, lips pursing in thought before, carefully, he took your hands into his.

"You know I won't let that happen. I don't see any of the other shitty medics here."

You snorted a little. Because you did know. You cocked your head to the side, a small smile tugging at your lips. "They're not shitty."

He didn't retaliate, just raised his brows slowly. The truth of his words wasn't what mattered, it was the implication behind them.

(You're the one I see. You.)

His earlier words rang in your ears.

Tell me you don't want this, that you haven't thought about it

You couldn't, because you had.

Countless times— whenever you watched him hover over his opponents, keep them locked underneath him, the heat in his eyes, a cocky smile on his lips.

He wormed his way into your mind, more often than not, late at night. When sleep couldn't find you and your bed felt exceptionally cold. Empty.

(Him. You imagined him.)

Denying all of that was exactly what you should have done. That would have been the rational thing to do, the smart thing.

But as you traced his face, followed the soft curve of his cheeks against the otherwise harsh lines, watched the furrow of his brow deepen ever so slightly, as if he, of all people, was nervous— you couldn't fight the feeling anymore.

Because you wanted to kiss him, and you wanted him to kiss you— more than anything.

Hesitantly, you brushed your thumbs over the bruises on his knuckles.

“No, I… I do. Want this, I mean."

Something in his expression shifted. Surprise, for a brief second, before that cocky gleam in his eyes that you had seen when he was in-action settled over his face. Only, a little different. (A little sharper, hungrier.)

"Yeah?" he pushed closer, nose just barely brushing yours. "You want this?"

Slowly, you nodded.

"Yes."

His gaze darted from your eyes and lips before the sliver of space between you finally disappeared.

The kiss was tentative, careful. So unlike him that it caught you a little off guard.

Soft. His lips were so soft against yours.

He kissed you like he was trying to figure out the shape of your lips, go slow enough to savor the moment, commit the feeling to memory. The hand near your collar came up to cup your jaw, angle your face just right.

You had thought about what this would feel like for longer than you would ever admit. Did he think of you the same way? Were you what he had expected?

When he pulled back just enough to breathe, he drank in your expression; your pretty lips plush and parted, wide doe-eyes blinking up at him.

He groaned, "Fuck it."

You yelped when calloused hands gripped your arms, hoisted you up like you weighed nothing, thick biceps flexing as he pulled you down to straddle his thigh.

You planted your hands on his chest to steady yourself on instinct, unable to process it for a second. Your thighs were around his leg, his hands at your waist, holding you in a way you had only ever thought would exist in the secret fantasies you let yourself indulge in. The small bed creaking under your combined weight. His chest rising and falling under your palms.

Sometimes, you forgot how strong he actually was. How he wasn’t just some other annoying, short-tempered guy— his body was molded to his profession; brute strength and jagged lines carved from a life in the ring. His shoulders broad, a tapering waist, arms nearly the size of your head. He could probably pick you up and snap you in half if he really wanted to. Your stomach flipped at just the thought.

Before you could open your mouth to speak, he flexed the muscle of his thigh; deliberate, testing. Sharp eyes watching as your face flushed at his bare muscle pressing up against your core.

Your breath hitched, warmth pooled down between your legs, heart beating in your ears as his large hands slid down to rest over your hips, holding you steady— pulling you down closer.

"Feel good?"

Your ears burned at the mocking edge to his voice. You squirmed, caught between wanting to slap that smug look off his face and slowly seek more friction by grinding down.

You didn't have to choose, not when his hands slowly guided your hips down, back and forth against his hardened muscle. You bit your bottom lip between your teeth, clearly embarassed, ineffectively fighting the whimpers that threatened to slip past with each movement.

His gaze never once left you, taking note of every little reaction.

Heat crawled up your face at being watched so shamelessly.

Leaning forward, you distracted yourself by pressing soft kisses up the side of his throat, staring to grind down on him yourself, your tongue darting out before gently sucking soft marks into his skin.

He let out a strained sigh, tilting his neck back just enough to give you more access.

You hooked your arms loosely around his neck, pecking across his jaw. Your fingers curled into the hair at his nape, giving it a soft tug, pulling his head back so his eyes met yours.

Pupils blown, eyes heavy with want, hair falling over them all messy and disheveled.

You didn't know how you had gone so long without this, how you could have ever wanted to keep your distance. Now that you let yourself have a taste, you didn't think you could ever get enough.

Tugging him to you by the hair, you pulled him to kiss you again.

This time, it was feverish, insatiable. Months of tension and denied desire pouring over all at once.

He kissed like he was still chasing you; like he had something to prove, like he wanted you to feel that you were his favorite taste. A clash of tongue and teeth, nipping at your bottom lip. Each time he pulled back to breathe it lasted less than a beat before he rushed back to steal the soft sounds that slipped past your lips as your hips continued to buck against his thigh.

But the fabric, it was in the way. No matter how hard you grinded down on him, there was too much between you and what you wanted, and the frustration was showing. Your slight sighs turning into small huffs, brows pinching against your will.

The next time Katsuki pulled back, you didn't let him kiss you again. The small string of saliva between your lips broke as you spoke, softly panting. "I want 'em off."

He looked down at your request, pinching the fabric of your pants between his index and thumb. Eyes looking up into yours carefully, like he was uncertain if that was something you really wanted.

You nodded, a little frantic.

"Off. Please."

He got straight to it. Getting them off wasn't pretty, but a controlled sort of desperate.

His movements were precise as always, fairly smooth, but you could feel that something was simmering under his palms as he moved you around to get them off just right, even more so when they finally rested over your bare legs, eyes slightly dazed as he gave the flesh a tentative squeeze.

You bit your lip at the feeling, skin burning under his touch, wanting it all over you.

You glanced down at your shirt.

"This too."

He scoffed, but there was something like a smile pulling at the corner of his lips. "Fuckin' bossy."

His hands slid under the hem, bunching the fabric up over your chest, too impatient to get it all the way off. He reached back to unclasp your bra, letting it fall to the floor as he took in the shape of your bare chest, the way your nipples hardened at the cool air of the clinic.

For a beat too long, he just stared.

On instinct, you wondered if something was wrong, if there was something about you that was weird or unappealing, the feeling twisted in you. But before you could tug your shirt back down, he cupped your tits with both hands, feeling the weight of them, squeezing slightly.

"Been waiting for this shit for so fuckin' long, y'know that?" He groaned out, leaning forward to bury his face into them.

You whimpered as he pressed wet kisses across the skin, thumb brushing over one of your nipples while his tongue lolled out to lick over the other, sucking it between his lips.

You began grinding down on his thigh again, the feeling so much more intense with just your panties on. You shifted your hips to find the angle that felt best, rubbing yourself down against the hard muscle of his thigh beneath you, solid and perfect, the friction sending sparks up your spine, your breaths coming out in shallow pants.

Each roll of your hips made your breath come a little faster, especially as his mouth pulled off one of your tits to give the other a fair share of attention.

Your nails dug into his shoulders when he nipped at your chest, sucking harshly, catching your sensitive peak between his teeth just to hear you whine. His tongue was hot against your skin, wet and needy.

Katsuki could feel your arousal starting to coat his thigh, soaking through your panties, smearing over his leg with every drag of your hips. Smiling against your chest, he pulled back with a soft pop, looking down at the glistening mess you left behind.

He moved a hand down between your bodies, slightly nudging your hips up with his leg to give him enough space in between to feel you over your panties, the fabric evidently damp as his index and middle finger stopped right above your clothed clit, pressing against it just slightly, enough to pull a shaky sigh from your lips.

"All this from just my thigh?"

There was a smug, slightly demeaning tone to his voice, like he was surprised you were so wet, as if it wasn't his fault. It made you want to throttle him. Or kiss him. Or both.

Your brows furrowed. "Shut up."

He only chuckled, drawing a line down your clothed slit. All slow, agonizing. Self-satsfied at the soft whimper that slips out of you.

"It's a simple fucking question. Haven't even touched you properly yet."

You huffed, mustering your most serious expression to meet his eyes. "God, just quit teasing, Katsuki. You're being mean."

He raised his brows, that smile on his face only widening. "You think this is mean?"

Finally, finally, he hooked his fingers into your panties, pushing them aside. The first touch, skin-on-skin, made you gasp. He dragged his fingers between your folds, coating them in your slick, slow and deliberate, coating them before circling your entrance.

"I can show you mean."

His eyes were locked between your legs, watching his own fingers move. "Look at you," he murmured, almost to himself. “Fucking soaked."

He pushed one finger inside, slow enough that you felt every inch. You whimpered softly, walls fluttering around him.

He groaned softly, watching your face contort, feeling himself get even harder in his shorts.

"Tight," he breathed. "Gonna add another. That okay?"

You nodded frantically, beyond words.

The second finger stretched you more, made you bite down on your lip to keep from moaning too loud. He worked them deeper, curling them slightly. Your chest heaved at the intrusion you fought to not cry out, your nails digging into his shoulder as he hit just the right spot.

"There?" His voice was rough, satisfied. "That the spot?"

You couldn't respond, forehead falling into the crook of his neck, clinging to him as he curled his fingers again, rubbing that soft patch inside you with devastating precision.

Once he found it, he didn't stop, pumping his fingers in and out, hitting it with precision each time.

You grinded down into his hand, feeling the heel of his palm press up against your clit. You chase the feeling, shameless. Lost in the sensation, the overwhelming feeling of him all around you.

You mumbled into the skin of his neck incoherently about how you were: "Almost… 'm gonna…"

You could hear his voice right by your ear. Hoarse, determined.

“Yeah?” his efforts nearly doubled. “Close?”

You could only nod, coherent thoughts gone from your mind, only a desperate haze of want.

"Yeah. Yes. Please, please more…"

He kept at it, silently savoring your desperate sounds.

You wrapped your arms tight around his neck, moans muffled into his skin as the tightly wound up knot came undone. Your breaths getting heavy in your lungs, head getting fuzzy, eyes fluttering shut, nails having left angry red lines down the skin of his upper back.

He ran a hand up and down your back as you collapsed against him, coming down from the high. He let you rest against him, breathing from a moment before pulling you back with a small kiss to the side of your head.

"Look at me."

It didn't sound like a request.

"Hm?"

You watched with hazy eyes as he slowly pulled his fingers out of you, the loss making you whimper. They glistened under the harsh light of the clinic, coated with the evidence of what he'd just done to you.

He held your gaze as he brought them to his mouth. His tongue darted out first, licking a long strip up the slick-covered fingers. Then, he took them fully into his mouth, sucking them clean, eyes never once leaving yours.

Your breath caught in your throat. Heat flooded through you again, despite having just come. Tasting you off his own fingers like you were the best thing he'd ever had— it was almost too much.

When he finally pulled his fingers from his mouth with a soft pop, he smirked at your expression.

"Tastes good," he said simply, like commenting on the weather.

You clenched around nothing, already missing him inside you, feeling spent but somehow needing more.

"You're shameless."

"Last I checked, I wasn't the one humping your thigh."

Your face burned, a small, angry sort of pout settling on your lips.

He snickered, hand sliding up to your waist, giving it a small squeeze. "Little too late to get all embarassed. Shit was hot."

"Uh huh…" You gave him a look, "Um. Thanks, by the way... that was—" You trailed off, not knowing how to express what you feel just the right way. "Good. It was good."

Katsuki snorted. "Just good?" you rolled your eyes, but leaned into his teasing with sweetness, something he didn't quite expect.

"Much better than good."

He searched your eyes for a beat, a hand coming up to brush back some of your hair. Then he pecked your lips— soft, almost sweet — before tugging your shirt back down carefully.

That was when you slowly realized, he was wrapping this up. But… he didn't cum?

He didn't cum.

"Hey, wait you didn't—"

He knew what you were talking about, the strained bulge in his shorts was nothing short of obvious.

"Does it look like I care."

His dismissal of his own need threw you off.

"Katsuki, that's not fair. I can't just—"

"Sure you can. You just did."

You turned his head towards you, pulling him into a soft kiss, parting his lips with yours, trying to not get lost in tasting yourself on his tongue. Gently trying to urge him to let you have him the way he had you.

You try to convince him, urge him to let you return the favor, do something.

You ran your hand over the bulge in his shorts, traced it gently, wanting. He groaned against your mouth, the sound strained in the back of his throat, like he was holding himself back. "C'mon, Katsuki," you palmed him over his shorts, wanting to hear more. "Let me? Please?"

He looked like he could give in, his jaw tense, eyes screwing shut as your finger hooked into the waistband of his shorts, drawing out a breathy sigh. You froze when the intercom crackled above you.

"The gym will be closing in ten minutes. Please begin wrapping up your sessions and make your way to the exit. Thank you."

You blinked. Fuck.

"…I can be quick?"

That was a lie. Ten minutes wasn't nearly enough time to do what you wanted to.

He waved you off with a snort, tugging your hand away from his throbbing cock, taking it upon himself to adjust the hem of your shirt with more care than you thought possible from someone like him.

"Relax." He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes. "Shit’s not a big deal. Can take care of it in the shower."

The mental image of him standing under the shower, hand wrapped around his cock, thinking about this — you — made something low in your stomach tighten.

You must have made a face, because he huffed out a laugh.

"But if you want to make it up so bad," He leaned in closer, nose brushing yours. The soft curve of his lashes was so much more apparent this close. He pressed a final, lingering kiss, grinning softly as he spoke. His voice low against your lips, promising. "We'll go for round 2."

may blabs: baby's first smut dont throw tomatoes at me.. ok btw if u ever genuinely have a bloody nose do NOT tilt your head back. that blood will go down your throat and if it gets into ur stomach u could throw up and that is not good so do NOT do that ✌️✌️

big special thank u to the mutuals ( @updownandbatty & & @cupidkats & @hushedlotus ) AND irls i bothered w this fic… u are goated ❤️‍🩹

again, art in the header is not mine, credits to the artist !!!

taglist: @nanakamii 𓂃˖ ࣪⊹ :

masterlist ★ taglist form ★ want to send in a request?

[bearinlaice]

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confession ?

just them, a stupid argument, too much tension, and the confession he swears he wasn’t ever gonna say out loud.

timeskip bakugo x fem!reader mostly soft, sfw !!

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you don’t even know how you got stuck helping him clean his gear — one minute you were minding your business in your room, the next bakugo was shoving his gauntlet into your hands with a muttered,

“you’re the only one who doesn’t do a shitty job. here.”

like that’s supposed to be a compliment.

he’s standing over you now, arms crossed, looming like he’d rather explode than admit he needs help. you can feel his eyes drilling into your skull as you work.

you stop, look up,

“do you want me to do it or do you wanna hover like a fly?”

his eye twitches,

“the hell did you just call me?”

“if the buzzing shoe fits.”

his mouth opens, shuts, then he drags a hand down his face like the universe personally offended him.

“you’re so— just keep cleaning, dumbass.”

normally you would let it go, but he’s been acting weird all week. not his normal blowing up for no reason weird — this is a different kind. quieter. more tense. he barely talks to you, then suddenly wants you in the same room with em.

you tilt the gauntlet away and raise a brow.

“if you’re gonna keep staring at me like that, at least tell me why.”

“i’m making sure you don’t fuck it up.”

“yeah, okay.”

you go back to polishing, but he moves in closer. and closer. until his chest is brushing your back and his breath grazes your shoulder.

“…bakugo.”

“what.”

“you’re hovering again.”

“i’m not hovering,” he snaps — but he doesn’t move an inch.

you carefully set the gauntlet down and stand up, turning to face him fully.

“something’s wrong. i’m not gonna guess.”

he bristles immediately, like you said the most offensive thing.

“there’s nothing wrong.”

“lyin’.”

“I’m not—”

“you avoid me for days, then act like i’m glued to your hip, but won’t tell me anything.” you cross your arms. “at least commit to the bit.”

his jaw clenches so tightly.

“you don’t get it,” he mutters.

“then explain.”

“i shouldn’t have to,” he growls.

you scoff. “oh please. i’m observant, not psychic.”

that gets him — his eye flicks away, shoulders tense.

and it hits you.

“…are you mad at me?” you ask, voice softer than you meant.

his head snaps toward you.

“no.”

“then what—”

“i’m mad at myself,” he bites out, low and raw.

that shuts you up.

he steps closer, fists flexing like he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

“you’re always there,” he grits, staring at the floor. “right in front of me. and i keep— fuck— i keep acting like it doesn’t matter when it does.”

your stomach flips painfully.

“bakugo—”

“don’t say my name like that,” he snaps, but it sounds like he’s begging. “i’m trying to— just— fuck—”

he slams one hand against the counter beside you, making you jump. cages you in without touching you. his breathing is rough, uneven, like he’s been swallowing this for too long.

his voice drops to something almost dangerous.

“i want you,” he finally says, vulnerability in his tone. “not just when we’re pissed. not just when shit’s messy. i want you… with me.”

it’s not gentle. it’s not soft. but it’s honest — painfully, embarrassingly honest for him.

“then why didn’t you say anything?”

“because you piss me the fuck off,” he fires back instantly. “you’re quiet, then bratty, then you look at me like you know exactly what buttons to press.”

you smirk, because you do.

his eyes darken in a way that makes your knees weak.

“see? that shit. you do it on purpose.”

“you like it.”

he moves before you finish the sentence — his hand coming up to grip your jaw, thumb dragging slow along your chin like it’s the first time he’s let himself actually touch you this way.

“i do,” he admits, voice rough. “i like all of it. every part.”

your breath stutters. his forehead drops against yours, his grip tightening like he’s claiming something and holding himself back at the same time.

“so.. what now?” you whisper.

his eyes flick to your lips.

“now,” he growls, “you stop running your mouth and let me have what i should’ve claimed weeks ago.”

you don’t even get a chance to breathe before he kisses you.

it’s fierce — all heat and frustration and weeks of tension boiling over. he kisses like he fights: sloppy, overwhelming, determined to win. your back hits the counter, his hands sliding to your waist, pulling you in like he’s starving for you.

you gasp into his mouth and he chases the sound, deepening the kiss, biting your bottom lip like he’s trying to brand you.

he breaks just long enough to breathe against your lips.

“you mine or not?” he mutters, but it’s not a question — it’s a pressure point, a confession trembling under his rage.

you tug him closer by his shirt.

“say it again.”

his pupils dilate from the tone of your voice.

“mine,” he growls, slower this time, almost reverent. “you’re mine,” he’s now making a statement, not asking.

you bite your lip and kiss him back — hungry, intentional, claiming him just as much — he groans against your mouth like he’s finally getting what he’s wanted this entire damn time.

[bearinlaice]

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practice makes perfect !

he’s been waiting for you, finally giving in and teaching you the things he’s only imagined.

timeskip bf!bakugo x fem!reader nsfw !!

───────────୨ৎ───────────

you knew something was up the moment you walked into your shared dorm.

bakugo was already there — sitting on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, jaw tight. too still. too quiet. like he’d been waiting.

“you’re home late,” he mutters, not looking at you.

“training ran long,” you say, kicking off your shoes. “why? miss me?”

“shut up.”

but his voice breaks just a little, betraying something needier than irritation.

you smirk and step between his knees, brushing your fingers along his shoulder like you always do — teasing, poking at him just to make him react.

usually, he grabs your wrist. rolls his eyes. grumbles about you being annoying.

but tonight?

he doesn’t grab your wrists.

he grabs your waist.

firm, like he’s keeping himself from pulling you down onto his lap.

“kats?” you ask softly, the nickname slipping out before you can stop it.

his breath stutters.

“…don’t call me that right now,” he mutters, eyes dragging up your body like he’s fighting something in himself. “not unless you want somethin’ from me.”

you swallow — suddenly nervous, but in that warm, buzzing way that goes straight to your stomach.

“and what if i do?” you ask, trying to sound confident, but your voice trembles.

he notices. of course he notices.

“tch. you talk big,” he murmurs, sliding a hand up your back, palm warm through your shirt. “but you’re shakin’.”

“i’m not—”

“yeah, you are.”

he tilts his head up slightly, meeting your eyes — and there’s something hungry there, something that makes your throat go tight. “…bein’ a brat all week. got me thinkin’ about you more than i wanna admit.”

you open your mouth, something bratty on your tongue, but he cuts you off by tugging you closer by your belt loops — gently, but with intention.

your knees hit the edge of his bed.

“sit,” he says.

you sit, you love how demanding he is.

he keeps a hand on your thigh, thumb brushing lazy circles that make you feel warmer by the second.

“we don’t gotta do anything crazy,” he mutters, voice low, rough. “but if we’re tryin’ stuff…”

his thumb drags higher, stopping just before the heat between your thighs.

“…you listen to me. got it?”

your breath catches.

not fear out of fear, but...

anticipation.

“i listen,” you whisper, cheeks heating.

he scoffs, smirking. “for once.”

you roll your eyes. “…see? this is why i don’t!—”

he grabs your chin — not rough, but firm — turning your face back toward him.

“don’t get shy on me now.”

his voice drops, thick with something you haven’t heard from him before.

“been dyin’ to get my hands on you. don’t make me say it again.”

your heart trips in your chest. your thighs press together without you meaning to.

“…katsuki—”

“don’t look at me like that,” he mutters, thumb brushing your lower lip like he’s memorizing the shape of it. “you’re nervous. but you want it.”

you exhale shakily. “y..yeah… i do.”

his breath leaves him in a slow, controlled exhale — the kind he uses when he’s trying not to snap.

“come here.”

you lean in automatically, closing the space between you, but he pulls you the last few inches, kissing you hard — messy, hungry, like he’d been waiting days to taste you.

you gasp into his mouth, fingers curling in his shirt.

he groans — actually groans — and drags you into his lap, your knees bracketing his thighs.

the kiss gets deeper, needier, his hands gripping your hips like he’s trying not to push you down on him.

you pull back for air, lips swollen, thighs shaking.

“you good?” he mutters, forehead against yours, breathing hard.

you nod — small and shaky.

his hands slide down your waist, settling on your knees.

“good,” he whispers, voice dipping lower than you’ve ever heard. “then get on the fuckin’ floor.”

your breath stutters.

his eyes filled with lust.

“i’ll teach you,” he says, thumb stroking the your knee — slow, intentional, intimate. “just like you wanted...”

“h-hey! what do you mean—“ he cuts you off, slowly lowering you down to him. “i hear what you talk about with your... little...friends.. y’know, its cute honestly.”

you're on your knees in front of him, looking up your face flushed with embarrassment. "so what are you waiting for, slut?" bakugo growls impatiently, already hard in his pants. "get to work..."

he takes out his dick that's pulsing, stroking it a bit. he grins looking down at you as you slowly take him into your mouth, hesitating. surprised by how soft he’s being, despite his word choices.

usually he degrades you more, but now he's thrusting into your throat almost immediately, from his desperation. almost as if he’s forgotten you’re learning. his hands tangled in your hair with a roughness, making you gag.

"f..fuck!" he grunts, “you’re doin’ real good f’me.” he strokes your cheek, wiping away the tears that form in your eyes from how big he is. you feel yourself slowly soaking in your undies from his praise, how gentle his touch is as a whole.

“been thinkin’ about this all week. you have no idea how badly i needed this..." his words are degrading, yet praiseful, but the desperation in his voice betrays his real feelings.

when you pull back to breathe, you look up at him with glossy eyes. he looks at you in awe, “…i’m tryin’ to be gentle, y’know. just for you…” he mutters and pushes your head down slowly. "don't you stop..." he snaps, but his voice cracks slightly. "i’m so f..fuckin’ close…”

you take him deep again, using your tongue and throat to bring him to the edge. “atta girl.. jus like that— mmph.” he begins to cum, pulling out at the last second, cumming across your face and chest with a groan of relief.

"fuck!" he pants, looking down at you with a mixture of contempt and awe. "look at you…what a mess."

you wipe your face, but he slaps your hand away. "leave it,” he orders. "i want to see my cum on you...what a pretty mess.”

you grin slightly at his comment, unfortunately liking it.

“let’s get you cleaned up, yeah?”

[katsukis-wife-sweets]

IM A WHORE FOR THIS MAN OMG

[lonelyfooryouonly]

99 problems, but a wet dream ain’t one | katsuki b.

summary: katsuki had a wet dream about you — and now he can’t get the image out of his hea, no matter how hard he tries. and when you find out? you’re sure as hell not making it easy for him.

warnings: best friend!katsuki, best friend!reader, reader is shameless, reader is down BAD, teasing, flirting, cursing, dirty talk, wet dream, smut, blowjob, gagging, spit, dom!katsuki, bratty!sub!reader, degradation, “this is a bad idea” typa fic, MDNI;

wc: 2,3k

Katsuki Bakugou has a best friend problem.

And it isn’t the kind of problem that can be solved by just talking about it, like normal friends do.

No. This is pretty difficult to solve.

Why?

One, because Katsuki doesn’t even talk about feelings or problems most of the time. He just bottles them up until something new appears and then forgets about whatever bothered him before.

And two, he definitely won’t talk about how a wet dream with his best friend made him feel.

Yeah. A wet dream.

He hasn’t had one of those since he was a fucking teenager, and it makes him feel so stupid. He is a grown man, for God’s sake. An established pro-hero. A respected one. And more recently?

A fucking loser.

A loser who now struggles to even meet your eyes while you’re having a simple conversation, because every time he does, he remembers how you looked in his dream — naked and sweaty and so fucking eager to suck him off.

And of fucking course his mind wanders further—

Would your mouth feel that good in reality?

Would it turn him on that much to have you on your knees between his legs?

Would your moans really sound that divine while doing your best to bring him towards pleasure?

Will—

“Earth to Katsukiii,” you suddenly speak, waving a hand in front of his face, pulling him out of his thoughts and making him jolt slightly, his body shifting backwards on the couch.

“What!?” His head snaps towards you instantly, his hand coming up to slap yours away, ignoring the warmth that lingers from the brief contact.

“I have been talking to you,” you frown, scooching closer to him, leaning forward slightly, trying to catch his gaze. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothin’,” he shrugs, but his body tenses the moment your chest brushes against his arm.

“You’re even pissier than usual,” you remark with a raised brow, studying him carefully. He scoffs.

“You’re imagining things,” he replies way too fast.

You frown deeper, squinting your eyes as you shift even closer, intentionally closing the space between you. You don’t miss the way he immediately leans away.

“Why do you run from me?” you ask, tilting your head.

“I like my space, weirdo,” he mutters under his breath.

“I like your space too,” you tease, nudging your knee against his.

He instantly moves his knee away.

“Shut up and watch this damn movie,” he rolls his eyes, trying to focus anywhere but you.

“Kats.”

No answer.

“Katsuki,” you insist again, leaning in and poking his cheek with your finger.

You feel it — the tension.

You notice the way his hands curl, palms balling into fists as he takes a slow, deep breath, clearly trying to keep himself together.

“What’s up with you?” you push again, your voice softer this time, but more insistent. You move even closer, until he’s practically cornered at the end of the couch, your body fully pressing into his.

“Tell meee,” you drag out, nudging him lightly. “What’s bothering you?”

“You’re bothering me,” he finally snaps, his tone sharp and annoyed, making you blink in surprise. “Even in my fuckin’ dreams,” he adds with a frustrated groan, dragging a hand through his hair, making it messier than it already was.

“What?” you ask, caught off guard. “You dreamt about me?”

“Are you deaf?” he rolls his eyes, letting out a short, dry chuckle.

Then—

Something shifts.

A slow, almost mischievous grin spreads across your lips.

“What kind of dream did you have?” you ask, lowering your voice slightly as you lean closer, your gaze locking onto his.

Before he can react, you move.

In one smooth motion, you swing your leg over him, then the other, settling yourself directly in his lap, your thighs resting on either side of his muscular legs.

His mouth parts slightly, frozen halfway open, one eye twitching as he stares up at you, completely caught off guard.

“Come on,” you push again, shifting slightly on his lap, your clothed core brushing against his crotch through his jeans.

“Did you have a wet dream?” you ask playfully, clearly teasing, not thinking anything of it — but the moment he flinches, looking away instead of snapping back at you, your smile falters just a bit.

“Did you really have a wet dream of me?” you ask again, this time more serious, your eyes searching his face.

“Piss off,” he mutters, avoiding your gaze.

“Oh my god… I want to know right now,” you nudge him again, more insistent this time.

“I ain’t telling you shit, now get off of me,” he says, though his hands find your hips, gripping them instinctively.

You place your hands over his, pressing them down, smirking slightly.

“You know… if you tell me what it was about… maybe I can help,” you shrug casually, as if you didn’t just drop that.

He stares at you, completely dumbfounded, like you just said the most insane thing he’s ever heard.

“You gotta be joking,” he says, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Why would I be? It’s not like I don’t find you hot or anything,” you add, shifting slightly again in his lap.

That stirrs something in him.

He hisses under his breath, his grip on your hips tightening without him even realizing it.

“I’m still not telling you,” he mumbles, jaw clenching.

“Okay…” you hum. “I’ll guess.”

You take a moment to think, then—

“Was I on all fours? Were you fucking me from the back? I know you like doggy style… or maybe something else? Like missionary? Or cowgirl?” you ramble, mostly to yourself, watching his reactions closely. “How about—“

“It was a goddamn blowjob, now shut up,” he groans, his head falling back against the couch with a dull thud.

“Oh,” you pause, blinking. “A blowjob,” you repeat thoughtfully, tilting your head slightly.

“How was I able to fit all of that in my mouth?” you add, genuinely thinking about it.

He groans louder this time, hands leaving your hops and dragging them down his face.

“You are killing me, woman,” he mutters, voice strained, making you giggle softly.

“So you want it?” you ask, watching him closely.

He makes a pause, completely baffled.

Then—

“The hell? Who asks their best friend to suck them off?” he snaps, glaring at you.

“Who dreams of their best friend sucking them off?” you shoot back instantly, raising a brow.

“Smartass,” he scoffs.

“Pervert.”

“Oh, I’m the pervert? Not you, who’s been grinding on me for the past minutes?” he shoots back.

“I only suggested it because you seem stressed lately,” you say, your tone softer now, but still teasing. “And you clearly don’t wanna talk about feelings. Maybe I can help some… other way… you know?”

He goes quiet.

Really quiet.

His brows pull together as he stares at you, his expression shifting into something more serious, more conflicted — something you can’t quite read.

You’ve never seen that look on him before.

Not like this.

There’s hesitation.

Something heavy sits behind his eyes.

“You better not make me regret this,” he mutters finally, his voice lower now.

Your brows lift slightly, tilting your head. You didn’t know what to make of this words.

“Wha— what?”

His hands tighten on your hips, making you shift against his crotch for the nth time.

“Get on your knees.”

“Now?” You ask baffled.

“Yes, now. I’m in the mood and it’s your fault,” he reminds you.

You bite your lip to repress a smile.

Instead of a snarky comment, you just nod quietly and get off his lap. He spreads his legs wider the moment you move, watching you closely as you lower yourself onto your knees, settling between his muscular thighs.

Your palms come up to touch them, fingers gripping the material of his jeans as you slowly move them up and down, feeling the tension in his body, trying to ease it just a little.

You take your time.

Slowly moving upward, dragging it out, making it feel like it takes forever to reach his crotch… then his belt.

You start unbuckling it, your movements slow, all while looking up at him — watching the way he stares down at you, jaw tight, lips pressed together, hands resting stiffly at his sides.

You slide the belt out of the way, then undo his zipper, finally revealing his black boxers. Something hard brushes against your hand and he hisses above you, his breath catching.

