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lostfracturess · 2 days

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symptoms and causes | ch. 12

ღ pairing professor gojo x med student reader

ღ summary he's arrogant, self-centered, and he's your professor. renowned for his brilliance in neurosurgery and infamous for his allure. too bad you have to work with him on this research team. now you're stuck with dr. satoru gojo, delving into the complexities of both the brain and the heart—and of how far you'd go for a love that could destroy not only him but you as well.

ღ wc 15.7 k

ღ warnings [18+] this story contains substance abuse/addiction, overdosing, (rough) smut, mature and dark themes, self-destructive and abusive behavior, manipulation, (heavy) angst w happy ending, family drama, panic attacks, mentions of death / illness / blood, graphic medical procedures. reader discretion is advised.

ღ author's note hey u pretty people !! hope you're all doing amazing and having the absolute best day. we're back with more drama, messy feelings, and all that good stuff. also, i've updated the trigger warnings (nothing too heavy, promise), but just a heads up that we'll be dealing with some family drama and grief in this one. as always, can't wait to hear what you guys think & thanks for reading and for your amazing support (art by yamada_souko) <3

series masterlist + playlist + ao3 + wattpad

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You're a slut.

The words hammered in your skull, matching the aneurysm's grotesque pulse in front of you. Another scalpel slipped into Suguru's waiting hand. Your hands moved mechanically, muscle memory guiding them more than conscious thought.

Normally, that aneurysm would thrill you, excite you, make your pulse quicken. Now, it felt oddly muted. Irrelevant compared to your spiraling thoughts.

You hate him.

You should hate him.

With every fiber of your being, you should despise him.

He pushed you away, again and again, even after that night — after you spilled your heart at his feet. He chose the pills, the numbing haze, the false comfort, the self-serving lies — his fear.

In the end he chose his addiction over fighting against it alongside you. His addiction had won out over the fragile connection you shared — had won over you.

And that was a bitter pill to swallow.

He made his choice.

And you made yours — to get space, give him space, give it all some space — time — whatever this damn situation needed, you tried to give it, even though it felt like carving out pieces of yourself.

You didn't know it anymore, simply didn't know what was right anymore.

It had been weeks, but the memory of finding him, barely breathing on his bathroom floor, lingered as a physical ache within you. That image refused to fade.

It was a wound time couldn't heal, a brutal reminder of his choice, of your own, of the love that had become a war you weren't sure you could win.

You weren't sure of anything anymore.

But one thing way painfully clear. Whatever you did, it was all just really a futile, desperate attempt to patch the gaping hole he'd ripped in your heart.

But how could you?

How could you stay away, act indifferent, when every second burned without him?

He's probably high right now, swallowing a pill, grading papers like the perfect professor, so damn good at pretending he has it together while crumbling beneath the surface.

Back to his routine of fake control.

But he has no control.

None.

Forget him. You shouldn't think that. It has to be possible, right? Somehow, forgetting someone must be possible, right? Erasing the memory of him from your veins, from every damn breath you take?

Because if not — how could you possibly go on?

Cruel memories flayed you open. His hand against your cheek, the touch so gentle it made something inside you crumble, even after he literally insulted you in the worst ways possible while fucking you.

But still, the way he'd look at you after — there was a flicker of something desperate and broken burning in his eyes, before he slammed that damn false smile back into place. Your heart clenched at the very thought of it, a fist squeezing something vital and already dead.

But the truth is, you didn't really hate him. No, not really.

Because how could you?

How could you hate him for trying to fix things the only way he knew how?

No.

Not really.

He was a coward, too scared to face his fears, too weak to choose fighting alongside you over the fleeting comfort of his addiction.

No, it was not hatred.

Understanding him made it worse. It twisted the knife deeper, making the hatred you clung to feel empty, useless, leaving only the bitter sting of disappointment.

Somehow, knowing someone's damage made them less a monster, more a tragedy.

Unfair, isn't it?

Because hating him would be easier.

"You okay?" Suguru's voice broke through your haze.

"I'm fine." Zoning out while someone's life hung in the balance was a new low, even for you. You met his gaze. "Sorry."

The stark reality of the situation slammed back into focus. The aneurysm, a grotesque bulge on the screen, pulsed tauntingly. Suguru's skilled hands steadied the fragile tissue around it.

"Want to continue?"

You blinked, unsure if he was joking. "You want me to clip it?"

"It's a gift."

"Gift? From who?"

Suguru arched an eyebrow, a silent answer. Of course. This was Satoru's doing. It was his way, wasn't it? Speaking of unconventional presents.

But he undoubtedly knew you.

Before you could fully process, Suguru added. "And because I trust you. I wouldn't offer if I didn't."

Your gaze was drawn back to the aneurysm. "Okay," you said, the decision settling with surprising ease.

You slid into place in front of the surgical microscope. Suguru moved just behind you to monitor your movements. You took a deep breath, the instruments feeling strangely cold and foreign in your hands.

"Focus," Suguru's low voice rumbled close beside you. "You've got this."

Somehow, with the clip in your hand, the delicate aneurism between your hands, you wondered if Satoru was right — if you loved the thrill of it all — if him and you were the same.

If that maddening fascination bound you together.

Because as you stared down at the aneurysm, you couldn't deny it — the rush, the adrenaline surge that came from defying death, the intoxicating high of existing on the razor's edge, it was all there, coursing through your veins.

Were you reckless?

Satoru's accusation echoed in your mind.

Yet, with each precise maneuver, the thrill intensified. There was a sick satisfaction in holding that much power, in the knowledge that one wrong move and this fragile existence could be snuffed out in an instant.

Here, in the sterile confines of the operating room, adrenaline replaced oxygen.

And it was undeniably addictive.

Too bad it wasn't enough for Satoru.

"Suguru," you began, your words barely a whisper as you meticulously guided the clip, "do you ever think I'm...reckless?"

"Should I be worried that you're pondering this while inches deep in someone's brain?"

"Forget it," you muttered. "Just a fleeting thought."

With a satisfying click, the clip snapped shut.

─── ·✧· ───

The water was unusual frigid against your skin.

Suguru scrubbed his hands beside you, the methodical rasp of skin on skin a familiar sound a in the echoing washroom. Finally, he spoke. "I'm proud of you."

"Huh?" You turned to him.

"How far you've come. Really, you're doing a great job. With the surgery, the research—you have a great future ahead of you."

He meant it kindly, you knew. But his words made your stomach churn. A bright, promising future was the last thing on your mind. Surviving the next hour, the next day, that was your only focus. You mustered a weak smile in response and adverted your gaze.

"How are you doing? Really?"

You couldn't meet his gaze. "Holding up. Somehow."

He observed you. You could feel his concerned gaze on your skin without having to turn your head.

"New semester treating you okay?"

"Bit stressful," you admitted. "I have to retake a few exams."

"Listen, if you need any help—"

"Thank you, Suguru," you cut him off, turning the faucet with a harsh click off. "But unless you're offering to take my tests for me, I'm afraid this is on me."

You turned and reached for a towel, desperately needing to put something, anything, between you and his pitying gaze.

He paused, then shut off his own water with a sigh. "I'm sorry things turned out like this for you," he said, and you hated the sincerity in his voice. "But it's for the best, for him and for you. We did what we had to."

We?

"Wait, what do you mean?"

Suguru reached for a towel. "Hm?"

"What do you mean with, 'we'?"

He froze mid-movement, jaw tightening.

Your stomach twisted. Something in his silence, in the way he wouldn't meet your gaze—

Your hands braced against the sink, knuckles white against the cold porcelain. "What did you and Satoru talk about that night? The night before the hearing? I know he was with you."

"It's nothing important. He was confused, and I helped him clear his head."

"What does that mean? What did you say to him?"

Suguru's silence was the loudest answer, the pity in his eyes a searing poison. With a sickening clarity, it all fell into place — Satoru's sudden surrender, the way he'd looked at you in the hearing, empty and broken.

"Tell me what the fuck you said to him!"

"Isn't it obvious?" he said, the cruelty finally unveiled. "I told him to end this. That it would destroy you, and that he should take responsibility for once!"

The ground tilted.

He'd convinced Satoru to let you go.

He'd single-handedly shattered the fragile trust you'd clawed back with Satoru, the possibility of fighting this together — gone. All it took was Suguru to destroy it all.

Betrayal burned in your throat.

Satoru may have wielded the knife, but Suguru had guided his hand.

"You had no right," you choked out. "You had no fucking right to do that!"

"No right?" Suguru's voice rose to match yours. "And watch you both go down? Satoru was a ticking time bomb! It was better this way—better him destroyed than you dragged down with him."

"I had him, Suguru!" you shouted. "I almost had him trusting me enough, trusting us enough, to let me help him, damn it!"

"You're delusional. He can't change. You know that. It would always have ended like this."

"My god, I can't believe your audacity!" You spat the words, raw and dripping with fury. It masked the deeper ache, the knowledge that he wasn't entirely wrong. "You ruined everything!"

Suguru's jaw tightened. He moved closer, his imposing presence forcing you back a pace. "You know how many times I've seen this play out? The promises to change? I've seen it too often. He won't get better, and I won't let him drag you under with him. Not you."

Your retreat ended abruptly, your back hitting the cool porcelain of the sink. He remained close, so close you could feel the heat radiating off him. His hand reached out, a single fingertip tracing your jawline in a gesture at odds with the harshness of his words.

"This is for the best," he insisted, his voice rough. "You're young, brilliant. This—relationship with Satoru, it would have ruined you."

"Don't you dare," you hissed, slapping his hand away. "You have no right to decide what's best for me."

"Yes, I do. Because I was the one who got you here in the first place, it was my doing, and I—" he trailed off, his voice softening. "I don't want to see you hurt."

"Why are you saying this now?"

"You know damn well why."

His words hung in the air, suffocating, sour.

Months of shared research, of seeing Suguru as a mentor, then a friend—

Suguru destroying your fragile connection with Satoru felt like an unforgivable violation. You knew it wasn't just him. But the pain of it all was too much, clouding your thoughts.

You slowly shook your head, unwilling to accept what he just said, unwilling to even comprehend the implications.

"No," you forced the word out. "You can't—"

"Yeah, I know. You don't have to tell me that."

Then, a sharp beep shattered the suffocating tension. Suguru swore under his breath, retrieving his pager. His face went taut as he read the message.

"What is it?"

"Yaga," he said. "Wants to see us. Now."

He met your gaze, dread coiling in your gut. This couldn't be good.

"Why?"

"I...I don't know. But we should go. Come on."

─── ·✧· ───

"You want me to redo a study that was completely pointless?"

Your question rang through the oppressive silence of Yaga's office. Suguru sat beside you, but his presence offered no comfort against Yaga's piercing gaze.

Your fingers clawed into the paper files in front of you.

Useless words, wasted effort.

You didn't need to reread them. They were your own words, your own data after all. Your own carefully crafted research project. But it led nowhere. Insignificant results. Pointless.

The pain that these papers in your hand causes was sharper than any scalpel, a wound no surgery could mend. Because this research was fueled by grief. Grief for your father, lost to the cruel, invasive brain tumor that now mocked you from the pages.

But it was this very research that had gotten you here.

It caught Suguru's attention, led to his mentorship, and through him — to Satoru. How perverse that your most agonizing vulnerability had opened this door, led you to a love that felt as cursed as your research.

Cruel.

Being forced to revisit this failure, now of all times — it felt like a cruel joke. Your life, it seemed, was a master of cruelty, stripping you bare then pouring acid on the raw wounds.

"Yes," Yaga's voice was devoid of any empathy.

"The results were inconclusive. A dead end," you said.

Yaga sighed. "Your research held promise, Dr. Geto never failed to remind me. Now, you have better resources, better support. You can refine it, perfect it."

You glanced at Suguru. The flicker of regret in his eyes was another betrayal you cataloged for later. Facing Yaga again, you tightened your grip on the file until your knuckles ached. You slammed it shut, fighting the urge to tear it to shreds.

"That's not the point. My CAR-T-Therapy research was theoretical, a mathematical model that was inherently flawed. All the best equipment in the world won't change that. It's a black hole."

Yaga leaned forward. "Listen, we have a—generous donor. I think you met her at the conference? She took quite a liking to you." He paused. "Her husband recently succumbed to this very type of tumor."

My god.

Cold sweat broke out on your skin. You remembered the woman's worried face at the conference, her desperate hope when she learned of your past work. It had felt like a punch to the gut even then, reopening the wound of your own loss.

Now, her raw grief had been weaponized, a pawn in Yaga's game of securing funding.

A bitter laugh threatened to escape your lips. Research meant nothing to these people. You were but a tool, a means to an end, another cog in their merciless machine. You wanted to scream, to expose their hypocrisy, to rip apart the facade of noble intentions that veiled their greed.

But what would it change?

Would it expose their callousness, their blatant abuse of a grieving woman?

No, they held the power.

Maybe Suguru and Satoru weren't so wrong, after all — research, even here, was just another business at its core, tainted by ambition and the pursuit of profit. It made you sick.

"You want to use me to exploit a grieving woman just to line your pockets?"

Yaga leaned back, momentarily taken aback by your bluntness. An arrogant rebuttal was undoubtedly forming on his lips, when the door crashed open.

Satoru stormed in, his fury barely contained. "What the hell is going on here?"

Yaga's expression hardened. "Dr. Gojo, what a...surprise. Here I thought you might have finally bothered to read your emails."

Satoru moved swiftly to stand beside you, his hand settling on the back of your chair. "Cut the bullshit, Yaga," he spat. "This is a new low, even for you. Forcing a student, exploiting a grieving widow—have you no shame?"

"Dr. Gojo, your dramatics are exhausting. Do you understand the costs your actions have inflicted on this institution? A shred of gratitude, a willingness to shoulder some responsibility, might be a welcome change."

"Responsibility? You want to talk about responsibility? You're exploiting a woman in the depths of grief, using one of my students as a bargaining chip." He leaned forward, eyes blazing. "What the hell happened to you, Yaga?"

Yaga mirrored his stance, the tension between them a storm about to break. "Happened to me? Dr. Gojo, have you considered the consequences of your reckless behavior? You're the one spiraling, and frankly, it's becoming unbearable."

Suguru, sensing the impending explosion, stepped between them with forced calm. "Director Yaga, please. She's a student, her focus should be on her studies."

"Of course, which is why you and Dr. Gojo will provide your expertise. Your old lab is free to use, funds are secured, equipment at your disposal. You have free rein."

Satoru laughed. "Free rein? Or free rein to do as you please? Despicable, Yaga. Truly despicable." He paused, the rage in his voice barely contained. "And wasn't I suspended? Investigations and all that? But I suppose principles go out the window when money enters the picture."

"You have no right to dictate what happens here, Gojo," Yaga snapped, the veneer of civility slipping. "You answer to me. This research holds immense potential, not just for the university, but for the field itself. You will do it. End of discussion."

"Potential? Or is that just fancy code for fattening your wallet, Yaga?"

Yaga's lips thinned. "Don't play dumb, Gojo. You, of all people, know exactly how the game is played."

"Don't. Do. This." Satoru leaned in, his voice a dangerous quiet. "Involve her in your schemes, and I swear—Leave her out of this. Suguru and I can do the damned research, but let her focus on her studies."

"You're in no position to bargain. I can make things incredibly difficult for you, Gojo. Throw away all that potential, all that talent...it would be a shame, wouldn't it? But I am more than willing to do so if you prove uncooperative."

"Director, Dr. Gojo has a point. This research will be a massive distraction. Her studies should be her priority," Suguru stepped in.

"Yes," Yaga drawled. "I heard about her recent...setbacks." He opened his laptop, fingers flying across the keyboard. "A failed practical exam, a theoretical test barely passed. And this isn't the first time, is it?"

His gaze fixed on you over his glasses as he turned the screen, revealing your student record, the failing grades glowing a damning red. "Tell me, which subject would you like to miraculously pass? A click of my fingers, and it's done."

The room imploded.

Satoru's grip on the chair threatened to split the wood. "You blackmailing piece of shit!"

"Blackmail?" Yaga said. "No, blackmail would be threatening to cut her scholarship, endangering her entire future here...which, thankfully, our generous donor would be more than happy to preserve."

Suguru shot to his feet, a rare crack in his composure. "Yaga, this is beyond the pale! This blatant manipulation—"

But the words were already forming in your mouth, driven by a bone-deep weariness. "I'll do it," you declared, the words surprisingly firm. "I'll work on the research."

The room fell silent, every eye fixed on you.

It felt awful to give in, but with everything going on, it was just too much — giving in was easier for now.

There were other battles to save your strength for. And the battlefield of Satoru's furrowed brow and those piercing blue eyes that bore into you was a battlefield that already took all your strength.

Someone needed to be practical here, and that wouldn't be him.

"Someone finally sees reason," Yaga said, breaking the silence. "You start this week."

This week?

"No," Satoru interjected. "That is not up for debate. We start next week."

Surprise flickered across Yaga's face, quickly replaced by irritation. Even Suguru seemed taken aback by Satoru's sudden defiance.

"This week," Yaga repeated.

"Next week. Or I walk out that door and you can find yourself a new star surgeon."

He wouldn't. He couldn't possibly—could he?

Satoru couldn't know about your father's death day — the reason why starting this week was unthinkable. You didn't tell him. But why, then, was he so vehemently pushing back?

"Dr. Gojo, you are exceedingly close to losing my goodwill," Yaga ground out. "Fine. Next week."

"And if we find nothing? Months, years, wasted on a dead-end?" Suguru asked.

"You'll continue as long as the funding lasts."

"Of course," Satoru spat.

"Well, look at the bright side, Dr. Gojo. I just approved that fancy new CT scanner for the ER. Isn't that what you've been whining about?" Yaga's voice was dripping with sarcasm. "Finally found some spare change in the budget, did we?"

"You fucking bastard," Satoru hissed.

"Everyone has to play their role, Gojo."

The air in the room turned to lead.

You couldn't breathe. The walls of Yaga's office seemed to close in, suffocating. It had been the right decision, perhaps the only one — a tactical retreat. But why the hell was it so hard to breathe then?

It was just too much.

Too many battles, too many impossible choices.

Your father's memory, a constant ache turned into a weapon used against you. Yaga's insatiable ambition crushing you. And Satoru—

But worst of all was the gnawing, unyielding guilt underneath it all — that by returning to this research, you were betraying your own principles, the memory of the very person who had inspired you to pursue this path in the first place.

Your vision became blurry.

You desperately needed to escape. "If you'll excuse me," you managed. With that, you turned and fled Yaga's office, barely registering the startled faces of the men left behind.

─── ·✧· ───

You needed air, distance, anything to clear your head.

The hallway became a suffocating tunnel. Students and staff blurred past, mere obstacles in your path. Your heart pounded against your ribs.

"Wait!" Satoru's voice, his footsteps echoing behind you .

Bursting out into the courtyard, you gasped for air. Rain a harsh slap against your skin. Blurred shapes of green and gray whipped past as you ran. You didn't care where you were going, just that you were getting away.

Away from Yaga, away from the project, away from the crushing weight of it all.

Satoru called your name. Barely heard him. Legs burning, lungs screaming, but you pushed, ran. You wouldn't stop. Couldn't. Didn't want to see him — not now.

Somehow, you found yourself in an unfamiliar part of campus, and then — a wall. Looming, brutal. A dead end.

Sobs tore from your throat. You were cornered.

This is where it all led, isn't it?

Failure.

Betrayal.

And the sickening knowledge that you were complicit in your own downfall.

And with Satoru's relentless pursuit, the final, crushing blow would soon fall. His concern, his pity, would be the last straw, shattering what little remained of your composure.

"Please—" His voice was close now.

Your eyes slammed shut, but it did nothing to drown out his voice, the panic. Rain plastered your hair to your face, soaking you to the skin.

Satoru paused, a few feet away.

"Just leave me alone, Satoru. Please, I can't—can't—" The words dissolved into another ragged sob.

"I know, but I'm here." He took a step closer, and panic flared within you.

Your world narrowed. The panic attack was inevitable. Your breaths came in shallow gasps, each inhale a struggle against the invisible constrictor squeezing the life out of you. Your icy fingers trembled, useless and numb.

No.

This couldn't happen.

Not here, not now.

Yet, your body betrayed you.

Without conscious thought, you simply sunk down onto the rain-soaked concrete. Your hand pressed against your chest, a desperate attempt to quell the frantic thudding of your heart, a frantic plea for it to slow, to obey.

Satoru crouched before you, the rain dripping from his white hair. Then the weight of his warm jacket settled over your shoulders as you choked on another breath.

"I...I just need..." Your voice cracked. "Need to sit. Can we just...just sit for a second?"

"Yes. Of course. Whatever you need."

He didn't touch you, didn't offer empty promises. He simply held the jacket over your head like a shelter, shielding you as best he could against the downpour. His own white shirt clung to him, soaked through.

His gaze, those impossibly blue eyes, never wavered. You felt exposed, like your every broken piece was on agonizing display for him to witness. It was unbearable.

You hated it.

Hated him for seeing you like this.

Hated that he refused to look away.

Suddenly, his hand covered yours, gently pressing it flat against the hard plane of his chest. You inhaled sharply, but then felt the calm rhythm of his heart beneath your palm.

"Focus on me," he whispered. "I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere."

You struggled to pull air into your burning lungs. His steady breathing, the gentle rise and fall of his chest under the drenched shirt, became a desperate focus.

Slowly, with each ragged breath, the crushing weight of panic slowly began to ease. Your racing heart slowed, though your body still trembled. You weren't sure how long you sat there, just you and Satoru, in the downpour.

As the tears subsided, as the world finally stopped spinning, you felt the faintest flicker of something akin to calm. Not the absence of pain, but the strange feeling of calm, of home — something you always felt with him.

Bittersweet resignation to the absurdity of it all washed over you.

All his attempts to distance himself, to push you away — and here you were, thrown together once again by forces far beyond your control. You hadn't sought this, hadn't chased after him. Yet, life it seemed, had a cruel sense of humor.

Work together, fall apart, suffer, repeat.

A bitter laugh escaped you.

His gaze was on you, wary, perhaps gauging whether the weight of it all had pushed you beyond the brink of sanity, whether you'd been broken beyond repair — whether he was the one responsible for all this.

"Pointless, wasn't it?"

"What?"

"All that effort of yours. Pushing me away, only to end up here. Back to square one. Stuck on this damned project, pretending we don't want to fuck each other on the lab table."

His brow furrowed. "Are you losing your mind?"

You tilted your head, considering the question. "Tell me, was it easier? Loosing me, breaking my heart, than facing whatever it is that terrifies you about being with me?"

Silence fell.

"I don't know," he finally admitted. "I thought it would be, but now, I'm not so sure anymore."

Your breath hitched, the first inhale that didn't feel like a shard of glass cutting into your lungs. "We can do this, right?"

"We can try, if you want to" he said, his voice thick. "Suguru and I—we can handle most of it—"

"No. I mean, we can do this. Together. Work side by side, like professionals."

"We have to try." He swallowed, a muscle in his jaw working. "If you want me to...I can stay behind the scenes. Crunch data, Suguru can lead in the field—"

"No. No shortcuts. We do this together, all of us. You, me, Suguru."

"But you don't have to. You're a student. This mess...it's not yours to clean up."

"You think I can't handle it?"

Hypocritical, maybe, after your breakdown, but you didn't want his protection, not in this way. You wanted to fight your own battles, for better or worse. Stubborn pride — a desperate denial of how the grief, the unrelenting struggle, chipped away at you.

Perhaps he saw that, saw the fragility behind your brittle facade. Yet, his concern felt like a form of surrender — an acknowledgment that you were both fighting losing battles.

Satoru sighed, his hand raking through his soaked hair. "No, damn it, that's not it. I just—hate the idea of you having to—"

"And you always get to decide for me, right?"

His reaction was immediate. Hands cupped your face, forcing you to meet his gaze, the touch surprisingly gentle. "You infuriating, stubborn woman. Stop trying to play the goddamn martyr. For once, just let me help you."

"Sounds familiar, doesn't it?"

His grip tightened, a flicker of anger replacing the worry. "This isn't the same. You're not me. Sukuna's fucked-up game, Yaga's ambitions, this whole mess—none of it is yours to bear."

"You're right, we're not the same, no," you snapped. "I don't run when things get hard."

"God, you're so full of it! Your precious ego won't let you admit you need anyone, even someone who actually cares about you."

"My ego? Don't you think it's a little hypocritical to pretend you care after pushing me away?"

"You stupid woman." His anger faltered. "I'll always care, always look after you. Because I can't stand it—I can't watch you hurt. I—"

He trailed off, the confession choked back. Slowly, tentatively, his thumb traced a line across your cheek.

"Let me protect you," he whispered. "Please, just let me keep you from the worst of it."

"And what about you? Who looks after you?"

He held your gaze, the intensity holding you captive.

You'd seen glimpses of this before — flashes of protective fury or moments of vulnerability. But never like this. Never so raw, unguarded. He looked at you as if you held the key to his survival, as if your very existence was both his lifeline and his undoing.

Love.

It was the word you choked back, the emotion you refused to give voice to. Yet, it hung heavy in the rain-drenched air. It blazed in his eyes, a confession too raw to be contained.

His touch lingered, then retreated.

He stared at you, the rain making it impossible to tell if the glistening sheen on his face was water or something other.

"You have to stop looking at me like that," you whispered.

"I know," he said, burying his face against his shoulder for a moment. "Just because we can't be together...It doesn't mean I've stopped loving you."

You took a deep inhale, your heart a clenched fist in your chest.

"You know, in those four weeks—," you began. "I wondered if it was worth it, the pain, the hurt, for those sweet moments of being with you, or if it would've been better to never meet you at all."

"And did you find an answer?"

"I don't know," you admitted. "Part of me wished you'd just call me, say it was all a cruel joke."

"I wanted to but—"

"I know," you cut him off.

He didn't need to say it.

You didn't want to force the confession from him, didn't want to break something inside him you couldn't bear to see shatter, didn't want to see him crumble under the weight of his choices.

There was no need for him to voice the regret, the guilt.

You knew it, saw it in his eyes.

"I know," you repeated softly.

He was suffering too, you knew that. But a wounded part of you needed him to feel the pain, to feel the burn of it, to understand the depth of the wound he'd inflicted.

"It's okay," you said. "But I can't pretend I don't sometimes wonder how you could do this to me. Why you took it so far. You knew it would end like this, that you weren't strong enough, you knew, didn't you? And still, you let me confess...all while knowing you couldn't commit."

"I—," he started but you weren't done.

"I'm not finished," you said, a hand raised to silence him. "I wanted to scream, to rage, to make you feel my pain. But I kept quiet, kept my distance. Because I knew you weren't ready to face this. And I won't force you to."

Silence fell, broken only by the relentless rain.

"I didn't deserve this, Satoru," you forced yourself to say. "You know it."

There was no accusation, no plea for explanation. Just a simple truth, a raw wound laid bare in the unforgiving rain.

"I know."

"I don't know if I can forgive you yet, Satoru. I don't think I'm strong enough right now."

He reached out, gently brushing a wet strand of hair from your face. "It's okay," he said. "I'll wait. Forever, if I have to."

"And I'll wait for you," you echoed. "Until you're ready."

You took a deep breath. In this rain-soaked moment it seemed, all that remained were raw truths and a shared pain that bound you together even as it tore you apart.

You searched his face. "How are you? How have you been?"

"I...managed."

Convincing as always.

You could see the toll this had taken on him, the shadows in his eyes, the tension in his jaw. Satoru, in his stubborn pride, would rather break than admit vulnerability.

Perhaps you weren't so different after all.

You tilted your head. "And how's that working for you?"

His gaze drifted to the ground.

With a sigh you slowly, hesitantly, reached for his hand.

His hand was cold against yours, damp from the persistent rain. You traced the faint scars on the back of his hand, the ones you'd stitched. His fingers twitched, then hesitantly found yours, intertwining with a desperate vulnerability that startled you.

It was familiar, his touch, his skin, yet undeniably foreign at the same time.

He looked up, dark circles smudged beneath his eyes. And so, beneath the relentless rain, you simply sat.

Words felt unnecessary.

There was no need for declarations, no need to dissect what had gone so horribly wrong. The truth was in the shared breath, the tremble of your intertwined fingers, the unspoken ache that you both shared.

You knew, with a certainty that transcended logic, that your souls were intertwined in a way that refused to be undone. Yet, that same knowledge brought a crushing weight, a reminder impossibility, the painful chasm you couldn't seem to bridge.

Too bad love wasn't enough.

"I love you," he finally whispered. "As long as I breathe, I'll love you."

"I hate you," you said.

He sighed, with a hint of a defeated smile. "Come on," he said, gently pulling you to your feet. "Let's go home."

─── ·✧· ───

Grief isn't pretty.

It's not elegant tears and soft whispers.

Sometimes it's a relentless ache, a gnawing emptiness throbbing beneath the thin veneer of forced normalcy.

You threw yourself into work, anything to outrun your thoughts.

You barely slept, barely ate. You wrote, then erased, then wrote some more.

Endless cups of coffee and the frantic tapping of your fingers on the keyboard replaced sleep. Your apartment became a prison, phone buzzing with unanswered calls, dishes piling up, the world outside your window a meaningless blur.

You existed on a ragged edge, refusing to let your mind wander. Every sting of grief, every echoing memory was ruthlessly shoved down, buried under data, statistics, intricate theories.

It wasn't just research anymore. It was a shield against pain.

You reread old papers, your eyes scanning pages until the words blurred, searching for some missed detail, some hidden clue that would unlock a breakthrough — anything to justify this madness.

You couldn't stop, needed to function.

Because what else was left of you if you didn't anymore?

So you worked. Because to stop is to surrender, to stop is to face the truth — that without this work, all that remained was the ruin of what you once were.

Days melted into nights.

You massaged your temples, the headache now a constant companion.

The laptop screen blurred, diagrams and data swirling. Your mind felt like a tightly wound coil, ready to snap at the slightest provocation.

You looked over to the window. The world outside, bathed in the soft glow of early morning, seemed like a foreign land. You hadn't been out in days.

You needed fresh air.

You slipped on shoes and crept downstairs. On the landing, your gaze fell upon Mrs. Tanaka, your elderly neighbor. Her hands fumbled with a tangle of keys, her fingers trembling slightly.

You knew Mrs. Tanaka, knew her kind smile, knew the early signs of her dementia.

"Need help, Mrs. Tanaka?" you asked.

She turned, her eyes widening in recognition. "Oh dear. I seem to have misplaced my keys again. Silly me."

"Here." You knelt beside her, retrieving the spare key from its familiar hiding spot under the potted plant. "Is this it?"

"You're an angel, dear," she said, her hands finally steady enough to work the lock. She paused, peering at your drawn face. "You look exhausted, dear. Are you getting enough rest?"

"Oh, I'm fine," you lied, forcing a smile. "Just a long night of studying."

Mrs. Tanaka's nod was slow, her gaze lingering. But she said nothing further, just patted your arm gently before disappearing inside her apartment.

Your walk around the block was a blur, legs moving on autopilot.

The energy drink in your hand was a pathetic substitute for real sleep. Back in your apartment, the silence was deafening.

You lay on your bed, staring at the ceiling.

Think.

And suddenly — there it was, a flicker of an idea, a twist on existing theory so audacious it bordered on madness.

It wasn't a cure, not yet. But it was... a start.

Adrenaline surged through you, chasing away the exhaustion. You barely noticed the tremors in your hands as you scrambled for a fresh notebook. Diagrams sprawled across the pages, messy yet precise, a frantic attempt to capture the idea before it slipped away.

Your hand ached from scribbling, your mind throbbed. But the fire was back, a destructive force perhaps, but a force that fueled you nonetheless.

Finally, as the first rays of dawn painted the sky, you had it. Not a cure, not yet. But a starting point. It was messy, audacious, and riddled with uncertainties. But it was something.

You reached for your phone.

[8:27 AM] You: Can we meet later? Lab. After classes. I think I have something.

─── ·✧· ───

You clutched your steaming cup of coffee like a lifeline.

Shivers ran down your body as a gust of autumn wind cut through your thin sweater, carrying with it the scent of damp leaves and the promise of winter's impending cold.

The late afternoon sun offered little warmth as it filtered through the branches of the oak trees that shaded the outdoor seating area of the cafeteria. Students bustled past, their bright faces and carefree chatter unbearable.

"You awake?" Maki's voice cut through the haze that had settled over you.

You blinked, suddenly aware of the concerned looks on your friends' faces.

"You look like absolute hell," Maki continued. "Seriously, have you slept at all this week?"

"I'm fine."

"Don't even start with that. We know you, and you look like you're about to lose it."

You took a long sip of your coffee, somehow, defending yourself seemed like too much effort.

"She's right, you know," Yuta chimed in, his voice gentler than Maki's but no less concerned. "This research they're piling on you, on top of everything else... it's too much. Even we're struggling with the new semester, and we don't have half the stuff you're dealing with."

"Yeah," you sighed. "Tell me about it."

The looks exchanged between your friends were anything but reassuring. They knew you, knew your stubborn streak, but they also saw the toll this was taking on you. The shadows under your eyes, the tremor in your hands — they couldn't be ignored.

"It's not right," Maki said. "They're basically blackmailing you with your scholarship. That's messed up, even for this university."

"I know, it's messed up. But what am I supposed to do? Fighting it will just make things worse."

"But you have to!" Maki insisted, her voice rising. "Yaga's using you! You're just a student. We should report him, expose this whole thing."

"Maki, it's okay," you sighed, rubbing your temples.

"Nothing about this is 'okay'," she retorted. "You look like you're about to have a breakdown. You can't keep this up forever."

You slumped back in your chair. "It's complicated."

They were right, of course. You couldn't keep going like this. It was unsustainable, a house of cards ready to collapse at the slightest breeze. But what other choice did you have? The alternatives seemed even worse.

"We just—we worry about you," Yuta said. "Maybe we can help with the workload? Notes from class, study sessions—"

"Yeah," Toge chimed in. "Notes."

You offered a faint smile. "That would be great, thank you."

But Maki, as always, was less concerned with comforting and more with the injustice of it all. "I still can't believe you're stuck working with Gojo again. I mean, who does he think he is?"

You winced, wishing she hadn't brought up Satoru. Your head pounded, a migraine threatening to form. You rubbed your temples, but Maki's gaze was relentless. You knew what was coming next.

"Don't even ask," you pleaded, but it was too late.

"Have you talked to him? Like, really talked?"

You sighed, burying your face in your hands. "Maki, please—"

"Girl, he dragged you in front of an ethics committee, broke your heart, and now he's acting like nothing happened. Why are you still protecting him?"

"I can't tell you why," you said, your voice muffled. "Just trust me on this."

You couldn't really tell them, could you?

You couldn't tell them that your professor, a world-renowned neurosurgeon, was an opioid addict. That you'd fallen for him, hard. That the research project had gone sideways, not because of your actions, but because of something else that eventually led to a twisted game played by one of his former friends. And that Satoru, in his fear and self-loathing, had pushed you away, convinced he was doing you a favor.

Yeah, that wasn't exactly coffee-break conversation.

Maki raised an eyebrow, clearly not satisfied with your non-answer.

"He's...afraid," you said. "But he's trying."

"Trying what, exactly?" Maki scoffed. "To break your heart again? How long are you going to wait for him to get his shit together? How many times are you going to let him hurt you before you realize he might not change?"

Her words, harsh but undeniably true, cut deep. You knew the risks, the potential for heartbreak. But you also knew that love wasn't always rational, that sometimes the heart held on to hope long after logic had abandoned it.

You met Maki's gaze, a silent plea for understanding in your eyes. She was trying to protect you, and as much as it stung, you couldn't fault her for that.

"I think what Maki's trying to say," Yuta interjected, "is that we're worried about you. And this situation with Dr. Gojo doesn't help. He's your professor. If anyone finds out about your history, you're fucked."

"There's nothing to find out. It's over."

"Over? So you talked to him? Ended things?" Maki pressed.

"Ended is a bit strong."

"You really want me to go over there and end it for you?"

You wanted to argue, to defend the fragile hope that still flickered within you, but the words wouldn't come. You were simply exhausted.

Just then, your phone, lying forgotten on the table, lit up with a notification.

[12:37 PM] Satoru: We're in the lab. Take your time, we'll wait for you until your class is over.

Maki raised an eyebrow. "Speaking of the devil?"

You gathered your things, a sudden urgency replacing the weariness. "I have to go," you said, looking to Yuta with a silent plea. He understood immediately.

"Don't worry," he said, a smile on his lips. "I'll take notes for you. Don't want you falling behind on top of everything else."

"Thanks, Yuta, I owe you one."

But as you turned to leave, Maki crossed her arms, a stern expression on her face.

"Don't be mad at me," you pleaded, sensing another lecture coming on. "I've got this under control, I promise."

"Sure you do. Just like you had that whole thing with Gojo under control?" She paused, her voice softening slightly. "We're just worried about you. Don't shut us out."

The weight of their concern settled heavily in your chest, a guilt that twisted like a knife in your gut.

You wanted to tell them, to let them know the fucked-up mess of emotions and impossible situation you were in, but the words stuck in your throat.

You couldn't tell them.

You simply couldn't tell them.

Not when it meant risking his secret, his reputation, his entire career.

Not when you still cared, foolishly, stubbornly cared.

─── ·✧· ───

You pushed open the door to the lab.

It had been weeks since you'd last stepped foot in this space, weeks since you'd worked with Suguru and Satoru here. Somehow it's the same, the same lab, the same white coat, the same machinery, the same smell of antiseptic in the air, but the project was different.

No, it was not the same.

You slipped into your white lab coat and dropped your bag in the corner.

Satoru and Suguru were already immersed, standing in front of a whiteboard. Satoru, stretched out in a chair with a mug of coffee precariously balanced on a nearby stool, was gesturing wildly while Suguru scribbled.

You walked over to them. Satoru's head snapped around as he heard your footsteps, nearly spilling his coffee on the floor.

"What are you doing here?" Satoru asked. "Don't you have a lecture right now?"

"Yuta's covering for me. It's fine."

He stared at you for another moment, his brow creasing as he assessed your weary features. "That's not how this research will work. You won't jeopardize your studies for this."

"Last time I checked this was my research. Remember?"

Satoru merely scoffed, tilting his head to assess you with those impossibly blue eyes. You tucked your trembling hands behind your back, hiding the caffeine-fueled tremors from his observant gaze.

"You look exhausted," Suguru observed. "Are you sure you're up for this?"

"I'm fine," you lied, though they probably wouldn't be fooled. Exhaustion clung to you like a second skin, and the effort to maintain your composure was becoming unbearable.

They glanced at each other for a second, sharing a worried look.

It felt like a jagged saw against raw nerves. You wanted to prove them wrong, to prove you could handle this — handle all of it. This fight wasn't your choice, but it was yours now. And you wouldn't crumble beneath its weight.

"Look, I have an idea." You walked towards the whiteboard and relieving Suguru of the marker. With a few harsh strokes, you erased their notes.

It was shit anyway.

"My original approach was too theoretical—too cautious," you began. The marker flew across the whiteboard, outlining your new strategy. "I wanted to use CAR-T therapy to treat brain tumors like blood diseases, but that's not enough. What if we combine CAR-T with targeted antibodies?"

Suguru took a seat beside Satoru, his gaze following yours as you scrawled out diagrams and equations. "Antibodies...what kind?"

"T-cell engagers," you replied. "We can engineer them to bridge the gap between the CAR-T cells and the tumor."

Satoru shifted in his seat. "Such things never been tested before."

"That's why we'll be the first," you countered, keeping your back to them and focusing on the whiteboard. "We'll modify the CAR-T cells to specifically target the glioblastoma's antigen fingerprint. But we need to combine them with T-cell engagers, designed to simultaneously bind the EGFR protein. This way we can maximize tumor cell destruction."

You spun around, the marker poised in your hand. "And we'll inject them directly into the brain."

They both starred at you, as if you went insane.

"That's," Suguru paused, searching for the right word, "—bold."

"More like insane," Satoru countered. "When was the last time you actually slept?"

"Ha?" Your gaze flickered between them. "Tell me this doesn't make sense."

Suguru leaned back, fingers drumming against the armrest. "It does. Theoretically, it might even work."

Satoru, however, remained unconvinced. "Combining CAR-T with antibodies? Direct brain injection? We don't have preclinical data, not even hypothetical models to support something this radical."

Your pulse hammered against your skull. Your idea was a shot in the dark — that was undeniable. But in your gut, you knew, this could work.

"So?" you challenged. "Isn't that what groundbreaking research is about? Taking risks, pushing boundaries?" You gestured to the whiteboard. "This—this is worth the risk."