Your fingers dip under the material and drag it down, exposing his happy trail that leads down to his cock. His own hands come down to help, pushing his jeans and boxers lower, lifting his hips just enough. The fabric bunches at his thighs, out of the way.

And then—

His cock springs free.

Long. Thick. Prominent veins running along the length of it. The tip flushed a reddish color, already leaking with pre-cum.

“C’mon, dig in,” he mutters, a smirk tugging at his lips as his hand comes to tangle in your hair, pushing you slightly forward.

You don’t rush.

You lean in slowly, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses along the sensitive skin, feeling the way he reacts instantly — his breath hitching, a quiet hiss slipping past his lips as you glance up at him through your lashes.

Your tongue slides out, dragging along his length, long, intentional strokes, collecting the pre-cum as you go. His fingers tighten in your hair.

“Don’t— be such a tease, damn it,” he grits out, voice rougher now, the veins in his neck more visible as he looks down at you.

You let out a quiet chuckle, but you give in.

Enough teasing.

You part your lips and guide him in, taking him into your mouth slowly, inch by inch, relaxing your jaw as you go, until the tip presses against the back of your throat.

You pause there for a second, breathing steadily through your nose, adjusting — letting your body relax around him.

Then you start moving.

Slow at first.

Pulling back just enough before taking him in again, setting a rhythm, your tongue flattening along the underside, tracing the veins, working with each movement.

Spit and pre-cum mix together, making everything smoother, your lips sealing tightly around him.

All the while, your eyes stay on him.

Watching everything.

The way his teeth catch his lower lip. The flare of his nostrils. The crease forming between his brows as he tries to hold himself together. Low grunts slip past his lips, restrained, controlled — but you can tell he’s holding back.

That only makes you pick up the pace.

Your head starts bobbing more steadily, your movements more confident, more precise. Tears sting lightly at your eyes from the burn of your throat, but you don’t stop — you just adjust your breathing, keeping the rhythm consistent.

You want to hear him.

Really hear him.

“You happy now?” he asks, breath uneven, voice rough. “Having a mouth full of me?”

You let out a muffled moan around him in response, the vibration traveling through him as your tongue moves again, your pace never faltering.

“You greedy brat,” he chuckles, though his voice strains. He knows you — you like this, like putting on a show, like pulling reactions out of him.

His hips twitch upward when you increase your speed, your nails digging slightly into his thighs to steady yourself as his fingers tighten in your hair.

Sweat starts to bead at his forehead, sliding down as strands of blond hair stick to his skin.

“Mhm— keep— keep going,” he finally groans, his control slipping just a bit more.

You keep the same pace, consistent, precise, working him up without losing rhythm, your tongue and lips working together, spit and pre-cum already dripping down your chin. But is all worth it when you feel it—

The twitch.

The tension building.

A few more precise movements, a slight change in pressure, and then—

He breaks.

“Fuck, fuck, gonn a—“

His words are cut off as a low, deep moan escapes him. He releases, his body tensing as he spills hot loads of cum into your mouth. He closes his eyes at the feeling, barely able to keep his lips sealed.

For a moment, he doesn’t move, his orgasm washing over him, then — he finally looks at you. You were still on your knees, still sucking and slurping like your life depended on it.

“Fuckin’ hell— you’re takin’ everything,” he lets out a weak, breathy laugh. And it was true, you make sure to not let anything go to waste.

You suck him dry.

And he lets you — for a short while.

Only when the sensitivity kicks in does he tug at your hair, trying to catch his breath and helping you catch yours.

“Shit— too much—” he groans, needing another second to breathe, to recover as you pull away, licking your lips slowly, cleaning the corner of your mouth with the back of your hand as you look up at him.

Taking him in.

He’s leaned back against the couch now, hair messy, chest rising and falling steadily, his cock flushed and glistening, resting against his stomach now. His pants and boxers are still pushed down around his thighs as he spreads his legs, taking a lot of space like usual.

But he wasn’t the only one looking messy… he noticed your state too.

And fuck if it wasn’t the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

Your hair was deshiveled from his grabbing, your cheeks were flushed, lips plump and glistening with fluids… you looked so fucking pretty like this — on your knees for him, having his cum down your throat and looking at him with teary eyes — a sign of how hard you tried to take him.

You remain on the floor even if it wasn’t the most comfortable place, still close to him.

“So…” you finally break the silence softly.

His eyes snap back to yours, still catching his breath.

“Was this better than your dream?” you ask with a raised brow and a teasing grin.

But he won’t give you want to want. He already gave you enough.

He just scoffs at your question, rolling his head slightly to the side, trying to hide his smile.

“Fuck off.”

[indiewritesxoxo]

NOTHING'S FAIR IN LOVE & WAR

the strongest sorcerer of all time refuses to have a weakness...even if it's you

synopsis: ryomen sukuna is not meant to have feelings for anyone. let alone the best friend sleeping in his bed, the single person in this suffocating estate who isn't scared of him. from starving to being double stuffed, you stayed by his side throughout all of it. so why can't he seem to do the same for you?

pairing: heian era!Sukuna x f!reader, Choso x f!reader

wc: 10.7k

content: mdni!! heavy angst and smut!!!! character death, regression, blood/violence, true form sukuna, he's a real asshole guys lmfaoo, mean and possessive sukuna, fingering, titty sucking, unprotected piv sex, anal sex, double penetration (each hole), creampie, accidental pregnancy, sukuna has ISSUES, reader loves him anyway, emotional hurt, no comfort, sukuna crashing out, sweet choso is also here, garden sex, mentions of marriage, happy ending for reader

a/n: this is a commission by my sweet amazing angel @martianzmars !!! love you cutie pie :3 the sukuna art is by @winterrbluess <3

What was the worth of a flower? 

It faded. Wilted. Petals falling off with time if they weren’t trampled on first. They didn’t last. Just another weak, fragile thing that sprouted only to die. 

“Why?” He plucked off a delicate petal, nose scrunching in disgust. 

You frowned at him, and he passed the detestable thing back to you. Swallowing his scoff and spreading his thighs further apart on his throne, propping his face up with one of his arms. Must you end the day with some boring fight over a petty thing like that? He watched the way your fist tightened around the crooked stem from the corner of one of his bottom eyes. 

“It’s medicinal,” you muttered, gesturing to the cut on his arm. 

He rolled his eyes, flexing his bicep before letting his own energy wash over him, healing himself without even an ounce of exertion. 

He didn’t need some puny, pathetic flower to do it for him. 

Didn’t need your help.

What would it take for you to realize that? 

You weren’t kids anymore. Not twelve years old, skin and bones, needing you to collect herbs and wildflowers to cure him from some cold or sickness. Both of you had grown up. 

And yet, you were still here, still following him, trailing after his path of destruction, holding onto his sleeve. Because you needed him. 

That was just the way it was. 

“My lord, you still have-” 

He shut up his aide with a single wave, grinding his back molars as he waited for the next person to enter the throne room. He resented his title. Resented the room itself. 

They were supposed to be a symbol of his strength, things he was given simply because he scared people. The men with money shoving material possessions, lands, titles, women, whatever they thought would satiate him, offering up their servants and daughters alike if it meant their heads would be spared. 

Sometimes it did. 

But others weren’t always lucky. And his mood was, ah, how did you put it? 

Fickle? 

His flames shifted with the wind. 

And your attitude this afternoon wasn’t helping. 

You dismantled the rest of the flower yourself. Moodily perched on the edge of his lap, distracting him while he tried to listen to the whines and pleas from his subjects. They always had something to complain about, even when they got on their knees trembling to ask him for more. 

These days, you didn’t even look up when he slaughtered them. Just twirling the stem between your fingers as the blood hit the floor. 

Your mouth was moving, like you were speaking, but no words came out. Pouting a little, your brows pulling together as you pried the last petal off and let it hit the ground. 

“What are you doing?” He grumbled, and you shrugged your shoulders, not looking back. 

“Playing a game,” you responded softly, barely reacting when one of his free hands grabbed your waist through the top layer of your kimono. 

He grunted his disapproval, but you didn’t flinch. 

The rest of the world was terrified of the four-armed monster rumored to butcher and burn those who dared to cross him. Serve their bodies up on a spit roast.  

He said they hadn’t experienced true hunger if they condemned him for a little cannibalism. 

You didn’t fear him though. Saw past the scars and disfiguration that made even those beneath him turn and whisper. 

“What kind of game?” He tch-ed, tempted to take the plain stem now from you. 

“I asked if you love me,” you admitted, and he couldn’t decide if this was some crude attempt at teasing him. His fingers sank deeper into your side, pulling you deeper into his lap. 

He nodded towards the scattered petals on the floor, the blood slowly spreading and threatening to seep into them.  “What did you land on?”  

“You love me not.” 

Sukuna’s mouth twitched at how you said it. As if you gave an idiotic child’s game weight. 

But he didn’t protest. Didn’t say no or scoff. 

Instead, he pried you off of him, placing you on the floor, barely bothering to check that you wouldn’t be stepping in blood before he started towards the exit. 

“Kuna,” you started in a soft voice, the irritatingly intimate making him freeze for a split-second, enough that you corrected yourself. He'd only criticized you for it once, snapped at you to refer to him properly when he was at his court. “My lord.” “My chambers tonight,” he announced, not looking back at you. 

There was a rhythm to the routine. A monotony he found dull and draining, a familiar itch creeping under his skin at staying here this long. He wanted back out in battle. To find some other sorcerer claiming themselves capable to cleave down. 

He made up his mind during his next meal, stuffing his mouth full of meat, fork stabbing clean through the fine cut of someone he never got the name of as he planned out his next departure. Some irritating white-haired woman kept trying to talk to him from across the table, claiming to be from some clan he couldn’t care less about. 

An advisor tried to quell his annoyance, but it was like another bug in his ear, whispering that she could be useful as a concubine, as if Sukuna gave a shit. A flick of his fingers was all it took for the room to finally fall silent – even if the wall was now splattered with blood. 

Perhaps they should be grateful he gave them messes to clean. Stable employment meant they wouldn’t starve. That their children wouldn't. 

Not everyone was so lucky. 

You kept eating next to him, taking a long sip of your wine before excusing yourself a few moments later, leaving without looking over at the still body in the seat next to you. You weren’t apathetic like him, but you would hold your tongue no matter how much his anger hurt you. 

Did it splinter your soul to see him kill? 

Sukuna had no way to know. 

Conversations weren’t something so commonplace between the two of you anymore. So much had changed, enough that he tried to convince himself that you were simply a body that he shared his bed with. 

He disliked the other concubines. They always expected things from him. Wanted clothes or jewels or power. Occasionally, he considered making you his wife, if only to put the others in their place. 

To remind them that they would never occupy the space by his throne. That they would never have children that would sit on it. 

His new advisors, these men who swore they had intelligence simply because they were schooled, they all urged him to. Begged him to select someone from a clan to have a child with, for his legacy, but he refused. 

Why would he want a child? Especially one that would be like him? 

He’d carve out his own legacy.

You were waiting for him by the time he returned to his room, cross-legged on the floor, squinting at a poetry book. Neither of you had learned to read as a child, but he’d begrudgingly hired you a tutor – and just happened to sit in on your lessons to learn himself. Supervising, he said. You didn't argue otherwise, even if your brow subtly arched up at his looming presence, his bottom set of arms folded across his chest while the tutor instructed you on how to write, teaching you everything from haikus to the hidden meanings in famous poems. 

Sukuna had found it unfortunate when he had to kill him, but it wasn't his fault that the fool had tried to put a hand on your waist, no matter how innocent he claimed it was. 

You had been mad at him though, huffing and shutting yourself in your room for four days before you started speaking to him again. 

Calling him a child, like you weren't the one clinging to this life he created. 

“What are you thinking about?” You asked, drawing him out of another pointless memory of the past. 

“You left dinner early,” he dismissed your question entirely. He didn't want to answer it. Why dredge up another reason for you to be annoyed with him? 

“I prefer to eat without the smell of iron,” you said, in that measured voice of yours, playing this game of skirting around the real subject.

“You used to eat dirt,” he pointedly reminded you, and you threw your book at him. A rare reaction, your hurt flickering across your face for a few fleeting seconds before you shut back down, maybe remembering that he beheaded a woman for much less hardly fifteen minutes ago. 

“You ate bugs,” you argued, brows furrowed in frustration before you glanced away from him. 

“And now we both get full meals that you don't even finish,” he sharply replied, the edge to his voice echoing as you flexed your jaw, forcing yourself to not respond to him. 

A poor imitation of the meek submission the other women who flitted around in their fine kimonos were well-versed at.

“My apologies, master,” you eventually murmured, your mockery not going unnoticed as you lifted your chin to look up at him from the floor. Dragging your eyes over his bulky frame, muscles stretched taut over bone, skin littered with scars and tattoos. 

And still, you stared like he was just the weakling he used to be. That faint flicker of sorrow persisting even when he had practically handed you a soft life on a silver platter. 

Sukuna scoffed, squinting before he begrudgingly took two steps forward, beckoning you to stand with a single gesture.

You obeyed. Dusting off the skirt of your robe as your hand reached for the tie – but Sukuna beat you to it. 

Skin slowly exposed when he peeled off every layer, removing piece by piece until you were completely bare for him, the light and shadows from the flames dancing across the shape of you while you stood still. Waiting for some appraisal, for him to do with you as he wished. 

Your position was always defined by him after all. As his friend or his fuck. 

He tossed you onto the mattress, his top set of hands pinning your thighs to your chest, watching your eyes widen as his own loosely-fastened robe hit the floor. 

Love was a waste. 

It meant nothing. 

You said it to him once, declared it under the moon, knees curled against your chest as you looked at him like that. But that had been before. Before the estate and the esteemed treatment that came with a title and land and leverage on all the people that previously treated him with disgust. When it was still simply you and him surviving. 

He didn’t say it back. Didn’t do anything other than grunt, tempted to call you a brat for saying something so stupid. 

“You're rather distracted tonight,” you murmured, fingers frozen just before they could touch his face. He flinched from it – pulled back before you could make contact. 

“You’re irritating today,” he grimaced back, even if you were the least annoying part of his life. The only thing that wasn’t dull and dreadful. The only one that actually made him feel alive.

He waited for you to whine that he didn’t really mean that, but your eyes just searched his for silent confirmation. 

You knew better than to expect him to say it out loud. 

And despite that (pretty) little pout of frustration flitting across your face, you were still wet when he dipped a single finger into your dripping warmth. 

All your feelings fading into the mush of pleasure, eyes rolling back with a simple crook of his thick finger, lazily swirling it around to see your reaction. Not much could compare to the adrenaline of a fight, of sorcery and raw strength, but a faint shiver of exhilaration ran down his spine at the sight of you arching your hips up to make sure he was knuckle-deep, lips falling in a lewd moan as he added another digit. 

He ignored it though, shoulders stiff as your walls tried to clamp down on him. 

“Were you this wet when you were on my lap?” He dryly mocked, not particularly caring how mean you might call him for teasing you later. 

You always forgave him. 

Whatever he did, you found a way to justify it. 

You weakly nodded, chin tilted back in the air as your lashes fluttered, gasping for air that didn't seem to go in. 

“Answer me, brat,” he grunted. 

“Yes, m-my lord,” you moaned, and it was only when they parted he noticed your pretty lips painted the same shade as his hair. 

“Sukuna,” he snapped, sick of correcting this stubborn new habit of yours. Sure, it had been who insisted on it in the first place, but it was annoying to remind you of what you were and weren't allowed to do. 

You swallowed hard enough for him to notice, but you still didn't say it. 

Held your mouth closed, and he begrudgingly closed the gap to crash into it, claiming it in a greedy kiss, his tongue in your mouth while you threw your arms over his shoulders. One hand ending up in his hair, scratching at his scalp the way you knew he liked, even if it was another thing he'd never admit out loud. 

You tried to wrap your legs around his waist, to push back against the palms still pressed against your thighs, but he didn't let you budge, refused to allow you to try and lock him in some more personal position. 

For all the times he'd been called a freak, a curse, for these four arms, there were many more he found them quite useful. 

He crooked his fingers deeper, harder, and your body was tensing automatically, your focus fading as you discovered yourself lost and floating in the force of his strokes. Your features softening, catching a fleeting hint of a smile before you were squirming again in his grip. 

Using your body to beg him for more. 

Sukuna did what he always seemed to do. Oblige you. 

Pulling his fingers out the second he thought he stretched you out enough, although it was always a tight fit when it came to him, but he paused, collecting your slick and rubbing it across your puckered hole in preparation for his real main course. 

You were the only thing he wanted to devour tonight. 

Drinking up the way you whined, wiggled your hips as he dipped his finger deeper in your ass, pushing past the initial resistance to open you up. Taking his time before adding another one, keeping a keen eye on your wrecked expression.

“S’torture,” you slurred, weaking moving your arm trying to grab one of his cocks and guide it to your entrance. “Wan’ you.” 

Drunk on him. 

He snatched your wrist before you could touch though, letting out a low growl before dropping it over your head. 

“Then beg,” he mocked. 

“Please,” you immediately whispered, eyes wide and wavering. “Please, Kuna.” 

Sukuna couldn’t stand how much he felt like a slave when you spoke like that, lips pretty and pursed and painted that infuriating fucking color. 

He dragged his fingers out with a heated huff, wiping them on the sheets and glancing down to see how wet you were for him, glistening in between your thighs as he kept them pinned in place. 

“Brat,” he dryly name-called, but his top cock was already throbbing as he slipped it through your soaked folds. Your fingers rushed to tangle in his hair, brushing it back and holding it from his face like he wasn't about to turn you into even more of a blabbering mess.

Glossy eyes hazy with arousal, anticipation as he slipped inch by inch inside, his other cock throbbing, aching to feel you too. Veins pulsing, abs tensing as he felt the sinful way you squeezed and sucked him in. 

“Hngh,” you groaned as his bottom tip started to grind against your ass, already starting to feel full as the first one found that spongy part at the back that left you scrambling for your senses. 

“You're a wreck,” he tch-ed, like he wasn't already resisting the string tugging tight in his own stomach, restraining himself as his second cock finally slipped inside you, the slow burning stretch leaving you frozen, shuddering as you tried to take him without falling apart. 

“Y-you,” you gasped, lashes fluttering, stray tears collected in them as he pulled out just to push back in a rough thrust that made a soft squeak escape instead.

“Finish your sentence,” he murmured, dark and dangerous. He wanted to bite. To sink his teeth into your skin until it left the kind of bruises that would mark you as his to everyone who saw. 

“It’s your fault,” you huffed, half a whisper, half a whimper. 

Sukuna scoffed, rolling his eyes and his hips, stuffing you too full to speak. 

One of his hands groped at your chest, grabbing and squeezing, watching them bounce in time with each thrust, leaning down to wrap his mouth around your peaked nipple. Tongue swirling over the top, sucking hard, toying with you while you unravelled underneath him. 

You tugged at his scalp, but he was too focused on his current task, lapping and licking at the hardened bud, feeling the soft tissue of your tits while your cunt clamped down around him in response. 

Making all sorts of noises that were hardly coherent, moans that hung in the air, the light of the fire dancing across the walls as he fucked you until you forgot all about your attitude earlier. 

His fourth hand flitted between your thighs, finding your clit with ease. Sukuna knew your body inside and out. Memorized without making an effort too. He supposed it was simply time. 

Rubbing rough circles over that bundle of nerves, well-aware what you liked, what was too much, what would make you whine and cry and try to wiggle free. Although, right now? 

Double stuffed with that dreamy look in your eyes, half-lidded and hopeful as you stared up at him while he took you in both holes? 

You would accept anything he gave you. 

Painting patterns he'd done a thousand times before across that sensitive spot, pinching and playing with it until your thighs were trembling, toes curled as your lips were stuck permanently parted in a broken plea of his name. 

You came so easily, he almost found it cute. That soft mind of yours melting with sloppy thrusts, stuffed too full to so much as think while he fucked into your stretched-thin holes, molded into the shape of him. Wrecking you with the way his hips slammed down, threatening to bruise your fragile body. 

But you took him how you always did. 

With greedy moans, nails raking down his shoulders and slicing through his skin. A little allowance he still gave – one he waited to heal until the morning after every time.

And then he was snapping too, warm ropes of cum spurting out and filling you up, his abs tensing before the abrupt release, his breath briefly growing ragged as his chest heaved. 

Most of the world was ugly. A disgusting, boring place he couldn't stand being stuck in. 

But the sight of you as he pulled out, dripping with his seed, kiss-bitten and barely held together, shivering as you struggled to catch your breath, well, it wasn't awful. 

He didn’t mean to cum inside of you. 

A simple accident. He stared indifferently at the cum leaking out onto the sheets, a prick of annoyance setting in at the thought of needing a servant to come change the bedding again in the morning.

It wasn’t the first time he slipped up. But you both were fairly certain years of starving had left you barren. Unable to conceive when you couldn’t even menstruate properly even now. 

There was a time when he didn’t think you’d even survive this long. Nights that he was convinced morning wouldn’t come. 

Where the snow had collected in your hair and ice clung to your lashes, where he couldn’t tell whose wounds were worse, watching you shiver and shake and cry for someone he could never be. 

But it never happened – and you were here now, shivering underneath him for entirely different reasons, sweat making stray hairs stick to your forehead as you belted out one last whine of his name. 

He let go of you, dropped your legs, untangled you from his body. Standing up as his cocks still sprang up in the air, rolling his shoulders back as you tried to sit up straight, clearly sore judging by the way you shuffled and readjusted. 

“Lay down,” he ordered, but you got down on your knees in front of him anyway. Took his top cock in your smaller hand, still covered in cum and slick, gingerly licking it clean before he pulled you off by your hair. “Do you ever listen to me?” 

You pouted at him, but you obeyed this time, pushing off the floor with your palms and crawling back into his bed, pulling the blankets over your bare body. 

Sukuna grunted, using a discarded piece of his own clothes to clean himself off, unable to stop his lower eyes from snapping out to watch you while you tossed and turned, impatiently waiting for his return. 

Irritation bubbling back up at your wide-eyed stare, how you bit your lip at him before squinting, not saying anything when he yanked the covers back and got in too. 

He never understood what was going on in that head of yours. 

“Perhaps we could take a walk around the garden in the afternoon,” you hopefully suggested, your fingers hesitantly interlacing with his, readjusting to lay closer to him. He let you do it. Indulged you when you squeezed his scarred and calloused palm. 

“I leave tomorrow,” he informed you, his mouth twitching down as your face fell. 

He didn’t have to, he supposed. The world revolved around his decisions – he forced fate’s hand. 

“How long will you be gone?” You asked under your breath, your hand slipping away from his to fix a loose strand of your previously pinned-up hair. He rolled away from you, the disappointment in your eyes bothering him like some shallow cut that refused to close. 

“A couple weeks.” 

It ended up being closer to a couple months. 

Days spent on battlefields, nights staring up at star-dotted skies or at the ceiling of his tent. His name, which used to only be spoken in hushed whispers under your breath, was now known across the land. Scarred into the people who lived on it. 

He returned to his estate with blood staining his robes, sweat sticking his hair to his forehead as servants rushed out to greet him. A handful of concubines he couldn’t remember the names of stepping out to stammer greetings. 

But you weren’t there. 

Not outside. Or in the entryway. 

The bed in his chambers neatly made and markedly absent of the one person allowed to stay there when he was gone. And when he stomped across to your wing and threw open the door to your room, it was empty too. 

He sent a goddamn letter before his arrival. Everyone here had to know by now he returned home. 

Were you hiding from him? 

It wasn’t like he wanted a fucking kiss or fuck. 

But Sukuna didn’t tolerate disrespect. Couldn’t. 

For as much as he disregarded court etiquette when it came to you, he would be a fool to miss the strange tone the sparse letters you’d been sending to him had begun to take. No longer begging him to return promptly, but telling him you didn't mind his delays. That everything was fine here, no need to rush back to his throne and the woman waiting for him on it. 

If everything was fine, where the hell were you? 

He could still sense you, still feel you somewhere close, unable to discern exactly where you were. Following the faint presence of your energy, tugging it like a line until he was in the gardens. Trailing down the winding path, leaves scattering by his feet as a chill bristled over his skin until he found a little alcove that was easy to miss, your body curled up on a bench, like you were taking a nap. 

“Wake up,” he snapped, tempted to shake you awake as you sleepily rubbed your eyes and started to blink up at him. His mouth opened, ready to snarl something about you catching a cold out here like an idiot with no blanket or cover, say that you knew better, but for once in miserable existence, he was stunned into silence as his senses picked up on a second energy signature swirling around and clinging to your skin. 

No, inside of you. 

“You’re pregnant,” he accused, staring at your stomach while something unfamiliar stirred in his own. 

“It’s-” You weakly started, trying to explain, but he silenced you with only a single hand held up while you made yourself sit. Exhaustion was obvious in the rings under your eyes, your fingers shaking as you fiddled with the skirts of your robe, deliberately loose to disguise the growing bump beneath it, surely. 

He was going to behead whoever failed to inform him of this. 

The personal servant he assigned to you had to know. The chef too, if he was cooking the proper food for your new needs. And his unborn child’s. 

“Your hands work just fine,” he sneered, nose scrunching up as something inside him twisted. He never wanted an heir. Never wanted to bring another curse into this world. How many fucking times had he told himself that? But this baby was yours too. “Why did you not write to me?” 

“My lord,” you began again, but you offered no real explanation. “I-”

“You what?” He barked, brash and blunt. 

Sukuna couldn't fucking believe it. That you would do this to him. 

Not even a single letter? 

Was he not worth the truth to you? 

He expected this cowardice from the other useless creatures in his court. But you had to know-

“I wasn’t sure how you’d feel,” you admitted, looking down at his feet instead of his face. “I was scared.” 

Sukuna nearly laughed.

You were scared of him.

He supposed it was only inevitable. How much blood had you seen him shed? How many lives had he snuffed that you bore witness too? 

And now you suspected he was going to take the life of your child. His own flesh and blood, the baby that sprouted inside you, and you were sure he was going to hurt it. Did you think he was going to hurt you too? 

“Did I not make a vow to keep you safe?” He hissed, reminding you of the only oath he’d ever taken. 

Maybe you were both barely big enough to know what the weight of that would mean, but he held true to his word. Asked the world for enough strength to protect the only person who saved his life, to return the favor, although you surely regretted the childish decision now to offer a starving boy the last of your food when he'd grown up to be the man he was today. 

The first time he met you, he tried to kill you. Robbing graves and eating remains, barely scraping by when he saw you under a tree, curled up on your side and clinging to raw roots. He bit you, buried his canines in your  exposed shoulder, drawing blood while you startled awake. Your small fists whacking him as hard as you could, fat tears rolling down your cheeks as you tried to fight him off. He'd been too exhausted to keep trying, huffing and letting go of you while you whined and asked him why he did that. And still, despite your wet face, the fresh wound, you still offered him your foraged meal, murmuring that he looked like he needed it more than you. He washed it down with the blood on your skin, dragging his tongue over the bite mark while you winced, tasting the salt on your face next.  

You didn't stop him. 

Started stealing more food, just enough for both of you to survive while he tried to get stronger. 

Tied together by circumstances, intertwined by some pathetic twist of fate, two parent-less children uselessly trying to take care of each other. 

But still, you were still alive, weren't you? Even when you didn't like what he had to do to ensure it. The times he had to peel the bark off trees and demand you eat it, days where you got hurt trying to defend him, forced to shake your shoulders and keep you awake, shoving down his anxiety that you’d drift off and die. 

This, too, was for your own good. 

You called him every name you could think of, weak fists hitting his back, telling him to put you down so you could talk about it, as if you hadn't tried to hide it. 

What was there to say? 

You knew as well as he did he was not a kind man. Maybe you had been made for motherhood after all, but he had not been cut from a cloth destined to be a father. 

But he had a vow to uphold. 

And you would have a thousand targets on you once word and whispers spread of what you were carrying. Whom.

Locking you up was his only option. 

The room was on the other end of the estate, one kept under careful watch by the few people who had been around long enough to know better than to cross him. 

You pounded against the door at first, protested that this wasn't fair, like anything in either of your lives has ever been. 

A servant would test your food for poison, bringing meals three meals a day while you whined about feeling like a prisoner. But your stomach started swelling with the weeks, a small bump taking shape, your hand reaching out to rub it when he came to visit or the rare occasion he spent the night. 

The anger was still blooming under his skin, silent rage burning when you frowned at him, as if he wasn't doing this for you. 

He still fucked you, pressed your body into the bedding and claimed you as his, even if it wasn't the same. Your body was changing, your words wilting as you complained about not being able to see the seasons shifting, the garden blooming, missing the weather and the warm sun. 

You had him. 

Why was that not enough?

A neighboring clan invited themselves over, forcing him to play host while he ordered everyone to stay hush about your current condition, ignoring your pleas begging to attend just one dinner, despite his irritated promise to see you afterwards. 

Except – while the festivities were still ongoing, he came to bring you food he personally selected, you had managed to sneak out, slipping past the pathetic guards, or maybe sweet talked them through a sliver of pity to allow you to walk through the garden at the worst possible time.

He stormed through, stomping as he made a mental list of men who wouldn't make it to the morning, sharp eyes scanning through the winding pathways and rose-lined trellises, searching for your energy amongst all the sorcerers here.

Bumping into a scrawny dark-haired man in the middle of the path, vaguely recognizing him as the Kamo head’s eldest son, the stupid startled expression that flashed on his face before he started stammering something about getting lost only making Sukuna scowl before he snapped at him to return to his father before he sent him to an early grave. 

He didn't give a shit if there would be retribution, if his threat would amount to something more, his throat constricting and closing at the idea of some other stranger stumbling across you first. 

Ripping down a trellis to break through the path, pushing through only to find you bent over and plucking a flower, recoiling at the sight of him when you glanced over your shoulder. 

Guilt. 

Written all over your face, in the way your mouth preemptively opened, ready to offer a weak excuse for something simply inexcusable. 

It wasn't just you that you were putting in danger. 

He dragged you back by your arm, tugging you through dimly-lit halls, your soft voice not reaching his ears even when you attempted to explain yourself. 

It was only when he slammed the door shut and let go of you in your new chambers, your kimono doing nothing to disguise the clear outline of your stomach that he paused. 

“I wish I never met you,” you whispered, pained, pulling away from him while his mouth twitched. 

“You’d be fucking dead,” he bluntly said, his dinner churning in his stomach, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. 

“Maybe I would be better off,” you spat back. 

He rolled his eyes, shaking his head as his thin tether to sanity threatened to snap. 

“You’re-”

“You're punishing me,” you pointed out, interrupting him with a finger pressed against his chest where his heart would have been. It didn't feel like he had one anymore.

Maybe he was.

“I'm leaving.” 

Why should he stay? 

You were ungrateful. Maybe some time apart would make you remember how fortunate you were to be in this position. 

Maybe going back to picking off sorcerers would burn off some of the betrayal, dull the blade of rage he felt every time he thought of this situation you were both stuck in. 

He didn’t mean to be gone so long. 

But there were battles to win, blood to be spilled. And it did make him feel better to see the bodies strewn on the ground, to climb up to the top of the world and look down on everyone else when he used to be at the bottom. 

The letter came late. Too late for him to do anything actually worth anything. His estate had been besieged. Surrounded and cut off, only able to send out this single communication from one of the few servants that slipped out during the attack. 

It seemed the Gojo’s had been waiting for the right moment to strike. 

He didn’t rush back. 

Maybe he should’ve. It wasn’t that he had confidence in the soldiers stationed there, in his own forces, but he thought he selected ones with any competence to know what to do. How to handle invaders – even if they were powerful sorcerers. 