Suguru stood up from his chair. He paced the lab, your idea stirring an excitement in him that matched your own. He stole the marker from your hand and began scribbling.

"She's right," he began. "Direct injection cuts through the blood-brain barrier issue. And targeted antibodies...that opens up possibilities we haven't even considered."

"The potential for cytokine release syndrome—," Suguru mused aloud. "If the T-cells overreact, we could trigger a inflammatory response."

"We can manage that," you countered. "Steroids, anti-IL-6...strict monitoring protocols."

You knew the risks, perhaps even better than they did. And they were monstrous, undeniable. But those risks paled in comparison to the potential.

Suguru continued scrawling notes. "And what about the target itself? EGFRvIII is notoriously heterogeneous. We need robust evidence that our antibodies won't miss their mark—"

"Is it just me, or am I the only sane person in this room right now?" Satoru, who had been quietly observing the exchange, finally snapped. "We're not talking about hypothetical models here. We're talking about messing with someone's brain. Someone's life."

You glared at him. "I'm well aware of the risks, Satoru."

"Aware and reckless aren't the same thing," Satoru shot back.

"Coming from you, that's rich."

Satoru run a hand through his hair. "Look, you've barely slept for a week, and now you're proposing—what, supercharged T-cells?" He gestured wildly towards the whiteboard. "Have you both lost your goddamn minds?"

"This could work, Satoru. Or are you too much of a coward to even try?"

His eyes narrowed. "Ha?"

You leaned into him, your hands on the arms of his chair, caging him in. "Tell me, do these supercharged T-cells unnerve you? Make you uncomfortable with yourself?" Your lips were mere inches from his as you whispered, "Too bad you can't fuck them into submission, right?"

He stiffened, the muscles in his jaw clenching. He understood your taunt, the challenge clear in his eyes, the anger and — maybe something other as well.

Suguru, who had been watching the exchange with an expression that bordered on annoyance, suddenly stopped mid-thought. His phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, his expression hardening as he glanced at the screen.

"Damn it." He answered the call. "Alright, I'm on my way," he said finally, ending the call with a curt nod. He turned to you. "We'll pick this up later. There's a situation at the hospital. Get some rest. You look like hell."

Ouch.

Before you could say anything, he was already striding towards the door, his white coat flapping behind him.

With Suguru gone, a heavy silence descended upon the room.

Satoru remained seated, arms crossed, his gaze fixed on you. It felt like an assessment, not just of your audacious proposal, but of you — standing there, the weight of sleepless nights visible in the dark circles beneath your eyes.

"So—," he began. "When was the last time you actually slept? Like, really slept?"

You rubbed your aching temples. "I'm fine."

You didn't know how many times you'd said that before today. But each time it was a lie. The exhaustion now throbbed behind your eyes, the beginnings of a relentless migraine.

Satoru stood. "Yeah, right." He crossed the distance between you in a few strides, his towering height suddenly oppressive.

"Listen, we can argue about this crazy plan of yours later. Right now, you look like you're about to collapse." He reached out, gently cupping your face, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw. "Don't lie to me. I know you're not fine."

"This idea is good, Satoru," you insisted. "It could actually work."

"I don't give a damn about theoretical breakthroughs right now," he said. "Stubborn, reckless idiot. I care about you. And right now, you're pushing yourself way past your limits."

"I don't need your concern, Satoru. Right now, I need your brain to help me with this."

His lips quirked into a half-smile. "Oh, where did all that anger at me go?"

"Screw anger. I'm being a genius now."

"You're not a genius right now, more like a madman."

"That's what it takes," you muttered, the defiance fading as your voice softened. "This research...it's personal."

He studied you closely, a muscle jumping in his jaw. "I get that. But you can't save anyone if you fall apart in the process."

"I won't fall apart."

"Yes, you will. I've known you long enough to know that."

Part of you longed to surrender, to let him take the weight you carried, even for a moment. But pride, a fierce, protective instinct, urged you to resist. You couldn't afford to rely on him, not anymore. You had to fight your own battles, win or lose.

"Let us help. Just a little. Share the burden."

"I'm—"

"Don't," he cut you off. "Don't say you're fine. Not when I can feel you trembling."

"I'm... okay," you said instead.

His gaze held yours, unwavering and painfully perceptive.

His breath brushed against your lips, making your knees weak in an instant.

The world narrowed to the mesmerizing blue of his eyes. He leaned in, your bodies mere inches apart. His hands snaked around your waist, pulling you against him. Each inhale brought the subtle scent of sandalwood and something uniquely him.

"Satoru, what are you—"

He smirked. "Just testing out a hypothesis."

His eyes flickered to your lips, then back to your eyes. You leaned into him, unable to resist his pull, cursing your treacherous body in the very same second.

"What hypothesis?"

He leaned closer, his lips ghosting over yours before tracing a searing path down the side of your throat. A soft moan escaped your lips as his tongue flicked out, leaving a trail of heat in its wake.

"Ah," he whispered against your skin, "that would be telling."

Before you could react, his hands slipped beneath your legs, lifting you effortlessly. Your arms instinctively found their way around his neck. He carried you effortlessly toward the lone chair before his desk.

"What are you doing?"

"Research," he declared, a playful lilt to his voice.

He lowered himself into the chair, his hands never leaving your body, guiding you onto his lap as if you belonged there. His warmth enveloped you.

"Time to delve into your reckless methods, wouldn't you agree?"

Your legs were lifted, draped over his thighs as he pulled you closer. He reached for his laptop, his fingers dancing across the keyboard.

"Satoru, I—"

"Shhh." His fingers grazed your cheek, then slipped into your hair, stroking the back of your head in a soothing rhythm. "Just rest for a moment. I'll handle this for now."

"But I—"

His grip tightened, a gentle but firm reminder that your protests were futile. "If you don't sleep now, I swear, I'll slip a sedative into your next coffee, love."

You grumbled something unintelligible, but the fight had drained from you. The exhaustion was too overwhelming, his warmth too tempting.

You surrendered to the moment, your body relaxing against his. As your eyelids fluttered closed, the world narrowed to the steady beat of his heart, the warmth of his breath against your hair, and the undeniable truth that despite the chaos — you were exactly where you were meant to be.

But even as your eyelids grew heavy, your researcher's mind kept churning.

"EGFRvIII..." you mumbled, the words barely audible against his chest. "Heterogeneity...off-target effects..."

He chuckled, his chest vibrating against your cheek. "Yeah, yeah, I got it, Doctor. I might be a bit more experienced in this field than you, you know."

"But cytokine storm markers...cross-reactivity...you forget them often..."

"Bossy even in your sleep, huh?" His fingers continued to run through your hair as he spoke. "Don't worry that pretty little head. Just...sleep. I've got you."

And with that promise, he pulled you closer, the warmth of his body and the steady beat of his heart lulling you into a deep, desperately needed slumber. The last thing your conscious mind recognized was a kiss placed on the top of your head.

─── ·✧· ───

Ten years.

Ten years since the sterile hospital room, the rhythmic beeps of the monitor dissolving into a horrifying silence.

Ten years since the brain tumor had devoured your father, the man you looked up to, the man you admired more than anyone.

Who would have thought that ten years later you'd be doing research on that very brain tumor again.

What a cruel joke.

Today, all you craved was to burrow yourself under the covers and let the world fade away. University, research, responsibilities — they all felt trivial, meaningless.

You were hungry, stomach growling.

You didn't want to eat.

Dragging yourself out of bed was a herculean effort. Even the simple act of brushing your teeth felt monumental, exhaustion seeping into your bones like a poison.

The familiar ache intensified. You missed him. Missed his booming laugh, his gentle teasing, the unwavering belief in his eyes that you could achieve anything.

He would have understood this desperate research, this burning need to find a cure — not just for others, but for a chance to rewrite the ending to your own story.

Maybe throwing yourself into this research was a desperate way for you to feel close to him again, maybe it was a futile attempt to get over it, end the suffering, end the what if's.

Coffee, black and bitter, was the only thing you could stomach. Just as you were about to take a sip, your phone buzzed.

[10:12 AM] Satoru: You with friends today?

You stared at the screen. Why would he ask that? But as quickly as the thought came, you dismissed it. No, not today. You really didn't need another emotional mess on this day.

You ignored the message.

With a sigh, you tossed the phone aside and buried yourself under the comforting weight of your blankets. You just wanted to sleep. Sleep and forget. Pretend for a moment that the world wasn't crumbling around you.

Afternoon passed in a haze of restless slumber and tearful awakenings.

Another buzz — a call this time.

Satoru.

Your finger hovered over the decline button. Why was he calling? Was there an emergency? Even if there was, you wouldn't be much help today anyway.

Ignoring the call, you shut your phone off completely. He can handle whatever is going on on his own. He's a grown man after all.

The silence returned, thick and heavy.

Curled up tight, you drifted into a restless sleep again.

You awoke with a start, disoriented and unsure of how much time had passed. You blinked against the dim light, the rhythmic thumping at the door a harsh intrusion. Ignoring it, you burrowed deeper under the covers.

Maybe, just maybe, whoever it was would go away and leave you alone. But the knocking persisted. With a frustrated groan, you dragged yourself out of bed. Throwing the door open, you were met with the last person you expected to see.

"What are you doing here?" you asked.

Satoru leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. His white dress shirt was rumpled, sleeves rolled up. Dark navy tie around his neck. His brows were furrowed, the usual playful smirk replaced by a worried expression.

"You weren't answering your phone."

"And?"

"I'm concerned about you."

"No need."

You reached for the doorknob to shut the door. But his hand shot out, stopping the door. His gaze locked with yours, those impossibly blue eyes piercing into you.

"You didn't tell anyone, did you?" he asked softly.

"Tell anyone what?"

"That today...it's the day of your father's death."

You felt an icy grip tighten around your heart. How did he know? You hadn't told anyone, not wanting the pitying looks or empty platitudes, least of all from him.

"Yeah," he said. "That's what I thought."

His gaze held you captive, draining the fight from you. It wasn't anger, nor pity, but something like concern, and something more — something you told him not to look at you like that again.

You stepped aside and shuffled towards the kitchen to get yourself another cup of coffee. "How did you even know?" you asked, pouring yourself another cup.

"Google."

You turned, coffee sloshing in your mug. "Seriously? You Googled my father's death day?"

He didn't answer to that.

Instead, he leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his gaze unwavering. "Thought you'd be with friends today. Maki's fiercely protective, she wouldn't leave your side on a day like this. So when I saw her and the rest of the group on campus, I figured you hadn't told anyone."

"Yeah, because I wanted to be alone. Besides, shouldn't you be at university right now?"

"Called in sick once I realized you weren't with them."

"You really trying to get yourself fired, don't you?"

He closed the distance between you, the small kitchen suddenly feeling crowded with his presence. His eyes swept across your face, taking in the exhaustion etched around your eyes, the weariness in your posture.

"Have you eaten anything today besides coffee?"

"How much hydromorphone have you taken today?"

"Don't distract from the subject."

You crossed your arms. "I just changed the subject."

He ran a hand through his unruly white hair. "Alright, stubborn one. Let's get you some real food."

"I don't need you to babysit me, Satoru."

"Yeah, I know you don't. But you can't stop me, can you? So, move it." He gestured towards the door, his gaze unwavering. "Or I'll throw you over my shoulder and carry you out myself."

The threat, delivered with a hint of a smirk, was not entirely a joke. You knew him well enough to know that. He was dead serious, and you were too exhausted to fight him, to resist the gentle command in his voice.

And maybe, just maybe, a part of you didn't want to fight him, was thankful for his support.

"Fine," you grumbled. "But I'm paying."

"We'll see about that, first-year."

─── ·✧· ───

You didn't pay for it.

He'd already taken care of the bill before you could even reach for your wallet.

Silence fell between you as you navigated the bustling streets in his car, your stomach full. He smoothly merged from the parking lot onto the main road.

You were halfway through your energy drink, the sugary sweetness suddenly feeling heavy in your stomach. "Wait... where are we going?"

Glancing out the window, you saw a road sign indicating the highway. It pointed towards the direction of your hometown, a place you hadn't set foot in for nearly a year. Your stomach suddenly turned.

"You..." you stammered. "Why?"

His eyes briefly met yours, one hand tightening on the steering wheel. "Don't you want to visit him?"

His words hung in the air, a simple question — should have been a simple question.

But a wave of nausea roiled in your stomach. Guilt for neglecting the place that held so many memories, fear of confronting the raw grief that still lingered, a deep-seated yearning to reconnect with a past you'd desperately tried to outrun.

"I don't know." You slumped back in the seat. "I don't think I can."

Silence stretched between you.

Then, his hand found yours, fingers interlacing with your own. "I'm here with you. Every step of the way."

You hated him.

Hated that he wouldn't force you, wouldn't pressure you. Hated that he would simply be there, as he always seemed to be. Even when you didn't ask, even when you didn't want him to.

You wanted to curse him for his audacity, for somehow knowing what you needed now, for understanding you better than you understood yourself. But a part of you was grateful.

The truth was, you didn't have the strength to face this alone. And deep down, you knew this visit was long overdue.

Your fingers fumbled with the edge of your sleeve. "You planned this all along, didn't you?" You glanced over at him.

His lips curved into a slight smile. "Get some rest," he replied, eyes returning to the road. "We've got a long drive ahead of us."

The highway stretched before you, an endless ribbon of asphalt disappearing into the horizon. You leaned back, exhaustion pulling you under. The warmth of his hand lingered, a comforting weight on your thigh.

Lately, it seemed, you could find peaceful sleep only in his presence.

─── ·✧· ───

Hours dissolved into miles, the familiar cityscape giving way to rolling hills and quaint towns. The pain in your chest was still there, but with Satoru by your side, it was lighter, less heavy, less suffocating.

But as the car pulled into the all-too-familiar cemetery parking lot, the dread you'd been suppressing clawed its way back. Satoru cut the engine, the sudden silence deafening, broken only by the mournful creak of the windshield wipers against the lingering drizzle.

Satoru got out of the car and rounded it to opened the door for you, his hand lingering on the window frame. You got out of the car only to find yourself trapped, his body not moving an inch.

"You okay?"

"I'm fine." You ducked beneath his arm, breaking the hold of his gaze, and stepped onto the rain-softened ground.

The desolate expanse of the graveyard stretched before you, a sea of gray and brown punctuated by the stark white headstones that stood like silent sentinels. Without a word, you walked the familiar path, each step a heavy weight dragging you down.

The wind howled. It whipped through the trees, skeletal branches clawing at the sky. Each gust of icy air tore at your hair, biting at your exposed skin until you finally stood before his grave.

Satoru remained a few paces back.

You hadn't been here since the funeral, avoided it at all costs. And now you were here, standing in front of his grave. Somehow, you didn't even remember the reason you avoided this for so long.

Maybe seeing his grave made it all too real, too painful.

But now you were here.

And it became real, and it was painful.

"You want me to leave you alone?" Satoru asked.

"No." With a silent plea, you reached out your hand. "Please, stay with me."

His response was immediate. In a few quick strides, he closed the distance between you, his hand enveloping yours in a warmth that chased away some of the icy dread. "Where else would I go?" he mused, his fingers intertwining with yours.

You swallowed back a sob, unable to form words.

Time lost all meaning as you stood there, hand in hand, the world narrowing to the headstone before you. Minutes stretched into what felt like hours, the sun sinking lower, painting the graveyard in fiery hues of orange and red.

But the silence became unbearable.

Memories flooded you, each one a bittersweet wound, a yearning for the past that wouldn't be silenced. You couldn't stand still anymore. Your fingers tightened around Satoru's.

"I asked my father to read me his neurology books as a child," you finally spoke, your voice a fragile whisper. "While other kids were reading about princesses and fairy tales, I wanted to understand what my father did, wanted to understand his work."

You took a shaky breath. "He loved this. Surgeries, research, saving lives... it was his whole being, and somehow, it became mine too. I remember knowing how to clip an aneurysm before I could do the Pythagoras theorem."

"When I was old enough, he took me to the hospital. Showed me everything. I was probably there more than I was at school." Your voice trembled, the dam threatening to break. "I loved it. I loved it so much."

"Sounds like he was a great man," Satoru offered quietly.

"They tried everything," you continued. "Chemo, radiation... poison, burning him from the inside out. But the tumor was too aggressive, too progressed." Your voice trembled, your fingers turning to ice in his grasp. "Surgery was his last option."

Satoru moved closer, his grip tightening.

"We didn't want him to, we wanted him to try radiation a little longer, stay with us a little longer," you confessed, the words spilling out in a rush. "But he chose surgery anyway, went into surgery without telling us."

Suddenly the memories came back, how weak and fragile your father already was from all the procedures. How the doctors still suggested surgery. It was risky. It was stupid. But your father still wanted it. Even after you begged him not to do it.

But what could you do?

You were a high school student at the time.

Young and dumb.

You know now, that it was his only chance. You understand now, why he wanted to try anyway, even though he knew the risks.

"He didn't make it," you finally choked out, tears welling up in your eyes. "He died on the table. Alone. I never even got to say goodbye."

Suddenly, Satoru's arms enveloped you, strong and warm against the chilling evening air. He pulled you close, one hand on your back, the other pressing your head against his chest.

"It's okay," he said quietly. "I'm here, and I'll always be here."

You bit your lip. You wouldn't cry. Wouldn't let the grief consume you. Not here, not now. But Satoru's arms tightened around your trembling form as your tears nevertheless dampened his shirt.

You didn't know how long you remained like this, but his grip on you never faltered for a second, he didn't back away for a second. Even as twilight descended, casting long shadows across the headstones.

He held you until your tears dried, he held you until your tight grip on his shirt eased, until your heart felt less like a stone in your chest.

"We should probably find a place to stay," Satoru finally spoke, his voice gentle, hesitant. "It's getting late, we can drive home tomorrow—"

You pulled away, just enough to meet his gaze. Your voice was surprisingly steady despite the tear-streaked tracks on your face. "I know where we can stay."

─── ·✧· ───

"She's a little...different," you warned Satoru after ringing the doorbell.

The porch creaked beneath your weight. Your eyes swept across the worn wooden planks, the once vibrant yellow paint on the siding faded to a sickly pallor, the rusty mailbox overflowing with unopened letters. Rose bushes wild and overgrown.

You averted your gaze, a lump forming in your throat.

"Yeah, yeah," he sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "You've mentioned that. Like, a hundred times."

"Just so you're prepared."

"I'm a doctor, remember? Crazy doesn't faze me."

"Just wait," you muttered, a knot of unease tightening in your stomach. "And, uh, whatever you do, don't mention my father."

His eyes widened slightly, the playful smile disappearing. But before he could respond, the front door flew open. Your mother appeared in the doorway. Surprise, then unadulterated joy, flashed across her face as her gaze fell upon you.

"Oh my baby girl!" she exclaimed, pulling you into a bone-crushing hug. "You've grown so tall! My, how long has it been? All the way from Tokyo? Are you alright? Why didn't you call?"

Her questions tumbled out in a torrent, the words tripping over each other as she finally noticed the tall, white-haired man standing behind you. "And who is this?"

"Mom," you managed, your voice muffled against her shoulder. "It's good to see you too..." You gently extricated yourself from her embrace. "This is Satoru...he's a...," you turned around to glanced at him, "friend."

Satoru raised an eyebrow at the label.

Your mother's eyes raked over him. He, in turn, flashed her a smile so bright, so disarming, it almost made your skin crawl. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

Wow, he really could play the perfect son-in-law when he wanted to.

You suppressed a sigh, knowing your mother was already half-smitten. Before she could unleash another barrage of questions, you quickly interjected, "We're just passing through, and need a place to stay the night."

"Of course, of course!" Your mother's enthusiasm returned in a flurry. "Come in, come in! You must be starving. I'll whip up some tea, and there's apple pie..." She chattered on, ushering you both into the familiar warmth of your childhood home.

─── ·✧· ───

Before you could blink, your mother had you both in colorful floral aprons, protest was futile. Satoru's awkwardly tied over his shirt, the apron way too tight for him. He loosened his tie and rolled up his sleeves, the crisp white fabric bunching around his elbows.

The awful smell of lavender, tinged with something sweet, hung in the air.

How you hated that smell.

Your mother bustled around the kitchen, flinging open cupboards, clattering utensils, and assigning tasks. You found yourself shoulder-to-shoulder with Satoru at the counter, a mountain of carrots and a too-small cutting board the only barrier between you.

You glanced at him and mouthed a silent 'sorry'.