He took his time fighting his way there, slowly sending sorcerer after sorcerer to early graves. He was the strongest after all. Would go down in history as a monster instead of a man.

Not a single wretched soul was spared. 

Although his own soldiers were picked off along the way, he kept moving. One foot in front of the others, carving a path back to you. Back to the small world he'd made for himself. 

Slashing and cleaving through them, scoffing at their bold professions of how they’d be the one to take him down. They never were. 

It began to get boring.  

Monotonous when all it took was a few moves to leave them a whimpering bloody mess on the ground. 

He figured the head of the Gojo clan would be waiting for him, probably poised and planning out some grand fight while he tried to wait out and starve everyone inside the estate. Let them grow weak enough they wouldn't be able to do anything to support Sukuna when he arrived. 

But he never expected the white-haired asshole to be sitting outside of his gates, casually leaning against it and flipping through the pages before he glanced up with blindingly blue eyes.

“Ryomen Sukuna,” the fabled six-eyes user greeted him, a casual smirk curling up on his lips as his sharp stare dragged over him. He was still covered in scrapes, mere flesh wounds, but the man just grinned brighter, tossing the book to the side and standing up. 

No servants. No guards. 

Birds falling silent and the chittering of bugs fading to the background as he stared down the only person bold enough to try and take his place by force.  

Sukuna wasn't in the fucking mood. 

He hadn't been back in months, and this was his reward? There would probably be repercussions that came with killing the Gojo brat, but he was asking for it.  

The freak didn’t even attempt to move out of the way when he sent the first slash, just taking it, but it didn’t even touch him. 

Sukuna couldn’t help but laugh, amused at the prospect of putting down someone like him. Of an actual challenge for once. 

Trading blows, dodges, gritting his teeth to push through the pain when a blow hit him only to grin when he managed to break through the technique that had been protecting his opponent, watching the cut blemish his previously clear complexion. 

“I met your wife,” he called out, not even flinching as he wiped the blood from his cheek with the back of his hand. “She was pretty. Even with the baby.” 

Sukuna saw red. Heat soaring through him, rage radiating through his veins. The fucker had to be lying. Maybe he heard of the baby through a servant he captured, but he had gotten it wrong. You weren’t his wife. Sukuna almost spat out something out that he would surely regret. That asshole didn’t need another reason to go seeking you out. To turn his attention away from Sukuna and to who was inside of the gate. 

“You just missed her,” he continued, clearly mocking him, hands moving up, about to throw another attack before Sukuna sent another cleave he expertly maneuvered away from, the gate behind him splintering from the force. 

“Shut up,” Sukuna hissed, knuckles clenching as he held them up, but his brain was faltering, failing to come up with what he needed to do when his thoughts had started to uselessly wander. 

The fun he’d felt at the start was gone. Replaced with something raw, like every movement he made was stepping on glass, shards of it stuck inside his throat as he was caught off-kilter.

“She begged, you know,” he added. “Said you'd come back for her.”

The next few seconds were a broken blur. Throwing all of his cursed energy into a move, just a little too late to realize the white-haired man across from him was doing the same. 

It was the aftermath that was clear. The slashed body cut in half in front of him, the blue eyes staring up at the mirrored sky, seeing nothing after a spoiled life of getting everything. Blessed to never know hunger or pain or suffering like him or you had. 

And still, Sukuna knew he was dying too. 

Even if he didn’t quite believe it. Couldn’t wrap his brain around the gaping hole in his side, his energy draining as he stumbled forward through the broken gate only to discover blood-soaked halls inside. 

It wasn’t a siege. It was a slaughter. 

Sukuna had done more than his share to see it for what it was. They were never trying to get his attention by holding his people hostage. They knew he didn’t care. So the clan killed them anyway. 

He wasn’t sure when he started running, how his body was even capable of moving, but he had to see it anyway. Confirm what everything in his body was telling him when he couldn’t feel you anymore. 

Your guards were gone. 

The door was cracked open, his hand impulsively shooting out to shove it the rest of the way, as if he couldn’t smell what was inside. 

But you were on the bed, curled up on your side, and he could almost believe for a second, you had been spared. He knew the truth though.

There was only death here. 

Rolling you over to see your face, black encroaching on the edges of his vision as his body threatened to give out, blood dripping from his side down to the floor, onto your bed. The light had left your eyes. Nothing else there for him to find in there except a single unspoken accusation. 

You're late. 

He didn’t have enough cursed energy to repair the damage to himself. 

But what was there left to live for anyway?

Warmth. 

Hands that didn’t quite fit in his, boney fingers clinging to his palm, too little to belong to anything except a child. For a brief moment, he thought it was yours. His. 

It couldn’t be. You were dead – and so was the baby growing inside you. It was impossible, and still, his mind betrayed him. Spawned treacherous images of a tiny thing that looked like you, annoyingly clingy and cute. 

His eyes opened, still thick with sleep, blinking slowly as he tried to discern dreams from reality. 

It wasn’t your child. 

It was you. 

Younger, your eyes still shut, lashes fluttering just slightly as he realized when this was. Where you both were. 

Back in the old village, in the husk of an abandoned home, where you slept on a makeshift bed of straw and tattered blankets he’d stolen from someone’s trash. Dirt in your hair, shivering before you snuggled closer, exhaling softly as your head rested on his chest. 

Breathing. 

What sick joke was this? 

There was nothing he’d done in his life to deserve a second chance. Was it some kind of hell to repeat his shitty life, cursed and condemned to a similar fate? 

He let go of your hand, sitting up to shake your shoulders harder than he should, watching you startle as you weakly opened your eyes. Focus slowly aimed on him as your brows scrunched together, fingers tightening and grabbing his shirt. 

“Mm, Sukuna?” You croaked, voice hoarse. 

He blinked. 

Laid back down, head throbbing as his dry mouth reminded him that he needed water. You were slow to move with him, body still heavy with exhaustion before he pulled you down again. 

“Go back to sleep,” he grunted, pressing your head back down against him. Running through the possibilities, wondering if this was just his life flashing before his eyes, a memory he’d forgotten. 

But it felt fucking real. 

You went stiff, trying to peek up at him, but his palm pressed down on your hair, refusing to let you budge. 

Had he really regressed? The clock turned back to a winter he hardly remembered?

“What’s happening?” You asked, but your words were small, muffled into his shirt. 

“I’m just tryin’ to rest,” he grunted.

Dozing off without meaning too, something about the pressure of you on him, the faintly familiar feeling of you curled on his chest dragging him into dreams. He didn’t think he’d wake up. 

But he did. 

And he was still here with you, children once more, condemned to scraping through trash and digging up graves and bugs to fill your stomach. He loathed this weak body of his. The scrawny arms and legs that could barely make it more than a few miles in a day.  

You were quieter than he remembered. 

More self-conscious, more serious, your smile not quite reaching the same spots on your face. Somehow clingier at the same time, softer with him, not arguing nearly as much anymore over who got to eat what or nagging at him for being reckless. You held on tighter to him in the evenings, pulled him closer, picking flowers you knew he couldn’t appreciate. Pressed a chaste kiss against his forehead, whispered the word friend like it was something intimate. A glimmer of adoration he didn’t deserve still glittering in your eyes. 

Would it still be there if you knew where you were both headed? 

What had happened before? How you wasted away waiting for a monster who didn’t show up in time? Died for him? 

Everything kept happening the same way it had before. You, stealing whatever food you could, narrowly avoiding getting caught and coming back to him with chilly hands and shaking limbs, affection in your words, rare laughter ringing in his ears long after it slipped from your lips. Him, struggling to get stronger, to feed the cursed energy inside him and train on a mostly empty stomach. 

He woke up once to you staring at him in the middle of night after going hunting for two days on his own with two measly fish to show for it, your fingers delicately tracing the shape of his jaw before you froze, that funny flicker of guilt in the lines of your face. 

“What are you doing?” Sukuna grumbled, unable to work up more than a weak glare. 

“Missed you,” you muttered softly, dragging your small thumb over the deformed half of him, just underneath his eyes. 

“It was only-” He started, stifling a yawn as you yanked him into you this time, your fingers sliding around to guide his head into the crook of your collarbone, despite the terrible pillow it made. 

He fell back asleep there anyway. 

 Before he realized it, a whole year passed, then two, the seasons changing and shifting, your presence a constant pull by his side, and yet, one he refused to lean on. 

Sukuna hadn’t learned his lesson. 

Rejected what the world might be trying to show him as he insisted you eat the past-ripe crop while he stuffed himself with the one thing you still refused to take so much of a bite of. You were still clinging to humanity he no longer felt any kind of connection to in his second life. 

“This place is wretched,” he muttered the next morning, shoving what few possessions he had in his sack. You were sorting through herbs you collected, not even glancing up when he spoke. Just silently stacking them, barely fucking reacting. 

He huffed, loud enough you had to look. “Hm?” 

“I’m going,” he insisted, remembering the first time you had this conversation. Where he announced that he wanted to go, wanted to leave this pitiful village and all the awful people in it. You grabbed him, whined about how dangerous it would be before caving in and clinging onto his hand as you asked to come with him. 

He had grumbled, shrugging his shoulders, letting your clumsy feet trail after him down a dirt path. 

Besides, there was no reason for him to stay here now either. 

Why bother reliving the next few years of starvation and scraping together enough for both of you to survive? 

“You’re leaving,” you echoed his sentiment, and he shoved down the uncomfortable suffocating feeling settling in his chest. 

“There’s nothing for me here,” Sukuna somberly spoke. 

You stood up, staring at him with an expression he didn’t understand. Arms folded across your chest, your lips pressed together in a thin line, ready to watch him walk away. Eyes hollow, daring him to say something else, to do something else. To not leave you alone like this. 

Why weren’t you begging to go with him? 

Tugging at his clothes and trying to convince him to take you too? 

He could ask you to. The question was on his tongue, all it would take was a couple words. To grunt out a ‘well?’ or ‘come on’ and surely, you would listen. Would rush around to collect what little things you had and chase after him. 

Sukuna’s throat was closing up, constricting tighter with every strained second of silence. 

But he didn't say anything. 

And all you had to offer was a little tilt of your head and a sad smile, swallowing hard before you said something he almost hated you for. 

“I was happy.” 

So he left like he said, stepped out and didn’t look back, scoffing under his breath once the village was out of sight that you’d come running sooner or later. Scramble to search for him, face the fact that you wouldn’t be able to survive without him. 

What the hell had you even meant? 

The only thing here was misery, curdling and coiling, trying to claw and claim his life and yours through starvation and sickness. In the scowls and stones thrown at him for simply having the misfortune of being born. What was there to even be happy about?

He pictured you huddled by a dying hearth, hands held out and shuddering, shutting down the thought before it could curse him. 

Sukuna gave it a month before you realized you made a mistake. 

You still needed him. 

It was never him that needed you. 

Getting stronger was easier when he didn’t have to look after you anywhere. Without needing to play babysitter or make sure you didn’t end up in the line of fire during fights. He fended for himself just fine. 

Time slipped by faster. 

He had more important things to focus on than the weather, redoing all those years of training with expertise from experience, forcing his body to catch up to his brain. 

Eventually, he found a companion in a child he stumbled across. A sorcerer who couldn’t quite control their potential yet, but suited his needs just fine. Could cook for him, store food too. They were far more fucking obedient than you were, listened intently when he barked orders at them. 

Uruame wasn’t you. 

But he didn’t miss you. He was fine living like this. Slaughtering without discrimination. Growing stronger far faster than he did in his last life. Avoiding the same petty mistakes that had resulted in injuries, acutely aware of the fact you weren’t there to nurse them anymore. 

Honestly, other than that, he hardly thought of you at all. 

Sometimes, he’d see you in his dreams, the older you, but rather than stuck in that small room, you were laying back in his chambers, one hand on your stomach, a lazy smile on your face while you read a book. 

Or he’d wake up in the morning, reaching out for a hand that wasn’t there. 

You probably weren’t even alive anymore. 

In an unmarked grave or tossed out in the woods. Maybe you managed to get a job as a seamstress, or found a clan or lord to work for as a servant to stave off fate without him. 

People were starting to whisper his name now, things getting thrown his way again now, fear sweeping across the land of the four-armed freak out for blood and bodies. If you wanted to find him, you certainly could. 

So really, Sukuna had no reason to return. 

Perhaps it was morbid curiosity, scratching an itch he’d been ignoring for what? Nearly ten years now? A decade had turned him from a skeleton to a curse, made more of muscle than anything else, his bulky frame far more menacing than it had been even in his last life. Well-tuned, energy coiling around him as he walked down familiar paths as he found himself standing on the outskirts of the place that had never really been home. 

It looked almost the same. 

And yet, the only thing that mattered was missing. 

The frame of the place you both used to sleep under had caved in, the thatched roof fallen into a pile of debris, the rest of the houses intact. Their inhabitants cowering inside as he prowled down the street, glaring as he felt the world still. Uruame was standing by his side, head bowed slightly down as they assessed the situation. “Would you like me to go door-to-door?” They asked. 

“Fine,” he tch-ed, shrugging his shoulders, his robes hanging loose as he walked ahead without them. There wasn’t a single trace of your energy. No sign to be found. 

An elder stepped out, aged wrinkles doing nothing to disguise the tremble in his mouth as he welcomed the monster that had been born here so long ago. 

“Ah, welcome-”

“Where is she?” He snarled before he could finish. 

“Your friend?” He feigned innocence, taking pride in his position as if it meant anything when a single sweeping motion of Sukuna’s fingers could cleave through his skull if he chose. “Ah, I believe she left, what was it? Two springs ago?” 

Tilting his head to the side, pretending this was a friendly conversation rather than his last words. 

“Left?” Sukuna repeated, scoffing at the fucking notion you would just go. 

Sukuna would search every home and rip every meager fucking foundation from the ground before he believed that you left. 

“She didn’t say where-” 

Blood was strewn against the mud wall of a home behind him, a scream ringing out from someone watching. 

This was just a waste of his fucking time.

He burned every house down. Left the village for the third time in his life in ashes, dark rain coming down as the smell of meat burned his nostrils. 

That would catch your attention, remind you that he existed if the elder had even been telling the truth. Sukuna considered the chance he was lying, that perhaps you had passed away long before he'd ever stepped foot back here on this pointless endeavor and the man had foolishly attempted to save everyone else by making up some story about you leaving. 

But you didn't show up to scold him. 

And eventually, the memory of you started to shrink. Maybe it was shoved down, forced under the surface while he focused on what he told himself was important. Defeating all the sorcerers he had so long ago, settling his score with the Gojo clan by catching them off-guard this time, razing their estate and refusing to spare so much as a single servant while the fear sparked and spread across the countryside as the cowards crawled into their shells and threw whatever they thought would satiate him out. 

But not everyone was terrified. 

The Kamo clan was just as interested in him in this life as the last, the head of it inviting him over for a proper tour of their own sprawling compounds, one Sukuna only begrudgingly accepted. 

The man was strange, stitches etched across his forehead, but he agreed with Uruame's opinion that he might be useful in the future considering his output of cursed energy, so he tolerated his presence. 

A potential future partnership. 

He loathed to think that he needed a partner at all. 

But even Sukuna had the sense to see why an ally like him might work out in his favor someday. 

Despite how much he loathed this forsaken estate. 

It was lavish, annoyingly so, traditionally designed and upholding the pillars of a lifestyle Sukuna still felt repugnance towards. 

His partner refused to shut up, insisting they continue this irritatingly long conversation through their gardens, Uruame dutifully opening the door and taking notes for Sukuna as he nodded along to whatever he was spewing now. 

Sprawling flower beds and arches adorned with roses, studying thorny stems wrapped around the trellis, a strange urge tempting him to pluck one. A faint memory started to float up, a name that plagued his dreams, but then he heard something he’d almost forgotten. 

A pretty laugh. Soft and sweet. 

A dessert he hadn’t tasted in so long, the taste was lost on him. 

But he recognized it instantly. 

He tried to ignore it. Focus on the boring political spiel he came here for, to shove it down, telling himself it had to be his imagination. A fractured remnant, dug up by these stupid fragrant flowers. 

Until he felt it. 

Sensed your presence, his head snapping in that direction to spot a picnic blanket spread out on the bank past a small koi pond. You were here. You were happier. 

Dressed in silk robes, smiling as you popped a strawberry in your parted lips, the juice dripping down the corner of your mouth. A thumb reached out, dragging over it to keep you clean, and he repressed a sudden surge of pure rage. 

Anger simmering at someone touching you like that, daring to put their filthy hands on what was his, his seething stare shifting to see some dark-haired man, a black tattoo stretching across the slope of his nose, brown eyes only focused on you. 

He knew that face, even if it was just a distant image of a night he'd rather forget. The night you snuck out, the one from the gardens before he found you. 

Kamo noticed his stare, chucking softly. 

“That’s my son, Choso, and his fiancée,” Kamo informed him, nodding towards the two of you. “Would you like to meet-”

“No,” he interrupted, scowling at you playing house. 

So this was where you found yourself?

Cozying up to the Kamo clan to secure a future for yourself? Instead of choosing him? 

He wanted to laugh. Actually, he wanted to murder that runt, and then-

“He’s actually a few years older than you, but I doubt…” Kamo continued, and Sukuna felt one of his fists reflexively start to take the shape to send a slash his way, only quelled by that annoyingly bright giggle of yours as he brushed a finger over your lips. You fucking licked it. Running your tongue over his knuckle, reaching up to grab his hand and hold it there. 

You left him for this? 

Walked away from him to become the next womb for the fucking Kamo clan? 

Too enraged to even realize he was the one who left you, all his muscles too tight, too tense, cursed energy flaring up as he fought to keep it under control here. 

“Are you alright?” Kamo carefully asked, brows knitted together as Sukuna’s jaw flexed tight.

“Yes,” he managed a one-word reply, turning his head away from you. 

Were you pretending he didn’t exist now? Was he a chapter in your story that you were choosing to forget? 

His focus had shattered. 

Fractured into something he couldn’t scrape together, his thoughts lingering on that infuriating expression of yours. For once, he was stuck on what to do. A possessive thing inside him curdling and demanding he take you back here and now, cut off every damn digit that had touched you.

But the splintered remnants of his reason reminded him that he was supposed to be here to form an ally. 

Which probably wouldn’t appreciate him snatching his heir’s bride.

It made Sukuna fucking sick to think of you as another man’s wife. 

One of Kamo’s assistants scurried up, bowing his head deeply before muttering something to his master. His face scrunched up, and he shook his head before looking up at Sukuna apologetically, “Would you excuse me for a few minutes?” 

Sukuna only tch-ed, waving his hand as he glanced around the suddenly suffocating arched walkway of the garden. 

“Feel free to look around as you please,” he politely said, but he didn’t miss the cruel glint in his eyes before he walked away. The look of a man who knew too much. Bored enough to enjoy other people’s misery. 

Sukuna tried to walk away. 

To continue down this path he’d picked, to push you and your pretty laughter back out of his mind. But it curved in on itself, and here it was again. There you were.

He couldn’t stop himself from looking. 

You were sprawled out, hair in the grass, giggling happily at the boy in front of you. Sukuna thought he’d seen every expression of yours. Sad, starving, smiling, he was sure he’d known all of you. 

But you never looked at him like that. 

So free.

Unburdened, unbridled by what, exactly? Him? 

“You’re beautiful,” you murmured to your groom, grinning as he gripped your legs and hooked them around his waist. Your robes mused, pushed up to reveal plush thighs, soft skin that still made his mouth water, spit pooling in the back of his throat as this fool failed to appreciate-

“I could live a thousand years and I would trade them all just for this moment to last,” he spoke quietly, his chest rising and falling too fast, like he had to hurry to get the words out. Assured, the kind of certain Sukuna wasn’t sure he ever gave you. 

“Would you?” You teased, one corner of your lips curling up higher than the other, clearly past pleased. 

The man, this Choso of yours, nodded, acting like a loyal knight as he craned his neck down to kiss the tip of your nose. You wrapped your wrists around his neck like he was some missing puzzle piece, fiddling with the ends of his hair as you sighed with contentment. 

“Tell me more,” you requested. 

Sukuna didn’t want to hear it. Didn’t want to hear this poor excuse of poetry and confessions as he watched from the sidelines like some sick voyeur, all four eyes stuck on the familiar curves of your body as your betrothed shoved your clothes to the side to shove himself in you. 

Could it even be considered fucking? 

All slow and tender, treating you like some fragile thing that might break, rocking his hips against your body as you dug your heels into his back. Kissing your mouth instead of sucking on your tits, caressing your exposed skin rather than holding you down. 

And yet, you were making more sounds with him than you did with Sukuna, tiny whimpers that hung in the air, moans that ended up muffled in that bastard’s mouth. Writhing and wiggling your hips like he wasn’t an amateur. 

“I would do anything for you,” he whispered, and Sukuna nearly snorted, sure that he had no idea what anything really meant. Would he starve for you? Kill for you? How far would he go just to call you his? Because right now, Sukuna was considering stomping over and cleaving him into his next meal to make sure he’d never be able to see you again, and he was fairly certain that your Choso couldn’t say the same. 

“All I want,” you purred, eyes opening slowly and fluttering, flooded with pleasure Sukuna unfortunately had to face he did miss. “Is for you to stay with me.” 

You didn’t even know Sukuna was there, and yet it still stung. 

Felt like an arrow aimed directly at his heart. 

“Of course,” Choso answered easily, head bobbing, dark strands hanging down as his next thrust left you tossing your head back. 

Sukuna would do anything for you. But he just couldn’t get himself to be there. “I love you,” he moaned, rutting harder, even faster, your thighs locking him into place as you giggled at his expression. Sukuna stalled, staring uselessly at the moron’s cock drunk confession.

“I love you too,” you sweetly whispered back, brushing his hair back from his face. 

He had to step away before he saw anything else. 

Before he got to watch the man cum inside you the way he used to, before he made another decision that would destroy his life – and yours.

Sukuna didn’t know peace. He never had any to offer you. 

When he stepped back, he had the misfortune of stepping on a tiny twig, as if his afternoon wasn’t awful enough. 

Your head snapped up first, your eyes locking onto his, and he saw the recognition before the guilt. How you held your breath, the light dissipating from that warmth you radiated as if his shadows swallowed you whole. 

And he didn’t know what gave it away, what little detail in your face did it, but he realized something he failed to fucking notice for far too long. 

This had never been his second chance. This was yours.

He had never deserved it. Or you. 

You knew it too. 

The universe tried to spare you, and he got tangled up in it. Your soul and his were still tied together even when the world attempted to give you a new life. 

And he was the fool that walked away from you.

[throwmethroughawindow]

Fuck this was so good

[sonderinghiraeth]

don't make him jealous || bassist! choso kamo

Choso has tried so very hard to be respectful of you up until this point.

But now you're sitting here, on his purple sheets, in nothing but one of his favorite shirts while he tunes his bass off towards the bedside.

He's particularly noticed you've been downright torturing him the past few weeks.

You showed up to one of his practices with snacks in a tank top and daisy dukes, totally whale tailing in the back. You wore a skirt just an inch too short to one of the shows. Your hand ghosted just before his buldge the entire night while sitting together during movie at Shoko's place. What were you getting at? What did you want to get at?

You had been dating a month or two, but you just didn't seem like the kind of girl to fling her panties off for every boyfriend she had. Especially not one like him.

After a bit more tuning up, Choso joined beside you in bed, wrapping an arm around your waist. "You feelin' alright lately?" He dipped his toes into the water, cocking a brow.

You perked up from your phone, turning it off and sitting it beside you. "Yeah Cho, why wouldn't I be?"

And he's sure those beady little eyes could never lie to him.

He shrugs, blushing at the stupidity of himself. Maybe he was just overthinking it. Of course he is. He's letting his dick think before his brain. "Just checking." He muttered, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "You have an 8 a.m., let's get some sleep."

After a beat, he felt you snuggle up into him, confirming his delusions. He was just thinking with his dick.

And he continued to think that until the next show when you showed up yet again in a tight skirt and top that just barely kept your boobs from spilling out, corsetted in the back and the skirt teasing the rim of your ass cheeks at the hemline. This was the same girl who use to look like she was being hunted for sport when she wore a crop top.

Choso tried to brush it off. You were just gaining confidence. It's what happens when you become the bassist's girlfriend.

But when he caught sight of you between the neon lights dancing with fucking Toji Zenin of all people, slinking glances up towards the stage like you wanted him to see. That's when he finally snapped.

He wasted no time for an encore or a bow after the set despite Sukuna cussing after him on stage, gliding down the wing's stairs at the shitty dive bar and peeling his way through the crowd to get to you, ignoring all of the niceties from randoms he passed by.

You were still with Toji when he found you, both of you with drinks in hand and chatting it up like you weren't just practically grinding on him in a piece of thread his whole fucking show.

"Choso!" You chimed with your arm stretched out in a wave. What nerve you have.

Toji was about to make a snide remark on the show, but the brunette barely gave him a chance before he had you by the arm and dragging you towards the bathroom.

"What the fuck is your problem lately?" He finally asked once the two of you were squeezed into one of the pitiful excuses for bathrooms in the back.

"What do you mean?" You glossy lips pulled into a clueless pout with your drink sat at the sinkside.

"Cut the shit. You've literally been dressing like you're about to hit the pole the past two weeks when you used to feel squeamish in ripped shorts." He argued, still beady with sweat from his show, muscles rippling with tension. "And then you flirt with a fucking Zenin the entirety of my set?"

Yeah, you might wanna cut the shit before things get a little too out of control with Choso. Come on, just say it. Just say you want to have sex with your boyfriend!

"It's because I want to have sex with you!"

Despite the thumping rhythm of music outside and all the chatter, despite the grating running of pipes in the dive bar bathroom, it felt like you could hear a pin drop after that.

Choso's eyes were wide, in total shock at your words. "What?"

You pushed your hands into your face, flooded with embarrassment. "I've been trying to hint at you for like, the past two weeks! I thought maybe you would get all riled up if I started wearing sluttier clothes, and then I thought maybe I needed to dial it up a notch and start wearing your clothes, and then there was that day I leaned over and practically shoved my ass in your face on almost every possible thing in your apartment, and still nothing! My last resort was asking Toji to pretend to make you jealous!"

He blinked, all of these moments rewinding and replaying in his head. God, how could he be so oblivious? Of course you wanted to have sex with him, but he was so caught up in being respectful he literally couldn't see how you were practically spreading yourself wide open for him.

After a beat or two passed, you felt Choso's hand slowly start to cage you into the sink, pressing your ass into the cold porcelain with his body. "So you thought slutting yourself out to another man would make me wanna take you, hm?"

You swallowed hard, hands wrapping up around the dips of his shoulders. "No, baby, it wasn't like that I told Toji it was just for show I-" Your face bled a deep scarlet, trying to force your explanation out. "I just needed you so bad. I was running out of options."

"You could've just begged." He muttered, lips inches away from your own. You could smell the faint wafts of whiskey on his breath. "Just like you're about to do right now. You're about to beg for my forgiveness, and then, only then, I might consider fucking you."

He placed a short, sweet kiss on your lips before spinning you around against the sink, having you stare at yourself in the broken mirror in front of you. "Go on." Choso urged, massaging one of the globes of your ass before shucking your skirt down to your knees, exposing your cunt to the cold air. No panties.

You bit your lip, feet shifting and shuffling below you. "I'm really sorry Cho, I didn't know it would hurt your feelings please forgive m- Ah-!" You squealed at the stinging that reverberated throughout your right cheek as his hand made hard contact with it.

"More."

"Please! I didn't mean to grind up on Toji! Please forgive me!" Another slap to your other cheek, tightened now in anticipation. This was a new side of Choso, one you knew he had, but he kept locked tight in admiration and respect for your supposed innocence.

"Louder for me baby, the music's overpowering you." He muttered in your ear, giving each cheek a respective slap.

"Choso!" You whined, knuckles whitening on the sink. "Please please just fuck me! I'm only yours. I'm sorry for making you jealous!"

You could hear him chuckle behind you, placing a few kisses on your bare back before licking a stripe up your soaking wet cunt, dragging a moan from you.

"You want everyone to hear, baby?" He called from behind you, another lick up your pussy before beginning to devour you.

And you stayed like that for what felt like forever, Choso ravaging your cunt from the back, licking inside of your walls and sucking on your clit until he was slobbering on it, prepping you for more to come. You could hardly keep your head up, grinding against his mouth with what little room he allowed you in his grip.

"Act like a whore, get fucked like one." He said, raising up to stand behind you in the mirror. "That's what you want, right?"

At this point, you didn't care where; you just needed him now. You nodded fervently, pressing your ass back onto him. "Please."

He smirked, freeing his cock from his jeans and raking it against your cunt. "So soft, so warm." He purred, pushing his head inside with a grunt. "I couldn't imagine ruining you at first."

Your gummy walls ached when he pressed himself to the hilt, the tip of him flirting with your cervix. He was so big, maybe too big. It was time to prove that the moment he began bullying his cock into you, your boobs finally spilling over your top and threatening contact with the sink.

"Dirty girl. This could have happened just as easily when you were out there dancing with Zenin." His hands came around to cup your breasts, his chest flush against your back. "All for a chance to get fucked by someone who's already yours." Two fingers secured themselves around your left nipple, pinching and prodding at your sensitive bud.

You whimpered, holding onto his biceps for dear life as his speed picked up from behind you, fucking you stupid. You should've known Choso wouldn't be soft with you when you were trying these approaches, but you weren't really going for soft to begin with.

Your ears perked at Choso grunting behind you, your head swiveled slightly to try and catch a glimpse of him. Behind you, a renaissance painting unfolded on your boyfriend's face. His mouth parted slightly and his eyes wound tight from pleasure. He fucked you like he loved you, talked to you like he hated you. Each press of his flushed tip to your g-spot forcing a moan from you.

"Don't go all fast on me now. I'm not done with you yet." One of Choso's hands slid from your breast up into the threshes of hair on the crown of your head, forcing you to look up at yourself in the mirror.

"I want you to look at how much of a fucking slut you're being for me. Begging your boyfriend to fuck you in a dive bar bathroom." He threw his own head back, lolling it back in place as he regained his composure. Part of his adoration for you seeping through his dominant persona. "So good for me. You're way too good for me."

You were about to scourge up some pathetic words to respond to him with when a banging at the door caused you both to jump, his body pressing into your own to shield you.

"Hurry the fuck up! People gotta piss out here!" A voice that was obviously Sukuna's muffled through the door, Choso still buried to the hilt inside you.

"Sounds like someone can't just go piss outside." Choso whispered in your ear, sighing and resuming his thrusts despite the commotion on the other side. "Guess I'll have to speed this up."

With that, his thrusts almost became superhuman, digging his fingers back into your flesh and chomping down on your shoulder. You squealed, covering your mouth with your own hand as the coil in your abdomen unraveled into an orgasm, blitzing against your clit and clenching around Choso's cock.

"Such a good girl. So obedient for her boyfriend. Was that all it took? Is it even hotter now that you know someone can hear us?" He breathed a laugh, cut off by his own moan. He was getting close. "Just let me use you just a bit more. Please."

You hated to say you were enthralled by this version of Choso. Your boyfriend who would crawl to you on his hands and knees even if you asked rudely was calling you a whore and degrading your shameful kink of implicit voyeurism.

"God, oh fuck- Hah, you're so good." He repeated, pressing his forehead into the center of your shoulder blades before heat flooded inside of you, warm ropes of cum filling you to the brim before leaking out where they could when he thrusted the rest of his seed up into you.