Satoru leaned in, a wry grin playing on his lips. "Think I finally figured out where you got your stubborn streak."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Before he could answer, your mother stood between you, a wooden spoon clutched in her hand like a weapon. "So, Satoru, tell me, where did you meet my lovely daughter?"

The question nearly made you drop the knife.

"We met in the operating room," he began, while cutting carrots. "I was performing a quite complicated operation and was a bit stuck, and your daughter over here helped me out."

"Oh, you're a surgeon?"

"Neurosurgeon, yes," Satoru replied. "But apparently, I'm not as clever as your daughter. She's got quite the mind on her."

Your mother let out a hearty laugh, the sound echoing in the cramped kitchen. "That's my girl," she exclaimed, patting your arm with a flour-covered hand. "Always the smartest one in the room."

Then, she reached out to pinch your cheek. "Mom!" You swatted her hand away. "Stop it!"

"She's astoundingly intelligent," Satoru added, his eyes flickering to you with an admiration that lingered a beat too long. You rubbed your cheek, a blush warming your face. "Couldn't ask for a better research partner."

You shot him a warning glance, and he finally tore his eyes away, a playful smirk tugging at his lips.

"You work together?" your mother asked, her curiosity piqued as she turned around to tasted something from the simmering pot.

"We're involved in the same research project—" Satoru began, but you cut him off.

"It's nothing special," you interrupted, desperately trying to steer the conversation away from dangerous territory. "Just some boring data analysis. Nothing exciting."

Satoru glanced at you. You shook your head subtly, hoping he'd catch the unspoken plea.

The rest of the meal preparation was a blur of nervous glances and sharp elbow jabs.

Your mother asked more and more personal questions, making you want to crawl under the table and disappear. You dodged, deflected, and offered vague answers. Satoru, on the other hand, seemed to have no problem to reveal every fucking inappropriate detail of your shared past.

You could practically feel the bruises forming on his shins. By the time the food was ready, you were ready to throttle him.

He must absolutely hate you, you thought, shooting him a death glare as you sat down at the table. But even your anger couldn't fully mask the warmth that spread through you at the sight of his charming smile, the way he seemed to effortlessly charm your mother with his stories.

You'd hoped the interrogation was over, but as soon as the first bite was taken, your mother launched into a fresh round of inquiries.

"Made some good friends in Tokyo, have you?"

"Yeah," you mumbled around a mouthful of casserole. "They're great. Don't worry."

"Oh, thank goodness!" Your mother clasped her hands together. "You were always a bit of a loner, you know. I was so worried you'd be all by yourself in that big city."

The backhanded compliment made you roll your eyes. Some things never change.

Before you could reply, she continued, "But you've even found yourself a boyfriend! That's wonderful!"

You choked on your food. "Mom, no, that's not..." you coughed, fighting for composure, "He's just a friend."

"Ouch," Satoru muttered under his breath, a smirk playing on his lips as he took another bite.

You shot him a glare, the unspoken 'shut up' hanging heavy in the air.

"So, you two are working on that neuroprosthetics project together, then?" your mother continued.

You were mid-bite, unable to answer before Satoru piped up, "We were. But we're working on something else now."

"Oh? What happened to the neuroprosthetics?"

You swallowed, forcing the words out. "It was...shelved. For now."

"Why?"

Damn it. Her relentless questioning was grating against your already frayed nerves. You avoided her look, tracing the worn pattern of the tablecloth with your fingers.

"Some complications," you lied. "We're waiting on funding."

You couldn't really tell her the truth after all, could you?

"So, what are you working on now, then?" Your mother wouldn't let it go, her voice a relentless drill boring into your skull.

"It's nothing, really. Boring stuff," you dismissed it, desperate to steer the conversation away from dangerous waters.

"Ah, but I want to know!"

"It's...medical research."

"That's what I thought! But what kind? It must be important if you're working with a seasoned surgeon." She beamed at him. "Tell me, I'm dying to know!"

Your gaze flickered to Satoru, a silent plea for him to remain quiet. He simply watched the exchange with a carefully neutral expression, probably unsure of what's going on.

The knot in your stomach tightened. You knew she wouldn't let it go. "It's... brain tumor research," you finally admitted.

The kitchen fell silent.

Your mother's forced smile vanished, a mask you knew all too well finally fell. Her eyes hardened into shards of ice.

"So," she finally hissed. "It's back to that foolish research, is it?"

It hurt — after all this time it still hurt so awfully.

"It's not foolish," you retorted, your own anger flaring in response. "It's important. It could save lives."

But your words fell on deaf ears. She slammed her hands on the table, the force of it rattling the plates. Her face twisted with a grief-stricken rage as she rose, towering over you. "Why? Why are you so obsessed with this?"

The words pierced you like a thousand tiny needles. It was the unspoken accusation that had haunted you since his death — that your relentless pursuit was somehow an act of betrayal, a denial of his death.

But she was worse.

"Because he's dead, Mom!" you screamed. "He's gone! And he's never coming back!"

The words hung heavy in the air, a brutal reality she desperately tried to outrun. Your mother's face crumpled, the carefully constructed mask of normalcy finally shattering. Her hands clenched into fists, knuckles white against the worn tabletop.

"Dead?" she whispered. "You know that's not true. He's...he's just...away. You're lying. You're a liar!"

The accusation, so childlike in its desperation, was a punch to the gut. You wanted to scream, to shake her out of this self-imposed delusion. But the words died in your throat.

What was the point?

It was useless. She hadn't changed a bit.

This was the same wall of denial you'd run up against so many times before, a fortress built to keep the pain at bay. But you were done banging your head against it.

"I'm going to bed," you choked out, the words barely audible. You turned and fled, each step a retreat from the battlefield you had lost long ago.

The familiar smell of her cooking, now made you want to throw up.

─── ·✧· ─��─

Each step creaked as you climbed the familiar stairs, the once vibrant floral carpet now muted and worn beneath your feet.

Nothing had changed.

Your childhood bedroom, untouched since you'd left. Your mother hadn't changed a thing. Same striped bedspread. Dusty neurology textbooks still lined the shelves. Moonlight filtered through the threadbare curtains, casting elongated shadows across the walls.

It was all achingly familiar, yet utterly foreign.

You collapsed onto the bed and starred up at the cracks in the aging ceiling. That goddamn lavender smell all around you. Your mother seemed to have sprayed the air freshener everywhere — some habit she had developed after your father's death.

She wanted the house to smell good for his return.

Your head began to throb.

Then, a soft knock at the door. "Can I come in?" Satoru's voice broke the silence.

You mumbled a weak assent. He entered, closing the door softly behind him.

"Could you calm her down a little?"

"I did my best," he said. "She's sleeping now."

"I told you she's different."

He walked over to you. "She's in denial, probably a prolonged grief disorder. Is she in therapy?"

"She won't go." You rolled onto your side, your back to him. "I've tried."

Wordlessly, Satoru slipped onto the bed beside you, his warmth enveloping you as he nestled against your back. His arms encircled you, pulling you close until your back was pressed against his chest. His hand found your hair, fingers threading through the strands.

You didn't resist.

You knew you were crossing lines again, lines that should remain clear. But in that moment, the exhaustion, the heartache, the years of repressed grief — it all became too much.

You just wanted to be near him, damn the consequences.

So you surrendered, your body relaxing against his. You could feel his breathing, the steady beat of his heart against your shoulder. Slowly, the tension eased from your shoulders, replaced by a weariness you could no longer fight.

"My mother lost it after his death," you whispered. "She shut down completely. Wouldn't leave the house, wouldn't eat... wouldn't even speak. I had to take care of everything, the house, the bills, keep her from falling apart. It got better, eventually. But those first few months were a living nightmare."

"I know she lost her husband." Your voice caught in your throat. "But I lost my father. I was grieving too."

Satoru listened, his fingers gently stroking your hair as you continued.

"I couldn't take it anymore. It was hell." You swallowed against the burn of tears. "I was so relieved when Suguru offered me a way out, a chance to transfer to Tokyo, to leave it all behind, move far away, away from here. I never looked back, never came back. I left her alone. I couldn't anymore. I hate this place."

It was humiliating — a shameful admission of weakness you'd never dared to voice aloud. But now it escaped your lips, you simply couldn't hold it in any longer.

You never wanted him to see this side of you, the weak, helpless girl who'd run from her responsibilities, the broken girl you tried to bury beneath layers of ambition and scientific accomplishment.

"Do you think I'm a terrible person?"

Satoru's hand stilled in your hair. "No," he whispered. "You were a child, forced to grow up too fast, forced to take on too much responsibility. Walking away from that doesn't make you a bad person, it makes you human."

"But why does it feel so wrong? I should have been there, I should have—"

"Sometimes the kindest thing we can do for ourselves is to walk away from the things that hurt us," he interrupted gently. "You were protecting yourself. That doesn't make you bad, it makes you brave."

"I'm not so sure."

He pulled you closer, his face buried in the crook of your neck. "Nothing you do, nothing you could ever do, would make me think less of you," he whispered, his breath hot against your skin. "No matter what you've done, I'll always love you. You can't scare me."

How could he say that now?

How could he offer this unwavering love while dismissing your own?

Did he think you were so weak, so easily scared by his mess?

How could he not believe you, when you'd sworn the very same words to him?

It was a painful irony, a hypocrisy that made your stomach churn. He was so convinced you would abandon him, so afraid of your judgment, but couldn't he see?

You wouldn't leave him. You couldn't.

He didn't need to be perfect. He didn't need to be whole. He just needed to be himself. You loved him, flaws and all, and you were willing to fight for him, even if it meant fighting against your own better judgment.

The unfairness of it all made you want to scream. But all you could do was remain close to him, the warmth of his body a painful reminder of the love that could have been, the trust that had been shattered.

"I hate you," you whispered. "I hate how easy this is for you, how you can be so damn controlled even when you're high. It should be harder for you, shouldn't be me that falls apart."

"I've been doing this a bit longer than you, love," he murmured against your hair.

"Doing what?"

"Life."

You scoffed.

"It used to be hard," he admitted. "But it got easier over time. Now, I guess I'm just...a better person on drugs than off them."

"You really think that?"

"You see the proof, don't you?"

"So, you won't ever stop, will you?"

The silence that followed was an answer in itself. You shifted in his embrace, the darkness making his features hard to read. Even so, you could sense the defensiveness in his posture, feel the faint tremor in his hands.

"I'm afraid, Satoru."

"Of what, love?"

"That you'll kill yourself with the pills, and that I'll have to watch, unable to do anything about it."

He shook his head. "That won't happen."

"Don't fool yourself, you're not stronger than your body."

In a swift motion, he shifted, hovering over you. His hands on both side of your head. The moonlight cast stark shadows across his face, his eyes burning with an intensity that stole your breath away.

"That won't happen," he repeated with an intensity that sent chills down your spine. "Because how could I ever leave you? You're the last thing I want to see before sleep, the person I crave to wake up beside, the person I want to spend the rest of my life with."

He leaned closer, the warmth of his breath ghosting across your lips. "How could I leave, when you're the one who showed me I could still feel? Who gave me something I'm terrified to lose?"

Your breath caught in your throat. His words were cruel — reminder of what you'd lost, of the future he'd carelessly shattered — cruel reminder of the love he had no right to claim. It left a bitter taste on your tongue.

"You ended this," you whispered. "You ended us."

"I know." He rested his forehead against yours, his eyes closing as if the weight of his confession was too much to bear. "But I'm still yours. You still have all of me."

"That's not fair."

"I know." His hands found your waist, his touch searing through your thin shirt. "I know I'm being selfish. But I can't—fuck, I can't stay away from you."

"You're just scared to be alone."

"No." His hands tightened around your waist, pulling you impossibly close until you could feel the frantic beat of his heart against your own. "It's not that. It's—" He paused, struggling to find the words. "I swear, if I could, I'd melt you into my veins, let you run through my bloodline forever."

"Satoru, I—"

"No." His lips hovered inches from yours, his mouth slightly open, a desperate plea in his eyes. "Don't—don't say anything. Not yet."

He tilted your chin upwards, his gaze searing into yours. His brow furrowed, a tense line between those striking blue eyes.

"You're carved into me. Heart, soul, every damn part of me I can't even begin to understand." His thumb brushed your lower lip. "I'm tethered to you, and I don't know how to cut the cord."

His lips hovered, a hair's breadth away from yours. His gaze flickered to your lips as he leaned impossibly close.

You ached into him, the warmth of his body pressed against yours. Weeks of forced distance, the pain of his choices, the impossible future — it all faded as you closed your eyes, surrendering to him — like you always surrendered to him.

But just as your lips were about to touch, something crossed your mind.

Tethered.

"Tethered!" You shoved him away with a sudden surge of adrenaline. Mind racing, you scrambled out of bed. You tore open drawers and rummaged through your childhood bedside table. "Where's a pen? marker?"

Satoru, momentarily stunned, watched with a furrowed brow. "What's going on?"

Then you found a marker. "No time to explain," you declared, already uncapping the marker. You walked towards the wall opposite the bed, a blank canvas of white paint. Satoru watched as you draw with the marker on the wall without a second thought.

With a flourish, you started sketching a series of diagrams, lines connecting and branching out, notes scrawled in messy handwriting beside them.

Finally, you stepped back, chest heaving. "Okay," you began, "with glioblastoma, the big problem is, how do we keep those CAR-T cells and antibodies glued to the tumor, right? How do we stop them from wandering off and screwing up the whole show?"

Satoru's eyes followed your every move, his brow still furrowed. "Yeah."

"We need a delivery system," you continued, the words tumbling out faster than you could write them. "Something that keeps those cells localized, focused on the tumor, like a...a guided missile." You stabbed the marker at the wall, emphasizing your point. "Otherwise, the treatment won't be effective. It'll just dissipate, a waste of time."

He leaned back against the headboard, rubbing his chin. "Some kind of molecular anchor, maybe?"

"Not exactly. But you're on the right track. Think smaller. Nanoparticles."

Satoru raised a questioning eyebrow. "Nano-what now?"

You grinned. "Microscopic carriers, basically. Biocompatible ones, of course. Imagine we wrap those CAR-T cells and antibodies in these little packages, and engineer them to stick to the tumor like glue."

"So they stay put, right where they need to be?"

"Exactly." You nodded. "They deliver their payload directly to the tumor, then break down harmlessly. No more stray cells wreaking havoc on healthy tissue."

"But won't the body eventually get rid of them? Immune system, natural breakdown, that kind of thing?"

"Absolutely. That's why we use biodegradable polymers for the encapsulation. They'll dissolve over time, minimizing any long-term risks. But it's—," You paused, a flicker of doubt crossing your face. "We have to figure out the exact release rate—enough time to kill the tumor, but not so long that they cause other problems."

Satoru's gaze swept across the diagrams on the wall. Then, he pushed himself off the bed and walked towards you. You held your breath as he studied your handwriting.

"So?" you asked. "What do you think?"

"Stubborn, reckless, absolutely brilliant." His azure blue eyes met yours, a slow smile spreading across his face. "You stubborn, reckless, absolutely brilliant woman."

Before you could react, he swept you off your feet, a surprised gasp escaping your lips as he spun you around. "Satoru!" you protested, clutching your legs around his waist, laughter bubbling up.

He stopped abruptly, holding you aloft, your bodies mere inches apart. His hands warm against your hips, your fingers threaded through his hair. Your heart hammered in your chest. But as you stared into his impossibly blue eyes, you found yourself unable to look away.

His gaze flickered from your eyes to your lips, then back again. "Damn it, you drive me insane."

"We have a lot of work to do."

"We always do. But this—this is different. We're going to do this. We're going to make it work."

"Are we still talking about research?"

"Of course, love," he replied, leaning closer, his lips mere millimeters from yours.

Time seemed to slow, the space between you burned. You could feel the warmth of his breath, smell his intoxicating cologne. You wanted this, wanted him with a desperation that clawed at your very soul.

But just as your lips were about to touch, he pulled back, abruptly setting you on your feet, shattering the moment like glass.

"We should get some sleep," he said. "Long drive tomorrow."

You nodded, your throat suddenly tight.

Maybe it was better this way. Maybe it was for the best that he hadn't kissed you. Because deep down, you knew that if he had, you wouldn't have been able to stop.

"Yeah. We should sleep," you finally said. "You'll be sleeping on the floor, just so you know."

"Ha?"

"You think I'm letting you sleep in my bed after that?" You crossed your arms. "You can't be trusted, professor. There's a futon in the closet."

"You're kidding, right?"

─── ·✧· ───

You woke with a groan.

Rolling over, the familiar striped print of your childhood bedspread met your gaze. Sunlight filtered through the dusty curtains, casting the room in a hazy glow. Beside you, the futon was empty, the faint scent of Satoru the only evidence that he had been there at all.

Why hadn't he woken you?

Rubbing the sleep from your eyes, you reached up to touch your lips. The faint ghost of his kiss still lingered on your skin. A headache threatened to rise as you hastily dismissed the memory.

Not this again.

The house creaked and groaned as you made your way downstairs. Halfway down, you froze.

There, in the sun-drenched kitchen, stood Satoru. Leaning casually against the counter, his unruly white hair seemingly catching every ray of sunlight, he looked startlingly at home. Your mother stood beside him, a genuine smile on her face as they talked.

Seeing him here, in this familiar space, in this casual domestic setting with your mother, sent a strange feeling of warmth through you. Your lips twitched upwards as you caught a glimpse of your mother's laughter, a sound that had been far too rare in recent years.

Then, as if sensing your gaze, Satoru's gaze snapped to you, his eyes brightening.

"Well, there she is!" your mother exclaimed. "Satoru was just giving me an update on your research. Sounds like you're onto something really interesting!"

Your brow furrowed. What was she talking about? She couldn't be talking about the brain tumor project. She'd rather chew glass than willingly delve back into that nightmare.

You were rooted to the stairs, exhausted and confused.

Satoru crossed the distance between you, that familiar lazy grin playing on his lips. He held out a hand. "Ready?"

"Yes," you said and reached for it. His fingers closed around yours. "Let's go back."

─── ·✧· ───

Birdsong filled the crisp autumn air.

Morning light filtered through the gnarled branches, casting dappled shadows across the porch. The chipped paint on the railing, the faded welcome mat — you never pictured yourself missing this place, your hometown, your childhood home. It was too intertwined with loss, too full of ghosts, to really miss it.

Yet, today, saying goodbye was somehow hard.

"Thank you." You gave your mother a tight hug. Her embrace was warm, reassuring, but you felt her tremble slightly. "For everything."

"Come back and visit soon, okay? And call me when you're back in Tokyo. Promise?"

"I will," you lied.

Your mother squeezed you with surprising strength. Then, with a low voice she whispered, "I think...I'll try therapy."

Stunned, you pulled back just enough to meet her gaze. Why now? After years of denial? Your gaze flickered past her to find Satoru leaning against the porch railing, a hint of amusement playing on his lips. Could he — Was he behind this?

Before you could form the question, your mother turned to him. "And you! You take good care of her, you hear?"

"I will, but I also wanted to ask you something." Satoru pushed off the railing and walked over. He took your mother's hand in his, the gesture strangely formal. Then, in a move that left you momentarily stunned, he bowed slightly and placed a gentle kiss on the back of her hand.

His blue eyes met hers as he asked, "May I have your permission...to marry your daughter?"

Haaaaa?