As the two of you regained composure, another bang reverberated on the door. "You can snort your coke at home!"

The two of you shared a breathless chuckle. Choso took the rim of your skirt and pulled it back neatly to your waist, smacking your ass one more time before pulling your top back up to cover your boobs. "Guess you're just gonna have to hold me until we get home." He kissed the temple of your forehead from behind, teasing the sight of no panties.

Your face reddened, clenching your quivering cunt as tight as you could to hold his cum inside of you. "Guess so."

Choso swung the bathroom door wide open after ensuring you both were decent, giving Sukuna a deadpan look. "She had a wardrobe malfunction. Be a gentleman next time." He scolded, one arm around you shoulder as protection.

"Well yeah, with clothes like that-" Sukuna cursed when he was met with a slap upside the head with Choso's free arm, carrying you down the hall. "Let's go home."

Just as you were making your way through the crowd, a glimmer of shiny black hair cause your attention, briefly meeting eyes with Toji who was seated at the bar, already two girls at his attention on either side.

You made eye contact, and Toji held up an inquisitive thumbs up.

After glancing up at Choso, who was too distracted trying to get you out of here for round two, you looked back over at Toji, giving a wink and a major thumbs up.

this is my apology for taking so long on the next selfish machines chapter teehee

sneak peak for the next chapter maybe?? MAYBE?? who knows

[sixxels-deactivated20260420-dea]

camping with bestfriend!choso and his friends .｡❅*⋆⍋*∞*｡

summary! your bestfriend!choso invites you to go to camping with some of his friends from the frat, the guys were welcome to bring a plus one, and of course, you were his first pick. this fic is also heavily centered around friend group dynamics! (fluff, crack (?) bestfriends to lovers, i genuinely just bully gojo this entire fic) also satosugu bc i <3 them :) (fake at the begining, real at the end.)

a fic with lots of jjk friendship moments ⋆˚꩜｡ characters in the friend group/frat: gojo, suguru, shoko, sukuna, toji, nanami, shiu, yuki, ino, maki.

A/N: i used the word 'laugh' in this fic like a bajillion times so yk it's fun and fluffy

wc: 12k || art creds: @/einrvji || 18+ || apart of @falsedivide's camping writing event !

"hey, you ever been camping before?" choso asks from his spot behind you on the couch, cradling your waist.

"not really, why? you wanna go?" you quiz, leaning back against his chest.

"mhm, some guys from the frat are doing a bonding event out in the woods this weekend for a few nights, said i could bring a plus one."

"awww and you picked me? so sweet of you, cho!"

"eugh, shut up before i change my mind."

you laugh and that was that, you both stood and got to packing your bag.

choso's been you best friend since frehsman year, you started selling him the weed your good for nothing boyfriend naoya would give you, then when he broke up with you in sophomore, choso sort of stepped in to 'keep you company'.

"i can't even sell you anything anymore... why are you hanging around, choso?" you'd ask, he'd only laugh in response. "it was never about the weed, pretty girl."

you'd been closer ever since, crashing in each others rooms after parties got too rowdy and comfort could only be found in one another's arms, going on drives after long lasting lectures. it was the perfect balance of relief paired with the stress of university.

"i've packed my bags, so ill give you a hand." choso interrupts your thoughts by chucking a few pairs of underwear at your head.

"thanks, cho." you laugh rolling your eyes.

~

"WOO HOO! ROAD TRIP!" gojo sung from the passenger seat of the mini bus, throwing his hands in the air. nanami let out a deep sigh from the drivers spot, clearly upset about the seating arrangements.

behind them sat suguru and shoko, then behind them, toji and his friend shiu who he invited as a plus one. at the very back, you and choso were squished in between everyone's duffels and pillows.

"choso, wanna swap for shotgun when we make a pit stop? please?" nanami calls back, earning a very childish unimpressed gasp from satoru. "you're so rude, nanami. im the prez! i always get shotgun!" he whines.

"if you're the president, shouldn't you be the one driving?" nanami could barely finish before the whole bus goraned a loud, "no!"

"wow guys, real mature. i'm goated at driving."

"you genuinley got a DUI last week?" toji poked.

"can you die, you ape?"

"the fuck!"

a few really good insults were hauled at gojo before the bus simmered out again.

though, at the back, choso was poking fun at you. "you all good there, sweetheart?" he asked through small bursts of laughter. your face was barely visible beneath the piles of bags, a look so comical to choso he took out his phone and started snapping pictures. wow, real mature.

"hey! give it a rest!" you tried to sound stern but it was futile, you soon also started giggling at his teasing, making the piles of clothes and pillows stacked atop of you gyrate.

from the front of the vehicle suguru and shoko give each other that look, the one you give your friends when you know someone's into someone else. "they couldn't be more obvioys." shoko smiled. "damn right." suguru laughed.

"c'mon guys stop flirting! there's plenty of time to get your dick wet at the spot, y'know" the white haired man taunted.

"shut the fuck up gojo,", "boo, does he ever stop talking?", "be quiet for one second, satoru". the rest of the bus moaned in displeasure.

you and choso went quiet, the way you did whenever anyone teased you two for 'flirting'. you tried avoiding eye contact, but when he inevitably caught your gaze again, you gave each other a sweet, bashful smile.

~

“we’re close,” nanami announces, god he’s already exhausted by the upcoming hours of corralling the frat. “satoru, keep your feet off the dash.”

gojo ignores him and points out the windshield. “look at that. nature! untouched. pure. just like me.”

“pure and untouched? didn't you literally just f-,” suguru remarks.

“anyways!.”

the bus finally arrives at a small clearing surrounded by beautiful, towering pines. the space opens wide enough for tents, a fire pit, and a path leading towards waterfall sounds.

nanami brakes hard. “we’re here. everyone get out.”

gojo is first to leap off. “ahh, the serenity!”

you climb out last with choso right behind you, both of you shuffling through backpacks, duffels, grabbing your stuff and dumping it in a pile outside the door.

“wow, this place is so pretty,” you smile.

“figured you’d like it,” he replies, nudging your elbow with his. “it's peaceful.”

before you can answer the quiet is broken by another engine rumbling down the dirt path. the second bus swings into view, packed full of the rest of the group. the door slides open and sukuna steps out first with a big huff. maki follows then yuki hops down right after, stretching her arms. ino strolls behind almost tripping on the last step.

gojo waves dramatically. “yuckkk, your bus smells, ryo. to think i was gonna ride with you gu- ow, ow!.”

“say that again,” sukuna interrupts grabbing satoru's ear making him laugh like a guilty kid.

“please don’t, not yet at least.” nanami mutters.

the moment both groups merge, greetings overlap, bags drop everywhere, and everyone's laughing.

nanami claps his hands. “alright, get your tents. pick a spot. don’t fight. don’t set anything on fire. don’t follow gojo’s example.”

“holy shit i can't catch a break with you assholes,” gojo whines.

choso picks up the tent bag and hands you a few stakes, shoving your shoulder playfully with a smile. “c’mon. before someone steals the best patch of ground.”

you skip behind him toward an area near the fire pit. the spot sits under a tall bunch of trees that give shade without blocking the pretty blue sky. the clearing gives you space and a good view of the waterfall trail. it's tucked away enough to be your own little corner.

choso drops the bundle of poles. “hey, sit. i’ve got it.”

you laugh and push at his pec. “you’re not doing it alone, give me a pole.”

“i’m serious,” he says, though there’s a smile playing at his mouth. “you always get stuck with the annoying jobs. let me do it, y/n.”

“too bad.” you grab the pegs from his hand before he can argue, the look on his face shifting into playful annoyance as you crouch beside him. “team effort.”

“you never listen.”

“i know that's right.”

he shakes his head with amusement and starts sorting the poles. you hammer stakes into the earth while he threads rods through the tent sleeves. you reach a flow state, passing parts back and forth, hands touching. each time you meet his pretty eyes, he looks away bashfully.

once the tent stands upright, choso checks the corners and tugs on the ropes. satisfied, he steps back. “not bad.”

“you mean perfect.”

“yeah, sure.”

you have to hold a hand over your mouth at the other groups struggling so bad. gojo’s tent collapses twice before nanami threatens to leave him sleeping in the woods. "no! bugs will crawl all over my dick!", "bro, what are you even talking about?", "this guy's not real holy fuck i cannot."

maki barks orders at yuki while shoko digs through her bag for the mosquito spray she swears she packed. sukuna’s group finishes quickly but only because toji ignores instructions and bulldozes through the setup until shiu yanks the fabric straight.

soon enough, everything is (somewhat) arranged.

“alright,” nanami says. “final arrangements. satoru, you’re with me.”

gojo freezes. “nuh uh. i’m with suguru.” he sounded suspiciously sad.

“actually,” suguru cuts in, voice far too pleased, “i need a break from you.”

gojo staggers like they do in shounen when the mc gets hit by the main villain type shit. “you’re abandoning me...? a-after everything. after years of best friendship. betraying me when shit gets too real for you? huh? yeah, go on, then. leave me suguru, you fucking dead weight.”

toji and sukuna start pissing themselves laughing, then start choking on the cigarette smoke they hadn't fully exhaled.

nanami rubs his temples. “get in the tent.”

gojo groans dramatically, picks up a spare peg, and chucks it at suguru’s foot. “you're disgusting!”

“you missed,” suguru deadpans.

shoko sets up with maki and yuki. sukuna, toji, and shiu call dibs on a larger tent near the trees. ino and hiruguma toss their bags into another with suguru tagging along. once everyone’s settled, the group drifts toward the fire pit as the late afternoon sun shines across the grass, painting the clearing in nice warm kinda color.

the campfire pit sits empty for now, a circle of stones waiting for kindling. everyone settles on logs or the ground, shoko pops open a can of heineken and maki ties her hair back. toji argues with sukuna about absolutely nothing while suguru and nanami share a quiet conversation, (nanami's very pleased to converse calmly for once).

then, gojo stands up and stretches his arms overhead, the band of his calvins peeking over his jorts. “someone needs to get firewood. any volunteers?”

silence. its like everyone in the group jointly decided to tease this poor man.

no one speaks, suguru looks the other way. shoko takes a long sip. maki shakes her head. and nanami stares at the ground.

gojo’s smile turns into an exaggerated scowl. “wow. seriously, fuck all of you. hating ass clowns”

maki leans toward you, whispering, “don't do it, piss him off a little longer please, this is priceless.”

you grin but stand anyway, feeling bad for the guy. “i’ll go.”

gojo's face lights up and he laughs triumphantly, jokingly pumping his fist in the air. “yes! y/n my beloved!.”

“stop calling people that,” nanami says.

“no.”

gojo snatches nanamis empty duffle bag to carry the wood and gestures for you to follow. “let’s roll, partner. the rest of you can sit and stew, being uncool lame losers, i guess.”

you hear groans and nanami's shouting behind you as he leads the way toward the tree line. your steps crunch through brown leaves as the clearing disappears behind you. birds rustle overhead, and the path dips deeper into the quiet part of the forest. the sound of water grows louder, the waterfall humming behind the trees.

gojo kicks a stick aside. “jeez, they act like i’m some kind of menace.”

“hmm, i wonder why.”

“ouch.”

“you’ll live.”

he smiles looking over his shoulder at you. “you always take my side. even when you don’t take my side. i respect the loyalty.”

“sure.”

gojo snorts and crouches to pick up a fallen branch. “you’re so nice. choso’s lucky.”

you smile to yourself as the sunlight slips through the branches above, brushing your hair. gojo sings some tune off key as he tosses another piece of wood into the bag.

back in the clearing, choso watches your body shift between the trees. he stands at the edge of the camp, arms crossed loosely, eyes following the shape of your back until both of you disappear into the trees. he doesn’t say anything but suguru notices.

“she’ll be fine,” he comments, patting choso's back.

“i know,” choso replies with a sigh.

“gojo’s just a loud prick, he's not dangerous.”

“didn’t say he was.”

suguru shakes his head smiling. “you’re staring pretty hard for someone who isn’t worried.”

choso keeps his eyes fixed on the path you vanished down. his attention pinned to the forest until the last trace of your voice fades.

~

you and gojo get back to the camp around half an hour later with arms and a duffle bag full of wood.

shoko was halfway through telling everyone about how the last guy she fucked had a piss kink... sukuna and toji seemed to be the only two interested in that vulgar conversation.

"oh wow, you made it out alive, y/n." suguru commented as you dumped the wood in your arms by nanamis feet.

"why are you constantly tryna run a fade on me suguru." satoru scoffed, throwing nanami's now emoty duffle over his head, getting all the sticks and left over leaves all through his perfectly combed hair.

"gojo, i'm gonna kill you!"

the white haired boy just ran away laughing like a hyena to the other side of the pit, hugging shoko for 'protection'.

"get off of me, your breath stinks."

you walk back to your spot next to choso, he's now dangling a beer between his legs with his elbows to his knees. as you step closer, he looks up and catches your eyes, it's hilarious how hard this guy was tryna act stoic.

"hey, cho." you sing before flopping down next to him, he scoots away like a child.

"yeah, hi."

you have to stop yourself from letting out a loud pffft, at the way his annoyed tone is so obviously forced.

jabbing a finger into his stomach and wriggling it into his muscles forces him to shiver in his seat and start cracking up against his will.

"you little shit!" he screeches between ripped laughter. pulling your arm away leaving a permeant smile on his face.

"hm, that's better."

"oh give it a rest." he replies, playfully shoving the side of your face away. you knew he couldn't stay upset for long.

he clears his throat while suguru and satoru fight over who gets to light the fire first. "so, uh. how was getting fire wood with that idiot?"

"yeah, it was fine." you reply, trying your hardest to sound casual about it.

"fine?"

"yeah, just fine."

"right... what did you talk about? nothing weird? he didn't try to touch you... or anything like that?" he asked taking a long sip from his drink.

'did alone time with gojo piss him off that much? jeez.'

you smile, "hmm... well lets see." you say, tapping your chin, watching as his face contorts like its bracing for impact. "all he did was talk my ear off about all the women he's seeing right now. what was it, like seven? don't know how they can stand him, but it is what it is. always thought that guy was gay to be honest."

choso sighs in relief, then finally scoots closer to you. "good. that's good." he places his hand on the back of the log behind you almost protectively. "wouldn't want him getting any ideas."

"yeah? why's that? it's not like i, you know, have a boyfriend or anything."

god, you don't think you've ever seen choso's lazy smile drop so fast in your life. "yeah... i guess."

his moping was shortly interrupted by gojo yelling at suguru.

"i'm the president so i get to light the fire! didn't see you out there getting any fire wood? huh? if anything, me and y/n should get to light the fire together! we did all the hard work."

"oh, thats okay gojo, it's all yours." you laugh in that funnily awkward way.

"see, be more like y/n, you dead weight."

"i think the fucking fire hazard should be staying five feet away from the fire, not lighting it!" suguru counters, smacking satoru with a stick.

"are we breaking up? is that what this is?"

nanami quelled the bickering by throwing a small yellow bic in between them, watching them scramble on the leaf litter to grab it.

choso snorts, the sound pressed into his palm as he tries to hide it. you try to hold yours in too but it slips out in a burst that makes him look at you. it’s one of those quick looks where his eyes soften a bit then dart away like he didn’t mean to get caught. you do the same, staring at the dirt for a second with your mouth tugging up because the whole thing feels stupid in a silly sweet way.

once suguru finally snatches the lighter and sparks the first bit of kindling, the group settles down in a loose circle around the pretty flames.

you hear the crackle of dry wood catching and shoko digging through her tote.

she pulls out two neatly rolled blunts and taps each against her thumb. “alright,” she says, handing one to suguru and the other to toji. “don’t canoe these or i swear to god i'll throw worms in all of your sleeping bags.”

“love when you talk sweet to me,” toji grins, sparking his up. suguru does the same and takes a slow hit like he’s in a commercial then passes it to maki with a little flourish.

while it moves around the circle, gojo claps once like he’s calling kids in from break. “ok! i have an idea.”

seven people groan at once.

“no hear me out. it’ll be fun.”

nanami drags both hands down his face. “you barely said anything and i’m exhausted.”

gojo takes the dark glasses from his hair and tucks them into his flannel shirt. “we’re playing two truths and a lie.”

shoko blinks. “wow, he finally has a good idea.”

everyone laughs and gojo bows like they’re applauding him. “thank you, thank you. i try.”

“you don’t,” suguru says, taking back the blunt. “but go on.”

gojo points dramatically at toji. “you start.”

toji exhales, taps ash into the dirt, and shrugs. “fine. uh… i hotwired a random car on the street when i was 17. i stole an alice in chains vinyl from jb-hifi.... hmm, and i took some guy from gamma's entire jojo's set last year.”

"like, the manga?" maki asked.

"yes mam."

everyone stares in both shock and contemplation.

sukuna rubs his head. “bro that’s not how the game works. i know for a fact you did all of that.”

“oh. right,” toji says, he’s learning the rules for the first time. “my bad.”

“you need to go to jail for abit,” shoko mumbles.

ino clears his throat. “okay! i’ll go.” he straightens a bit, proud. “miu from econ. sara from the gym. hana from-”

nanami cuts in. “hana is the lie.”

"bro, is he listing off chicks he's fucked?" shiu whispers to toji.

ino whips around. “nanami! how’d you know so fast!”

“you’d never pull hana,” nanami says dead serious. “she only dates guys with a 4.0.”

gojo points. “hey, that's unfair insider knowledge.”

“it’s called friendship,” nanami scoffs.

gojo waves him off. “yuck. next.”

suguru nudges choso with his foot. “your turn."

choso sits up a bit straighter, grinning like he’s been waiting for this one. he finishes the sip of his beer and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “ok. uh…” he looks around the circle. “once when i was fucked up, i pissed all over gojo’s car, the nice one.”

gojo genuinely looks like he's about to tweak out. “you fucking what?.”

“second is... hm, oh yeah, i also pissed all over suguru’s car,” choso adds casually, “when i was high.” he can't help the drunken laugh spitting out.

suguru’s jaw drops. “you asshole.”

the circle starts laughing. the fire pops loud in the middle of it.

you look at choso with your brows up. “wow. you’ve been busy.”

he shrugs like he’s innocent. “man’s gotta piss.”

“that was so unnecessary,” maki says, coughing smoke out her nose.

“ok, that’s two,” choso continues, leaning back on his hands again. “and the third is…” he pauses dramatically, watching the whole group lean in. “i once broke into the chem lab after hours to steal a microscope because i was high on ket and wanted to look at my own hair follicles.”

shoko squints. “i didn't know you fucked with ketamine?”

"then that's the lie!" yuki announced like she cracked the code using clues.

“yeah,” gojo says, crossing his arms. “no way you pissed on both of our cars, the microscope one's a lie.”

suguru shakes his head. “no, the lie is gojo’s car. he’d spare that sexy thing.”

“i think the lie is the microscope,” maki adds. “he probably doesn’t even know how to spell microscope.”

“fuck you, i do,” choso throws.

you nudge his knee. “i think the lie is suguru’s car. you'd shit yourself if he found out and i dunno if you'd wanna deal with that." choso pinches your hand grind your back teasingly.

"maybe."

suguru puffs out a cloud. “no, i am reasonable.”

“no,” maki says, “you’re petty.”

suguru rolls his eyes.

the guesses fly around louder and louder until choso finally raises both hands. “alright, alright. final answer? you guys won't like this.” he says pointing to the wonder duo. "the microscope one's was a lie."

the group bursts into laughter again, loud enough that some birds rustle out of the tree above you.

"gross man!"

toji leans forward, elbows on his knees, chin lifted. “you got a piss kink or something? jesus christ.”

shiu points at you without looking away from the fire. “good luck with that one, y/n.”

the entire circle cracks up. even nanami smiles, which is some sort of miracle. you cover your face with both hands but you’re laughing so hard you fall into choso’s shoulder.

choso rolls his eyes and flicks his beer cap at shiu. “eat shit.”

shiu holds up both hands. “i’m just saying. man’s got a theme going.”

“it’s not a theme,” choso mutters, cheeks warm. “it was one bad month.”

gojo practically wheezes. “dude. one bad month? you pissed on two luxury cars in thirty days?”

sukuna kicks dirt toward the fire to smother his own laugh. “bro’s out here marking his territory.”

your face heats but you can’t stop smiling because choso keeps glancing at you in this shy way like he wants to see if you’re judging him. you bump your shoulder into his. “it’s ok, cho. everyone has… hobbies.”

he groans. “don’t.”

“your secret’s safe with me.”

he smiles and looks down at his beer like he can't contain it, your head feels so warm with affection you hook an arm around his and scoot even closer.

"okay y/n, your turn." he nudges.

"hmm, okay!" the group settles down to listen to your answers, you feel like stirring things up abit.

"so, one, i've had a crush on gojo before," the group makes their own collective 'oo's' and 'oh my god''s, with gojo laughing like a psychopath, "what can i say? i have so much aura it's just overwhelming for women."

you feel choso's arm go stiff, he sips his beer trying to keep cool. cute.

"second, my social studies TA confessed to me three weeks ago."

shoko and maki converse on that one, "i knew he was staring at her!"

"and third, i like choso more than all of you combined."

"okay, well that's one of the truths." ino laughed.

the circle’s crazy with guesses before you even finish talking, everyone pointing at someone else like that’s going to help them figure you out.

“number one,” sukuna says immediately. “no way you liked gojo. nobody with a functioning brain stem likes gojo on purpose.”

“yeah, fuck you man,” satoru huffs.

maki taps her knee. “yeah, i think it’s number one too. she probably had better taste than that.”

“i don't cuss at women, but if i did maki... i swear to god.” the man sighs.

ino lifts a hand. “nah nah nah wait. that could be true. dude’s tall and has hair that does… that.” he gestures vaguely at gojo’s head.

“awe, thank you, ino,” gojo beams.

“i wasn’t complimenting you.”

toji scratches his jaw. “yeah, i’m locked in on number three being true. she treats him the best.” he juts his chin toward you and choso.

shoko nods in agreement, “yeah, that one’s just obvious, shit choice y/n.” she teases.

"oh my god, shut up shoko." you smile.

choso clears his throat at that, looking down into his beer like it suddenly has answers.

suguru leans back on his hands. “number two sounds fake. i’ve seen her TA. that guys a total square.”

shiu snaps his fingers. “oh yeah, the little dude with the lanyard.. i dunno if he'd be bold enough.”

“so we’re landing on number one?” nanami asks, looking around as if he’s running a board meeting.

everyone nods.

everyone except choso, who doesn’t say anything. he keeps his face neutral, but the tip of one boot digs into the dirt.

you clap your hands once. “okay! final answers?”

a chorus of, “number one.”

you grin. “wrongggg, boo.”

the group groans so loud the birds probably take off again.

“wait, so you did like gojo?” maki says.

gojo looks like he’s about to ascend. “i knew it! i knew you couldn’t resist me, im a sexy lady magnet.”

you cross you arms at him. “don’t get excited. it was only before i met you.”

his face drops. “hey.”

“you looked normal from far away,” you add, laughing. “then i actually got to know you and it became strictly friendship. you’re way too loud for my type.”

suguru falls backwards into the grass, cackling. “magnet? more like pussy repeller.”

maki wipes her eyes. “that’s so real.”

you’re still laughing when you feel choso shift beside you. his smile is there but softer, not full you nudge your arm against his, but he’s distant in this tiny way he probably thinks he’s hiding really well.

inside his head he’s spiraling just a bit. because now he knows you think gojo is attractive. even if it was old it sits in his chest weirdly. he’s built so opposite from gojo, and his brain takes the quickest path to overthinking. he’s quieter, darker, slower to talk, heavier in posture, none of the bright loudness gojo carries.

and he starts wondering, stupidly, whether that matters to you. whether you like the kind of person who fills a room, or someone who sits on the edge of it hoping you’ll come to him anyway.

his beer bottle shifts in his hand. he stares at the fire like it’s going to explain something.

you tilt your head. “cho? you good?”

your hand slides a little tighter around his arm and he looks over, caught off guard by your smile. it’s bright, it pulls the tension right out of him. he softens, even if there’s still a weird pinch of something stuck under his ribs.

“yeah. yeah i’m fine,” he says quietly.

you squeeze his arm again and lean into him more, and he swallows down the leftover insecurity because it feels dumb to cling to it when you’re right there choosing to be this close. and besides, he’s not your boyfriend. he doesn’t get to react the way he wants to.

but he still feels it. just a little.

before anything else can settle too deep, maki shoots up from her seat. “smores time!”

the girls cheer, already on their feet. you hop up with them, dusting dirt from your shorts, and choso watches the way you spin around to grab shoko’s wrist before jogging toward the bus parked a little ways off. you glance back once, giving him a quick grin, and it does even more damage to whatever was left of his nerves.

when you’re far enough away, the circle tightens.

gojo immediately drops down next to choso like a gremlin claiming a seat. “soooo.”

choso groans. “don’t start.”

“c'monnnn, y/n’s all yours, don’t worry,” gojo singsongs, bumping his shoulder into his.

toji whistles. “yeah man, she basically announced it.”

sukuna digs his stick into the dirt. “third option being him wasn’t even surprising. she looks at him like she's in love.”

shiu sits back with a smug grin. “told you months ago.”

ino nods. “you’re like… her favorite person ever.”

choso scrubs a hand over his face. “you guys are reading way too much into this.”

“we’re not,” suguru says, stretching his legs out toward the fire. he looks at choso with that older brother calm of his. “don’t overthink it. gojo could never be as cool as you.”

gojo gasps. “excuse me?”

“it’s true,” nanami says flatly.

toji leans back on his elbows. “look, we're just saying, you don’t gotta freak out. she likes you. even i can see that and i don't give a fuck.”

sukuna snorts. “yeah, and he’s blind.”

"shut up."

shiu adds, “emotionally and literally.”

the whole group piles on with messy teasing, half hearted insults, dramatic reenactments of choso’s face when you said you liked him the most. he rolls his eyes so hard it’s a miracle they don’t fall out.

nanami finally sighs getting fed up. “alright, that’s enough. leave him alone.”

you and the girls walk back with the smore ingredients in hand, choso's eyes are drawn to your beautiful, smiling face, and he feels his cheek heat. you really were breath taking.

the rest of the night flashed by in an array of talking shit, smoking weed and scoffing down whatever snacks were being passed around. with everyone either tipsy or a little zooted, ino was the first to suggest everyone get some shut eye.

"yeahhh, good idea ino, y'know, i always liked your hair too." gojo giggled leaning all over suguru. he was a very affectionate drunk.

"nanami, i might just have to take one for the team and tent with this flop. you can;t handel this guy drunk, trust."

"oh well, if you insist." nanami smiles, practically jumping up to get his stuff and put it in sugurus old tent.

"yeah, me and the girls are gonna head to sleep. g'night y/n." shoko waved with a very tired maki andd yuki trailing behind her.

"hey, where's my good night?" toji asks, throwing his arms in the air.

"eh, i only like her, so."

the girls disappear into their respective tent and sukuna and toji decide to clock out as well.

"i think that's our sign to go to, cho." you suggest, leaning on his shoulder.

choso laughs under his breath when you lean on him, soft enough that only you can catch it. “yeah, let’s go,” he says, tilting his head toward the tent like he’s been waiting for this chance.

you barely get a step in before he hooks his fingers through the belt loop of your shorts and tugs you along. you look forward at him with that little grin you always give when he’s being extra. he mirrors it without even meaning to.

the two of you duck into the tent, it’s got a chill from the day and still smells a bit like cigarette smoke from choso when you set it up earlier. the fairy lights you strung across the ceiling shine, making everything feel closer.

choso kicks the flap shut behind you, grabs your waist and pulls you toward the center of the airbed in one motion. you tumble right into him as he falls back, both of you landing in a messy heap. it makes you laugh before you can stop yourself, and he sinks into the mattress like he’s been waiting hours to do this.

“finally,” he sighs, pushing his hair out of his face.

you lay beside him propped on an elbow. “you dramatic man.”

“i’m serious,” he says, nudging your leg with his knee. “i thought i’d never get you alone tonight. every time i looked up, someone was hovering, like a fly. i hate flys.” tipsy choso always had a loose tongue.

you feel your face turn into a smile you can’t hide. “aw, you sound jealous.”

“maybe.” he says it so casually you almost miss the weight behind it.

your smile widens at that, and you shove your head down into the mattress a bit so he won’t see how flustered you are.

he sits up just enough to reach his duffle, digging around blindly until he pulls out a hoodie. one of his older ones, soft from too many washes. he holds it open with both hands.

“arms up,” he says.

you blink. “bossy.”

“c'mon,” he repeats, tapping your hip with two fingers.

you sigh like you’re hard done by but lift your arms anyway. he slips the hoodie over your head, easing it down so it falls around you. it’s oversized, the sleeves covering half your hands. it smells like his room, his laundry powder, that cologne he uses. he sits back to look at you in it, and his mouth clicks like he’s fighting a smile.

“good,” he mutters.

“you’re ridiculous.”

“nah.” he pulls out another hoodie thats sort of the same color and shrugs it on. “matchin’ fits. we look sick.”

you roll your eyes but curl into his side, he shifts until your legs tangle together and your head rests on his shoulder. he settles one hand on your hip, thumb brushing triangle patterns against the fabric without him knowing he’s doing it.

the tent grows quiet, only the faraway sound of somebody zipping a bag and gojo yelling something about a bug from across the campsite. your eyelids feel a little heavy from the long day, and choso’s breathing evens out under your cheek.

after a minute he whispers, “y’know… this is my favorite part.”

you lift your head a bit. “of camping?”

he shakes his head once. “of our… uh.” he hesitates, the word catching. “friendship.”

you let the silence sit between you for a few seconds before resting your face back on his chest. “yeah. me too.”

he closes his eyes like he’s soaking that in. it settles in the space between you, warm and steady, until you think he might fall asleep right there.

but then his hand pauses against your hip. he’s thinking, like, really deeply. and you can tell when he pulls in a breath like he’s gearing up for something he’d usually avoid.

“can i ask you something?” he says quietly.

you hum.

“earlier. with the game. when you said… when you said that thing about gojo.” he clears his throat. “do you think he’s... pfft, i dunno... attractive?”

you freeze for a sec because you knew this might come up eventually. you readjust against him so you can look at his face. he’s staring at the tent ceiling like it’ll give him the answer before you can.

you speak softly. “yeah. i mean… he’s objectively good looking.”

the muscles in his neck are tensing up, so much so you can see the veins beginning to pulse faster. his eyes stay looking upward, focused on nothing. he nods once but doesn’t say anything.

you touch his arm lightly. “but he’s not my type at all.”

he glances at you finally. “at all?”

“at all,” you repeat, “he’s… loud. and dramatic. and he likes being the center of attention. he’s fun, but i could never date someone like that, in the nicest way.”

that earns a tiny laugh out of him, more air than sound.

“i just… didn’t want you to think i lied,” you add. “but having a crush on someone you don’t actually know is different. when i met him, it flipped instantly. he makes more noise than ten people combined. respectfully.”

“respectfully,” choso echoes with a little smile.

you lean closer, head finding its way back to his shoulder like gravity pulled you there. “don’t overthink it, cho.”

he lets out a breath. “not overthinking.”

you snort. “you so are.”

his hand tightens lightly around your waist, you feel the uncertainty in his breathing.

so you decide to give him something to ease his nerves, something you’ve never said out loud.

“for the record,” you whisper, “you’re the only guy i’m into.”

oh fuck? what? choso goes still all over, did she really just say that?

you peek up at him and his eyes are slightly wide, like he genuinely can’t believe he heard you right.

“you're.. what?” he says like he’s scared he’ll fuck it up if he speaks too loud.

“you heard me.”

he stares at you for a solid ten seconds, trying to process that you just said something that bold. you never say things like that. not to him, not to anyone, really.

his mouth twitches into the softest smile, a little uneven like he’s trying not to let it take over his whole face.

“ok,” he whispers.

you shift even closer until your forehead rests against his collarbone. his arm wraps around you tight and steady, he’s savoring the moment so he doesn’t lose it.

you end up drifting off snuggled into his shoulder, choso stays awake a bit longer, staring at the ceiling with your weight against him. he looks down at you once like he can’t wrap his head around the fact you’re here like this despite falling asleep with you like this was common place for the two of you.

"god, youre so cute."

~

"goooood morning sports fans!" yuki announces into the now unzipped tent at the early hour of 8am. you and choso both groan and try to pull eachother in closer as to not get up yet.

"go away." choso complains, pulling your face into his chest with his big biceps.

"jeez, you two are gross! just get up soon, shiu and maki made breakfast and we're all going down to the waterfall later." she rolls her eyes before zipping the tent back up.

choso lets go of probably the sexiest morning moan you'd ever heard, stretching his arms above his head.

you groan into choso’s chest, refusing to move even as yuki’s footsteps crunch away from the tent. her voice still echoes in your skull like she’s right outside.

“she's so mean” you mumble.

“mm.” choso keeps his arms locked around you like he’s guarding you. “five more minutes.”

“we can’t,” you say, even though you’re making zero effort to get up.

“we can,” he insists, pulling the blanket higher. “we absolutely can.”

you slip your fingers under his hoodie to poke his ribs. “come on.”

he flinches and laughs quietly. “stop. i’m getting up, chill.”

you push yourself upright with a groan that matches his. you rake your hair back with your fingers and peel yourself out of the blankets. choso watches you for a second, still sprawled out, before dragging himself up to sit beside you.

“you look dead,” you tell him.

“i am,” he says, scratching the back of his neck. “but, uh… you make it tolerable.”

you toss a balled up pair of socks at him. “you’re so corny.”

“fuck you, you like it.”

you refuse to acknowledge that but the smile on your face is a giveaway.

you grab your small duffle and pull out the bikini you packed — a pretty one that always makes you feel hot. you slip it on under your clothes, shimmying the waistband into place while choso pretends he’s not watching from the corner of his eye.

“you done?” he asks once you’re tying the strings of your top under your shirt.

“yep.”

he throws on a fresh shirt and shorts, rakes his hands through his messy hair, then gestures toward the tent flap. “after you.”

you unzip the door and climb out into the cooler air, the campsite's already alive with movement. choso follows right behind you, shoulder brushing yours as you head toward the smoldering fire pit.

gojo and suguru sit together on a log, sharing a plate loaded with breakfast. they’re shoulder to shoulder, quiet for once. suspiciously quiet.

you dart your eyes back and forth. “what’s wrong with him?” you whisper to choso.

“dunno,” he murmurs. “either hungover or suguru drugged him.”

"or fucked him." you giggle, choso laughs quietly too.

“hey!” gojo calls out, oblivious, pointing a fork toward you both. “we made food.”

“shiu made food,” suguru corrects, nudging him.

“i watched.”

“no you didn’t.”

“i did at the end.”

you laugh and sit on a cooler, choso flopping onto the one beside you. shiu hands over two plates stacked with your favorite breakfast food.

you and choso stuff your faces, the food was good in the way all food tastes when you're sleepy and in a new place.

as the others crawl out one by one, shoko, then toji, sukuna, ino and shiu, nanami emerges with his phone in hand, he starts reading off something he clearly wrote before sunrise.

“alright. plan for the day,” he announces, ignoring gojo groaning dramatically. “we’ll head down to the waterfall for a few hours. eat, swim, relax. head back around three. collect firewood. shoko wants to try a new camp meal tonight, so we need dry wood only.”

everyone mumbles general agreement.

by the time you finish eating, everyone’s grabbed their bags, towels, drinks, and whatever else they think they’ll need. you fall into step with toji, shiu, and sukuna as you all start the short trek down the dirt path toward the water.

“yo, shiu,” sukuna grumbles, rubbing his eyes. “you snore like a seventy year old trucker.”

toji snorts. “i thought the tent was collapsing.”

shiu shrugs like he’s heard it all before. “maybe you two just sleep like princesses.”

“i sleep like a normal person,” sukuna claims.

“you drool,” toji laughs.

“oh shut up.”

maki grabs your hand as she skips up beside you, swinging your arms together. “if he snores like that again i’m shoving a sock in his mouth.”

“please don’t,” shiu says flatly. “last thing i need is to choke on your laundry.”

up ahead, yuki and shoko lead the way, pointing out random plants like they're on a cute little david attenborough doco. behind you, you hear the other guys who drew the short straw grunting and complaining while carrying the heavy coolers and bags.

gojo’s voice carries above all of them. “why are we the ones holding everything? this is discrimination against pretty people, right cho?”

“maybe you need the workout,” sukuna calls back without turning around.

“you’re huge,” gojo fires at him. “you should be doing this!”

“you bench as much as me, toru,” toji says easily. “you got it.”

suguru adds, “think of it as penance.”

“for what?!”

“existing, apparently,” choso says from the back, deadpan.

you laugh so hard at the sight of your poor boy-... friend, carrying half the camp site.

finally, the trees break open and the waterfall comes into view. it's tall, pouring into a bright pool that reflects all the light. the rocks glisten, mist hanging lightly in the air. it’s stunning.

everyone slows down at the same time, letting out various sounds of appreciation or, in ino's case, a loud “hell yeah.”

the group spreads out near the flat rock area by the water. beach chairs get unfolded, a picnic blanket goes down, coolers crack open, sunscreen gets passed around.

the guys start stripping off their shirts first, flinging them onto chairs. the girls follow suit, peeling off their clothes down to bikinis.

you tug your shirt over your head and wiggle out of your shorts. the cool air brushes your skin, and you stretch your arms above your head as the girls whistle dramatically.

“okay, body,” yuki says, fanning herself.

“look at you,” maki adds with a grin.

you’re laughing until you feel someone staring.

you look over your shoulder.

choso is frozen mid sentence staring straight at you with an expression that makes your breath hitch. his eyes drag from your shoulders down to your hips, then snap away like he got caught doing something illegal.

he almost drops the towel he’s holding.

ino notices instantly. “damn, dude,” he snickers under his breath. “pitching a tent already?”

choso elbows him lightly. “shut up.”

“you’re staring.”

“i’m not.”

“you so areee,” ino grins, “like she walked out of a commercial or some shit.”

“bro.”

“i’m just saying, if you don't claim h-”

choso shoves him, just enough to make ino stumble and laugh like an idiot. ino shoves back, then choso hooks an arm around his neck and drags him toward the water.

“say it again,” choso threatens playfully.

“she looks hot!” ino yells gleefully.

“you’re dead.”

they hit the edge of the rocks still bickering. then choso launches them both into the water with a loud splash that makes half the group cheer.

the moment seems to kickstart everyone else, toji pushes sukuna in next, sending water spraying everywhere. he jumps after him, flipping mid air because of course he does.

gojo yells “watch this!” and immediately slips on a rock, falling into the water sideways like a cartoon character. suguru follows him in with more grace but the same energy.

maki grabs your hand. “come on!”

you brace yourself and leap with her, the cold water breaking around you as you sink under and pop back up with a gasp. yuki splashes you immediately. shoko shouts something about sunscreen. toji tackles sukuna underwater. someone screams your name. someone else yells for beer.

the whole group is laughing, yelling, splashing, a complete mess of legs and screaming in the best way possible.

and when you push your wet hair out of your face, blinking against the sun, you see choso watching you again, this time from the water, hair slicked back, smile tugging at his mouth like he can’t help it.

he doesn’t look away, not even for a second.

the group swims and chats as the hours tick by.

.

the sun still shines bright against the water of the pool where everyone’s spread out in their own little pockets of conversation.

toji, sukuna, shiu, and gojo have now found a routine up on the ledge beside the waterfall. they keep climbing the path, launching themselves off like overgrown children, resurfacing, then racing each other back up to do it again. their voices bounce around the cliffs full of competitive grunts and trash talk. suguru calls them idiots every time they hit the water, but he’s smiling when he says it, legs stretched out on the picnic blanket where he’s sorting through the snacks you all brought down. fatass.

maki and yuki are floating in the shallow part, drifting on their backs, letting the current push them around. shoko’s perched on a rock a few feet away smoking one of her tiny joints, hair pulled up with a pen.

you’re stretched out on a nice, warm, flat rock, the surface almost hot, your legs are tired from swimming.

choso comes walking out of the water like some dumb test of your self control. shit, he looked good. motto motto type shit.

he pushes his wet hair back with both hands, eyes squinting from the brightness. he looks relaxed in that heavy-lidded way he gets after swimming, like the cold water cleared whatever fog was hiding behind his eyes. the cut muscles along his stomach catch the light each time he shifts. there’s something really stupid about how unfairly good he looks when he’s not even trying.

he stops beside you and gives a small breath of endearment like he’s caught you staring.

“gonna roast yourself,” he says, sitting down beside you.

“i’m fine,” you reply.

“uh huh.” he reaches into your bag and pulls out a bottle of sunscreen. he shakes it once. “c'mon, you didn’t put any on.”

you look at the bottle, look back at him. “so what if i didn’t.”

he nudges it toward you like that settles it. “use it.”

“you use it,” you say, still not reaching for it.

“i already did.”

you tilt your head toward him, letting the corner of your mouth lift. “then put it on me if you’re so worried.”

'wow, she's getting bold.'

he goes still, he’s surprised you said it. then a smirk spreads across his mouth.

“yeah,” he mutters, “if you insist.”

he sits on his knees beside you and pours a cold thin line up your very exposed back, rubbing it over your shoulders first, his thumbs tracing small circles as he works it in.

choso had seen you in your underwear plenty, but it was fleeting. this time, you were quite literally on display and flirting with him? was he in heaven?

his hands smooth the lotion along your spine, up to your shoulder blades, then down the sides of your ribs. his big, veiny hands feel so good all over your body, it drives you insane. you arch into his touch, earning an impressed hum from the boy.

“this good?” he asks softly.

“mm,” you answer, not trusting yourself to say more.

he keeps going, his palms warm now as they glide across your skin. he works lower, skimming just above the band of your bikini, always staying respectful but very aware of where his hands are.

you’re about to tell him he’s done a good job when a loud voice echoes from above the waterfalls mouth.

“ngh, rub me harder, choso!”

you whip your head toward the ledge. gojo and sukuna are both up there, hands cupped around their mouths like megaphones. sukuna starts moaning like a chick, and gojo doubles over laughing, nearly losing his balance.

“choso,” sukuna moans, “my back needs attention too. been real tense lately. help a guy out.” hes trying so hard to soun dfeminine but his deep voice just keeps on cracking causing him to laugh mid sentance.

gojo bumps his shoulder into sukuna’s, voice cracking from laughter. “he’s a giver, man, he’ll take good care of you.”

they both start fake moaning again, way too loud, way too committed to the bit.

choso shakes his head, fighting a smile. he doesn’t look embarrassed, more like he’s trying not to laugh at how stupid they sound.

“fuck off,” he calls back, tone warm and amused.

you lift your hand and flip them off without even sitting up. “get a hobby,” you shout.

this only makes them louder. sukuna nearly falls off the rock from laughing so hard.

nanami silently appears behind them like a punishment summoned by the universe. one second they’re laughing, the next nanami just steps up, expression perfectly neutral, and gives a straightforward shove.

both idiots yelp as they topple right off the ledge into the pool with a big splash.

nanami dusts his hands off like he just finished a chore. “problem solved,” he says.

you snort, shaking your head as everyone else laughs.

choso leans back on his hands beside you, eyes soft when they land on you again.

“you good?” he asks quietly.

“you’re the one who got heckled mid massage,” you tease.

“massage huh? worth it.”

you lie back down, head tilted toward him. “yeah?”

he looks out toward the pool rather than directly at you, voice low. “yeah.”

you swallow down the desire in your stomach and watch the sky as it turns orange and red.

the others keep splashing, yelling, chasing each other around. maki and yuki have now resorted to splashing suguru while he halfheartedly pretends to guard the snack pile like a disgruntled loser. shiu and toji are racing in circles, trying to dunk each other while ino judges them from the shallow end.

everything is loud in that harmless, summertime way, and yet you feel strangely tuned in to the small space between you and choso.

he lets himself lie beside you, close enough that your arms brush lightly. the rock is warm beneath you both. he crosses his arms under his head, eyes closing for a moment like he’s letting his body relax fully.

you turn your face toward him. “you tired?”

“little bit,” he murmurs, “water kinda knocked it out of me.”

you smile. “you act like you’re eighty.”

“i’m spry,” he insists.

“sure.”

his lips stretch upwards into a smirk.

he opens one eye just barely. “hey, you’re staring.”

“no i’m not.”

“you so are.” he mocks your voice.

"hey, that's my thing."

you toss a small pebble at his chest. it bounces off and falls into his lap. he acts like he’s been injured, grabbing his heart dramatically.

“ow,” he says weakly, he flicks the pebble back at you. it misses by a mile. “terrible aim,” you tease.

“my aim is great,” he says, sitting up slightly, stretching his arms. “i’m just being nice.”

“sure.”

he glances toward the water again and catches ino waving him over in some chaotic attempt to get a volleyball game going.

“you wanna swim more?” he asks.

“i’m good here for a bit,” you say, shifting so your legs stretch out long over the stone. “go. play.”

he hesitates, eyes flicking to your sun warmed skin, then back up to your face. “you’ll yell if you need me?”

“what am i, helpless?”

“kinda,” he says with a small grin.

you shove his knee lightly. “go before ino has a tantrum.”

he stands, water still trailing off his trunks. he stretches once, arms lifting above his head, ribs flexing. you try not to stare, but you fail miserably.

he catches you. he tries not to react. he does a terrible job of hiding the pleased look that sneaks across his face.

he taps your ankle before heading toward the group. “don’t move too far,” he says.

you lie back down, the sun soaking into your skin, listening to the distant splash as choso dives into the water again, his laugh flowing over the surface like a little ripple that somehow finds you even from across the water.

.

as the sun sets into a deeper orange maki’s the first to stretch her arms and announce she’s starving. that seems to set off a chain reaction, everyone throwing themselves out of the water or off the rocks.

“alright, pack your shit,” toji says, slinging his wet hair back like a dog.

gojo pops out of the water like a sea creature, hair sticking all over his face. “i need a snack that isn’t water,” he says, voice muffled through his fringe.

everyone slowly gathers their towels, finished drinks, suguru’s stash of snacks, gojo’s sunglasses that are broken from chucking them on the rocks too hard, and toji’s shirt which somehow ended up in a tree. there’s a lot of bickering and whining and complaining, but it all blends together in that nice white noise way that means everyone’s in somewhat of a good mood.

you grab your towel and your bag, choso scoops up whatever you almost forget without you asking. he flings it gently against your back as a soft reminder.

you all walk back slower than you came, racked with laze from the big day in the water. gojo and suguru walk close, heads tilted toward each other like they’re having their own little secret conversation.

shoko keeps flicking water at yuki with her fingers and yuki hisses at her every time. toji, sukuna, and shiu walk ahead talking about something that sounds like a very illegal hypothetical.

ino is already complaining to kento about how “nature is trying to assassinate him.”, flipping away mosquitos. nanami does not indulge this. at all.

when you reach the campsite the heat doesn't ease up at all. not terrible, but enough that nobody even thinks abour changing out of their swimmers.

nanami steps into the center of the clearing with his phone, “alright. before the sun drops too much, everyone needs to collect six pieces of firewood each. dry, not damp. we need enough for tonight and tomorrow morning.”

gojo immediately groans. “six???”

“yes.”

“can i do… two?” he tries.

“no.”

suguru just grabs him by the back of his neck and steers him away. “come on, satoru.”

“why are we together?” gojo asks loudly, even though he looks very pleased.

“because I drew the short stick,” suguru answers.

they shuffle off into the trees, weirdly quiet again, like, suspiciously quiet.

“wonder what that’s about,” maki whispers.

“they’re probably hiding something,” shoko says, lighting up another tiny joint.

you give her a look. “like what?”

she shrugs. “i dunno. maybe they brung molly and don't wanna share?”

everyone starts splitting off into their little groups. toji, sukuna, and shiu head into the deeper part of the woods, already arguing about what counts as dry wood. yuki and shoko wander off together, shoko pointing with her joint like it’s a laser pointer. maki, nanami, and ino go the opposite direction, that leaves you and choso.

he kicks a stick by his foot. “alright. let’s go get this over with.”

“ookay.”

you walk side by side at first, but the forest gets denser the farther you go. the air feels cooler under the tall trees, shadows stretching along the ground. the floor’s covered in old branches and crunchy leaves.

“six pieces each,” you mutter.

“easy,” choso says, already eyeing a big stick like a prize.

you pluck a small one from the ground and wag it at him. “one.”

“that’s cheating.”

“nope. counts.”

“absolutely not.”

you grin, stick it into your little bundle, and then suddenly bolt deeper into the woods. "let's play tag!"

choso hesitates for half a second before laughing and running after you. “hey! come back!”

you dodge around a tree, giggling as you hop over a branch. choso shouts something about unfair head starts, but he’s clearly letting you win. every time he speeds up, he slows down again, giving you a chance to stay ahead.

your heart kicks as you run, but you don’t stop. he stays close behind, footsteps crunching in the leaves and breath warm when he gets too close. every time you think he’s about to grab you, he pulls back, teasing.

“i’m gonna catch you!,” he says.

“try it!” you throw over your shoulder.

“don’t tease me,” he warns, but you can hear the smile in his voice.

you leap over another branch, except your foot snags the end of it. you stumble, and at the exact same moment choso tries his best to grab your waist to steady you. his hand misses. both of you crash forward into the forest floor.

you hit the ground with a soft yelp, and choso lands rightttt on top of you.

his arms cage around your head, palms flat in the dirt on either side of you, chest pressed to your back at first before he pushes himself up a bit. he stares down at you breathing erratically with his eyes wide like he didn’t think the game of tag would end like this.

you blink up at him, equally as mortified, yet neither of you moves.

the forest is so quiet around you, not even a bird calling. it’s just him hovering over you, face flushed, hair messy, chest rising and falling.

his voice comes out low. “…uh.. you.. okay?”

“yeah,” you breathe. “you?”

he nods, still not moving. you can feel the warmth of him through the tiny space between your bodies, the closeness so strong you can’t think.

something lustful flashes in his eyes, just for a second like all he wanted to do was take you right then and there, but he shakes his head and pushes off.

he clears his throat and scrambles back, trying to be smooth but failing. he stands up first, then offers his hand.

you slip your fingers into his and he pulls you up in one clean swish. hot.

you dust yourself off, still feeling the tingle of where his arms had pinned you to the ground.

the walk after that is… awkward. not unbearably awkward, but enough that both of you pretend to focus really hard on looking for wood.

you pick up a stick. “three.”

“that’s barely a stick,” he says, kicking at it. “that’s a twig at best.”

“still counts.”

“i hate you.”

you smile. “no you don’t.”

he doesn’t argue that. his head is too filled with you, like it had been all day. you you you. on the walk to the waterfall, in the water, walking back, you were on his mind all day.

not that you weren't regularly on his brain, that was common, but this time it was one specific sentence you'd said, the one from last night.

'you're the only guy i'm into.'

fuuuuck.

it was driving him nuts. you were into him. he wants to ask you more, he wants to dig at your brain and ask you every little thing he's been thinking for the past 15 hours, he wants to pull you up against one of these trees and put you under some truth spell that'll get you to spill your guts.

a few more steps pass before he finally speaks again, trying to stay true to his desires and pluck up the courage to ask you. “so… uhm... y'know. about last night?”

your heart starts beating in your throat, it's embarrassingly nauseating.

you look at him trying to force a casual idgaf smile. “hmm? what about it?”

he sighs and stops walking.

“what do you… feel? about me?"

ah shit, you weren’t expecting him to be blunt about it. choso rarely asks for things directly, he hints at things and circles around the point, always waits for someone else to be bold first.

aw, he was being so brave. who are you to not give him a straight answer?

you step closer. “since freshman year, i’ve had a crush on you.”

his eyes go wide like you'd just pummeled him with a big, fat, heavy bowling ball.

“you..." he coughs out of nervousness. ", what?”

“yeah.” you shrug like it’s nothing even though your heart is fluttering and your fave is hit to the touch. “you’re surprised?”

he opens and closes his mouth a bit. “i... i guess not, but i… i’ve felt the same. this whole time. since the day you broke up with your ex.”

you stare at each other again, it's silent in this forest, you both seem to clock how badly you want the other, you can feel it in the way you fiddle with your sleeve anxiously and the way he's tapping his fingers against his thigh.

the timing is perfect, far too perfect.

choso seems to take the initiative, he reaches forward, grabs your face gently with both hands, and kisses you.

you accept gingerly. it’s soft and sweet at first, he's pushing his lips against yours smoothly and fluid. the year and a smidge of longing, late nights spent cuddled up together, talking shit and smoking weed, it was all pouring out into this perfect kiss. it's sweet, but you want a little more.

you grab his neck and pull him in closer, and he melts into it. the kiss deepens so quick, you and choso had always been on the same wavelength like that. your back presses into an old tree trunk the bark rough behind you, choso’s body's flush against yours.

one of his hands stays on your cheek, the other slides to your hip, holding you still. your fingers slip into his hair and he kisses you again, slower this time, then faster, he’s been waiting years for this exact moment.

you both break apart eventually, breathing hard, foreheads touching. his eyes slide down to your lips, then back up to your pretty eyes.

he laughs under his breath. “wow... uhm."

"yeah, wow. that was great." you giggle, nudging his shoulder, he smirks and looks down at you the way guys do when they're tryna look sexy, and it was really working out for him.

"we should… probably get actual firewood." he suggests with that's smile still firm on his face.

you laugh too, your cheeks still hot. “yeah. before nanami thinks we got mauled by bears.”

you both step away from the tree, still flustered. you grab a sturdy log, he grabs two bigger pieces like he’s suddenly trying to impress you, and you keep chatting quietly while stacking your finds.

then, the forest rustles up ahead.

you stop. “uhm, did you hear that?”

choso steps in front of you slightly, protective without thinking. “yeah. hold up.”

you creep forward together, quiet as possible. you push a branch aside.

and then...

you nearly scream.

because in front of you, sort of hidden between two trees, are satoru and suguru.

and they are VERY MUCH making out.

like pressed-together, hands-in-each-other’s-hair, bodies-flushed-close making out.

you slap a hand over your own mouth.

choso slaps his hand over your hand.

your muffled voice still tries to say, “i KNEW it-”

“shhh,” he whisper laughs, eyes going huge. “shut up, shut up, shut up-” he says between muffled giggles.

you two back up like spies retreating from an active crime scene, then once you’re far enough, you both break into silent giggles, hands over your mouths, practically vibrating.

once you’re safe, you wheeze out, “i knew it! we've talked about this!”

choso grins so hard his eyes crinkle. “oh wow i thought we were onto something, that's actually crazy.”

“so crazy.”

you collect the last of your wood and head back to camp, still laughing, still bumping shoulders, still so excited from the fact that everything, everything, between you just changed in the best way possible.

"sooo, can we make out tonight? can that be a new thing?"

"sure, cho. sure."

as you and him wander back toward camp the sky is darker now, almost syrupy, the last of the sun staining the treetops in a sleepy orange.

there’s already a flame flashing, crackling steady in the pit. everyone’s scattered around it, spread out on logs and blankets, hair still damp and bodies still bare. suguru and satoru are soon to come back as well, also as happy chappy as you and choso. although, everyone's too busy arguing or talking to clock them.

you both step into the clearing trying to look normal, which immediately does not work because choso’s smile is basically glued to his face and you're not much better.

maki, bless her soul, spots the two of you before anyone else.

she glances up, squints, and then her jaw drops so fast it’s comical. “oh my god?.”

you and choso freeze.

maki points directly at choso’s mouth, “you guys made out?!”

the entire group stops what they're doing as stares, even the fire crackles quieter.

and the funniest part?

choso AND gojo both blurt out at the exact same time,

“how did you know?!”

but they say it so differently.

choso says it all playful and shameless, like he’s impressed she figured it out.

gojo says it like he’s been caught fucking the pope.

the clearing goes dead still. everyone’s heads turn… slowly… toward gojo, who now has one hand slapped across his mouth like he’s trying to deep throat the incrimination words back inside his throat.

suguru sits beside him and his whole body shudders in an 'oh no' kinda way.

yuki’s eyes are huge with surprise and shoko is barley hanging onto her laugh. toji looks delighted. sukuna grins he’s watching the best soap opera he’s ever seen. ino looks confused, nanami looks exhausted, and shiu whispers “holy shit” under his breath.

maki clears her throat loudly, dragging her eyes off of gojo and back to you and choso. “uh- i was talking about choso. his lips. they’ve got her lip gloss on them. that’s all.”

then the people start hooting with laughter.

yuki practically explodes and shoko wheezes so hard she falls against yuki’s shoulder. toji leans over and gives shiu a stack of fives like they’d made a bet on this weeks ago. sukuna’s laughing at gojo with this sharp little grin, shaking his head like, “bro… come on.”

satoru is still sitting there frozen like a glitching video game character, hand over his mouth, real fear in his eyes.

suguru elbows him. “satoru.”

no response.

another nudge. “satoru, you outed us.”

gojo whispers, horrified, “i didn’t mean to. she scared me.”

maki throws a rock at him pissing herself laughing. “i wasn’t even talking to you! see what main character syndrome does to a guy? you idiot.”

yuki wipes tears away and points at suguru. “i mean… we did all kind of expect it.”

toji claps suguru on the back like a proud uncle. “knew it since last year, kid. congrats on finally doing something about it.”

shiu smirks. “yeah. bro it's kinda obvious.”

suguru groans and hides his face in his hands while gojo sinks into him like a sad little wet noodle. suguru wraps an arm around him anyway.

“it’s fine,” suguru sighs. “all bro’s make out sometimes.”

toji chokes on the smoke he was halfway through inhaling like an idiot, “THAT’S your explanation?!”

their banter just gets rowdier and rowdier with every word from satoru'ss mouth. nanami just mutters something about wishing he had chosen a different friend group in college.

and you?

you’re sitting on this beat up log, still warm from the forest encounter, grinning so wide your cheeks hurt.

choso bumps your shoulder with his, quiet enough that only you catch it. “we’re off the hook,” he whispers.

you tilt your head into him. “guess we don’t have to hide it now, huh?”

he gives you that little smile he only ever shows when he’s really happy. “guess not.”

the others are still hollering at gojo and suguru, who are now resigned to their fate, sitting next to each other on a cooler like children in time out. satoru keeps mumbling excuses. suguru keeps smacking the back of his head lightly every time he talks. toji and shiu are already arguing about the details of their bet.

nobody’s paying attention to you two anymore. perfect!

you catch choso’s hand, tugging. “hey.”

he looks down at your fingers sliding between his. his ears tint pink. “hmm?”

you lean in a little. “wanna sneak off?”

he tries to play it cool. he really does. but the tiny smile, the way he adjusts his grip on your hand, gives him away. “uh. yeah? obviously.”

you stand, brushing dirt and sand off your legs. choso stands too, stretching a little like he’s pretending this is casual, normal, totally fine and not exactly what he’s been wanting since he kissed you against that tree.

you both slip away like teenagers skipping class, quiet steps across pine needles, the fire dimming behind you as the forest swallows the noise. the further you get, the more the chatter fades until it’s just the two of you, the soft night, and the faint glow of your tent ahead.

when you duck inside the fabric glows with warm leftover daylight. the air feels close but comfy, the mattress messy from last night. you throw on one of his hoodies over your swimmers then collapse onto the bed with a gentle bounce. gross? maybe, but you're camping, who cares.

choso flops beside you, not even pretending to play it cool anymore. he pulls the zipper down halfway to let in some air, then turns toward you with that yearning look.

you nudge his side. “aw, you’re staring.”

“can’t help it,” he mumbles with nerves creeping in on him. “you’re kinda… fucking up my whole night right now.”

you grin. “in, like, a good way?”

“in the best way.”

you pull him closer by the front of the hoodie he slipped on before, he sinks into you like he’s been feining for it.

you tangle your fingers in his hair and he lets out the smallest moan into your mouth, soft and helpless, like he’s forgetting how to think.

"god this is so peak."

"right? we shoulda done this years ago." you reply, kissing him deeper.

you lie back together against the mattress, his arm slipping around you as the kiss gets heavier. outside, the fire crackles faintly under the distant laughter of your friends, but it all feels a world away from the quiet of the tent, the closeness of him beside you.

his fingers wave over your skin, pulling back to look you in your eyes. “today was… a lot.”

you smile. “a good lot, though.”

“yeah,” he laughs. “a really good lot.”

you shift closer, your nose buried in his neck. “we don’t have to figure out everything tonight.”

“i know.” he presses a small kiss to your head. “just wanna stay like this. for a bit.”

“we can stay as long as you want.”

he holds you to his chest so tight, this was what you craved, him in all of his gooey, lovey, glory.

when his kisses trail down to your cheek again, his laughter vibrating through your own throat, you smile and pull him closer.

“everything’s good,” you murmur.

and it is.

it really, really is.

[happyyyandcrazyyy]

three taps (kaz brekker x reader)

summary: kaz taps three times. it’s his way to say i love you, i care.

or

the three times it took jesper to realize that three taps were something more than a meaningless habit.

warnings: violence, blood, implied se*ual as*ault (not detailed at all and very brief)

a/n: did i write this in less than a day? yes. did the inspiration come to me at six am? also yes. what about your other 50 wip, anna? did you write anything for them? nope.

hope you enjoyed reading this one as much as i enjoyed writing it <3

i. tap, tap, tap

Jesper had seen him do it more times than he could count. It was Kaz’s thing. Three taps, index finger hitting a wooden table, thumb brushing against a map or cane harshly meeting the floor. Most times they were fast taps, like a subconscious action, coming and going before anyone could give it any mind. Other times, however, they were slower, more emphasized, as if trying to make a point. Jesper was used to the taps, as he imagined (Y/N) and Inej also were. The sound came prior to every heist, prior to pronouncing the words of luck (no mourners, no funerals).

It was Kaz’s habit, something he probably did without even realizing, and Jesper couldn’t help but find it oddly comforting, a routine that somehow eased his nerves. (The world could be going to war, Ketterdam could be crashing down in flames, and Kaz would still tap three times. There was a sense of safety in that.)

It wasn’t until Jesper had a closer look that he realized the action was perhaps not as meaningless as he believed.

ii. cane meets ground three times: come back to me, i’m here

(Y/N) had known Kaz the longest out of all of them. Jesper hadn’t known the Slat without her, he hadn’t known Kaz without her. She’d always been there, a person in which the Dregs often found solace and always obtained an ear to listen without judgment. (Y/N) was a walking contradiction, soft around the edges yet powerful enough to bring the toughest people to their knees. She was everything Kaz wasn’t, maybe that was the reason they complimented each other as well as they did.