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author's note: hmmm friends, i can't with soft, desperate satoru. was literally melting while writing this. but i hope this chapter gives you all a little more hope for a happy ending, haha. i know some of you were doubting after the last one (which, btw, wasn't even the lowest point yet, just sayin'). but we'll get there, promise !! Just a whole lotta chaos and hurt to get through first.

also, please don't ask me about any of the medical stuff in this chapter. i have no idea what's going on, lol. loosely based it on this study (DOI: 10.1056/NEJMoa2314390), but seriously, i don't understand any of it. just ignore anything that doesn't make sense — it's all for the sake of the plot ahaha.

also was hesitant to share too much of yn's backstory since this is technically an x reader story, but you guys wanted to know more, so i went for it. i'm so glad i did !! i think it makes her character more well-rounded and shows her vulnerabilities.

and omg, satoru being supportive no matter what? trying to make things right? i'm a sucker for that. and of course, he had to meet his future mother-in-law sometime, right? hehe. but don't worry, we'll also dive into satoru's past and how it shaped him in future chapters.

one last thing note on suguru: this won't turn into a love triangle. reader's heart belongs to satoru, and while suguru's feelings will be there, it'll be more of an undercurrent than a major plot point. so, no worries there !!

and lastly, thank you so much for reading. your support means the world. seriously, you make this whole writing thing so much fun !! so thank you for being the most amazing readers a writer could ask for !! <3

🏷️ @sad-darksoul @aerithsthingss @mylovelessnightmare @bbyxxm @musababy @neuviloved @ykehqqy @hexrts-anatomy @fvsm4x @tw0fvced @heijihattorisgf @sadmonke @thatsopanu @sirencholia @sugurusdiscordmoderator @erwinslut @shervinss @certainlysyko @mechalily @purplehallow11 @kendall0111 @bloopsstuff @therealestpussyeater @louoi7 @whereflowerswenttodie @billiondollarworth @deluluforcarlos55 @starrynight-777 @vina21 @michelleeveline @boba-is-a-soup @cre8inghavoc @love-jelly @daimiyu @d0nk3y-k0ng @mo0nforme @smolbeanzzz @oneiricals @ynishalee @gojolvrr34 @nanasukii28 @ariiiii0938 @kelppsstuff @tojisdollx @drakenswifeyy @bakarinnie @vina21 @phoenix-eclipses @nanamis-baker @neptnszn @browrm @hfdkhjghjkghfj @marcillyan @roses-and-reeses @yungbloode (pls comment on the series masterlist to get tagged in the future, this way it's easier for me to keep track!)

#symptoms and causes #gojo saturo #saturo gojo x reader #gojo x reader #gojo x you #satoru gojo x reader #satoru gojo x you #satoru gojo fanfiction #satoru gojo fanfic #gojo x y/n #gojo fanfic #gojo fanfiction #jjk x reader #jjk fanfiction #jujutsu kaisen #satoru gojo angst #gojo angst #jjk angst

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r4spb3rr13s · 19 hours

Text

“what? surprised i’m smarter than you, bakugou?”

katsuki doesn’t have an answer.

the first day he saw you, you were striding past him towards the dorm room right next to his with mina hanging off your arm. you had thick sunglasses pushing your hair back, chunky gold hoops dangling from your lobes and a big, playboy bunny necklace resting between your tits.

he had to hold in the aggressive eye-roll when you introduced yourself to him with a sly grin. your lips were glittery, baby pink and looked soft- no, they didn’t, what?

he’d stared at your hand and went into his room without a word.

his night was spent listening to you and mina blast someone called ‘ayesha erotica’. he’d never wanted to blow someone’s speakers up more.

it unfortunately wasn’t the last he’d seen of you- no, you decided to start popping up everywhere. it’s almost like you were trying to get on his nerves. that’s how katsuki felt anyways.

he would be leaving his lecture, and you were strutting past in the denim shorts held around your hips with a chunky belt. your belly ring glinted in the sun, and the click clack of your heeled boots made the zip of your ‘juicy’ hoodie slip down with every step.

he hated to say it, but he froze in the doorway and watched the entire way you walked.

then he snapped himself out of it and hurried away like an embarrassed schoolgirl.

but then it happened again- this time, you were in flared leggings and a tube top, platform sandals showing off your painted toes - katsuki noticed they matched your nails.

you’d been talking to mina, and noticed him staring, so you waggled your fingers at him.

he flipped you off.

it was the start to a beautiful friendship, historians would say.

when the pink girl brought you to one of their parties, katsuki dropped his head into his hands and tried his best not to groan. you, with your dumb smile, stood in a tiny halter-neck dress.

your smile didn’t bother katsuki the most that night, though - it was more the fact hanta and denki had taken it upon themselves to sandwich you in between them.

but he watched you- you with your big, wide eyes, your stupid giggles and you slapping their chests and telling them to ‘stooooppp!’

it really pissed him off.

how could you be so dumb? it was obvious what they were doing, and everyone knew they were fucking whores-

why was he so mad?

he shut himself in his room for a week after that.

so when he saw you and mina stood outside your professor’s office holding pieces of paper, katsuki didn’t know what to think.

oh god, what if you started crying at your grade? fuck- he just needed to walk away and avoid your blubbering-

“bakugou!! come look at y/n’s essay!” mina yelled.

his shoulders dropped, and he prepared himself to pretend to be nice - it took so much energy to pretend to be nice for katsuki!

but still, he didn’t want to make your brows furrow, or eyes fill with tears. he didn’t fucking know why. he just didn’t, okay?

so he trudges over… and you’re grinning, from ear to ear. you’re in your typical attire - a tiny cami holding you in and a zebra print skirt cutting off way too high to be deemed appropriate for school.

he wasn’t really complaining though, because every flash of skin made his heart punch his chest.

you thrust the paper into his hands, and he grunts, giving you a little glare.

you stick your tongue out at him, but he starts to read.

and… it’s amazing?

it’s well written, the paragraphs flow, your topic is so interesting and something katsuki would have never even begun to think about-

and as he reaches the last page, he looks at the mark in red pen.

100/100.

his jaw drops, and it must have been obvious because you let out a snort.

“what? surprised i’m smarter than you, bakugou?”

and dumbly, he nods.

then he looks up and sees your frown. then he realises he nodded. then mina clears her throat.

“why are you surprised?”

he looks away and gives you your paper back. it’s obvious, really- but he can’t say that. it’s so douche-y… but he has been being a douche.

he dares to look back at you, and when he does, his heart plummets to his feet.

you’re stood with a hand on your hip, brow raised. you’re smart, beautiful and you have an attitude… katsuki stands there trying to piece it together.

you scoff and push the paper to his chest, “keep it. maybe you can learn a thing or two from it, katsuki.”

oh fuck.

he has a crush on you?

#{ short shorts }#{ mcbling baddie }#bnha #bnha x reader #bakugou #bakugou katsuki #bakugou x reader #katsuki x reader #bnha imagines #bakugou imagines

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beabidobi · 2 days

Note

May I request Miguel having a secret admirer and he couldn’t figure who was sending him gifts and other cute tokens until later on, he finds out it was Spider![Reader] [Gender Neutral]?

Spider![Reader] is usually one of the more friendlier Spiders in the Society and pretty good at hiding their true emotions/feelings unless someone (Miguel) learns about them.

Secret admirer

gn!reader x miguel o’hara

an: IM ALIVE. please don’t judge my love letter writing skills🥲

When Miguel arrived at his office in the early hours as usual, he expected the mission reports on his desk and the updates on his monitors. However, he didn’t expect to see a small red rose on his desk.

“Lyla, whats this?” He asks, summoning the ai to his side.

“Dunno. It wasn’t here before. Oo, is it from someone?” She teases.

Miguel scoffs, “Just check the cameras.” He picks up the rose and inspects the petals for some kind of hidden note.

“Someone came in earlier, but they stayed in the dark so I can’t tell who.” Lyla reports, pulling up a screen.

A person in the corner of his office, shooting a web with a rose attached to his desk before hastily leaving. Lyla was right, it’s too dark to see who it is, they were obviously a fellow spider, but there were hundreds of spider-people in the society and it could be any one of them.

“Do you think they left it on accident?” He asks, bewildered by the thought of someone purposely leaving him a rose.

“Do I think someone accidentally came into your office and put a rose on your desk?” Lyla says sarcastically, holographic hands on her hips.

Miguel sighs and roll his eyes. “Whatever, just keep me updated if you see anything.” He says, returning focus to his reports.

The next day, Lyla has nothing to report. He goes about his day, assuming the rose to have been some silly prank.

While he’s chewing at his empanada from the cafeteria and typing away at his monitors, something slides under his office door. He walks over and picks it up, studying the white envelope with a red heart seal. He opens his office door, no one there.

“Oo la la. That was definitely no accident.” Lyla says.

“Pull up the cameras.” He orders, still convinced it’s some prank by one the young spiders, probably Hobie.

“Where’s the fun in that? You can’t spoil a secret admirer.” She complains.

“Just do it.”

Lyla pulls up a screen to the side of him, looking at the camera tape from a few minutes ago. A web shoots to the door, tucks the letter under it.

“Whoever this is doesn’t want to be seen.” She says.

“Hm.” He shakes his head, tearing open the envelope and pulling out a piece of paper with swirly handwriting.

Roses are red and violets are blue, I don’t know how to say what I feel, but without further ado, I like your eyes, and your fire. To not tell you this, would make me a liar. I think of you when I fall asleep, And in the mornings too. I guess there’s not much more to tell other than when I see you, my heart turns to caramel.

xx , your secret admirer.

“Awhhh, so sweet!” Lyla gushes, peeking over Miguel’s shoulder.

A light blush fills his cheeks. He scowls batting her hologram away. “Some stupid joke.” He mutters, shoving it in his desk drawer where the rose still lays.

A few more days pass, with more love letters and small gifts. At this point, he can’t stop himself from smiling everytime something slips under his door or sits on his desk in a morning.

On his way back to the cafeteria for his daily empanada, he collides into someone.

“Shoot, sorry!” A voice says, Miguel reaches his hand out to theirs, steadying them.

He finds himself face to face with a spider-person he’s familiar with. They’re always sat with a group of people in the cafeteria, giggling and chatting. He could tell your laugh anywhere, it was rather adorable. Plus he was a tiny bit smitten with you. “Y/n. You’re in a rush.”

“Lots of things to do. Sorry again.” You squeeze out in a quick sentence before slipping past him, cheeks flaming.

Miguel glances back, but you’re already gone. He shakes his head and continues his way to the cafeteria.

When another week passes and little tokens keep appearing, Miguel decides to find out who’s behind it. He waits in front of his door in the mornings, waiting to catch you in the act, but you’re always to discreet. He scans each letter for some kind of clue. Still, he couldn’t tell.

On Wednesday, spider-people are in and out with mission reports after a hectic week. Around ten, you enter his office with a few, placing them on his desk as everyone else does before turning round to leave. Miguel looks away from his monitors, glancing at the new workload.

“You didn’t sign.” He says, holding up one of the files.

“Oh, sorry.” You quickly scrawl down your name before hastily exiting.

Later than night, he’s working through the files, checking through them and sending them to the database. That is when a particular file causes him to pause. The handwriting was oddly familiar to him. He’d probably just seen it multiple times before on other files you’d put in, but he couldn’t help but check anyway.

He retrieved one of the dozen notes out of his drawer and placed it next to the writing. It was the same, no doubt.

You were his secret admirer?

He scanned his eyes over the handwriting again, and once more. He couldn’t deny it. It was definitely yours. But why?

Now that he though about it more deeply, you were always quite reserved. Joining in on laughter in the table and conversations but you often never started one or talked about yourself.

His cheeks were red and his fangs were most definitely going to draw blood from how hard he was chewing his lip. Are you just doing it for a laugh, or was it sincere?

Deciding the take the chance, Miguel writes a letter of his own. He’s not very good at feelings or anything to do with love really, so he writes something simple.

I figured out that you are the one sending me stuff, it took a while. You’re quite sneaky. If this isn’t a rouse, I admit I return your feelings. However, if it is a joke, ignore this and stop sending more.

Miguel O’Hara

After a lot of overthinking, and being sure that you’ve gone home for the night, Miguel slides the note into your locker next to the training rooms.

He spends the rest of the night anxiously awaiting in his office, wondering if he did the wrong thing. It wasn’t smart to mix personal and business. Definitely not.

That didn’t stop him from finding you in the morning.

“Did you get my note?” He asks front up.

He takes account of how your face flushes and your fingers fidget. “Yeah I did, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to overstep, I just wanted you to know how I felt without having to out right say it.”

“Do you want to get lunch with me today?”

You weren’t sure what he was going to say, but it for sure wasn’t that.

“Really?” You ask.

“Don’t have to.” He shrugs, “Just if you want to.”

You nodded yes and he couldn’t stop the relief and gladness that flooded through him as you both walked towards the cafeteria.

#miguel o'hara #across the spiderverse #miguel o’hara x reader #miguel x reader #writers on tumblr #writerscommunity #miguel x you #fanfic #atsv miguel #fan fiction #oneshot #miguel o’hara x y/n #miguel ohara x reader #spider man 2099 #fic writing #x reader #atsv x reader

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simplepotatofarmer · 3 days

Note

Sixteenth Day Event Prompt:

Dream & Technoblade - Desert

mirage

The map was useless; never ending brown stretching out to the edges of the cream paper it was printed on. Dream would have thrown it away but there was some comfort in looking at it, trying to piece together the location he was currently and where he was supposed to be going. A security blanket that probably would've been more helpful if it had been an actual blanket.

He wiped his hand across his brow, careful not to get sweat or the tiny grains of sand that clung to him in his eyes.

"This is so stupid," he said and the desert swallowed his words in silence. For a brief moment, Dream shivered, cold.

Hours ago, he had removed his armor. It was heavy and dark and trapped heat and he would have more of a chance against an opponent without armor than he would against the beating sun. He trudged on.

And he trudged on, only stopping when the sun was high in the sky and there was a small mound of sandstone to press his back against. There was terracotta mixed in and Dream checked the map once more, looking for any landmark that could match up to whatever this had once been. Nothing. He should head back, he knew that, but somewhere out in this desert was an old village and in it was a library and, possibly, a book.

If it's still there, thought Dream, not wanting to speak out loud again.

Using his overshirt as paltry shade, Dream closed his eyes, the cold bones of the sandstone lulling him to sleep.

He woke when a shadow fell over him.

He stared up, trying to make sense of what he was seeing, wondering sluggishly if he had died or gone crazy from the heat. Either was possible and more plausible.

"You alive there, man?" asked Techno.

Blinking, Dream pushed himself upright, hands slipping on the sand covered stone. The tiny granules digging into his palms felt real. He pulled his shirt down and wiped his face with the hem.

"What the fuck?"

Techno crouched down, the brim of his wide, floppy hat almost hitting Dream. He wore no armor, no bright red cloak like usual, but a loose white shirt and baggy tan pants.

"Hullo to you, too, Dream."

"What-- What are you doing here?" His brain felt like it was slowly beginning to move but in the wrong direction, the question not the one he really wanted an answer to.

"I can't make sure a friend doesn't die of heatstroke?"

Techno shifted where he was crouching, hooves leaving marks in the sand. He glanced out across the desert, away from the rocky mound. Dream frowned. Confusion and relief and a little bit of fear all swirled around in his chest.

"What- Wait. How did-- How did you find me?" he asked, closer to the question he really wanted to ask but not quite. Maybe he was afraid of that question and the answer.

"Ah." Techno sat next to Dream, his back also against the sandstone. "I have my ways, I have my ways... Also it wasn't that hard when Tommy wouldn't shut up about seeing you head out this way."

"Heh."

It made sense. It was even funny and Dream grinned. Next to him, Techno was watching him with concern but chuckled when Dream let out his quiet huff of laughter.

"Yeah, he thinks you're up to something but apparently the only thing you're up to is gettin' lost and dyin' of dehydration," Techno said.

"I'm not dying," said Dream and rolled his eyes, ignoring how dry they felt.

"Oh, sure, sure. You just normally look like a corpse."

Dream tilted his head.

"Well, to be fair, after the prison..."

The laugh Techno gave was choking, surprised, and he shook his head. Strands of pink hair stuck out from his braid and he flicked one of his ears.

"Alright, you got me there, man."

"Yeah."

Dream leaned his head against the rock. The sun was lower in the sky now, waves of heat visible off the sand. There was silence but it didn't feel as ominous now.

"D'you find what you were lookin' for?"

With a sigh, Dream brushed some sand off his pants.

"No. You- You could help me."

"I dunno." Techno frowned, looking over at Dream. "I only brought enough water to get across this stretch of desert then back. Speakin' of, you look like you could use a drink."

"Right," said Dream, as he pulled out his canteen and took a sip, the first one he had had in hours. It made sense; from Techno's perspective this was a rescue mission and nothing more. Or it was Dream's subconscious telling him what he already knew. Both scenarios led to the same conclusion. He took a deep breath. "Are... Are you real?"

"Heh? I'm real." Techno held out his arm in front of Dream. "You wanna pinch me and make sure?"

"No." Once more there were two answers that led to the same outcome and either Dream could make the trek back alone or with company, real or imagined. "Alright. Let's go."

@sixteenth-day-event

#technoblade #dreamwastaken #dream smp #dsmp fanfic #sixteenthdayevent #rivals duo #rivalsblr #dreblr #do you know how many times i googled that word to make sure i had the right one?#absolutely terrified of my dyslexic ass mixing up desert and dessert

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bullet-prooflove · 19 hours

Text

Sunflowers: Brendon Acres x Reader

Tagging @kmc1989

Companion piece to Lifeline

You don’t make much money working for the FBI. They pay you a modest stripe end, one that parallels how much it would cost to house you in the penal system. It’s just enough to afford a shitty apartment in an even shittier part of town. When you factor in transport, utilities and food, there’s barely enough cash left over to purchase art supplies, let alone any luxuries. It makes things harder when Brendon’s birthday comes around. He’s a man of wealth, of means and you barely have two dollars in your purse to rub together.

It shouldn’t matter but it does.

Brendon was the first person who showed you any kindness when you agreed to work for the FBI, he treated you like a human being, saw you for who you are. It was him that lobbied for you to consult with Special Investigations because you were dying out there in Art Crimes under Henderson’s control. Brendon had given you back a part of yourself you thought you’d lost, he’d shown you a different path and you will forever be grateful for that.

It’s your dress that helps you figure it out, the black one with the yellow sunflowers. You’d picked it up at a thrift store a couple of days before, it’s in surprisingly good condition. It’s insane that you used to spend thousands of dollars on clothes in your previous life and now you’re trying to work out if you can make a twenty stretch.

You’re sitting at your desk when Brendon sets a mug of coffee down in front of you. He takes up his usual perch on the corner as you tidy away the pictures of the Degas you’ve been studying. It’s a fake, you can see it even without seeing the piece of art up close.

“I’ve always loved sunflowers.” He tells you, his fingertips brushing over the fabric of your sleeve. “The problem is I’m allergic to them, I break out in hives if I’m anywhere even close to one.”

“What do you like about them?” You had asked him and he’d given you that smile and a half-hearted shrug.

“They just make me happy.” He tells you, you can see the truth of it in his eyes. It’s such a silly little thing but the fact he’s chosen to share it with you, speaks volumes. “They’re fun, colourful, they make me think of brighter days. I think that’s why I’m smiling so much this morning, your dress…”

He trails off, his gaze slipping down to his coffee mug as his cheeks flush pink.

“Maybe I’ll try to wear it more often.” You tease and he laughs at that. It’s such a rich, vibrant sound and it lights up something inside of you.

You like this man, really like him.

You haven’t felt like this in a long time.

It takes a few days for you paint the picture. You choose an A5 sized piece of paper because you feel canvas would be too intimate and you aren’t ready to give that much of yourself to someone else. Creating art, it’s a private experience, when you gift it to someone else you’re really handing them a piece of your soul, showing them your true self.

You spend your evenings hunched over the battered desk in your apartment, working to the sound of Vance Joy as you mix your paints. You have a very specific colour pallet in mind. A rich blue that matches the hue of Brendon’s eyes, a vibrant sunshine yellow that contrasts against it. You have a scene in mind from the last time you were in North Dakota, four sunflowers swaying lightly in the breeze alongside the barn your family used to own. It’s the last happy memory you have of that place and you’re giving it to Brendon.

Brendon doesn’t expect to spend his birthday shuttling between LA and Salt Lake City but then again it’s the nature of the job. He’d been looking forward to getting dinner with Simone and Cutty but it’s past midnight by the time he gets into the office. His birthday’s over before he even realises it.

It’s when he collapses into his desk chair that he notices the brown paper envelope sitting on his desk, his name written in your pretty looped scrawl. He’s intrigued when he picks it up, his fingers breaking the seal eagerly.

He can’t help but smile when he sees the artwork. It’s an original piece, painted by your hand, he’s known you long enough to recognise your style. The bold use of colour, the delicacy of the drawing itself. He thinks he’d know you anywhere.

When he turns over the piece, he studies the words written in dark pencil and something just blossoms in his chest.

Brendon,

May all your days be as bright as sunflowers.

Mona.

Love Brendon? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Interested in supporting me? Join my Patreon for Bonus Content!

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

#brendon acres #the rookie feds #brendon acres x reader #brendon acres x you

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glaciertea · 2 days

Text

Masterlist here

Tales the Songs Weave

Notes: Lovely date night at a very sensual and romantic spot.

CW: Hot and steamy, but passionate and longing sex. Oral pleasure (F receiving), PinV, light spanking, the neighbors will hear, smut... and maybe slight drama.

Chapter 14: Every Time I Get a Bit Inside, I Feel it

Word count: 9K

Zipping back and forth from your bedroom to the bathroom, you stumbled over your two feet, desperately locating the other thigh-fishnet stocking while trying to put toothpaste on your toothbrush.

“I just had it right here! Did it fall into the freaking void?”

You dipped and scrambled all around the floor near the bed.

“You know what? I’ll come back to it in a bit.” You darted back into the bathroom to finish getting ready.

Tonight was a special night for you two. It was your first date as a 'semi-official' couple, and you had no clue where exactly he was taking you. All you know is that you woke up to a text specifying what would be the best attire for this particular outing.

A lovely, formal casual is something you could manage. A form-fitting, long-sleeved mini dress, wedges, and your fishnets, if you could find the other one.

Not a single word could describe the anticipation that was bubbling inside. You skipped around, singing your heart out as you got ready, only to lose track of time from bumbling too much. Spitting out the toothpaste residue, you rushed back to the room, aimlessly scouting for that missing piece.

Bending down on your knees and laying on your torso to search under the bed, you heard the bedroom door squeak open.

“Mm, this is a delightful sight to walk in on.”

Repositioning yourself back up, you twirled your head and gleamed at Miguel. “Miggy! My gosh, every time you dress down, you always have to put me to shame, don’t you?”

“Too much?” He peered down at his tight white button-down, black jeans, and opened blazer.

“No, no, está bien.”

You rose to your feet and drifted towards him. Noting that one of his arms was behind his back, you closed off any space left between you two. “Going to tell me what’s hiding back there?”

Miguel smirked and leisurely revealed a beautiful bouquet of pink tulips and white daisies, evoking a squeal from you.

“Oh, Miggy, thank you! These are gorgeous. I’m going to quickly put these in a vase right now. Also, can you help me find my other fishnet stocking? The moment it’s found, the sooner we can leave.” You cradled the assortment.

“Si, mi Luna. And take your time; we still have forty minutes left until our reservations.”

“True, but I know you like to be punctual. Gotta have that jumpstart!” You sang out, stepping into your living room to find a new home for the floral.

Miguel smiled and scanned your room. “By the way, you look radiant.” He called out to you, spotting the lone material, loosely tucked underneath a pillow.

“Thank you, but not on par with you." You held the vase before placing it right on your dresser.

“Hey, you emit more beauty than all the moons in the entire universe. And more than me, mi hermosa Luna.” He handed you the fishnet, gazing longingly into your eyes.

“Do you always turn up the charm whenever you're near me?” You slipped past, leaning on your bed to put the tight on.

“Possibly. I will never tell.”

A grin snuck its way up on you. “Thank you for finding it. My shoes and purse are all upfront. Are you ready to head out?”

Without another comment, Miguel offered his arm, and you gladly took it.

The night’s sky was clear. A full moon was shining ever so brightly as Miguel hailed a cab for you two. Miguel handed the driver a piece of paper as you questioned where exactly you were headed, but he kept it hushed, saying all would be revealed in due time. Opting to be compliant, you went with the flow as you chattered about whatever sprung up in your minds.

Arriving at the place, you gawked at the corner brick building. Stringed maroon lights suspended down the windows and doors as two granite pillars erected proudly, displaying the entrance sign in brilliant neon cerise, reading Dusk N’ Twilight.

Miguel paid the driver and trekked his way over to your side, opening the car door for you. You took his hand, your eyes fixated, exuberant stare not leaving the exterior.

“Do you like it, mi Luna?”

“Do I like it? I love it! I've never been to a jazz club before, so I am super excited.”

You shuffled from one foot to another, wrapping your arms around his muscular one.

“Though, I would've expected more people. Especially on a Saturday night.” Wheeling your head back and forth, focusing on the lack of traffic for such a swanky establishment.

“Vamos, mi Luna. Let's not stand out here forever.”

You nodded, and together you took even steps, with Miguel showing off his chivalry by holding the main entry door open.

“Such a gentleman.” You winked and sashayed in, putting on a show for him by wiggling your behind a bit.

Miguel eyed your figure, his fangs drawing out as he licked them before retracting them. “Cálmate, cálmate. Acabas de llegar.”

Miguel stepped behind, and you took in more of the interior. An erotic, deep red inundated around, even spilling into the hidden crevices. Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, and a lone piano perched in a corner, with a giant stage loaded with different instruments and a microphone adjacent to it. Loveseats, booths, and regular tables lined up, taking up the unoccupied spaces.

You scratched the top of your head in confusion. At the moment, there were only four people, excluding you and Miguel. The waitress and a man maintaining the bar, which was stocked with fancy alcoholic beverages.

Where was everyone else? Was this place exclusive or a gem so hidden that no one has ever heard of it?

“You must be Mr. O'Hara?” The waitress politely smiled at you two.

“Yes.” Miguel pulled his phone out as the waitress glanced down and nodded.

“Alright, perfect. Follow me.”

Grasping your dainty hand once more, you and Miguel traveled near a table less than fifteen feet from the stage.

It was already set with fine china, a bottle of wine chilled in an ice bucket, and rose petals garnishing the silk tablecloth.

Miguel pulled your chair out as you dumbfoundedly plopped yourself in it, bewildered eyes observing all that surrounded you.

The waitress poured the wine into your glasses and rested two menus in front of you both. “My name is Cheyenne, and I will be your waitress this evening. The live music will be out in a few minutes, and the bar is, of course, unlimited. I will give you a bit to glance at the menus, but I'll bring out fresh bread in the meantime. If you need anything, simply call out for me.”

“Thank you.” Miguel bowed his head in acknowledgment as you gave a weary thumbs-up.

“Tha-thank you.” You gulped.

The second she trailed away, you pinned your hands on the surface.

“Miggy, what the heck?”

Caught off-guard, he planted the menu down and removed his shades, concerned. “What's wrong, mi corazón?”

“What's wrong? Where is everyone else? Unlimited drinks? Personal service?” You waved your limbs, gesturing to it all.

“It's only going to be me and you tonight, mi Luna.” He plucked the menu back up, skimming over it once again.

Muddled, you flickered your eyelids open and shut before shaking your head.

“Miggy! You didn't have to dip in so much for all of this! How much did this cost?! I will help pay it back if need be; you didn't have to do all of this!”

“Mi corazón, payment wasn't a problem. Everything is okay. Don't worry, mi Luna.”

“Payment wasn't a problem... Mi Estrella, this clearly would have cost a pretty penny if you seemingly rented out the entire buidling.”

Miguel only shrugged. “It wasn't, honestly, that pricey. It was only a few thousand, nothing too bad.”

“Nothing too—nothing too bad?! Only a few thousand?!” you exclaimed before you caught your tone.

Beginning to sort out any confusion, he was interrupted by steaming, toasted bread brought down and a bowl of whipped butter.

“There we go. Are we ready to order or still need more time?”

“More time, please.” Miguel picked up the serving tongs and placed some bread on his plate and yours.

“Alright. And the entertainment is on its way.” Cheyenne scuffled back into the kitchen, fairly intimidated by Miguel's presence.

“Now, as I was saying, I wanted this to be special, and…”

He was forcibly cut off once again when an entourage of people in button-ups, unraveled ties, slacks, and spiffy dress shoes marched to their respective instruments and took their spot.

The band waved at you two as you meekly bent your fingers, trying to copy the eager motion. And Miguel only gave a half-wave.

Tarrying on the musicians for a bit more, a woman in an off-the-shoulder sequin gown swayed out and took the mic in her hands. Her hair flowed elegantly as the red highlighted the dress, giving it that flare.

“Welcome to Dusk N’ Twilight this fine night, lady and gentleman. Tonight is a very special one, as we have a stunning couple out in the audience. So let me take you two on a magical voyage of velvety wine, shimmering stars, and melodies to fuel that insatiable appetite for love and lust.”

Notes from the saxophone, bass, piano, and singer enriched the scenic environment that connected the two.

“Mi Luna, mi corazón, please let me treat you. You've done so much for me; let me return it by giving you a night to look back with amazing memories.”

That entrancing hold—how the hue blends in with his crimson-brown ones—yet you still see the raw, passionate scorch in them.

You couldn't help but smile.

“Okay, mi Estrella. I'll let you spoil me. Only–only for tonight. But I still have some questions.”

His face crinkled into a high-cheekbone grin as he showed off his pearly whites. You adored every line and scar on his earthy face.

“¿Cómo tuve tanta suerte? ¿Yo, entre todas las personas, terminó con un alma tierna como la tuya? But yes, I will answer whatever question you have; after we order, mi Luna hermosa e iluminadora.”

Wiggling in your seat, you picked up the menu, glancing at the yummy items available. Placing your orders, you both leaned forward, dreamingly, captivated by each other's hypnotic gaze, letting the songs whisk you into the infinite galaxy.

Taking a few sips of wine and bites of bread, you smacked your lips and laid your elbow on the cloth.

“Alright, now tell me. Since when does...” You scrunch your eyes, finding a way to prevent his hero identity from slipping out. “When does your, dutifully, work pay? I thought you did that just because.”

“It doesn't pay.”

“So how the heck did you manage this?”

“You are aware that I have a good amount saved up?”

Miguel could almost see the malfunctioning error processing in your brain.

“No?! How? I know you have that other job, but that doesn't explain much because it's dealing with something in a theoretical sense.”

“A theory that has been proven.”

“Right, right, but it still doesn't explain the seemingly vast amount of, you know.”

“I did tell you I was the leader and founder of the organization, correct?”

You bobbed your head. “Yes, but not the founder part. I don't ever remember you mentioning that you're the creator of it.”

“Huh. I didn't? Strange. Guess I'm fittingly comfortable around you that my brain believed I told you. And I also assumed it was a given because you need permits for properties such as that, and you've seen my high-rise apartment.”

“Yes! But you live there! I'm thinking it's paid for in return for your work!”

Miguel picked up his wine glass, swirling it. “No. Yes, I live there, but I'm the one who wanted it so I could be closer to my job. It's easier that way.”

He mindlessly took a sip. “There's also the fact that I'm essentially a retired geneticist as well, so I get a pension from that. An evil company, but weird ethics when it comes to rightful pay.”

His eyebrows scrunched, and then he fixed his attention on you. “Didn't I also tell you I made codes and a few inventions that are used throughout parts of the city?”

You were helplessly bemused and overwrought by the newfound information that had been casually lobbed at you. Your fingers tensely gripped at your hair, mortified, both elbows now on the table, as your eyes nearly popped from their sockets.

“Mi Luna? You okay?” Miguel dwindled his head down to meet your flushed expression.

“Have you been telling me, all this time, that I've been dating a suave, millionaire CEO man? Oh my God, oh my God, if Ronnie ever finds out—if my family ever finds out! Oh my God, can I disappear? Maybe, just maybe, if I contract so hard, I can blip myself out of existence! Yeah! That can work!”

“I'm not that rich.”

You immediately clenched up and began to strain your body.

“Mi Luna.”

Miguel gave a remorseful look. His eyes glazed, wondering if any of that was appropriate to tell you. He wanted to answer your questions, but not if it'd upset you.

Abruptly stopping, you noticed his reaction. Getting up from your chair, you made your way over and plopped your forehead on his.

“I'm so sorry, mi Estrella. I didn't mean to make you feel so disheartened. It was unanticipated news I wasn't expecting; there is still no excuse for my behavior. Please forgive me for that heinous response.”

Miguel pulled you in for a deep kiss before moving away. “All is forgiven. I know there wasn't any ill-intent; you were surprised. It wasn't the reaction I wasn't expecting.”

Sharing a laugh, the two of you embraced closely, praying it would never end. Eventually you broke away when the meals arrived, as you both began to chow down.

Enjoying each other, you two chatted non-stop. Learning more and more about one another.

“So, as you are a handsome Renaissance marble sculpture on the runway, have you ever had fair gents or maidens run to you with open arms?”

Miguel suppressed a snort and took a swig of his beverage. “Is that what I am to you? A Renaissance marbled what now?”

“A handsome Renaissance marble sculpture on the runway.”

“I'll make sure to remember that. And yes, I had a few one-night stands with both. Nothing too crazy. What about you? I don't think I've ever asked about all that.”

“Nothing too crazy here as well. Had two partners before hand, sexual relations with the first, none with the second. He apparently was getting too cozy with others and ended up leaving with something. So, I dodged that bomb there.”

A contemptuous scowl appeared on Miguel. “¿Quién engañaría a alguien como tú? A veces, no entiendo a los idiotas tontos.”

He angrily chewed a piece of his steak.

“Everything okay?”

“Si, mi Luna. I'm trying to wrap my brain around why anyone would treat you so lowly.”

You gave a simple shrug. “It happens. It did sting at the moment, but I moved on. Very indifferent a month after the breakup. So, it wasn't a complete loss.”

“Still. Ay, you are so gentle, I swear... hey, mi corazón?”

“Mhm?” You glance up from your food.

“What is your family like? I tried not to speculate on what they’re like, so I am curious about them.”

“Mom and dad are living in some other state, I think Washington? And I have an older brother. Barkley. Exactly six years apart. I’m close with my parents—not too close. And my brother. We were super attached growing up. He was my best friend. Then something happened when he went to college, cut us all off with no explanation, and then vanished.” You traced the rim of your wine glass.

“Last I heard, he left the states and is doing odd jobs now.” Your face fell, melancholy rupturing the more intimate jazzy sounds.

Guilt plastered over him. He pressed his lips together as anguish washed over him for bringing up a sensitive topic. He imagined that by bringing up Gabi in the past, you would be ecstatic to ramble on about your family too. Even at the end of the day, he still inferred something about your personal life.

“Mi corazón, I-I didn’t mean to bring the mood down.”

A lopsided grin upturned on your face. “Hey, you wouldn’t have known; it’s okay. It does hurt, still to this day, but I try to carry on. I do think about him a lot, and I have a bunch of repressed feelings that go deep within, so what I try to do is help the ones around me and myself from time to time. Show that generosity. It may be altruistic to some; who knows? You can’t always have that pep, but you can try and kindle kindness.”

“I don’t think that's altruistic.” Miguel said it sincerely.

“I would say you're being a bit biased, and I could agree with you, but let's take a look at your job. It's a much grander scale of helping people, so wouldn't that make me a hypocrite?”

“How so?”

Your smile never leaves. “We both use our energy to seemingly help others. So I can't say that me specifically going out of the way to aid someone doesn't have any altruistic undertones. Yours is just…bigger.”

He shook his head. “Maybe I am being biased. But from your view, it comes from the heart.”

“And yours does too.”

His heart thumped. You were perfect for him in all shapes and forms. He knew if he were to declare that, you would instantly deny it. Maybe there was a reason why you would, but even with your flaws, he will still be there. If times get hard, he will still be there. He would follow you for an infinite amount of time, and it still wouldn't be enough for him.

“Ay, eres perfecta, mi Luna.”

And you shook your head.

“I'm not perfect; I still have things that may bother and upset you.” You teased him, eyeballing him as he got up and came to your side.

“That may be true, but I know I will still want you.”

“And I will still want you, mi Estrella. I know if challenges were to hit us, we wouldn't back down.”

Three strings popped.

“Dance with me, mi Luna.”

Surprised by the suddenness of the request, you let him take the lead, swaying to the satisfying and powerful vocals that wreathed the tender love you two shared in the middle of it all.

The rest of the night went on without a hitch. Nearly finishing the wine bottle, you were slightly tipsy, and Miguel was still functioning as if he didn't have three glasses. After finishing the three-course meal, you both gave a standing ovation to the performers.

Tipping the service well, Miguel hailed another cab. Giving the driver your address, you both slid in one after the other.

You were both giggly, doing your best to hold it in and not be too loud. Miguel would sneakily glide his hands up your dress, as you would pretend nothing was going on.

Scooting alongside you, his unsheathed hands caressed your body. Biting your bottom lip to stifle any moans from escaping, you gazed at him from the corner of your eye.

“Ay, mi corazón, wait till we get back to your place. I'm not ready for this night to end.” He whispered low enough so only you could hear his husky, seductive voice.

His watchful eyes observed the driver, making sure he wasn't peeking as one of his talons scraped over the inner thigh and right in-between your legs. By subtly parting them, you allowed him to leave ghost-like circles over the dampening undergarment.

A sharp inhale nearly made its way out as you pretended to cough to mask it. A single sweatdrop rushed down your face as he continued his treatment on the spot. He then prodded the nub with a sharp nail.

“Not one sound. We don't want to get caught, do we, mi Luna?" He nipped at your ear before glossing his tongue down to the lobe.

Your heart was in your eardrums, teeth refusing to leave the bottom lip, to the point where you believed it was bleeding.

Eventually reaching the front of the building, you quickly paid for the fare as you both staggered out of the vehicle and hobbled straight towards the elevator doors.

The anticipation rose as you anxiously eyeballed the yellow light trickling down each number so agonizingly slow.

4… 3… 2…

The second it reached one, you clambered in as you impatiently pressed the close button, silently begging it to go faster.

When the lobby was out of sight, Miguel swept you off the ground, pinning you to the wall behind.

You immediately encased your legs around his waist, your tongues attacking as you bruised each other's lips. Your hands roamed all over his strong shoulders before Miguel seized them and slammed them over your head with one claw. His other hand delicately punctured some skin on the outer thigh, making you moan in sheer ecstasy.

The elevator dinged as Miguel swung you onto his shoulder, making you yelp at the action.

His calloused fingers gripped close on your behind as he dug for his key in his pocket. Eventually finding it, he fumbled with the lock. You offered to have him let you down so he could open it, until you heard the click.

He nearly broke the door from opening it, pulling you back down, retaking your earlier position, and ramming your lips back on his. Kicking the wooden door shut with his foot, he took off his shoes and made his way to the couch, flinging you on it, as he kneeled in front.

His hands roamed over every bit of your draped body, tongues in a sloppily dance. You tugged at his hair, grinding your hips up to him. He pulled away as you both took in heavy breaths of air, as if you had gone without oxygen for days.

“Mi Luna, mi corazón, I'm going to take care of you. I'm going to take so much care of you. I want to make love to you. I will make love to you. Will you allow me to do that, Mi Luna?”

All you could do was nod.

“I will only do it if you say it, mi Luna.”

“Yes! Mi Estrella, yes, please make love to me! Por favor, si, anyth-”

Miguel cut you off, his tongue nearly sliding down your throat. Restlessness took over as he hauled your dress over your head and threw it over the sofa.

You reached down and started to take off your wedges when Miguel shoved your arm over your hair.

“Leave your fishnets and shoes on.”

Miguel dipped down, a carnal growl making its way from his throat as his tongue teased and explored your neck and collarbone.

Whining out, your back arched into his warm, wet appendage, loving every nip and bite from him. You moaned as his teeth gently clamped down on the crook of your neck. You felt every suction, every stroke from the tongue, and the vibrations whenever he groaned.

Your panties dampened even more. He was voracious with his mouth, his hands moving to firmly grope your breasts, hips, and thighs.

“Oh, mi Luna, la única para mi. Eres tan bueno, tan bueno conmigo.”

He peered into your lustrous eyes, his blazing ones never fleeting as his thumbs parted your lips, talons brushing against your tongue. You wrap it around one of them, sucking on it, not wanting to break contact, until you get lost in it. Lapping the digit in circles, you bob your head back and forth, causing him to purr and tug your head back.

“Such a naughty girl, making papi hot and bothered like that.”

Heavy pants heave out of you before you take Miguel back into another amorous kiss. You latch your tongue around his, your squeaks filling the room, causing Miguel to groan, squeezing your chest.

Moving away, he peeled you off the couch and hoisted you in his arms, bridal style, carrying you to the bedroom and dropping you wearily on the bed.

“I'm going to devote every second to pleasuring this body.”

“I know you will, mi Estrella.” You contentedly sighed out.

Claiming those sweet lips one last time, he tears the bra off your body.

“Miggy! You have to stop ripping my clothes!” You squirm and pout.

“You know I'll buy you a new one. I'll buy you an entire new wardrobe if it means I get to see this body.” He kneads your breasts, pinching the nipples and receiving a gasp.

“So responsive. One thing I adore so much about you.”

Taking your left nipple in his clutch and chewing on it as his fangs threatened to draw out, he had to consciously keep them in check. His tongue lapped and sucked the bud as trails of spit leaked down your breast.

“Oh, Miggy. So good, that feels so good.” You shuddered at the feeling.