Keep reading

[sodaneko]

FLIGHT RISK ; Sakusa x f!reader

falling in love with your doe-eyed coworker (he hates it)

contains: office AU, enemies to lovers, suggestive and not sfw language, mention of alcohol, mention of drugs (in a jokingly manner and not consumption), MSBY are terrible wingmen, this should have been a multichapter but i crammed it into an oneshot, everything is deeply unserious. i cannot begin to describe how silly this is

a/n: i really do want him so bad it makes me look stupid

[rinstars]

# 𝐖𝐄𝐀𝐊 𝐏𝐎𝐈𝐍𝐓

PAIRING: Gojo Satoru x Reader

GENRE: Filthy smut. Just so much filth.

SYNOPSIS: Gojo Satoru hates that you’re so fucking stupid… But he doesn’t mind it when you go stupid on his cock.

WARNINGS: bully!gojo, degradation, humiliation, penetration, squirting, fingering, cunnilingus, breeding kink, cumflation, overstimulation, dumbification, dacryphilia i guess, hate fucking, cervix fucking, office sex, talks of voyeurism, mindbreak, drooling,,, i think that’s all lol i hope i didn’t forget anything!

3.9k words

You’re late to the staff meeting again.

Gojo Satoru doesn’t even look up from his phone when you slip into the conference room, but you can feel his attention on you anyway—that’s the thing about the Six Eyes, he sees everything whether he’s looking or not.

“Nice of you to join us,” he drawls, and several other teachers glance your way. Your face burns.

“Sorry, I was—”

“Let me guess,” he interrupts, finally tilting his head up so those impossibly blue eyes can pin you where you stand. His blindfold is off today, which means he’s in a mood. That makes you a bit more bothered than usual. “Training ran long because you still can’t manifest a simple veil?”

Your throat tightens. This is what he does. He humiliates you in front of your colleagues simply because if anyone had the right to, it would be him. If anyone can boast and gloat about one’s power, it’s the Six Eyes and Infinity user himself. You know it’s true, but he doesn’t have to say it in front of everyone.

“Gojo,” Nanami sighs, “leave her alone.”

“What? I’m just stating facts.” That insufferable smirk tugs at his lips, kicking his foot up the table because he can and throwing his head back—perfectly content to keep talking about how insufferably weak you are. “Two years and she still fights like a civilian who took a weekend self-defense course.”

You drop into the nearest chair, willing yourself invisible. This is normal, you remind yourself, even as tears well up your eyes and you have to blink a couple times to will it away. Gojo’s been on your case since the day you arrived at Jujutsu High, a late bloomer who didn’t even know she had cursed energy until she was eighteen. While other sorcerers trained since childhood, you’re still struggling with basics.

And Gojo Satoru never lets you forget it.

He loathes your weakness and makes sure you know it. He’ll do it in front of others, he’ll do it when it’s just the two of you. Every tear that slips from your eyes when you’re having a particularly bad day makes him grin even wider, eyes twinkling with that same look of mischief.

The meeting continues, but you can barely focus. You’re too aware of him across the table, legs spread wide in that careless way of his, occasionally glancing at you like you’re something amusing he found on the bottom of his shoe. He meets your eyes briefly, hand on his thigh twitching lightly like he wanted to probably strangle you with it. He smirks at you for a second before turning away and pretending like he listens to whatever people are saying, yet you know his Six Eyes follow you nonetheless—watching your every move. Every shift, every twitch.

What makes it worse—so much worse—is that despite everything, despite his constant criticism and cruel remarks, you want him.

You’re attracted to your bully. How pathetic is that?

It started small. Noticing the way his uniform stretched across his shoulders. How his voice dropped lower when he was annoyed. The casual grace in every movement, like physics itself bent around him. And then it grew into this shameful, persistent ache that blooms every time he corners you in the training yard, every time those eyes rake over you with disdain. It grew into that wet and heavy heat between your thighs, pooling in your underwear even as you shiver from the hatred in his eyes.

You’ve touched yourself thinking about him. Fingers circling your clit, pumping in and out of your cunt, face muffled by your pillow as you stain it with mascara-covered tears you couldn’t even wipe—rushing home to fuck yourself stupid on your fingers after he practically cornered you after your silly mistake from a mission and your thighs shook from arousal. All while imagining it’s him. Cried from shame afterward, wiping your own cum out of your thighs like it’s blood you can’t fully scrub away.

“—which is why I’m assigning her to you for remedial training,” Yaga’s voice cuts through your filthy thoughts.

Your head snaps up. “What?”

Gojo’s smirk widens. “Oh, this’ll be fun.”

“You’re not even trying.”

Gojo’s voice echoes across the empty training field. It’s late evening now, the sky bleeding orange and purple, and you’ve been at this for two hours. Your legs shake with exhaustion. The only thing keeping you up is the sheer fact that you refuse to give him another reason to add to your list of weaknesses.

“I am trying,” you manage, breathless.

“Could’ve fooled me.” He’s not even breaking a sweat, hands in his pockets as he watches you struggle through the basic kata he assigned. “My students get this in a week. You’ve had four years.”

“Not everyone is a prodigy like you—”

“No, but most people have some natural ability.” He circles you slowly, predatory. He lightly touches your hair, tugging on it slightly to make a point.“You’re special though. Spectacularly weak. It’s almost impressive.”

Your cursed energy flickers and dies. Again.

“Pathetic,” he spats. Then he’s right behind you, so close you can feel his body heat. “You know what I think?”

You can’t breathe. Can’t think. He’s never been this close before.

“I think you like being weak.” His breath ghosts over your ear. “I think you like me telling you how useless you are.”

“That’s not—” Your voice breaks.

“Then prove me wrong.” His hand wraps around your wrist, guiding it up. His touch burns through your sleeve. “Manifest your cursed energy. Right now.”

You try. God, you try. But with him pressed against your back, his fingers on your skin, your mind goes blank except for want want want—

Nothing happens.

“Disappointing,” he murmurs, but there’s something different in his voice now. Something darker. His thumb strokes over your pulse point, and you know he can feel how fast your heart is racing. “Though I have to wonder… what are you really thinking about right now?”

He knows. Somehow he knows. That stupid Six Eyes. He could probably see you dripping.

You jerk away from him, stumbling. “I need to go.”

“Running away?” He tilts his head. “Again?”

You don’t answer, just grab your bag and flee.

The next day, you’re called to his office.

Your hands shake as you knock. This is professional, you tell yourself. He probably wants to discuss training schedules or—

“Come in.”

Gojo’s office is exactly what you’d expect—minimalist, expensive, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the grounds. He’s leaning against his desk, arms crossed, and this time his blindfold is definitely off.

The door clicks shut behind you.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he says casually.

“I haven’t—”

“Don’t lie.” He pushes off the desk, stalking toward you. “You couldn’t even look at me during the morning briefing. Interesting reaction for someone who apparently finds me so repulsive.”

“I don’t—”

“Then what is it?” He’s crowding you now, backing you against the door. “Because here’s what I think. I think every time I get close to you, I can feel your cursed energy spike. I think when I insult you, your pupils dilate. I think—” his hand comes up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing your lower lip, “—you get wet when I’m mean to you.”

Your face burns with humiliation because he’s right, he’s completely right.

“Don’t touch me,” you whisper, but it sounds like begging.

“No?” His thumb presses into your mouth, eyes alight with the same amusement it always has and your lips part automatically, a heavy breath slipping past. “Then why aren’t you pushing me away?”

You should. You should shove him back and leave and report him and—

His thumb presses down on your tongue—firm and strong. The action immediately and automatically pushes your tongue out, hanging low on your lips as you feel drool collect.

“That’s what I thought,” he murmurs, pushing his thumb a little deeper—almost to your throat, almost gagging you. He tsk’ed at the gagging sound you made, reflex triggered from how far in he is. Then, he lets go, patting your cheeks with his wet finger and then running a hand through your hair—tugging it close to the base.“Such a good girl, aren’t you? So obedient even when you’re pretending you’re not.”

A whimper escapes your throat, making your thighs squeeze from the aching mess you know he’s aware of.

“Oh, you like that.” His eyes gleam with dark satisfaction, chuckling at the patheticness you display. “You know what else I think? I think you’ve been touching yourself thinking about me. Playing with your little cherry, trying to reach parts you know you can’t. You’ve fucked yourself stupid on your fingers, muffling your shouts of my name on your pillow. Haven’t you?”

The shame crashes over you, but you can’t lie to those eyes. Eyes you’ve dreamed of every single night since you’ve seen it.

He sees your answer in your face and laughs—cruel and delighted. “Fuck, that’s pathetic. Getting yourself off to the man who makes your life miserable.” His hand slides from your jaw to your throat, not squeezing, just resting there. Strong. Possessive. “Tell me what you think about.”

“I can’t—”

“Tell me.” His voice drops to that commanding tone that makes your knees weak. “Or I’ll make you show me instead.”

“You…” you swallow hard against his palm. You decide to spare him the dirty details, sparing yourself from the embarrassment.“You’re mean to me. And then you… you fuck me.”

“How?” His grip tightens a little.

“Rough,” you admit, barely audible. “You’re… rough with me.”

His pupils dilate and you feel something hard press against your hip. He’s turned on. He’s actually turned on by this. He’s turned on by you. Your display of patheticness.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes. “You’re perfect. Do you know that? Absolutely perfect.” Then his mouth is on yours, brutal and demanding, swallowing your gasp of surprise.

You should stop this. Should push him away. Instead, your hands fist in his uniform and you kiss him back desperately, messily, pouring two years of shameful wanting into it.

He groans into your mouth, grinding against you. “I’ve wanted to ruin you for so fucking long,” he mutters against your lips. “Every time you looked at me with those big, scared eyes—fuck—wanted to make you cry on my cock.”

“Satoru—”

“That’s right, baby. Say my name.” He’s pulling at your clothes now, rough and impatient. “Say it while I show you exactly what happens to weak little sorcerers who can’t defend themselves.”

Your shirt tears. He doesn’t care, he desperately and quickly rips through it, grasping your breasts in his impossibly large hands.

“Please—”

“Please what?” He presses on, trying to make you say it as he shoves his hand down your pants, fingers finding you soaked. “Oh, fuck. You’re dripping. All from me being mean to you?” He laughs, something akin to pride in his eyes. He circles your clit roughly and your hips buck, trying to feel the roughness of his fingers. Trying to imprint the feeling in you.. “Such a desperate slut. Getting this wet for someone who hates you.”

“You don’t—” you gasp as he pushes two fingers inside you without warning, curling so perfectly, it makes you buckle and fall—head on his shoulders while he presses your back against the door.

“Don’t what? Hate you?” He fucks you with his fingers, cruel and efficient. Your cunt makes sticky noises, every pump of his fingers making you cream right down to his wrist. You bite on his shoulders, muffling a scream while you stain it with the drool involuntarily dripping down your lips.“You’re right. I don’t hate you. I’ve been hard every single time I make you cry. Does that make it better or worse? Tell me, baby.”

Worse. So much worse. And so much better at the same time.

“I wanted to bend you over every surface in this school,” he continues, his voice rough with need as he works you open, scissoring his fingers inside you. His lips trail kisses on your neck, biting and licking every single one of the crevices and veins. “Wanted to make you beg. Wanted everyone to see you spread out on my cock. Wanted to fuck that timid little act right out of you until the only thing you can do is scream my name. I wanted everyone to see you, princess. So they know you might be a bit dumb in sorcery, but you go a lot more stupid when I’m bouncing you on my cock.”

You’re shaking, overwhelmed by his fingers, his words, the reality of this finally happening. Your eyes roll at the back of your head, cunt squeezing his fingers at the filth of his words. You want it so bad. That fantasy of him taking you, keeping you dumb and obedient. You’ll gladly give it to him and all he has to do is say it.

“But first,” he pulls his fingers out and you whine at the loss, the sudden emptiness.“I want to taste how desperate you are for me.”

He drops to his knees.

You barely process it before he’s yanking your pants down your legs, spreading your thighs, pushing it up against the door knob, and burying his face between them.

“Oh—fuck—” Your head slams back against the door, hands reaching up to tug on his white hair, grinding your clit down his tongue, his face, trying to feel all of him agaisnt your cunt.

“That’s it, princess” he groans against you, voice rough and deep, sending vibrations down your cunt. His teeth gently nips your clit and you let out a shout that you’re pretty sure someone definitely heard. “Let everyone hear what a slut you are for me.”

His tongue is everywhere—licking, sucking, fucking into you with obscene enthusiasm. He eats you out like he’s been starving for it, like your cunt is the only thing that matters. The world’s strongest on his knees for you. Eating you out like he’s worshipping you. One hand grips your hip bruisingly hard, holding you in place, while the other joins his mouth, two fingers curling inside you to find that spot that makes you see stars.

“Satoru—I can’t—I’m gonna— Fuck! W-wanna cum, baby. ‘s too much.” You stumble over your words, thighs shaking from the orgasm that’s about to hit you.

“Cum on my face,” he demands against your clit. “Show me how weak you are, princess. How easily I can break you apart. How easily you spread your legs for the man who fucking hates you”

You come with a cry that’s definitely too loud for the office, thighs clamping around his head, but he doesn’t stop. He keeps licking, keeps sucking, keeps fucking you with his fingers until you’re sobbing, oversensitive and shaking. Tears running down your face just as your arousal keeps dripping down your thigh.

“Too much—please—” you choke between sobs. “Can’t take it— can’t, no more, Satoru— ah, fucking hell.”

“No such thing as too much,” he growls, shaking his head against you and adding a third finger. “You’re going to fuckin’ cum again. And again. Until you’re nothing but a wet, crying mess for me, sweetheart. Till you can’t even tell me to stop cause you’re too busy cumming and crying my name out.”

He’s ruthless, working your body like he knows exactly how to destroy you. His fingers curl and thrust, finding that perfect rhythm, while his mouth seals around your clit and sucks hard.

The second orgasm hits you so hard your legs give out. He holds you up with pure strength, never breaking contact, wringing every aftershock from your body.

When he finally pulls back, his face is soaked, lips swollen and shining. He looks absolutely feral, eyes dark the way it is when you see him fight an especially stubborn curse. The same feral look he has when he wants to obliterate the world and know that he can do it if he wants to.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, standing, eyes roaming down your face all the way down to your puffy clit and glistening thighs. He sounds proud, almost tender as he takes in your appearance.“Already fucked stupid—so fucking pretty blusing and crying so sweetly, and I haven’t even put my cock in you yet.”

He comes closer, grabs your jaw and lightly tugs you towards him, forcing you to meet his eyes. “Say it. Say you’re my slut.”

“I’m…” you swallow hard, face burning with shame and arousal. “I’m your slut.”

“Louder, sweetheart," he shakes his head disapprovingly. “No need to be so shy about it. I’d say being my dirty little slut has its pros, no? Say it a little prouder, now.”

You inch closer to him, lips ghosting his while you say it with a little more conviction, knowing that hearing it from you probably makes him go a little bit closer to the insanity he’s making you go through. “Satoru, I’m your dirty little slut,” you say against him, “and because I am, I’d let you fuck me stupid, as much as you want to.”

He shivers against you, bulge getting impossibly harder on your thigh.

“Good girl.” He kisses you deeply, making you taste yourself on his tongue. Then he’s spinning you around, bending you over his desk, one hand between your shoulder blades to keep you down.

You hear his belt buckle, the sound of a zipper. Then the thick head of his cock is pressing against your entrance.

“Been thinking about this for years,” he mutters, rubbing himself through your wetness, tip already stretching you open. “Every time you fucked up in training. Every time you looked at me like I was a god and all you wanted to do was please me. Get my approval. Shit, wanted to split you open on my cock and watch you break. Fill you up nicely too. So fucking perfect and beautiful with my cum dripping down your hole.”

“Please—”

He cuts you off, slams in to the hilt, cock stretching you open and bruising your cervix as he fucks right through it. You scream. He’s huge, stretching you impossibly wide, and he doesn’t give you time to adjust before he’s fucking you with brutal, punishing strokes. You feel every vein, every ridge, rubbing into your walls with an unforgiving pace. Carving your cunt to the shape of his cock.

“That’s it, take it,” he groans, cock twitching inside of you. “Take every fucking inch like the desperate slut you are. My little cockslut, yeah? Fucking take it—God, yes, that’s it, baby.”

It’s too much. It’s not enough. You’re crying—from pleasure, from pain, from the overwhelming reality of Gojo Satoru finally, finally fucking you the way you’ve always dreamed.

“You’re so fucking tight,” he pants, one hand fisted in your hair, pulling your head back until you are flushed on his chest. He tries to look at your eyes but you are too fucked out to meet them. “Virgin?”

“N-no—”

That satisfies him.“But no one’s fucked you like this, have they?” He angles his hips and hits something inside you that makes you wail, makes you cream until your cunt is making squeaky sounds from the amount of stickiness that coats you where you meet. “No one’s been mean enough. Rough enough. Have a cock nearly big enough to make you go all brainless. They probably made love to you all gentle and sweet.” His laugh is cruel, almost jealous, yet also proud. “Not me. I’m going to ruin you for anyone else. Carve you to the shape of me, darling.”

His free hand snakes around to rub your clit and you convulse around him, throwing your head back and chanting his name like a prayer. Your tongue lols down your chin and your eyes blur. You’re going lightheaded from the pleasure. So good. So, so, so good.

“That’s it, squeeze my cock. Fuck—you’re going to make me cum already, you feel so perfect, baby” He’s rambling now, control slipping. “Want to fill you up. Want to breed this needy little pussy until you’re dripping with my cum. Want to pump it all in your cunt. Dump all my cum in you, baby—fucking hell. Would you like that?”

“Yes!” You’re sobbing, overwhelmed, another orgasm building impossibly fast. “Yes, please, please— Fill me up, God, yes. Give me all of it, Satoru, please!”

“Cum for me,” he demands, increasing his pace and swirling your clit even more ferociously. “Cum on my cock like the good slut I know you are.”

You do, and it’s different this time—wetter, more intense. You feel the tightness and heat in your stomach threatening to let go. You try to grab his arm and tell him,

“Gonna, gonna make a mess—wait—“

Liquid gushes out of you and Gojo moans like he’s fucking losing his mind. Flips you around after you make a mess on his desk and meets your eyes, not letting up with his fucking even as liquid continues gushing out of you and all you can do it shake and squeeze around him.

“Fuck, you just squirted. Holy shit—” His rhythm falters, eyes full of awe and hunger. He dips down to kiss you hard, tongue fighting for entrance. “That’s so fucking hot. Fuckin’ do it again, sweetheart. Make a mess for me.”

He’s merciless, fucking into you harder, faster, his fingers brutal on your clit until you feel him in your stomach. His fingers go around you and you feel the press of his thumb on the other hole—tight, untouched. He puts it in and you’re squirting again, making a mess of his abs, his pants, the floor. Screaming for him, pulling him in and pushing him away at the same time.

“Perfect,” he groans. “You’re fucking perfect. My perfect, weak, desperate little toy.”

You can’t form words anymore. Can only take what he gives you, shaking and crying and coming apart.

“Going to fill you up now,” he warns, his voice strained. “Going to pump you full of my cum. You’re going to fucking feel it dripping out of you for days. Gonna give it to you and fucking plug you in. Keep it in you till I empty it out just to fuck you again.”

He slams in deep one final time and you feel him pulse inside you, hot and overwhelming. He collapses over you, both of you panting.

After a moment, he pulls out slowly. You whimper at the loss, at the feeling of his cum starting to leak out.

“Look at that,” he murmurs appreciatively, fingers gathering the mess and pushing it back inside you. Then, he slips your underwear back, keeping his cum warm and safe inside of you. “So full of me. This is where you belong, isn’t it? Bent over my desk, stuffed with my cum, too weak to even stand.”

You should be humiliated. You are humiliated. But you’ve never felt so satisfied in your life.

He pulls you up gently—which is jarring after everything else—and brushes your tears away with surprising tenderness.

“You okay?” he asks, and there’s actual concern in his voice now.

You nod shakily. “Yeah. I’m… yeah.”

“Good.” He kisses you softly. “Because we’re doing that again. A lot. Think of it as… intensive training.”

Despite everything, you laugh.

“There she is,” he grins. Then his expression turns serious. “For what it’s worth… you’re not actually weak. You just needed the right motivation.”

Your cursed energy flickers to life, stronger than you’ve ever felt it, wrapped around both of you.

His eyes widen. “Holy shit. Did you just—”

“I think,” you say breathlessly, “you might be onto something with this training method.”

His grin turns absolutely wicked. “Oh, we’re going to have so much fun.“​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

[ghostlyscripture]

hot gum (saints).

synopsis: you never saw church as something to worship, but something to swear off. there were too many rules, too much to uphold, and you just weren’t made for the straight-laced nature of it all. jeongin was though—made for it, that is. when you slide into the pews some sunday on a drunken dare, you see him for the first time. after that? you make sure you’re the only thing on his mind.

pairings: churchgoer!jeongin x f!reader genre: smut, a touch of angst (if you squint) contains: corruption, religious guilt, innocence loss, virgin!jeongin, experienced!reader, smoking (reader smokes cigarettes), semi public sex (church bathroom hehehe), oral (m + f receiving), pet names (jagi, sweet boy, baby), making out, public teasing, panty stealing. there may be some warnings missing, so read with caution word count: 12.6k

now playing: hot gum - sofia isella

[a/n]: FIRST AND FOREMOST i’ve only been to church like- once. and it was 15+ years ago. that being said, i apologize if anything is blatantly wrong about the church system i’ve set up in this fic?? idk man, i just kinda went with the flow :p enjoy!!

— this has not been thorougly proof read

you don't believe in god, don’t believe in what the almighty supposedly has to offer you.

you do believe in entertainment, though.

that's why you're here, wedged into a polished oak pew that smells faintly of lemon polish and centuries of collective guilt. your best friend, hyora, digs her elbow into your ribs every time you so much as think about checking your phone.

the dare is a simple one: attend one full sunday service without complaint. succeed, and she'd cover your drinks next weekend. easy money, really. there wasn’t much thinking twice before you accepted her challenge.

you'd expected boredom, maybe some off-key organ music and a sermon about loving thy neighbor. the usual.

what you didn't expect, though, was this.

the church is a jewel box of stained glass and incense smoke, light pooling in reds and blues across marble flooring. the architecture demands reverence: vaulted ceilings that swallow sound and spit back echoes, brass fixtures that gleam like they're polished daily by someone's devoted grandfather.

it's theater, you realize. it’s gorgeous, manipulative theater designed to make you feel small and awestruck.

you're not awestruck.

after a while, the choir shuffles in. they’re all white robes and hymnals clutched to chests. they blend into one another, just like they’re meant to.

you're half-listening to the pastor's opening remarks when the singing starts, and that's when notice him. or, really, he makes himself noticed.

third row, second from the left.

dark hair falls just past his eyebrows, jaw sharp enough to cut glass, shoulders filling out his robe in a way that suggests he's broader than the fabric would like to suggest.

it's his face that stops you cold—eyes downcast, expression serene to the point of blankness, mouth forming each word of the hymn with careful precision.

he looks like a painting of devotion, something renaissance masters would've fought over for the chance of having him as a muse.

and just in case his visuals weren’t stunning enough to be cruel—unfair, even—his voice is a painting within itself.

his voice rises above the others, a clear tenor that seems to come from somewhere deeper than his chest. it's earnest and unguarded in a way that makes your teeth ache.

you blink once, twice. you lean forward subconsciously, studying him like he's a puzzle sent for you to solve.

it only takes a moment of your gaze on him for you to decide that god—whomever he may be—took his time with this boy.

"yang jeongin," hyora whispers, following your gaze. "youth group golden boy. voice of an angel, wouldn't hurt a fly, probably prays before meals even when he's alone."

you’re lip twitches. of course, all the pretty ones always have the most… choice hobbies.

"he always look that constipated while singing?"

hyora snorts, trying her best to disguise it as a cough when the woman in front of you turns to glare. you shoot her the most innocent smile you can muster.

"that's not constipation,” hyora whispers. “that's purity."

purity.

the word drops in your brain like a match striking tinder.

you spend the next several seconds gathering every detail you can: the way he doesn't let his gaze wander during the hymn, how his hands grip the hymnal like he fears it may fly away, the mindful space he maintains between himself and the soprano beside him.

it's armor, you realize.

he's wearing his devotion like a shield.

you take a breath, lips curling into something joyful as you continue to watch.

game start.

the service drags on—scripture readings, responsive prayers, a sermon about resisting temptation that feels just a little too on-the-nose—but you're barely listening.

why?

because you're watching jeongin.

you’re watching how he mouths along to the pastor's words. watching the slight furrow between his brows when the sermon turns to sin. the rigid set of his spine, like he's holding himself together through sheer force of will.

by the time the final hymn concludes and people start filing toward the exit, shaking hands and exchanging pleasantries, you've made up your mind.

"i'm going to talk to him," you tell hyora, already looking over your shoulder to watch jeongin and his pack of singing good-ol-boy’s walk in the opposite direction of the crowd.

hyora grabs your wrist. "don't you dare-"

"what?” you turn towards her with a raised brow. “i'm just going to ask about the music. it's called being polite."

"you don't have a single polite bone in your body." she retorts, but she's already grinning knowing damn well you’ll do it despite what she has to say. she's already calculating how good the story will be later.

you catch him near the choir room, still in his robe, hymnal tucked under one arm. he's talking to an older woman—his choir director, maybe—nodding so sincerely at whatever she's saying that you have to hold in a laugh.

when she leaves, he turns toward the hallway, and you step into his path.

"excuse me?" you call. you’re batting your lashes like it’s second nature.

jeongin stops short, eyes widening just slightly.

up close, he's even prettier—long lashes, fox eyes, lips that look perpetually on the verge of forming an apology. there's a faint pink flush across his cheekbones, like he's not used to being addressed directly.

"hi," he says softly, polite. his voice is even prettier outside of a holy hymn. it’su warm and a little unsure.

it’s unfair how perfect he is.

"hi. sorry to bother you, I just…" you gesture vaguely toward the sanctuary. "that last hymn? the harmony you did on the third verse was incredible. i don't know much about music, but that was really something."

everything that comes out of your mouth is a load of bullshit. not that he doesn’t sing well, he does, but you have no clue about harmonies or hymns.

you eye him carefully, praying he doesn’t catch onto your fib.

to your upmost enjoyment, the soft rose flush of his cheeks deepens. he ducks his head, and you catch the smallest smile tugging at his mouth.

good. you have an in.

"oh. thank you. that's… thank you. it's just, uh, it's a traditional arrangement, so I can't really take credit-"

"you sang it, though.” you cut him off. “that counts."

he looks up at you properly for the first time, and you watch him try to categorize you. you're not dressed for church—skirt that doesn’t go past your knees (sinful), shirt stretched tight enough to become a hint translucent (provocative), boots that click too loudly on the tile (disruptive). you can see the moment he decides you're an outsider. not a threat, maybe, but not safe.

not one to follow the faith.

"are you new here?" he asks. the question seems to burst from his lips, sudden and a little unsure.

cute.

"just visiting. friend dragged me." you tilt your head, letting your smile sharpen just a fraction. "might come back, though. the music's worth it."

his lips twitch, smile faltering. "that's... that's great. it's always nice to see new faces."

the words are automatic, youth-group-script perfect. his body language, on the other hand, screams please leave.

he shifts his weight, angles himself toward the exit, clutches the hymnal a little tighter.

you let the silence stretch just long enough to be uncomfortable, then step aside.

"anyway, i won't keep you. thanks for the show."

he blinks. "show?"

"the singing," you clarify, all innocence. "what else?"

you don't wait for an answer.

you turn and walk away, boots echoing down the hallway, and you don't need to look back to know he's still standing there, frozen, trying to figure out what just happened.

you wonder if he asks god for an answer.

outside, hyora is waiting by her car, scrolling through her phone. she looks up when you approach, eyebrows raised.

"well?"

you mimic her arched brow. "well what?"

"did you get his number? ask him out? scar him for life?"

you slide into the passenger seat, grinning. "i complimented his singing."

hyora turns the key to to ignition and the start of the engine is the only thing filling the silence between you. she waits for you to carry on, and when you don’t she asks “that’s it?”

"that's it."

hyora stares at you for a long moment, then groans. "fuckin’ hell, babe. you're going to be weird about this, aren't you?"

you let out a huff of laughter. "i have no idea what you mean."

but you do. you absolutely do.

because the look on his face when you said show? the split-second of confusion and something sharper, something almost like fear? that look is going to keep you up tonight. you're going to replay it again and again and again. dissect it. figure out exactly what it means and how to make it happen again.

hyora pulls out of the parking lot, shaking her head with something between a laugh and a disapproving scoff. "you're a menace."

"yeah," you agree, still smiling. "i know."

you reach for the pack of gum tucked in your bra—your only hope of a pocket due to the lack of such in your skirt—and pull out a back of bubble gum.

the sweetness of stick floods your tastebuds. it reminds you of him.

you don't mean to go back.

really, you don't.

the dare is over, hyora owes you drinks, and you've got better things to do than hanging around a church waiting for a pretty choir boy to notice you. but…

three days later, you're walking past the building on your way to nowhere in particular, and you see the side door propped open. voices drift out—harmony, laughter, someone counting off a beat.

choir practice.

you should keep walking.

you know you should keep walking.

but your feet carry you to the low wall near the entrance. you pull out a cigarette, leaning against the brick like you've got all the time in the world. and in this moment? you do. the smoke curls up toward the stained glass windows, and you think about hymns and halos and a particular flavor of forbidden fruit.

about ten minutes later the door swings open wider and people begin trickling out.

you spot jeongin immediately—button-down shirt rolled to his elbows, hair slightly mussed, choir folder tucked under one arm. he’s beautiful. he’s beautiful and he's laughing at something someone said and the sound is so genuine it almost makes you feel guilty.

almost.

he doesn't see you until he's halfway down the steps. when his eyes land on you, and his entire body goes still. you take a slow drag from your cigarette, holding his gaze, and blow the smoke out in a thin stream.

"hey," you call.

he glances around, like he's hoping you're talking to someone else. when it's clear you're not, he approaches slowly, the way you'd approach a stray dog you weren't sure was friendly.

fuck. he was adorable.

"hi," he says. he eyes your cigarette, then, almost apologetically: "we’re not supposed to smoke on church property."

we’re. an interesting choice of wording—he’s grouping you in with the rest of them.

"sorry." you're not. you drop the cigarette and crush it under your boot anyway, watching his shoulders relax a fraction. "didn't realize. i was just passing by and heard the music."

"oh," he shifts his folder from one arm to the other like he needs something other than you to focus on. "we practice most wednesdays. if you're interested in joining, you could talk to mrs. choi—she's the director-"

"i don't sing."

"oh," he says again.

the conversation has nowhere to go. you can see him calculating his exit.

before he can make an excuse, you smile. "you're jeongin, right?"

his eyes snap up to yours. "i- yes. how did you—"

"lucky guess."

it's not. hyora told you, but watching him try to puzzle out how you know his name is too entertaining to correct. he opens his mouth, closes it, gives himself a moment to think, then settles on a polite, confused smile.

"i should get going," he says. "it was nice seeing you again."

you tilt your head to the side, not dissimilar to a curious cat. you dig a stick of gum out of your back pocket and feed it past your lips. with a smile that’s all innocence, you let the wrapper fall to the concrete.

his eyes catch on your lips for a second long enough to be noticeable. wen the wrapper hits the floor he glances to it, pained.