Pulling back with the areola still in-between his teeth, he released it, then delved into nibbling the valley of your bust, leaving faint traces up and down your stomach and thighs.

Your whimpers drove Miguel up into the stratosphere. His jeans were unbearably constructive, and his body was burning with full lust. He removed his blazer and tossed it, his mouth not once leaving, wanting to mark all over you. Your body relaxed, humming at the nips and laps from his tongue.

“You are so amazing, mi Estrella.”

He smiled, popping your right nipple out of his mouth. “And you are even more so, mi Luna.”

Surveying the purplish-red bruises, he nearly patted himself on the back, prideful over what he did. He leaned up until your face was in view. You couldn't make much out, as the room was dark, with only a shimmer of lights protruding from your window.

The one thing you could see was the fiery, vermillion irises feverishly longing for you.

Grazing your luscious figure, Miguel trailed his hands down to your panties, stroking and playing with the waistband. “Mi Luna. Don’t think I didn’t take notice of you shaking that perfectly cute ass for me at the lounge. You wanted to rile me up; I know you did.”

His heated breath on your chest and neck made goosebumps spring all down your body.

“Mm, you were such a gentleman; it was only fair to reward you with a little something, papi.”

“Now let me reward you.” Miguel pecked at your collarbone.

“For what?”

“For being you. For being so amazing to me and taking the time to... care for someone like me.”

Your hands brushed along his neck until each one was placed on either side of his cheeks. Raising him to you, you displayed your love.

“You deserve it all. You are worth it all.”

His stomach and chest fluttered as the kiss he gave held so much devotion, fondness, and ardor. He wanted to give you everything—to give all of him to you.

Bracing himself on his knees, he speedily unbuttoned his shirt and paused.

“Sit up, mi Luna.” He commanded as you followed the direct, confused.

He wrapped the fabric around your backside, took each of your arms, and slid them into the sleeves.

“Fóllame…” he croaked out.

It was loose on you, as one part drooped off your shoulder. Seeing you like this made something tick. A carnal desire. A primal rage.

The wedges, your wetness leaking down, messing up your thighs. The love-bites on your perfect breasts and neck. The fishnets have tiny, damp spots, and you're wearing his shirt. Your scent mixing with it.

The image alone nearly made him explode.

"Miggy, are you okay?” You tilted your head.

And that was it. That innocent call of his name. You checking in on him. That lovely voice. That voice he always wants to hear.

He slumped on the floor, grappling your legs and anchoring them over his shoulders.

“I want you to scream out. I want them to know who is making you feel so good, mi corazón.”

Arousal and fear settled in your eyes—that blazing desire you saw within. How you craved it so much.

“I want you, Miguel.”

He dove in.

His tongue lapping up the streams that trickled from your inner thighs, making sure to leave love-bites in his tracks.

“Mines, you're mine. Eres mía. Eres mía.”

You wail out, grasping onto your bedsheets. The firm push of his tongue against your clothed opening had you spying stars. The cotton becoming slicker and stickier with each lick around the folds nearly had you releasing.

“I need these gone.” With a swift rip, your underwear was torn off, and you couldn't help but snarl at him.

“Miggy! No more ripping—oh fuck!”

You cried out. Miguel plunged deep within your damp opening, jutting his tongue in and out as he felt every clench of your walls around the muscle.

A possessive, guttural growl reverberated from his chest, making your legs tremble from the resonance.

“Miggy! Take your time! Oh fuck! Please take your time!” Your hands gripped your face, raising your upper torso.

“I'm sorry, mi corazón; you're so good. So, so sweet.” His tongue swirled around your labia in rapid succession, provoking a screech.

“Ple-please, Miggy! Slo-slow down!”

He had to force himself away from his delicious meal. His claws pierced into your thighs, and he fought to regain his breath.

“Te pido disculpas, mi Luna. You just taste so good; you are my addiction. But for you, I'll go take my time. I'll start when you're ready.”

An admiring smile embellished on your face. How it managed to elevate your beauty even more, he would never know.

“Gracias, mi Estrella. I'm always ready for you.” You stroked his soft curls before Miguel took his claws and interlocked them in your fingers.

Lining himself back up, the tip of his tongue carefully lapped around the edge of your folds, taking in every whimper and mewl leaving you, blessing his ears.

Relieving all stress, you relaxed your body, yearning to feel every part. The passion from every glide over your vulva to the flicks on your clit sent you to a blissful heaven. Your defenseless moans of intimacy ricocheted off the walls. Miguel battled the inner frenzied side wanting to unleash its assault on you as he steadily made eights around the clitoris and entrance.

“Mi-Miggy.” You slurred out, “Go faster. You can go faster.”

His eyes glinted at you, a fierce scarlet, as that beastly part didn’t take that request for granted. Miguel took a hold of your legs, pushing them up a bit more until your wedges dug a bit into the upper part of his back. A few sweat drops ran down the side of you, attempting to backtrack, but it was too late.

Miguel shook his head briskly, his tongue wiggling madly, making out with your pussy. His mouth engulfed you, and a raw scream of his name departed your lips, having your neighbor knocking on the barrier in-between.

“Mi-Miggy! I can’t be too-”

“What did I say? Let them hear you. Let them know who is doing this to you.”

He slurped and sucked on your cunt, letting the murky fluids leak from the sides of his chin. He devoured every inch of you as you desperately bucked your hips up to his face, sobbing out.

Miguel came to a sudden halt, his tongue still buried deep in you. With a disoriented gasp, you jerk your head down, bewildered by the sudden stoppage.

“Keep going! Why did you stop?” You sobbed.

Yanking his tongue out, a wicked grin appeared along with his pearly, razor-sharp fangs.

“I sensed your desperate rocks. So, mi Luna, you’re going to do some work as well, as much as I love to worship my prey.”

Rising to his full height, he removed his jeans and the confining briefs, the glistening shaft springing out, throbbing madly. You immediately clenched around nothing, a longing gasp huffing out.

Crawling near you, he unceremoniously guided you towards the headboard as you nervously shuffled until your back hit the cool wood. You gulped loudly while one of his knuckles stroked the side of your cheek.

“I'm going to fuck your little pussy until you fall apart over and over.”

Clinging his claws to your waist, he flipped positions in such a way that he was on his back and you were straddling his waistline, feeling him poke against the cusp of your bottom.

“On my face.” He ordered with that husky grunt.

You hesitated when a firm hand smacked your left asscheek. A surprise cry left as Miguel spanked it again.

“No stopping, mi Luna. On my face, por favor. And remember, you're going to go at your pace.”

Squirming your way up to him, you hovered over when Miguel dropped you down. Kissing the crevice around your folds, he plugged his tongue in your hole, not moving a single inch.

Luckily, you connected the dots, rocking your hips in a circular pattern. His muscular arms kept you sturdy as your velvet sex squeezed and squished around it. Miguel's nose swiping your stiffened nub whenever your hips propel forward.

Throwing your head back, you felt the release creeping up, and you pressed on more and more.

With him allowing you full control, Miguel lays there as your fluids cover the bottom half of his face. You whined out, tears pricking in your vision, your mind in a frenzy.

You didn't want this to end. He wasn't doing anything, and he was still making you feel like your head was in the clouds.

You were on top of the universe.

His hand roams up your soft thigh. His thumb and pointer pinching, rolling your clit in between, creating a split low moan between you two.

“I'm going to—I'm going to cum, Miggy!”

Deciding to help you out, his tongue drove into you with immense momentum. You squished from every thrust, your juices splashing about, and your walls squeezing tight.

“Miggy, Miggy, Miggy, close, I'm close, I'm- I'm-”

Rasping out, you bucked alongside. When his tongue dipped in, you'd dip down. A shrill left you and your body maniacally spasmed.

“Miguel!”

Your orgasm was potent. Digits curled in his hair, your body slightly curved backwards before slumping over with hard, heavy breaths. He cleaned up a bit of the mess, wanting to still keep some as a remainder.

“Mi Estrella… fuck me. You are too good at that.”

Plucking you off and settling you on your back, he nuzzled his face into your chest, before enveloping his lips around yours. You waltzed your tongue around, tasting all of you.

“So sweet; how fitting for a woman like you.” He kissed your cheek multiple times.

“I think it's more tangy, so someone's taste buds are broken.” You both laugh, placing your foreheads together.

“¿Estás bien, mi Luna?” He trailed a line of affectionate pecks from your cheek to the crook of your shoulder.

You nodded your head, your upper limbs entwined over his thick neck. “I'm always okay whenever I'm with you.”

A coy smile spread on your inviting lips.

“Mi corazón, I'm going to worship every inch of you. It's just me and you.”

Miguel leaned downward, catching you in a fierce, sloppy open-mouth kiss. You gladly returned, your body the hottest it has ever been.

He cast you back up, hitching your legs around his waist. Rotating so your head would prop up against your pillows, he sank his body weight down, entrapping you.

“Las cosas que me haces, Luna mía. Las muchas cosas.” Miguel muttered in your ear.

“Are you ready, mi Luna?”

“Always.”

Lowering himself, his erection rubbed against your folds, lubricating you both as much as possible. You croon, eyes half-lidded, leaning up to suck and lick the crook of his neck.

“I'm going to start pushing. Relax, mi Luna, relax.”

The tip lined up to your entrance, gently nudging it in to stretch you. Groaning out together, Miguel's compulsion nearly took over from your tight heat clenching him for dear life.

“Ne-need to adjust. I'm sorry!”

“Shh, it's okay. Your pace, corazón, your pace.”

Miguel slid further in, your walls pulsating with any single shift. Half-way, you grinded up against him; loosening yourself. Miguel gritted his teeth, taking every inch of your reaction.

“Go–go ahead! All of it, please!” you cried out.

When he bottomed the rest in one go, you both froze. Every twitch against your fluttering, wet muscles causes cascades of heavy grunts from him and sultry moans from you.

“Apretado, apretado a mi alrededor. Muy bien, eres muy buena mi Luna hermosa.”

He starts to pump. Withdrawing himself to the head before ramming it back to the hilt, contouring it until it was perfectly molded. Flinging your head back, a lusty moan leaves your mouth.

His hips smacking against your hip bones, your painted nails digging into Miguel's back, leaving more marks and scars that will bring loving memories instead of anguish. Your whines are bouncing over the bedroom walls, driving him wild.

Slightly angling your hips up some more, Miguel found that sweet spot as those more modest whimpers devolved into pure, lustful adulterous screams. Miguel took pride as you squelched with every thrust, your juices covering his entire length.

“Music. Music–ah, fuck. Such a beautiful song leaving that alluring mouth.”

“Mi-Miguel!” You wailed his name like a trance you couldn't escape. The only word you moaned as he relished it.

“Yes, my moon, speak only my name. How did I get you? How did I get so lucky to get you?”

Bodies coated in sweat, some of Miguel's trickling on you as he pressed his forehead on yours, gazing longingly into those fervent eyes.

He never wanted this to stop. He never wanted it to end. He didn't want to lose you.

Because at this moment, nothing matters. At this time, he only focused on you and your shared admiration.

It was only you two.

“Only us, mi Luna. I need to... I need you.”

Miguel crashed his lips into yours, muffling your cries, tongues whirling in a wild duel. The bedframe creaked aggressively, his sharp piston humping causing the headboard to ram against the wall, provoking a knock from the neighbors, but Miguel didn't care.

Your arms cloaked around his backside, dragging your nails all over. The wedges chafing against his lower back, as his tip brutally assaulted your cervix.

“Mi Estrella! I love you, mi Estrella! Oh fu-fuck!” Your head turned towards the side of the pillow, causing a growl to rumble out of Miguel's throat.

“No, look at me; let me see that gorgeous face.” He forced your head back.

Flushed and flustered, your mouth opened, your tongue flopped out, and saliva dribbled down the sides. Your pupils dilated, with more tears welling up in your lashes and staining your face.

His tanned cheeks were red as you locked on to his hungry, driven, and lustful stare, yet you could make out the authentic love. Your heart swelled, and your affection, passion, and love for him rang true wherever he was around.

You never wanted this to end.

“I'm close! I'm so close, mi Estrella!”

“Yes, mi Luna. Let me appreciate you. Cum for me, cum on this cock, corazón.”

The sweet musk and strawberry champagne perfume radiating off you attacked his nostrils, his brain swirling with lascivious urges.

His penetrating eyes appeared redder than ever. His member was pulsating with every plunge. His balls snapping against your folds sent you in a spiral.

"S-so tight! Tight only for this cock destroying this—Ngh, this beautiful pussy?"

"Yes! Just for you! Only for you! Miguel!"

Your senses blurred, and the coil finally burst.

Your back arched off the bed, your chest squishing into his as your legs trembled wildly. Shrieking his name violently, there was another irked knock, although it went unnoticed.

Miguel grunted as his length was vehemently squeezed from the intense orgasm. His claws were harshly clutching the bedsheets, leaving tears.

Attempting to come off your high, you shivered, still sensing the palpitations from Miguel's shaft. Your emotions were going haywire. You moaned in his ear.

“Come for me, Miguel. Please, mi Estrella. I need you! I need you rooted deep in me!”

When those words flowed out, he grabbed your ass before yanking you up into his lap. You yelped, your hands clutching his broad shoulders.

“Be careful with what you ask for.” He licked your earlobe before kissing your sweaty forehead. “Te voy a dar exactamente lo que quieres. Tú. Son. Mía.”

Checking to make sure your legs were locked and steady, taking your behind in his gigantic claws, he pulled out until it was just the tip before shoving it back in one go, vigorously impelling you down on him.

You screeched, your toes curling, still very sensitive from your previous climax. You kissed his bulky chest and shoulders in no particular order. Taking in his heavy musk, the cedarwood aroma from him. It was so intoxicating that you could be addicted to it.

The air filled with gushing, wet slaps as it harmonized with your and Miguel's moans.

“Mi corazón, my moon. You are the only one. Mines... nunca querrás perderte.”

“I'm only yours, my star! I will always be yours!”

Miguel released an animalistic growl as he nearly pounded into you with his inhuman speed. The wooden legs holding the bed up threaten to snap. The headboard surely left streaks of chipped paint after this.

Miguel would drag you down while simultaneously pushing his pelvis up to meet your behind, and as you shamelessly dripped onto the torn sheets below, you added more to the murky puddle underneath.

Your bodies collided in a rhythmless dance of lust.

“Mis ojos adornados por la Luna. Para bien de mí, no te merezco. ¡Joder, corazón!”

Miguel was reaching his limits.

He thought of you together, far away. Happy, full of felicity and hope. Trying for the first child, the first one who will have your smile, that will have his ruby-red eyes. The one with your caring personality. The one with his head-strong personality.

And as the snow turns into flowers and the green leaves transform into many shades of warm colors, there will be more. More with his glimmering, crimson-eyed and your smile running around full of that love and compassion. Maybe wrestling, or doing fun experiments, or in the mini-farm picking those fresh fruits and vegetables.

He will finally be happy with his family once more.

Three more strings snapped.

His movements grew sloppier. His mind is only on filling you up. He grasped the back of your head, carefully wrapping his long appendages in your hair, and tugged you close to his mouth.

“I want you stuffed. Seal you to the brink with my seed.”

“Yes! Yes, yes! I love you! I love you!”

His name was heard for all of Nueva York.

Miguel's fangs snuck deep into the side of your neck. Snarling, he coated your heated, moist cavern with thick, heavy spurts, threatening to leak out.

Talons pricking your bottom as a bit of blood colored the tips. Even your blood was sweet. Still very fitting.

You shivered at the pleasurable pain from your crashing finish and his bite. How easily it was inserted into your skin made you hum with delight. The venom coursed through your bloodstream as you began to lose mobility in your body.

Miguel idly opened his eyes before a short burst of panic forced them wider as he promptly retracted his fangs.

“Mierda. I'm sorry, mi Luna, I-I lost control and-”

With the last few bits of strength, you uncoordinatedly and gently whacked his shoulder before it flopped down.

“It's okay. All okay.” You slurred with a grin on your face.

Miguel searched for any discomfort before a smile was placed on his lips.

He licked the puncture wound clean; he gradually pulled himself out as a satisfying pop rang out, causing him to grunt and you to groan.

“You're going to be immobilized for a good minute. I injected a bit too much.”

He pulled your shoes and fishnets off, but decided to leave his shirt on you. You couldn't move a thing, but you did not mind. In fact, you accepted that this may have been a new experience you will thoroughly enjoy in the future.

Your eyes glazed over, observing Miguel assiduously clean you before your eyelids grew heavier before shutting them all the way.

A piano and saxophone blended within the stars. You pivot back and forth, only to see him there. He shimmered more than the ones penning against him.

You floated over, taking his harsh claw into your hand. But yet, it was pleasant and gentle.

His arm around your waist, he gazes at you as you spin around the skies, the stars, comets, and planets.

The illuminated dance and song of naturalism and intimacy swirled alongside you both.

You are the moon and he, the shining star.

• • •

“Pete- E-616 Peter!”

Jess waved her wrist, refusing to go through the ordeal of having a bunch of Peters point at themselves, deducing who she wanted.

“Hey, Jess! What's going on?” His short, shaggy hair, five-o’clock shadow, and huge, but tired, brown eyes popped into frame.

“I need to talk to you about something.” Her head whirled back and forth. “Privately.”

Peter scratched the back of his perplexed. “Uh, okay.”

He lagged behind her, seeking out any answers to the questions he imposed, but she stayed hushed until they reached a hallway that he was highly unfamiliar with.

“Is this part of the medical bay?”

His head rolled back and forth between the white panels and blue tiles.

“No. This is a restricted area that not many know about. There were only supposed to be two people made aware of this location.”

“But with me here, I'm the third person who knows of it.” He leaned against one of the walls, still lost on where exactly he was and what Jess exactly wanted.

She shook her head. “You're the fourth person who knows of it. Can you guess who the others are?”

Squinting his eyes, he began to conjure up suspects. “Well, obviously you, so that's one. Me being two. Miguel! He created this, so it makes sense. And the fourth?”

Creasing his brows, he went through the list of potential candidates before swaying his head after a minute passed.

“I got nothing for the last one.”

Jess tapped her foot and nodded her head. “Okay, let me get this out of the way. I know you have a soft spot for Miguel, and like myself and others, you want the best for him.”

“Yeeess?” Peter crossed his arms, wondering where she was headed with this.

“And we want him to be happy. Well, as happy as this man can possibly reach, which isn't high.”

“Jess, I'm confused.”

“Over the past week or so, I've been gathering records and information on where Miguel goes and the people he's been bringing here.”

She taps away on her watch, pulling up an undisclosed document. “You have your officials, building regulators, the usual. But there's one person, specifically a woman, he's been ‘slyly’ bringing into this establishment.”

Jess closes out the file, then plants her hands on her hips. “With that newly added info, care to take a gander at who the fourth person is?”

Peter bit his lip and stumbled on his brain to object to any of that.

“Still no clue. And come on, Jess, keeping track of where he goes and who he invites is a bit… of a helicopter parent move. He isn't a teenager; he's a full adult with a life to live. So surely it shouldn't be anything bad.”

“Peter, I'm not trying to helicopter him, but when he's being more sneaky about what he's doing more than usual, that's where we have to draw the line.”

“Is it still about the paperwork? I thought you all caught up with that?”

“It's not about the paperwork, Peter! It started with that, but it descended into more when he would randomly leave his post for hours on end, lying about making codes and inventions, or bringing in some random woman who isn't a spider!”

She threw her hands up, slapping them back down to her sides.

“Well, he might have reasons for them. He can do what he likes, you know? Sure, he's been slacking a bit, but we all have our slump moments.”

He pushed his shoulders up before bringing them back down.

“Peter–”

“I have moments where I disappear. I do it all the time, and I still get my work done. Maybe that's where Mayday gets it from; it might be a Parker thing, but still, all goes well! And besides, I think she's good for him. But what do I know? I mean, I remember when Miguel blew a gasket over some harmless prank E-573 and E-25667 did. My God, that man needs some type of break, like all the breaks–”

“Wait, wait, backtrack. Did you just say she's good for him?”

Peter's eyes squeezed tightly, ‘ah, fuck me,’ on loop in his brain the second he slipped up.

Jess sucked in her teeth and bowed her head. “You only get one. One. One chance to tell me where he is right at this moment.”

Her arms connected over her jutting stomach.

“Forgive me… He's on a date with her. That's all I know. But, I don't know where they could be at this very hour.” Peter scrunched up, discomfited.