"you too, jeongin."

you say his name like it's a secret, and he flinches. not much, just a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth. but you catch it.

he turns and walks toward the parking lot and you watch him go, already planning your next move in the game he didn’t even know he was apart of.

because this isn't over. not when it’s just begun.

it becomes a pattern.

every wednesday, you find yourself outside the church. you lean against the same wall, lighting the same brand of cigarettes you don't even particularly like.

it’s boredom. it’s curiosity. it’s entertainment.

jeongin notices. how could he not? the third week, he doesn't even look surprised when he sees you there—just resigned, maybe a little wary, like you're a test he hasn’t studied for.

"you're here again," he says, but the undertone of it carries like a question.

you blow smoke away from him this time—a concession you don't examine too closely. "how was practice?"

"it was... fine." it’s a stalled response. you make him uncomfortable, it’s visible.

it makes you smile.

"just fine?"

he shifts his weight. "we're preparing for easter service. it's a lot of material."

"easter's months away."

"we like to be prepared."

of course they do. your lips curl around your cigarette. "very responsible."

he doesn't know what to do with that—with you, really. you can see it in the way he stands there, caught between politeness and self-preservation.

eventually, he clears his throat. "do you... need something?"

the question is so earnest it almost makes you laugh. "no. do you?"

"i don't-" he stops, thinks about what to say. it’s like watching a computer reboot—slow and strangely satisfying. "i should go."

all you do is hum.

you don't stop him. you never do.

as you watch him walk to his car—a modest sedan, probably a hand-me-down—and you catch the way he glances back before getting in. just once. just long enough.

hook, line, sinker.

the fourth week, jeongin brings you a pamphlet.

"i thought you might be interested," he says, not quite meeting your eyes as he holds it out. "there's a young adult group that meets on fridays. it's casual. just discussion and... fellowship."

you take the folded sheet. the glossy paper is covered in stock photos of diverse twenty-somethings laughing over coffee. you actively have to fight down a groan. "fellowship," you repeat, the word leaving an unpleasant taste on your tongue. "that sounds very churchy."

"it's not like... i mean, it's welcoming. to everyone. you don't have to be, uh..." jeongin trails off, clearly realizing he's about to say something potentially offensive.

"a believer?"

his ears go red. "i just meant- you've been coming by a lot, so I thought maybe you were curious. about... stuff."

you're curious. just not about what he thinks.

"that's sweet of you, jeongin." you purr, folding the pamphlet to tuck it into your jacket pocket, right next to your cigarettes. "i'll think about it."

His face does something complicated—relief and disappointment and something else you can't quite name. "yeah, okay. good. that's... good."

the silence stretches. you wait, expecting him to make one of his usual ‘i need to leave’ excuses.

he doesn’t. instead:

"can I ask you something?" he says finally.

it takes you a moment to respond, surprised. jeongin doesn’t ask you things. "uh, sure?"

"why do you keep coming back?"

there it is. the question you’ve been expecting for weeks. you could lie—tell him you like the music or the architecture, maybe some bullshit about finding yourself.

instead, you hold his gaze and smile. "maybe I like the company."

jeongin blinks. processes. you once again compare it to a computer—watching it buffer. "the... company."

you’re eyes sparkle as you watch him try to piece things together.

you watch the realization dawn slowly, like sunrise through stained glass.

his lips part slightly. the folder in his arms shifts, and he clutches it tighter, like it might protect him.

"i-" he stops. starts again. “i don't think…"

"relax," you laugh, pushing off the wall. "i'm just messing with you."

you're not. you're absolutely not, but he looks so close to bolting that you throw him the lifeline.

"right. of course. i knew that." he definitely didn't. cute. "i should really-"

"go on, golden boy," you pull out another stick of gum, unwrap it slowly. "see you next week?"

jeongin doesn't answer. just nods once, stiff and uncertain, and practically flees to his car.

you pop the gum in your mouth and taste artificial sweetness. cherry, the package says. you say him apply cherry chapstick a week or two ago and promptly ditched the bubble gum.

hyora thinks you're insane.

"he's clearly not interested," she chides over drinks that friday. "or he's too scared to be interested. either way, you're wasting your time."

you take a long sip of your drink, letting the alcohol wash down any agreement that may have been climbing up your throat. "i'm not wasting anything."

hyora scoffs. "you're going to a church every week! for a boy who flinches when you smile at him-" she gives you a look. "that's not your usual style."

she's right, and you both know it.

her perception on the situation pisses you off for some reason you can’t name.

usually, you like easy—people who know the game, who flirt back, who don't require this much effort. but there's something about jeongin's skittishness, his earnestness, the way he looks at you like you're a riddle he's not allowed to solve.

it’s intoxicating, better than any high you’d ever experienced.

"maybe I'm branching out," you mutter against the brim of your glass with a small pout.

hyora’s laugh is singular and dismissive. "branching out into what? corruption??bery on-brand for you."

"i'm not corrupting anyone."

she snorts into her drink. "babe. you're literally trying to seduce a choir boy. if that's not corruption, i don't know what is."

"i'm not trying to seduce him."

"yet."

you pretend to ponder the possibility for a moment before you let your lips curl upwards.

"yet," you concede with a grin.

hyora shakes her head, but she's smiling too. "just... be careful, okay? guys like that?” she sighs like she’s remembering a love one long passed. “they don't recover easy."

you think about that later, alone in your apartment, scrolling mindlessly through your phone.

they don't recover easy.

hyora had said it like you're a natural disaster—a hurricane with a taste for innocence.

maybe you are…

maybe that's the point.

the fifth week, he's not there.

you tell yourself it doesn't matter, that you weren't really expecting him anyway. but you wait longer than usual, cigarette burning down to the filter between your fingers, eyes on the door that never opens.

when practice ends and the others file out—laughing, chatting, normal—you stop someone at random. a girl with gold-rimmed glasses and a cross necklace.

"jeongin, where is he?" it’s a little curt, brutally forward.

the poor girl looks surprised to be addressed. "oh- he's sick, i think. he texted the group chat earlier."

a group chat? if jeongin had been the one telling you about his church choir group chat, you would’ve laughed. coming from someone else, though? it felt like a cruel dig.

"right. thanks."

You let your cigarette fall from between your fingers and crush it under your boot.

sick. or avoiding you.

probably avoiding you.

that shouldn't bother you as much as it does.

week six: jeongin’s back.

he looks tired—shadows under his eyes, hair less carefully styled than usual. when he sees you on the wall, his step falters, but you don’t notice the flicker of fight-or-flight in his eyes. progress, maybe.

"you came back," he says, like he's surprised, like part of him hoped you wouldn't.

you smile at him, offering no response other than the tilt of your head.

jeongin stares at you like he’s expecting something. then, unexpectedly: "can i ask you something?"

there’s something in his gaze that makes your lips pull upwards. "you always ask me that before asking me things." you reply with ease, trying to not let his lingering eyes fuel your ego too much.

there’s definitely been progress.

"i-" a flicker of a smile, gone too fast. you wish it had stayed longer. "fair point."

you watch him, waiting for him to voice whatever was on his mind.

it takes a few long seconds, but eventually he gets there.

"why me?" he asks quietly. "if you wanted... company, or whatever, there are other people. people who'd actually-" He stops himself, colors rising. "I just don't understand why you keep... why me."

it's a good question. an honest question. and maybe he deserves an honest answer.

you won’t be the one to grant it to him, though.

no. honesty can be granted to him by his pastor once he’s found himself kneeling in the confession booth. honesty isn’t your job. your job is to poke and prod and tease until his eyes don’t shine with the purity of someone who’s never experienced fun.

you push off the wall to close some of the distance that seems to stretch between the two of you.

"because you're pretty when you're uncomfortable,” you don’t try to hide the up and down you give him. “watching you try to figure out if wanting something makes you a bad person is the most fascinating thing i've seen in years."

jeongin’s breath catches. you see it—the moment your words land, the way his eyes widen slightly, pupils dilating. fear and fascination in equal measure.

you take a precious second to admire how good it looks on him.

"i don't want anything," he whispers. you can’t tell if he’s trying to convince you or himself. maybe it’s a bit of both.

"i know."

"then why-"

you take a step closer. jeongin mirrors the movement, taking a step back.

"i think part of you wants to know what it feels like to break the rules, to want something you're not supposed to have."

he's frozen now, knuckles white around the folder in his grip, eyes locked on yours.

"i'm not-" his voice cracks. "i'm not like that."

you have to fight off a snort. "okay."

"i'm not."

"i believe you." you don't. neither does he—you see it in the way his gaze wavers.

the silence between you is heavier than it’s ever been. it’s charged, dangerous. you can see his pulse jumping in his throat. you wonder if he can hear how fast your heart is beating.

finally, he takes another step back. "i should go."

you purr, more than pleased. “you do that.”

but he doesn't move. not yet. he just stands there, looking at you like you're something terrible and beautiful all at once—like he knows exactly how this story ends and can't stop reading anyway.

"next week?" you ask softly.

jeongin swallows hard, nods once, and turns to walks away.

you don't go to the youth group that friday.

or the one after that.

it's not strategy, exactly—more like testing a theory. if jeongin thinks you're losing interest, will he chase? or will he breathe a sigh of relief and go back to his carefully ordered, prayers and halos lifestyle?

the answer comes on a wednesday when he finds you in your usual spot.

"you didn't come," he says without any other greeting.

you look up from your phone, feigning surprise. when in doubt, play dumb. "to what?"

"the group. you said you'd think about it." there’s a pout in his voice. you like the way it curls around the syllables.

"i did think about it."

"…and?"

you tuck your phone away to give him your full attention.

he's wearing a navy sweater today, sleeves pushed up to bunch around his elbows. there's something almost desperate in the broad set of his shoulders.

fucking adorible.

"and I decided it probably wasn't my scene."

"but you didn't even try-"

"are you disappointed?" he question comes out more as a tease than something you actually want an answer to.

he hesitates, eyes narrowed with what you can only assume is an internal conflict. "yeah. i am."

that surprises you enough that you any quick retort you could’ve had is lost. jeongin takes advantage of the silence.

"this friday," he says, rushed, like he's afraid he'll lose his chance to speak if he doesn’t act with haste. "just... just come once. if you hate it, you never have to come back. but give it a chance.” jeongin’s eyes are wide, like a child begging for one more taste of something sweet. quietly, he tacks on a little “please."

it’s just that which does it for you. that soft, earnest please that sounds like he's asking for something far more important than your attendance at some stupid church function.

"fine," you hear yourself say. "once. that’s all you get from me, yeah?"

his whole face lights up, and you realize this may have been a terrible mistake.

friday evening finds you in the church’s basement—because fucking of course it's in the church’s basement—surrounded by inspirational posters and folding chairs arranged in a some poor attempt of a circle. there are maybe fifteen people, all around your age—late teens, early twenties. they're all friendly in that aggressively wholesome way that makes you want to check for exits.

you’ve been here for two minutes, and you already want to leave.

jeongin spots you near immediately. the relief that floods his face is almost comical.

he excuses himself from whatever conversation he’s caught in and crosses to you in four long strides.

he’s damn near beaming when he welcomes you. "you came."

you don’t share his enthusiasm. "i said I would."

“i know, but i thought-" he stops himself and shakes his head, trying to shake off the words he’d almost uttered. "never mind. i’m glad you're here. come on, i'll introduce you."

he doesn't touch you as he guides you towards the circle—wouldn't dare—but he stays close as he rattles off names you immediately forget. everyone's nice.

too nice. it sets your teeth on edge.

the session itself is... fine. boring, mostly. they're discussing some book about finding purpose or god's plan or something equally abstract. you don't contribute much, just watch the dynamics—who defers to whom, who's trying too hard, who's genuinely invested versus who's here out of obligation.

and you watch jeongin, because how could you not? he’s why you’re here, after all.

he's different here—more confident, more articulate. it doesn’t take much for you to realize that this is his element, the faith and the fellowship and the fitting in.

he references bible verses from memory, offers thoughtful commentary, makes the others laugh with some self-deprecating story about his childhood. you can see why they like him. why he's probably everyone's favorite—the golden choir boy with a voice touched by god himself.

he's good at this. he’s good at being good.

you’ve never wanted to put someone on their knees so badly in your life.

after holy conversation that you vaguely consider as your own person hell, there coffee and cookies, because of fucking course there is.

you're halfway through planning out your grand escape when jeongin materializes at your elbow.

"so… what did you think?" he sounds genuinely hopeful. you find it a tad bit pathetic.

you try for something positive. "it was... enlightening."

jeongin sees through it instantly.

"you hated it."

"i didn't hate it,” you correct with a lie. “it just wasn't really my thing."

"but you came. that's what actually matters." he's smiling now—that soft, hopeful smile that does dangerous things to your resolve. when he starts again, that hopeful undertone to his words seems to triple. "maybe next time-"

"there won’t be a next time."

that pretty smile falters. "oh."

"i came because you asked, but this-“ you gesture vaguely at the room. "it's not me. you know that." it comes out a little sharper than you mean it to. you watch the words hit him like a punch to the gut.

"i- i know, i just thought that-" his voice breaks off, frustrated. "i don't know what i thought."

there's something raw in his voice, something that makes you soften despite yourself. against your better judgement, you try your best to console him, to get that stupidly unfair smile back on those equally unfair lips.

"hey- i appreciate the invitation, really. i'm glad i got to see you in your natural habitat."

"my natural habitat," he echoes with a weak laugh.

you hum a small confirmation. “you're good at this—the whole... community thing. Faith, or whatever." you pause just long enough to eye him. "it suits you."

jeongin looks at you like he's trying to figure out if you're mocking him. you're not, for once. it's the truth. he seems to gather as much and mutters a small “thanks”

before the conversation can carry further, someone calls his name from across the room. jeongin glances back, then at you, clearly torn.

"go," you tell him, head dipping in the way of the man who’d called his name. "i'm fine."

he shifts his weight, unsure, and that's when you notice it—his collar. the left side is folded under, crooked, probably from when he pulled his sweater on. it's such a small thing, barely even noticeable, but it bothers you more than it should.

"you're crooked," you catch him by the wrist before he can fully turn away, gesturing to his collar.

jeongin reaches up automatically, fumbling. "where?"

"here. hold still…"

you step into his space—close enough to smell his soap, something clean and faintly herbal—and reach for his collar. your fingers brush the warm skin of his neck as you straighten the fabric, smoothing it down carefully, far more carefully than you should.

jeongin goes very, very still.

"there," you murmur, but you don't step back. neither does jeongin.

instead, you glance over his shoulder, then over your own. no one’s looking. you feel something instinctual curl up your spine like a snake, unholy and undeniable.

you let your hand drift lower—slow, deliberate—smoothing down the front of his sweater. over his collarbone. down his chest. jeongin’s heart hammers beneath your palm, wild and frantic, and you pause there, right over it, feeling every rapid beat.

his breath hitches audibly. you exhale heavily through your nose.

you look up at him through your lashes as your hand continues its descent over his sternum, his ribs, down toward his stomach. that's when his hand shoots up, catching your wrist. his grip is tight, bordering on painful. when you look up his eyes are wide and dark, pupils blown. if you didn’t know any better, you’d say it was something close to dazed. panic tinges the edges of it, sure, but there something deeper in his gaze.

"please-" his voice is wrecked, barely more than a whisper. "don't."

you freeze. "don't what?"

"this. whatever-" he swallows hard, adam's apple bobbing as he tries he damndest to compose himself. "i can't- i can't do this."

"i'm not doing anything," you say softly, which is technically true and completely dishonest.

"yes, you are." his fingers tighten around your wrist. "you're- god…” the lord name in vain sounds so good coming from jeongin’s lips. you want to eat him alive. “you're looking at me and touching me, and i—" his voice breaks again, eyes wide in something closely related to terror. "i can’t do this.”

his hand leaves yours then, jerking away as if burned. you watch as his gaze darts nervously over the room, desperately frantic to ensure his peers caught no wisp of the interaction the two of you just exchanged.

he swallows again, raising a hand to tug at the collar of his shirt. it makes you feel better to know you aren’t the only one overheating.

when jeongin looks back to you, his expression shifts in a way that’s a little hard to describe—it’s subtle but firm, a wall built high with hopes of keeping that glint in his eye hidden.

it doesn’t. but hey- it’s the effort that counts.

jeongin says nothing. he stares for a few moments, bewildered and frightened and—dare you say—a little turned on all at once. he blinks twice, exhales sharp through his nose. for a moment you think he may actually say something, but instead he turns on his heel and walks off, his shoulders visibly tight beneath the fabric of his sweater.

progress whispers the little devil perched all pretty on your shoulder. you can’t help but agree.

the following week, you’re back. not just back to your usual spot—posted up outside on wednesdays waiting for choir practice to let out—but back back.

by the time sunday rolls around, you find yourself once again perched in the lemon-scented pews.

it isn’t for you, but you have to admit that the church itself is a work of art. though you’ve only been in once before, the thought of the architecture and, more specifically, the stained glass has crossed your mind many times since.

as you glance around the open space, you feel a pair of eyes on you almost like it’s physical. it takes a second to realize who’s eyes they belong to.

jeongin spots you almost immediately—standing in perfect line with the other members of the choir.

you watch his eyes widen from across the sanctuary, how his lips part in surprise mid-verse. he recovers just as quickly as he stuttered, but his gaze keeps finding you throughout the service, nervous and searching.

when the choir finishes their opening hymns. the congregation settles, and you watch as the choir members are dismissed to find their seats. jeongin's gaze immediately falls on you again, but there's a moment where he hesitates, visibly torn between sitting with his usual group and doing what he clearly (to you) wants to do.

want wins.

jeongin crosses the sanctuary with measured steps, trying not to look too eager, too obvious. when he reaches your row, he murmurs a quiet "excuse me" to the elderly couple beside you and slides into the space at your side.

"hi," he whispers, not quite meeting your eyes.

"hi yourself." you let your gaze drag over him—the crisp white button-down, the navy slacks, the careful way he's arranged himself to maintain a respectable distance. something hot licks at your spine.

“i wasn’t expecting to see you here.” the way he words it is a statement, but the undercurrent of his tone is questioning, nearly suspicious in the way it lands. his cautiousness is fair—you hadn’t told him you were planning to appear for service, and you are far from the type of person to show just because.

"i wanted to come.” your response earns you first real glance of the day, jeongin’s eyes narrowed just so as he tries to work out what’s going on in your pretty little head. "what? is that not okay?"

it takes him a second to reply. he only does so once his eyes have focused back on the pastor. "it's more than okay."

the service begins in earnest. prayers are recited, scripture is read, the pastor launches into a sermon about faithfulness that you can’t bother to keep up with. you're too aware of jeongin beside you. he sits too straight, too proper, with hands folded neatly in his lap. his throat bobs when he swallows. you also catch the way his eyes keep darting toward you and then away again like he's afraid to look too long.

it’s cute, a note of entertainment in a room brimming with boredom.

fifteen minutes in, you shift slightly, adjusting your position so your thigh presses against his. it's subtle. innocent, even. but jeongin goes rigid beside you, his breath catching in a way that makes satisfaction curl warm in your chest.

you wait. let him settle. let his guard slip just enough.

then you move your hand.

it starts innocently enough. you let your hand rest on the pew between you, fingers splayed across the polished wood. then, with a slowness only made to tease, you slide your fingers up and onto his knee.

jeongin's entire body tenses. his eyes stay fixed forward, but you see his jaw clench from the corner of you eye. his hands tighten in his lap. he doesn't move, doesn't push you away. in fact, he doesn't acknowledge it at all.

so you let your hand linger there, thumb tracing a small, idle circle against the fabric of his slacks. it’s innocent. friendly. nothing anyone would notice if they looked over.

but jeongin notices. oh god, how could he not? his breathing has gone shallow, barely controlled, and when you glance at him from the corner of your eye, his face is flushed, jaw tight with tension.

you wait another minute or two, letting the anticipation build. it’s only after your satisfied with how jeongin forces his breath to even out that your fingers press higher by another inch. and then a second.

jeongin’s hand twitches before it moves, fingers wrapping around your wrist with a strength that catches you a little off guard. his grip is tight, bordering on painful, but he doesn't pull your hand away. he just holds it there, frozen mid-thigh, like he can't decide whether to stop you or let you continue.

in hopes of prompting an answer, you lean in slightly, words nothing more than a soft breath. "tell me to stop."

his throat works. his fingers tremble around your wrist. but he doesn't say it—doesn't tell you to stop. instead, after what feels like an eternity, his grip loosens. just slightly. just enough.

permission.

that’s what you take it for, at least.

your hand slides higher, moving in slow, torturous inches that make his breath hitch audibly. his thigh is firm under your palm, muscle tensing as you trace mindless patterns against the fabric. you can feel the heat of him through his slacks, can feel the way he's trying so hard not to react, not to shift, not to make a sound that might draw attention.

when your hand creeps towards the top of his thigh, dangerously close to where you can see the fabric beginning to strain, jeongin makes a sound—quiet and choked and desperate.

you’re mouth waters. you’re thighs press further closed than they already are.

his hand covers yours again, but this time it's not to stop you. his fingers lace through yours, holding your hand there like he's afraid you'll pull away. his head drops forward slightly, shoulders rising and falling with each labored breath that he’s trying so hard to hide.

"please," jeongin whispers, so quiet you almost miss it over the pastors voice. you're not sure if he's begging you to stop or to keep going. you're not sure he knows either.

you lean closer, lips brushing his ear with each spoken word. "come with me."

"what-" his voice cracks. "where?"

"bathroom." it’s said so simply that it causes jeongin to double take. understanding dawns in his eyes, followed immediately by panic.

"we can't. not here. not during-"

"then tell me no." you pull your hand back, watching him bite back a sound of protest. his fingers move too, twitching forwards in hope of pulling you back before thinking better of it. "tell me you don't want to. tell me to leave you alone."

his silence echoes louder than only scream could. his eyes close, jaw working like he's physically fighting with himself.

"jeongin." your voice is soft but unforgivingly firm. "yes or no."

he opens his eyes to look at you. it’s in that moment that you see the exact instant where his composure not just fails, but collapses.

"yeah-" he’s breathless. “yeah, okay..”

your eyes track to where his throat bobs, and you have the urge to get your mouth over his adam’s apple.

you stand first, making a show of smoothing your clothes, nodding apologetically to the people in your row as you edge past them. jeongin waits exactly thirty seconds—you count them—before following, mumbling something about needing air even though no one asked, looking flushed and unsteady in a way that anyone paying attention would absolutely notice.

you don't go far. just back through the hallway, around the corner, and into the single-stall bathroom at the end of the corridor. the halls echo with the sound of your shoes against the hardwood, jeongin’s not far behind you.

you've barely closed the door before jeongin slips in behind you. you give him about three seconds of air before you're turning, raising your hands to his chest and pressing him up against the door.

"wait-" he starts, but you're already there, fingers winding in his button up, pushing up on your toes to close the distance.

you kiss him before he can get another word in.

he freezes.

jeongin goes completely still, hands hovering uncertainly at his sides like he doesn't know what to do with them. like he's never done this before.

because he hasn't.

you realize it all at once—the way he's not kissing back, not because he doesn't want to, but because he doesn't know how—this is his first kiss. his first.

the thought sends a thrill through you that's almost dangerous.

"relax, jagi" you murmur against his lips, pulling back just enough to meet his wide, startled eyes. he looks at you like your his salvation and his downfall wrapped in one.

the thought entertains you. maybe once you were heavenly, maybe that’s why this all called to you in a way that’s so difficult to ignore. whether or not you could be considered holy in your past, the undeniable truth was that now you were fallen.

if there is one truth to be taken from this though, is that misery loves company.

pandora opened a box, eve bit an apple, you were kissing a church boy.

you kiss him again, softer this time. slower. your hands slide up to frame his face, thumbs stroking his jaw, coaxing him to loosen up, to let go. and slowly—so slowly—he does.

his lips part under yours, hesitant and unpracticed, and when you tilt your head to deepen the kiss, he makes a sound low in his throat that's pure need. his hands finally move, coming up to grip your waist like he's afraid you'll disappear if he doesn't hold on.

you press closer, pinning him against the door properly, and his grip tightens. one of your hands slides into his hair—soft and perfect and completely wasted on someone who probably uses two-in-one shampoo—and you tug gently. the action results in the prettiest gasp you’ve ever heard. you swallow the sound and kiss him harder.

jeongin’s a quick learner. his lips grow bolder, more confident, tongue sliding against yours in a way that's clumsy yet boyishly enthusiastic. his hands roam your back, your sides, touch growing more desperate as he loses himself in it.

"god," he pants when you break away to breathe, but he doesn't let you go far. he chases your mouth, kisses you again with a hunger that feels like it's been locked away for years. "we shouldn't- this is-"

"do you want to stop?" you're both breathing hard, lips swollen and red.

"no." it comes out anguished, broken. "no, i don't- i can't—" jeongin kisses you again, messy and desperate, cutting himself off only to pull away again a moment later. "this is wrong. we're in a church. during a service. i'm supposed to- i shouldn't—"

"but you want to." you bite his bottom lip gently and he shudders. "you want this. want me."

"yes." the confession tears out of him so fast that it makes him wince. "yes, i want you. i've wanted—god, i can't stop thinking about you. every time i close my eyes, every time i pray, every time i try to focus on anything-" his voice breaks and his head falls back against the door. "what are you doing to me?"

your eyes immediately zero in on the column of his throat. "nothing you don't want me to do."

with the new skin granted to you, you switch tactics and attach your lips to where his adam’s apple sits. you’re tug drags over the curve of it, teeth scraping against the skin just enough to leave it reddened.

jeongin’s body is ran through by a shiver as you work your way up his throat, his hands sliding lower to pull you flush against him. you can feel how affected he is, the evidence of his want pressing against your hip, and when you shift against him in a way that’s anything but accidental he makes a sound that's half-moan, half-whimper.

"please," he gasps, and this time you do know what he’s pleading for.

when you do kiss him again, he’s frantic, less controlled. one hand tangles in your hair while the other grips your hip hard enough to bruise. he's losing himself in this, in you, all that careful control you’ve seen him uphold comes spiraling apart.

from somewhere distant, you hear the muffled sound of the congregation singing. the service continuing without you. without him. reality pressing in at the edges.

jeongin must hear it too because he tenses, pulls back just enough to meet your eyes. his lips are kiss-swollen, his face flushed pink, hair a complete mess from your hands.

he looks wrecked.

"we have to go back," he says, but his hands are still on you, still holding tight.

"do we?"

"people will notice. they'll—" he swallows hard. "i can't- everyone will know. they'll see."

"see what, baby?"

"that i-" his voice drops to barely a whisper. "that i'm not... who they think i am."

you trace your thumb along his jaw and smile at the way he leans into the touch despite himself. "and who do they think you are?"

"good." the word comes out bitter. "pure, faithful, someone who would never…" his gaze drops heavy to your lips, his tongue darting over his own mindlessly. "someone who wouldn't do this."

"…is that who you want to be?"

"i don't know." when jeongin’s eyes meet yours again they're dark and conflicted and so painfully honest it makes your chest ache. "i don't know anymore. i'm supposed to want that. i'm supposed to be that. but when i'm with you, i—" he stops, jaw clenching. "i don't want to be good. i want to be this."

you kiss him softly, just once. "then be this."

"i can't." but even as he says it, his hands tighten on your waist. "i can't. my family, the church, everyone would—they'd never forgive me. i'd lose everything."

"would you?" you pull back enough to look at him properly. "or would you just lose the version of yourself you've been pretending to be?"

the question hangs between you, heavy and unavoidable. jeongin stares at you like you've just asked him to choose between breathing and drowning.

"i don't know," he whispers finally. "i don't know."

the singing outside grows louder—the final hymn echoing off the walls. the service is ending. you have maybe five minutes before people start filtering into the hallways.

"we need to go," jeongin says, but he doesn't move. doesn't let go.

you don’t moved to step away either. "i know."

"they can't- we can't let them see."

"i know."

but neither of you move. you just stand there, foreheads pressed together, breathing the same air, existing in this stolen moment that you both know can't last.

finally, reluctantly, you step back. jeongin's hands fall away slowly, like it physically hurts to let go. you watch as he tries to compose himself—smoothing his hair, straightening his collar, attempting to calm his breathing. it's useless. he still looks completely undone.

"you go first," you tell him. "i'll wait a few minutes."

he nods but doesn't move toward the door. instead, he looks at you with something raw and desperate in his eyes.

"will you-" his voice catches. "are you coming back? next week?"

you should say no. you should let this be what it is—a moment, a mistake, a memory. but when you look at him, at the hope and fear warring in his expression, you find yourself nodding.

"yeah," you whipser. "i'll be here."

the relief that floods his face is almost painful to witness. he reaches for you one more time, cupping your face in his hands, kissing you with a tenderness that feels nothing like the desperation from moments before. this kiss is soft. careful. like a promise neither of you should be making.

and then he's gone, slipping out the door and back into the world where he has to be good, be pure, be everything you're slowly teaching him he doesn't have to be.

you wait for a couple minutes before following, emerging into a hallway full of people spilling out of the sanctuary. no one looks at you twice. no one notices.

but when you round the corner and spot jeongin standing with his choir group, perfectly composed except for the barely visible flush still coloring his neck, he looks at you. just for a second. just long enough for you to see the truth written all over his face.

this isn't over. whatever this is, whatever you've started—it's just beginning.

and you both know it.

the two of you didn't even make it through opening prayer.

you were there on time—same pew, same hymnal in your lap that you wouldn't open, same deliberate eye contact across the sanctuary that makes jeongin's voice crack on the second verse.

you stood during opening prayer, when everyone's heads are bowed and eyes are closed. when the only person who's watching is jeongin.

you were already walking towards the back hall when you look over your shoulder to mouth a singular word: come.

he was on your heel in seconds.

the bathroom is the same as last week—sterile white tile, the faint scent of industrial soap, a lock that clicks with finality. you're checking your reflection, reapplying lip gloss you don't need, when the door opens.

jeongin slips inside like a guilty thing, all wide eyes and shallow breathing. the lock clicks behind him and for a moment you just look at each other.

"hi," you say.

"hi." his voice is barely there. "i told myself i wouldn't do this again."

"and yet?"

"and yet." he laughs, sharp and humorless. "you're… i don't know what you're doing to me. i can't think straight anymore. can't sleep. can't pray without thinking about—" he swallows the rest of his words, jaw clenching. "this is wrong."

"you keep saying that." you step closer and he doesn't back away. another wordless act you take as permission. "do you actually believe it? or is it just what you're supposed to say?"

"i don't know." his eyes track your movement, dark and hungry despite the conflict written over every inch of his expression. "i don't know what i believe anymore. i just know that when i'm near you i-" he stops. swallows again. "i can't help myself."

"then don't." you close the distance between you, reaching up to loosen his tie—blue today, perfectly knotted, already slightly askew from his nervous fidgeting. "don't help yourself. don't be good. just be here with me."

jeongin’s breath catches as your fingers work the knot free. "what are you doing?"

"shh." the tie slides free and you drop it on the counter. your hands go to the top button of his shirt next. "you trust me?"

he should say no. you can see him thinking it, weighing it, trying to find the strength to lie. but what comes out is: "yes."

"good." you pop the first button. then the second. his chest rises and falls rapidly under your hands, his pulse jumping at the base of his throat. "because i want to do something for you. something that'll make you feel good. but you have to tell me if you want me to stop. okay?"

"okay," he whispers. then, quieter: "what are you going to-"

you kiss him instead of answering. he melts into it immediately, hands coming up to cup your face like he's been waiting all week for this. maybe he has. you kiss him thoroughly, deeply, until he's pliant and wanting and making those soft sounds in the back of his throat that you've been replaying in your head for seven days straight.

you start walking him backwards, crowding his space until his back hits the door just as it had the week before.

jeongin goes willingly, lets you arrange him how you want, doesn't protest when your hands slide down his chest, his stomach, tracing the lines of him through his clothes.

"you're so pretty," you murmur against his mouth. he makes a sound akin to a whine. "do you know that? so pretty when you sing. so pretty when you're trying to be good."

"i'm not-" he gasps when your hand drifts lower, palm pressing against the front of his slacks where he's already hard. "oh god—"

"so pretty when you're like this, too." you press a little harder and his hips buck involuntarily. you’re going to eat him alive. "when you're honest about what you want."

"please," it comes out strangled. his hands clutch at your waist like he needs something to hold onto. "please."

"what do you want, jeongin?" you work his belt buckle open slowly, each word leaving your mouth a cruel purr. "use your words."

"i want—" he squeezes his eyes shut. "i want you to touch me."

"i am touching you."

"more." it's barely a whisper. "please. more."

you smile against his throat, taking a patch of skin between your teeth. "good boy."

the praise makes him shudder. you file that information away for later as you finally work his belt free. your fingers find his zipper and drag it down with agonizing slowness. he's breath comes in short, sharp gasps.

jeongin presses a hand over his mouth to muffle the sounds he's making. you smack it away damn near instantly, not even entertaining the idea of him playing quiet.

"move your hand," you snap, eyes narrowed as you watch him. "i want to hear you."

"but, someone might—"

"the service just started. no one's coming." you palm him through his boxers and his hand falls away from his mouth on a broken moan. "there you go, baby. let me hear you."

you work him out of his boxers, wrapping your hand around him properly, and the sound he makes is devastating. he's already leaking, painfully hard, and you wonder how long he's been like this. since he saw you? since this morning? since last week?

"have you touched yourself?" you ask, stroking him slowly. "thinking about me?"

your gut twists at just the thought of it—of jeongin laid out over his bed, hand moving quick and guilty as he thinks of no one but you. it’s a perfect scene, angelic and holy in it’s own right.

his face flushes deep red. "yes. i tried not to but i… every night. i'm so sorry—"

your eyes widen at the admission. every night??

fuck.

fuck.

"sweet boy, don’t apologize." you kiss him quick and filthy. "that's so hot, jeongin. fuck… tell me what you thought about."

jeongin’s response is quick, breathless. "your mouth," the words are a gasp. "your hands. the way you- the way you looked at me." he breaks off on a moan when your thumb swipes over the head of his cock, gathering the pearl of precum on the pad of your finger to work it over his length. "oh fuck—"

"such language," you tease, lips making their way down his neck again. "what would the pastor say?"

jeongin freezes. his muscles pull so tight that you watch his skin shift. he gulps down something unsaid, eyes squeezing shut as if that can erase the situation he’s in. "don't joke. god, i can't think when you- oh."

before he has too long to overthink (or regret) anything, you drop to your knees.

the realization of what you're about to do hits him like a physical blow. his eyes fly open, wide and shocked and so dark they're almost black.

"wait," his voice cracks. "you don't have to-"

"i want to." you look up at him from your knees, taking in the sight of him—all debauched and desperate yet still trying to be oh so polite. jeongin looks back like you’re something sacred. "do you want me to?"

"yes." it tears out of him. "yes, please, i've never—no one's ever-"

"i know, baby." you press a kiss to his hip bone. he trembles, priests and prayers long forgetten. "i'll take care of you. just relax."

you start slow, trying to lead him into a false sense of security. well, as much security that can be had while getting head in the church’s bathroom.

you kiss along his length, soft and teasing, trying to the shape of him.

jeongin’s shaking above you, one hand braced against the door, the other hovering beside your head like he wants nothing more than to touch but lacking the commitment to actually thread his fingers through your hair.

every breath he takes is ragged.

when you finally take him in your mouth he makes a sound like he's been shot.

"oh. oh god," his hand flies to his mouth again, muffling himself, and his hips stutter forward involuntarily before he catches himself. "sorry. i’m sorry, i didn't mean-"

you pull off just long enough to say, "c’mon sweet boy, you can move.” you press a kiss far to sweet to his “you won't hurt me, promise"

you take him deeper then, the feeling of it forcing his head to fall back against the door with a soft thunk.

he tastes clean, a little salty, maybe, but it’s human in the way that makes this feel real and raw. you work him with your mouth, your hand pumping at his base, finding a rhythm that has his breath coming in sharp gasps.

jeongin’s hand finally lands in your hair—gentle, tentative, like he's afraid he'll break you.

"is this," he can barely get words out. "am i- is this okay?"

you hum your approval around him and his whole body jerks. the vibration makes him curse again, low and filthy, and you catalog every sound, every reaction, learning what makes him fall apart.

it doesn't take long. he's too keyed up, too pure, too overwhelmed. you can feel him getting close, the tension building in his body, his breathing going ragged and desperate.

"i'm…" the tug he gives your hair is sharp, a little shaky. it serves as the warning that his words can’t seem to put together. "i'm gonna- baby, i can’t-"

you don't pull away, why would you?. you take him deeper instead, and the realization that you're going to let him finish down your throat breaks him completely.

"oh fuck." his hips stutter, his hand tightening in your hair. "i can’t, i can’t- please."

his cock twitches heavy on your tongue and then he’s coming with a choked moan, head thrown back, every muscle in his body going taut. you work him through it until he's trembling and oversensitive, until he's gently pulling you off with trembling hands.

for a moment the only sound is his harsh breathing. then you stand, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. you allow yourself a moment to really admire how fucking gorgeous he his.

jeongin looks wrecked—hair a mess, shirt hanging open, face flushed and slack with a mix of pleasure and something that might be religious ecstasy. that, or just some damn good head. his eyes are glazed, unfocused, like he's not quite back in his body yet.

"hey." you touch his face gently, thumb grazing over his puffy bottom lip. "you okay?"

jeongin blinks slowly, trying to resurface. "yeah. yeah, i'm…" he pauses. jeongin just stares for a long time, eyes dazed and half lidded. the next sound he makes is a laugh. it’s humorous. slightly hysterical. "i'm going to hell."

"probably." you kiss him softly and, though it takes a second, he kisses back, lazy and sated. "but at least you'll have good memories."

he makes a sound that's half-laugh, half-sob and pulls you against him, burying his face in your neck. you let him hold you, feeling the aftershocks still running through him, the way his hands grip you like you're the only solid thing in the world.

"i don't know what you're doing to me," he whispers against your skin. he inhales deeply, breathing you in like his favorite drug. "i don't know who i am anymore."

"maybe that's not a bad thing." you run your fingers through his hair. "maybe you're just figuring out who you actually are instead of who everyone wants you to be."

"that's terrifying."

"yeah." you pull back enough to meet his eyes. "but it's also kind of beautiful."

jeongin pulls back to study at your face. he looks at you like you've said something profound, like you've given him permission for something he didn't know he needed. then he kisses you again, slow and deep and grateful.

"we should go back," he says eventually, but he makes no move to let you go.

"probably."

"they'll notice."

"probably."

"i don't care." he kisses you again. "i don't care anymore."

that's a lie. it’s a lie and you both know it. he does care. he cares so much it's eating him alive. but for this moment, in this stolen space, he can pretend he doesn't. and that's enough.

you help him get dressed again—tucking him back into his boxers, zipping his slacks, re-buttoning his shirt. your fingers linger on each button, taking your time, and he watches you with dark eyes that promise this isn't over.

the tie goes back on last. you knot it carefully, perfectly, making him presentable again. making him look like the good church boy everyone thinks he is.

but you both know better now.

"next week?" he asks as you reach for the door.

you look back at him, at this beautiful broken thing you're slowly unraveling. "next week."

he nods. then, quieter: "thank you."

"for what?"

"for—" he gestures helplessly. "for this. for seeing me. for not—" he stops. starts again. "just thank you."

you reach for him, kissing him one more time, soft and sweet. it’s nothing like what you just did for him on your knees. "anytime, baby."

then you slip out, leaving him to collect himself, to find his way back to the pews, to pretend for another week that he's still the person he was before you walked into his church.

you know he won't succeed. the mask is cracking. and you can't wait to see what's underneath..

this time it's jeongin who finds himself on his knees.

the realization hits you somewhere between his mouth on yours and your back hitting the bathroom door. this sunday is different. jeongin’s different.

it started the way it normally does now: you walking into the sanctuary, scanning the pews, checking the choir loft. but he wasn't there. the other tenors were warming up, the pianist running through scales, but jeongin's spot stood conspicuously empty.

you'd felt it then—a pull low in your stomach, half concern and half something you didn’t want to name. disappointment, maybe. you didn’t think about it.

the same instinct that's kept you coming back week after week led you down the hallway, past the sunday school classrooms and towards the bathroom at the end of the hall.

the door was unlocked.

inside you’d found jeongin, restless hands carding through his hair. the moment you stepped in and the lock clicked behind you, he looked at you with something wild in his eyes—something hungry and desperate and finally, finallyunashamed.

"i couldn't sit up there," he'd said, already crossing to you. he looked wrecked already, sounded worse. "i couldn't sing. i couldn't even think. all week—" his hands found your hips, pressing you back against the door. "all i could think about was you."

and then his mouth was on yours and it was different from every other time—more urgent, more confident, like he'd spent the week rehearsing this moment in his head and now that you're here he can't waste a single second.

"jeongin," you’d managed between kisses, but he swallowed your words, one hand sliding up to cup your jaw while the other pulled you closer by your waist. it was feral. as feral as a pretty choir boy could be

he broke away just long enough to breathe, his forehead pressed to yours. "please. i need to…" his palm smoothed down your side, tentative but intentional. "can i? please?"

the question hung between you, loaded with meaning you both understood. this wasn't about him getting off this time. this was about reciprocation. about him proving something to himself, maybe. about wanting to give instead of just receive.

"you don't have to—" you started, but he cut you off with another kiss, this one almost frantic.

"i want to." his voice was rough, strained like the fabric of his pants. "i've been thinking about it all week. please. let me, let me make you feel good. please."

the desperation in his voice sent heat pooling low in your belly. this boy—this sweet, repressed, trying-so-hard-to-be-good boy—was begging to go down on you in a church bathroom ten minutes before sunday service.

you have a vague thought about winning the absolute “innocent” boy jackpot.

"okay," you whispered, and felt him shudder against you. "yeah, baby. you can."

the relief that washed over his face was almost comical. he kissed you again—messy and grateful—before dropping to his knees like it's the most natural thing in the world.

and you suppose that, for him, it may just be. jeongin had spent his whole life swaddled in worship. the only difference was that now that divine attention was directed at you instead of some fuck all god.

it was fitting for him.

here—with knees pressing into the cool bathroom tile, face pink and eyes wide in what could only be described as complete adoration—jeongin looked like he belonged.

his hands are shaking slightly as they slide up your thighs, pushing your skimpy, totally inappropriate for church dress higher. you can see him trying to remember everything, trying to figure out the mechanics, and something about his earnest concentration makes you want to laugh and cry at the same time.

"tell me what to do," he says, looking up at you with those dark eyes, and fuck, the visual alone might kill you—him on his knees, your dress bunched in his fists, looking at you like you're something holy.

you thread your fingers through his hair. "start slow. pay attention to what i like. i'll tell you if you need to adjust."

he nods, solemn as a prayer, and then his hands are hooking into your underwear and pulling down. you step out of them and he tucks them into his pocket—and that’s going to live in your head for fucking days—before his hands return to your thighs.

"you're beautiful," he murmurs, almost to himself. then, softer: "i can't believe you're letting me do this."

"jeongin." you tug gently at his hair, a shit eating grin on your lips. "stop being reverent and start being useful."

he huffs a laugh against your inner thigh, and then—finally, finally—he leans in.

the first touch of his tongue is tentative, exploratory. he's learning you the way he learned his hymns—carefully, methodically, with intense focus. it's not perfect but it's enthusiastic, and there's something incredibly hot about his obvious inexperience paired with his desperate eagerness to please.

"like this?" he asks, pulling back slightly, and you have to bite back a whine at the loss of contact.

"yeah," you manage. "that's- yeah. maybe a little more—“ you words evaporate on your tongue as his presses flat against your clit. “there. there."

he makes a pleased sound and doubles his efforts. one of his hands slides up to grip your hip, steadying you, while the other stays on your thigh. his tongue works over you with increasing confidence, and when he finds a rhythm that makes your breath hitch, he stays there, consistent and focused.

"my sweet boy," you breathe out. "that's so good, baby. you're doing so fucking good."

the praise makes him moan against you—actually moan—and the vibration sends a shockwave up your spine. your fingers tighten in his hair and his grip on your hip tightens in response.

then he does something with his tongue that makes your knees buckle slightly, and he catches you, strong hands keeping you upright. he pulls back just long enough to look up at you—pupils blown wide, lips slick, hair a fluffy mess from your hands—and says, "please don't fall. i'm not done yet."

the absolute audacity—

"help me out then," you shoot, and he seems to understand immediately.

his hand slides down your thigh and then he's lifting, guiding your leg up and over his shoulder. the new angle makes you grab for the door to steady yourself, and suddenly you're opened up to him completely, vulnerable and exposed and entirely at his mercy.

"better?" he asks, and the smugness in his voice is new.

new and completely unfair.

"jeongin-"

whatever you were going to say dissolves into a moan as he dives back in with renewed vigor. the angle lets him work deeper, lets him use his whole mouth, and he's a devastatingly quick learner. every sound you make, every time your fingers tighten in his hair or your hips roll forward, he pays attention and adjusts accordingly.

your head falls back against the door with a soft thud.

one hand stays tangled in his hair while the other grips the door handle for dear life. the leg he's holding over his shoulder is starting to shake but he holds you steady, strong enough to support your weight, determined enough to ignore the strain.

"you taste so good," he murmurs against you, and the words coupled with the feeling nearly undo you on the spot. "can't believe—can't believe i get to do this—"

"stop talking," you gasp out, and he laughs—actually laughs—against your cunt before doing as you ask.

he's getting bolder now, more confident. his tongue moves with purpose, finding patterns that make you gasp and moan and forget where you are. at one point he looks up at you—makes direct eye contact while his mouth works over you—and the visual combined with the sensation makes you cry out louder than you should.

"shh," he says, but he's smiling, the bastard. "service is starting. someone might hear."

"then you better—oh fuck—you better make this quick."

he takes that as a challenge. his hand on your hip slides down and then his thumb is there too, working in tandem with his mouth, and suddenly you're not sure how much longer you can last.

"jeongin," it comes out strangled. "i'm close-"

if anything, that makes him more determined.

jeongin adjusts his angle slightly, finds that spot that makes stars burst behind your eyelids, and stays there. it’s all consistent pressure, perfect rhythm, and when he moans against you again—like he's the one getting pleasure from this—you feel yourself tip over the edge.

it hits you like a wave. your whole body goes taut, thighs clenching around his head as well as they can, fingers probably pulling his hair too hard.

jeongin can’t be bothered.

you bite down on your free hand to muffle the sounds trying to escape as pleasure rolls through you in pulses.

he works you through it patiently, gently, until you're shaking and oversensitive and trying to push him away. only then does he lower your leg carefully back to the ground, his hands steadying you as your knees threaten to give out.

for a moment you just stand there, breathing hard, trying to remember how words work. jeongin stays on his knees, looking up at you with the most satisfied expression you've ever seen on his face—pride and wonder and something almost smug.

"how was that?" he asks, and there's a new confidence in his voice that wasn't there before. like he's proven something to himself. like he's discovered a new talent.

"you," you have to stop and catch your breath. "are a very quick learner."

jeongin grins wide and genuine and so unlike the shy boy from a few weeks ago. he shrugs a shoulder before saying, "i had good motivation."

you pull him up by his collar and kiss him, tasting yourself on his lips. he kisses back eagerly, hands settling on your waist like they belong there.

"we really need to get back," you murmur against his mouth, but neither of you makes any move to separate.

"i know." he kisses you again. "one more minute."

that minute turns into several.

by the time you finally pull apart and start making yourselves presentable, you can hear the opening hymn starting in the sanctuary. jeongin's hair is a disaster, his lips are swollen, and there's a dazed look in his eyes that he probably couldn’t hide even if he tried.

he doesn’t offer you back your underwear. you don’t ask.

"you look thoroughly debauched," you tell him, and he laughs—bright and unburdened.

"good." he leans in for one more quick kiss. "let them wonder."

that's definitely new.

the old jeongin would've been horrified at the thought. this version—the one who just spent fifteen minutes on his knees in a church bathroom and loved every second of it—seems almost pleased by the idea of people noticing.

you smooth down your dress while he attempts to fix his hair in the mirror. it's a losing battle. he looks exactly like what he is: someone who just gave head for the first time and is riding the high of doing it well.

"next week?" he asks as you reach for the door, echoing his same words you’ve exchanged every week before.

you look back at him—at this transformed version of the boy you met months ago. "next week," you confirm. then, softer: "you really are a quick learner."

his answering smile is pure sin. "i've got a lot of catching up to do."

you slip out first, making your way back to the sanctuary. a few minutes later, jeongin appears in the choir loft, sliding into his spot just as the first hymn ends.

the choir director gives him a look but doesn't comment.

from your seat in the back pew, you watch him through the service. watch him sing with the same devotion he always has, except now you know what that devotion looks like when it's directed at you instead of god.

and when he catches your eye across the sanctuary, the heat in his gaze promises that next week can't come soon enough.

[a/n]: this is the longest fic that i’ve ever written T-T i’m not super used to writing out such long stuff that actually sees the light of day. i apologize for any and all inconsistencies that popped up in my writing, this was genuinely a bitch and a half to get finished, and i know damn well there are parts of this that aren’t really up to par. thank you for reading all the way through, though!! i respect your commitment and hope you enjoyed the ride :3

taglist: @interdimensionaldrunk @ihrtlix @catermybeloved @elylyyy @hanjisngs

[tabloidangel]

SWEET HARMONY, miles canton

— tonight was the big night. miles would no longer be known to the world as Preacher Boy. tonight, both the world and the industry would know him as Saint—and your story with him was just getting started.

warnings: sinners au, miles canton as himself with ‘sammie’ characteristics, shy!reader, southern!miles, blosssoming relationship, fluff, yearning, kissing, teasing touches,

by the time you’d arrived to the club it was already buzzing with anticipation.

the room a mix of familiar locals who’d been here when miles first performed months ago, and new faces—industry people with sharp eyes and sharper suits, ready to judge whether this small-town boy had what it took to make waves in atlanta’s music scene.

low hum of conversations mingled with bursts of laughter and the steady r&b playing through the speakers.

blue strobe lights floating lazily above the crowd, casting a soulful hue over the glowing faces of excitement. on the walls, enlarged prints of mile’s single cover were framed like art, each one backlit and vibrant. proudly displaying ‘saint’ in bold letters beneath his photo.

this wasn’t just a listening party— it was a declaration.

miles wasn’t just a boy from the delta with a voice that could people in there tracks anymore. he was saint, a artist ready to take his first step into the world.

you smooth a hand over your your top, as you slipped through the velvet ropes. the humid atlanta night clinging to your flirty perfume. inside the atmosphere was intimate, electric, and buzzing all at once. holding a promising energy that something big was about to happen.

people already crowded near the stage, drinks in hand, swaying to the playlist while local photographers snapped photos for miles team.

stack was near the entrance, towering over a small group of people as he directed the traffic. spotting you weaving through the crowd with a wide grin, open faced grills glistening beneath the shifting lights.

“well well well.” he said, voice booming over the music. “look at you lookin’ all fly, you tryna upstage my lil cousin on his big night?”

you giggled softly shaking your head, reaching out for a hug from both the twins. “wassup stack, smoke.”

a teasing glint in his eyes as greeted you with a hug, fiddling around with the toothpick in his mouth. “you know you miles good luck charm right?”

“tellin’ you the boy can’t shut up to you since that trip to mississippi.”

“ehh,” you shrugged, giving credit where it was due. “miles has charm of his own.”

“well stack told sammie it expect a packed house. smoke chuckled, leaning against the bar with a glass of something dark in hand. voice smooth as molasses while he flashed you a knowing glance. “but we all know it’s only one face the boy really lookin’ for..”

you playfully roll your eyes, stomach fluttering at the thought of it all. sammie was probably in the back, maybe pacing, rehearsing, maybe thinking about you.

stack just chuckled, twisting that wooden stick in his mouth. “go on, grab a drink. we bout to have ourselves a time tonight.”

you turned toward the bar, but not before sneaking one last glance at the photos of Sammie’s single cover. seeing his face everywhere like this—confident, charismatic, larger than life—sent a strange rush through you.

the boy you’d met at this very club months ago was about to show the world who he really was and you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were about to witness something life-changing, for both of you.

the crowd thickened near the stage as the music faded to a low hum. conversations quieted and a ripple of excitement moved through the room.

everyone knew what was coming. suddenly the energy inside the club felt different—bigger, sharper, alive with pride. like the whole club was holding their breath.

“how y’all feelin? y’all fellin’ good?” stack took on the stage, grinning wide as he addressed the crowd. “now i know y’all remember the first my cousin mi— excuse me, saint hit the stage. y’all remember that?”

the crowd erupted into cheers and whistles. hands shooting in the air waving with excitement. faint shouts heard from the back of the packed club “you know we remember stack!”

“okay okay!” stack laughed nodding, his own chest swelling with pride. “a few months months ago this was just a delta boy with a voice and a dream. tonight tho”

“we witness talent meet hard work, and hard work meet faith. we celebratin’ my mans debut single! ”

the room exploded with applause. the room was loud, bright, and you could feel it in your chest.

miles finally appeared.

emerging from the backstage like a quiet storm. the crowds cheers turning into something wild as he moved into the blue light.

he looked every inch of a rising star. styled in an amiri jean and jacket set. the top adorned in jewels along the seams. jeans resting perfectly along him timberland boots. accessorized with a pair of sleek frames, chained links around his wrists, and a hat resting easily along his perfectly faded coily fro.

this wasn’t the same church boy from mississippi. barefoot on a wooden weathered porch, voice blending with hum of cicadas. he was much more now.

even though the room roared for saint, his eyes scanned the room until they landed on you.

It was as if everyone else disappeared for a single suspended moment—just you and him in the dim, blue-tinted light. his gaze lingered, slow and deliberate, like he was soaking you in before that signature smirk curved his lips.

then he took the mic, and that smirk bloomed into full charm. his deep, velvety voice instantly commanding silence.

“evening. evening.”

“damn” he breathed out with low chuckle, glancing around the packed room. “it feels good to be back here.”

the room cheering again, louder than before.

“i see quite a few of y’all that’s been rockin’ with since open mic,” he continued, his voice carrying both warmth and gratitude. “i was just up here standing with a voice and a body full of nerves. yall came back to watch me take the next step.”

his eyes flicker to yours, voice softening in a way that made your heart flutter. “i can’t even put into words what that means..”

crowd erupting again, stomping and whistling out.

“this song right here,” miles smiled, grip tightening on the mic. “it’s a piece of me.”

“a piece of me that i put out there regardless of what happens. a piece that starts my journey, all mixed up into the three minutes.

“and when y’all hear it, i hope y’all feel a piece of yourselves in it too.”

he turned, nodding towards the dj booth. “let’s play it for the first time.”

the piano keys flutter.

the room moved as one, bodies swaying, heads nodding. This wasn’t just a song—it was a moment.

you couldn’t look away. every note, lyric, and vibration seemed to work themselves through you. this was the same man who once confessed him dreams to you on a moonlit dock.

and now he was here.

commanding a room full of people who were finally beginning to see what you’d seen all along.

smoke appears at your side, calm as ever, nursing that glass of dark liquor. leaning toward you just enough to be heard, “feels different now don’t it?”

murmuring as his sharp watchful gaze scanned over the crowd. “no more maybe’s. miles here to stay.”

“y-yeah” you swallowed, throat tight with emotion. an proud smile pulling at your lips. words barely audible over the cheering as you breathed out softly to yourself. “he is..”

when the song ended, the silence was deafening for half a beat before the crowd erupted into cheers, louder than anything you’d heard tonight.

miles lowered the mic, his chest heaving with exhilaration. then, amid the chaos, he found you.

his lips curved into a soft, private smile, meant only for you.

the cheers still echoed through the club as the dj slide seamlessly into the next track, giving the crowd something to move to as miles slipped from the stage.

the second his feet his the ground, a wave of attention hit him like a force. reaching hands, overlapping voices— congratulations, business cards, praises coming at him from all angles.

everyone wanted a piece of him tonight.

you stayed back, tucked safely in the section with smoke and stack, watch it all unfold.

mile’s posture polite and guarded. still taking it all in.

“look at him” stack chuckled beside you, leaning casually against the railing . “my lil cousins a star now y’all. didn’t i tell y’all this day was comin’?”

you smiled, eyes glued to miles drifting through the crowd. “you did..”

smoke chest vibrates a deep hum in agreement. his silent response always cutting through the air. “now comes the hard part.”

stack raised a brow, quickly plucking his tooth from his mouth. “hard?”

smoke’s eyes tracked miles, sharp and unmoving. “fame don’t just test talent. it tests spirit.”

you stomach twisted at the thought. miles fight had just begun, and he wanted to stay true to his valued root and faith. And watching the crowd swallow him like this made it both exhilarating and terrifying.

miles laughed rang above the music as someone clapped him on the back. dragging him into yet another conversation. it was genuine but you still caught that subtle shift when his eyes darted across the room to you.

that when his smile changed.

to something slow and comforting. like shooting you gave him a breathe of relief within the chaos.

stack followed his line of sight and let out a a deep laugh “boy don’t even got his first plaque yet and he already got a muse.”

you shot stack a look, playfully slapping at his chest. “shut up stack!”

stack held up his hands, surrendering. “i’m just sayin’. y’all over here thinkin’ y’all slick as olivia and fitz.”

the night stretched on, loud and dizzying. spending your night talking to smoke and stack, sipping your drink, small talking with some of miles new supporters.

the music thumped beneath your feet, muted through the walls of the club but your heart was louder— pounding, fluttering, yearning. slipping out to get some fresh air and feel the cool breeze on your skin.

and you just need a moment, alone.

so you were here, the city glittering below you. a blur of taillights weaving through the streets but your heart weren’t really seeing any of it. your back rested against the cool glass railing of the club’s private balcony, champagne glass long forgotten on the ledge beside you.

inside, the celebration was in full swing. muffled laughter and cheers spilling through the cracked balcony door. catching flashes of miles through the haze of lights and camera flashes—his smile wide, his voice hoarse from thanking everyone who’d helped him get here.

it should’ve been enough to watch him shining, to witness his dream take shape. and god were you proud of him.

but miles had been pulled in every direction all night. from the moment he left the stage, everyone wanted a piece of him. the label execs, influencers, local artists, and people who’d never even spoken to him before tonight.

and you missed him.

you wrapped your arms around yourself, swallowing past the small lump in your throat. you’d barely seen him all week. between studio sessions, meeting with his new label, and the final push to get his single released. you two barely talked, text got shorter, his voice tired but warm when his calls finally appeared across your screen.

you understood. his life was changing and this single was everything that he’d been working toward.

there was still that ache of missing him though.

the door creaked as it slid back. your body spinning just in time to see miles step through, your chest warming up with the closing click of the door.

he didn’t speak right away. chest rising and falling as he let out a long shaky breath. “you okay?”

“you barely been around this week.” you whispered, the emotion rising in your voice.

“i know..” he said quickly, crossing the balcony in three long strides. then he looked at you, like a man parched and you were the water.

“been a long week.” he murmured, voice a deep velvety hum that always seemed to sink into your skin. then he looked corner of his mouth lifting into a faint, tired smile. “felt even longer not having you near me..”

you lips part but you don’t speak. his words wrapping around you, soft and steady as they pull you in.

miles stepped closer, his movement slow, almost hesitant. like he wanted to savor every second. his hand brushes the small of you back, fingers just barely grazing the fabric of your dress, sending a shiver racing up your spine.

his gaze swept down, slow and appreciative, before meeting your eyes again, his accent thickening with emotion. “you look so beautiful..”

“thank you..” you blushed, heat blooming beneath your skin. huffing out a soft sigh. “you’ve been busy”

“didn’t even know if i’d get time with you tonight..”

“busy don’t mean i don’t see you.” his thumb brushing over the dips and curves of your waist like savoring something he’d been deprived of for far too long.. “you been on my mind ever second i been runnin’ around.”

then with a subtle tilt of his, miles leaned in— no rushing, no demanding, but with a savory patience that felt even more dangerous.

he pressed a kiss to your cheek. gentle. warm.

lips trailing lower before you could even register it. grazing the edge of your jaw in a way that sent goosebumps racing over your skin. his breath a soft caress against your skin.

your knees nearly buckle.

his touch deepening as his mouth found the curve of your neck. one hand splayed across your lower back, the other skimming your arm like he was mapping out every inch of you he’d missed on the past week.

the kiss was soft, slow and wet. making your pulse stutter.

your hands found his chest, his heartbeat thundering beneath your palms.

he stilled, forehead resting lightly against yours, a faint hum ghosting past his lips.

“i missed you..” the confession barely above a whisper. “been running into the ground to get this single out, but all i could think ‘bout was getting back to you.”

“m-miles—”you swallowed hard, his fingers running softly against your neck. that wet kiss still lingering on your skin.

lifting his hand to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek like you were something precious. his dark eyes searching yours, tender and certain.

“m’not trying to steal moments like this anymore,” his voice deep and rich. tone smooth and steady as emotion cracked at its edges. “i’m workin’ towards something real. with you.”

the promise undoing you. right then and there.

this wasn’t just a fleeting connection anymore. it was real, raw and with you.

“Then show me,” you breathed out, eyes darting around his handsome face.

the little thread of restraint in his body snapping.

capturing your lips with his own. slow and gentle, but filled with a news that’d been simmering all week. his kiss is smooth, coaxing your lips to move with his— tongues sliding slow and filthy eachother as if you were sealing a promise, breathes mingling into the cool midnight air.

your hands clutch at his jacket as his hands explored.— up your back and along your waist, fingers digging into the soft plush skin of your hips.

finally breaking apart for air, miles forehead rests against yours. the two of you panting softly, lips swollen and damp from the kiss.

“more than friends..” he murmured, voice hoarse and certain. “that’s what I want us to be. I’m workin’ towards that”

“toward you..”

you smile, pretty eyes meeting his and just before you could respond there was a sharp knock.

the both of you jumping, turning to see stack leaning casually in the doorway. a wicked grin on his lips while he twirls his trusty tooth pick.

“well i knew you needed air” stack drawled, arms crossed. “but damn cuz i ain’t know you was tryin’ to steal all hers.”

you face grew hot, muffling a giggle into miles chest as you hid from stacks view. miles groaning above your head before straightening up. “stack. what you want man?”

“as much as i’d love for my lil cousin to finally find that button, the people want you.” stack teased, jerking his thumb back towards the party inside. “business awaits.”

miles arms lazily wrapped around your waist, his face soft but conflicted. you smiled, breathless and dizzy. mouthing a quick ‘go’ as you nodded towards the door. he gave you one last lingering kiss, slipping back into the glowing and electric world of the club.

leaving you certain of one thing. you were his and he was yours, even if the rest of the world didn’t know it yet.

[blueraimo]

Like father like son