A critical laugh escaped from Jess. “Wow, okay. You knew exactly where he was and who he's with, and still tried to play dumb with me?”

“And that was wrong of me, and I'm sorry, Jess, but he's a grown man. He's allowed to also go out and enjoy himself as well.”

“I'm not saying he's not allowed to do any of that. If he wanted to go to a damn nightclub five times a week, then whatever, it would be his life!”

“I feel like a lounge would suit him more…” he sardonically mumbled.

“PETER, I-”

Jess brings her hands up to her lips in a prayer position to calm her nerves.

“I'm trying not to be the bad guy here. We all have needs and things we want to do, but skimping out on tasks he highly enforces and expects us to do? Sneaking an outsider into the HQ like he is some goddamn teenager, Peter?”

Peter lowered his head, pretending that Mayday, his source of comfort in these distressing times, was right there.

“Who's to say what trouble that would be put on us if it was someone else attempting that? He needs to be able to also balance this out, but that's the problem!”

He pressed his lips in a thin line as he allowed her to continue.

“This man is so unstable that he doesn't know how to exactly balance these things! We all went through the training and council meetings for these reasons. To understand the situation we are in. We did, Peter.”

She firmly pointed at herself, then at him.

“Yet him?” She's turned toward Miguel's office. “Not even once, yet still expected and expects every one of us to do it.” She spun her pointer finger.

“Well, Jess, how would you exactly know that?”

“Lyla.” Her voice was assertive and full of control.

“Yo, yo.” She pixelated between the two.

“Give me the file for Miguel's family training, counseling sessions, or anything in that department.”

Lyla opened up a screen in front of her. A minute passed as Jess patiently waited, and Peter stood awkwardly until the monitor disappeared.

“Uhh, yeah, so about that. They don't-”

“They don't exist. Thank you, Lyla; you can go.”

The A.I. left as quickly as she arrived.

Peter glossed over, having no more rebuttals. "So, what's going to happen?”

Jess’s shoulders slumped. “I'm going to talk to him,” she held up her hand when Peter tried to interject, “And find a smart resolution on how he can still do his job and still see this girl. I won't go hard. He will have to face repercussions, but it'll only be temporary.”

His eyes lowered to his fuzzy, pink slippers, eliciting an exhausted sigh from her. “And if I need help, I'll call for you.”

“You think he will take it well?”

“Depends. How much does he like this girl?”

“Enough to get you on his tail more so than you regularly are.” He joked, gaining a smirk from her.

“That's a lot. But I won't do it immediately. I still need to know what I want to say and make sure all things are in order.”

Jess clicked at her device, dragging items into folders.

“Promise you won't go too hard on him. It's nice seeing him happy.”

“I'll try not to, Peter. I'll try.”

• • •

“Hey.”

“Hm?” Miguel stroked your back, his eyes fluttering open.

“The solace reached a hundred percent.”

“It was already there, but what makes you raise it all the way?”

“We're the neighbors who found it within each other.”

You felt the vibrations in Miguel's chest as you both huffed out a chuckle.

The light continues to glow; it continues to shine on the object that wants to be seen. He's able to sit up.

But the strings can reconnect.

And the darkness can still swallow that light whole whenever it wants.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

@ella-janehaven @prozacgooble @sanguwuxyoonbummy

#miguel o'hara x reader #tales the songs weave #miguel o'hara smut #miguel o'hara #miguel x reader #atsv #atsv miguel #miguel fanfic #miguel x fem!reader #miguel spiderverse #miguel x you #miguel x y/n #miguel o'hara x you #read on ao3 #miguel spiderman #miguel o'hara x y/n

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sunsetcougar · 3 months

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For the hawk feather au, I read that birds have hollow bones so there very fragile.

While I don't the the exorcists would be fragile I do imagine they break bones in the stupidest ways, like they can take so many hits or fall from massive hights and nothing will happen but they will fall slightly from a tree and break there leg or will fracture something by walking into a door.

It also makes them extremely light that's why vaggie goes absolutely flying when people push her like she does in the show.

Instances Exorcists have not broken bones:

Getting hit full speed by another Exorcist

Falling six stories

Getting hit by debris on Extermination Day

Flying into a window

Hard sparring sessions

Instances Exorcists have broken bones:

Tripping and hitting the edge of a table

Missing the very bottom stair

Falling out of a low hanging hammock

Walking into a glass wall

Running into each other at normal speed

At the hotel Vaggie once slipped on a piece of paper and snapped her collarbone, literally five minutes after she fell off a third story balcony and was completely fine.

Exorcists are like non-Newtonian fluids, the harder you hit them the less likely they are to take damage.

#Hawk Feather Exorcists AU #hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel vaggie #hazbin hotel exorcists #hazbin hotel au #The paper collarbone thing is inspired by the fact that that’s how I broke my collarbone as a kid #Only bone I’ve ever broken #and it was from slipping on a piece of paper #I didn’t fall off a balcony though

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opens-up-4-nobody · 1 year

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...

#sometimes i feel like my brain is disintegrating in my head. coming apart like a lump of paper in a pool of water #it comes with this weird feeling of vertigo. like i turn my head and my thoughts are spinning too fast. they keep going despite my standing #still. its also a but when you start drinking something and when u stop your thoughts r hazy and ur breathing is heavy #maybe thats not a universal experience. sometimes when i stop i realize ive slipped half out of my body #and now im stumbling from day to day trying desperately to remember all the things im supposed to be managing #but there are these big holes in my brain. like im missing chunks of grey matter. the bits that would let me stop and start things #i dunno. when im taking measurements i have this image of myself on my knees holding the fragrance pieces of my life together as they #crumble thru my fingers and my insides shrivle away from the walls that contain them. i go hollow like a gord #and ppl say oh ur so passionate abt what u do. and i go brittle bc it doesnt feel like passion it feels like the symptom of an illness #i dont care. im just trying to burn the hours away. make time vanish. and for what? what am i building toward? i have an answer that i give #interviewers but i dunno i never thought id make it this far. but here we r. unhappy and lacking in purpose. its just that this last year #was so weird bc about a year ago i burned out so hard that i never recovered and it just got worse and worse. i feel now that ive stopped #the bleeding at least but the bitterness is still there. still infecting my words and curving my spine around the injury #and in theory i understand the path to healing but its hard when im just so. i dont even kno. angry? im not mad but the word feels right #but i dunno what id be angry about. maybe im just sick of empty tasks and not caring. i used to have passion and enthusiasm now i just feel #fragile and hurt. bracing for pain. and that makes me so sad. i wish i could go out into the woods and wander. just breathe #but no. instead ill start another day identical to 100 others and hope to keep my head above the surface bc im sick of swallowing sea water #anyway. itll b fine. hopefully this week i can commit to a program. hopefully. another program halfway across the country. this time #vertically. landing me still 2 time zones from home. but hopefully there i can breathe a little. maybe. hopefully. well see #unrelated

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fernweh-s · 2 years

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I am now accepting applications for a Very Brave Bug Killing BF (or GF) because I—no joke—just spent two whole hours devising an elaborate plan to kill the centipede I had trapped under a container, bc I was too scared to risk touching it to smoosh it, and like. this is no way to live!!!!!!! 😭😭😭

#mel's musings;#no joke I sat there for tWO HOURS with it trapped #because I didn't know what to do!!!!#the first hour was spent basically just staring at it a) making sure it didn't escape #and b) hoping it would simply pass away from exhaustion lmfao #and then I tried to fucking. macgyver some like sticky paper or summin #by rolling up a bunch of tape onto a piece of paper and quickly slipping it under the container #at the EXACT RIGHT MOMENT the centipede was on the other side so it wouldn't escape thru the opening #bUT APPARENTLY THOSE MFERS CAN JUST WALK ALL OVER TAPE JUST FINE. IT DIDN'T EVEN GET A LITTLE STUCK!!!!!!!!!#so then I spent like 30 more minutes fucking staring at it because my BRILLIANT PLAN HAD FAILED #then I resorted to sliding another (this time plain) sheet of paper under the container #and proceeded to tape up all around the edges taping the paper TO the container so there were no openings #and then I really quickly turned the container upside down so the centipede would fall onto the plastic of the container #instead of being on the paper. bc i didn't want it chewing thru the paper #idk if they can do that but I wasn't taking any chances!!!!!!!!#bUT THEN IT STARTED CLIMBING UP THE PLASTIC 😭😭😭😭#and I was so scared of it finding a gap in the tape. so I shoved THAT contained into a DIFFERENT container #and brought the whole thing to the kitchen sink and turned the water on #but then that made the paper soggy and the centipede got OUT #and I tried to spray it with the.....the spray thingy sinks have. idk what it's called!!!!!#then I lost the centipede. idk if it died and went down the drain I didn't see it!!!!!!!#it was very stressful. anyways this is why I need someone to just do the squishing.

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foodlesoodlesdoodles · 1 month

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oh funny fact actually I do all this on my phone with my finger

#oodles rambles #oodles talks #sometimes I’ll do rough drafts on paper because digital rough drafts are way too much ? for me? for some reason #I find it way less clunky than getting a tablet or iPad with a pen #and I have it on me on all times . But that does not stop my mutuals from remembering sometimes and going hey what the fuck #but you know what’s a bitch though? I used to EXCEL at paper backgrounds in middle school man #I’m talking detailed cabin in the woods with a full perspective and gnomes and everything and it SLIPPED THROUGH MY FINGERS #the things I do………………. waughg #it’s not that big of a thing but I feel like with more recent pieces it is kinda insane to realize I do this with .#an index finger and a dream.

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gutsby · 5 months

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Wedded Bliss

Pairing: Mob!Bucky x Reader

Summary: The marriage was arranged, and the sex is deranged. Bucky is so obsessed with your pussy that he almost forgets he’s meant to be faking this whole thing—and hating it, like sworn enemies are supposed to do.

Warnings: 18+. Dubcon. Corruption kink. Virginity loss. Arranged marriage between enemies. Brat taming. Breeding kink. Beefy, mob boss Bucky devolving into a fall-to-his-knees-just-to-fuck-you kind of horny mess.

Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

You kissed him and wished him dead in the same breath. You said ‘I do’ and meant ‘I don’t,’ exchanged your vows like your own last rites, and felt him slip the ring on your finger as if he’d just tightened a noose around your neck.

You didn’t want to be a bride, and you sure as hell didn’t want to be the bride to Mr. James Buchanan Barnes.

Frankly, you were mortified.

And terrified, too, now that you knew your groom might actually kill you in the kitchen of your honeymoon suite.

“Have you lost your fucking mind?!”

“I walked down the aisle, didn’t I?”

Another plate went crashing on the wall behind your husband’s head just as he managed to duck. He side-stepped a spray of porcelain and glass and probably crushed several hundred shards beneath his polished black oxfords when he walked—stalked—over to you.

You’d just reared back to hurl a serving plate at his face when you found your speed swiftly outmatched. Bucky had your elbow gripped between his forefinger and thumb in less than a second, and, pinching the bone like he might readily break it, he said, even as always,

“Put it down.”

You did as he told you and dropped the platter to the floor with a crash.

Rather than berate you for the broken china—or the four other pieces before it—your husband only smiled.

“Are we done?”

Hell, you wanted to be. Slide over a pen and a one-way plane ticket to someplace in BFE, and you’d be signing those divorce papers in a heartbeat. Unfortunately, your dear husband was just referring to the temper tantrum.

You weren’t totally sure if you were finished on that front, so you looked him up and down and shrugged.

“Now darling—” he started.

“Don’t call me that.”

“Light of my life—”

“I’ll kill you.”

Your cool, level-headed groom took each gibe like it was his sworn duty, and only when he yanked your wrists behind your back and shoved you toward the bedroom door did you sense that he might not be too pleased with your behavior.

Your knees struck the edge of the California King at the center of the room, and before you could will yourself not to fall face-first, Bucky nudged you hard again.

Still pinning your hands behind you, he followed your collapse on the bed and leaned over your prone body.

His breaths were hot on your ear; you could tell he was smiling as he started to hike your dress up your legs.

“It’s all part of the deal, doll.”

You wriggled under his hold and tried to angle yourself better to see him, hoping he’d see your scowl.

“The deal was to get married,” you reminded him.

“Mhmm,” Bucky hummed, just then starting to trail a finger up the uncovered skin of your calf with his other hand, “And what is it that married people do?”

You kicked your foot reflexively, paused, then said,

“Fight. Constantly. Probably resent each other for the better part of two decades before we finally decide that ‘making it work’ for the kids isn’t worth it at all, and I claim half of everything you own in a bitter divorce.”

That earned a chuckle from Bucky. He kept his roaming hand brushing up the back of your thigh and squeezed the flesh just below the swell of your rear.

“Don’t worry, my lawyer drafted a pretty good prenup.”

You opened your mouth to speak, but then he was tracing the contour of your ass with his palm, and you cut yourself short. Bucky carried on, careless as ever.

“But the kids you mentioned,” he said, “How are we supposed to get those?”

You pursed your lips and tried hard not to move when his fingers drifted inward—you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing you squirm. The bottom of your dress was bunched around your hips now, leaving you sorely exposed. Had your bridesmaids not thrust that stupid white lingerie set upon you hours before the wedding, you probably would’ve chosen something a little more modest than a thong. But here you were.

At least the sight seemed appealing to your husband, whose eyes hadn’t left you once while his hands grew even hungrier to feel your warmth.

“I’m hoping a sperm donor or one of your double-crossing mobster friends will knock me up, honestly,” you said, feigning enthusiasm at the thought.

A tart slap delivered to your ass told you that Bucky hadn’t found that funny. After, he started kneading the skin a bit harder.

“No shot,” he shook his head, suddenly gliding his fingers down closer to your core and waiting for you to say something in protest, “Only one that’s gonna be pumping this thing full of babies is me, I promise.”

It was like he wanted your retaliation, whether that be by a thinly veiled look of disgust or a reactionary jab of your own. You weren’t keen on fulfilling any wish of his, but at this point, you felt you had no other choice. When you sensed he was distracted by the newly-discovered heat between your legs and had loosened his grip on your wrists, you flipped yourself over on the bed. Shoved at his chest before he knew what to do with himself.

Of course, the push didn’t send him far, but it was enough to get his attention—and his hands off of you.

“I’m not having your babies, Barnes! I am never going to fuck you, no matter how long we stay fake married,” you spat.

At that, Bucky just raised his eyebrows and wet his lips. You were cramming your wedding dress back into place, glaring at him the whole time, and were scarcely more aware of the bright, teeming city outside the window than you were of your husband’s own growing erection.

Finally, you’d said it. His new wife wouldn’t fuck him. The sound of your resistance was almost a pleasure unto itself, and the longer you stared at Bucky with growing contempt and resolve not to do that thing, the more determined he became to make it happen.

Cat-and-mouse games had long been a staple in his life, and he was pleased to see them carry into his marriage as well. Surely if he’d triumphed in every pursuit for the last twenty years—facing the likes of some seriously execrable bandits and racketeers—he could take on a bratty woman less than half his size. You said you didn’t want his babies now, but just wait until he’d fucked you full of his cum once or twice. You’d be begging him for it in no time at all, and shortly thereafter, he’d have you barefoot and pregnant as many times as he liked. Always swollen with one of his children and whining for more.

The woman before him now had a murderous glint in her eyes, but he could fuck that away easy. In fact, he would live to do it. He traced the outline of your thigh over your dress and smiled when you tried not to recoil.

“Surely you didn’t think we’d be finger-painting and reading poetry to each other on our wedding night, hm?” he asked, almost delicately.

“Thought you might have one of your other women lined up,” you snorted. When you tried to move away, Bucky pinched your leg to make you stay. You winced.

“That’s not funny,” he said, a little more consternation in his tone. Like he actually cared whether you thought him a profligate Lothario or not, “Now that we’re married, it’s only you and me. No mistresses, nothing.”

Yeah, and he was just as likely arriving to your marital bed a blushing virgin. You rolled onto your side and pretended not to feel him tighten his grip as you did.

“Try the carnal part of our marriage yourself and I’m sure you’ll find I’m an exceptional fuck,” Bucky continued, speaking low as he stroked the chiffon of your dress.

You didn’t doubt the man was good—certainly the extent of his sexual escapades as a twenty-something seemed to demand it—but exceptional? No fucking way. You knew men like Bucky, with the world and every walking pair of tits at their fingertips, and almost all were incurably selfish. Cocky. The kind to jackhammer a woman for three consecutive minutes, roll over, and say, ‘Did you cum?’

No, there was not a snowball’s chance in hell your husband’s sexual prowess was even half as good as he claimed it was. Deciding to bite your tongue for the first time that night, though, you just stared at him blankly.

What you didn’t know was that your silence only stoked the flames of his ego, prompting him to press the matter further.

“What? You think I can’t fuck?” he said, “Any woman lucky enough to bed me has cum at least twice. Every time.”

Sure they did, Bucky, you wanted to say, but were suddenly drawn into his lap before you could speak.

“But let’s pretend I can’t,” he said, heedless of the face you made as soon as you were straddling his hips, “You wouldn’t let your husband prove himself tonight?”

“I don’t fuck strangers.”

Bucky smiled at that.

“Everyone’s a stranger until you get to blow them, honey,” he teased, squeezing your hips when you didn’t seem amused at all. Then you let out a cry, feeling yourself thrown back on the mattress like a rag doll while Bucky moved off.

Before you knew it, he was tugging your ankles down the length of the bed and widening his stance just a bit. He stopped pulling once your knees were grazing his black dress pants and your feet were dangling off of the bed.

“You like skylines?” he asked.

You frowned and raised a brow that he was quick to interpret as a ‘yes.’ He hauled you onto your feet.

“‘Course you do. All pretty girls like pretty skies,” he rattled on, strolling with you step-by-step to the set of French doors at the end of the room.

Bucky led you out to the balcony. The air was warm as it ever was, dull gusts of the evening wind curling up from the coastline below. Just as your husband had promised, the skyline of Santorini greeted you on either side, and you had to admit, it was more than just pretty. The views from your villa were absolutely breathtaking.

You stood with your back to Bucky, hands resting on the marble balustrade, and you felt him there, behind you. You didn’t bother to tilt your head when he drew even closer.

“What do you like most about it?” The question was simple enough, punctuated with a kiss on your shoulder. Your eyes scanned the horizon, the sea, even the quiet little streets down beneath, and you racked your brain trying to think of an answer that might satisfy him.

Before you could, though, you sucked in a breath when you felt your dress start to come undone at your back.

Bucky was unzipping your gown, gentle as ever, and probably grinning from ear to ear as he watched you shift uncomfortably in place and try to hold the material above your breasts where it had been fastened all day. Presently, you kicked your heel backward and hoped it would land somewhere near his balls. You missed.

“James,” you hissed.

Bucky groaned at the sheer intonation of his name on your lips.

“Yes, dear?”

“Why are you undressing me?”

Bucky had successfully dragged the zipper all the way down to your ass, and it seemed he was trying to shimmy the dress off your frame. You held on tight.

“I’d like to fuck my bride over the balcony railing, if that’s alright with you,” he answered truthfully.

The man was nothing if not blunt and crass. You turned around to give him a look, yanking your gown even closer to your chest.

“I’ll— I’ll tell my mother, Barnes.”

You felt stupid as soon as you’d said it—using your go-to threat whenever you were in distress. What were you, eleven?

“Your mother?” Bucky repeated, words steeped in derision, “Last I recall, mommy dearest was practically begging me to get you pregnant at the reception.”

Your jaw clenched, and you internally cursed your whole family. Your parents were supposed to be on your side throughout all of this—it was bad enough they’d pawned you off to a mob boss of unrivaled infamy all to settle a debt, but this? Your mother had assured you just the day before that Mr. Barnes was bound to tire of you within the year. No mention of sex or babies whatsoever.

The same mother who had beat you over the head with the notion of your own virginity since you were old enough to read, the one who had underscored just how important it was to wait for the right man to give yourself body, mind, and soul to, turning around and telling this filthy criminal to have you any way he liked. And knock you up? The fucking nerve of that woman.

You were so preoccupied with thoughts of your own backstabbing family that you hardly felt Bucky drag your dress the rest of the way down your body. It was only when you were completely bare before him, and your husband had just started to skim his lips over your tummy that you tensed with surprise.

“I don’t have to fuck you just yet, doll,” he murmured, having sunk to his knees and only moving lower. Then the corners of his lips twitched, “Least not with my dick.”

You tried to pry his head from between your legs before he could stretch his tongue so much as an inch.

“James!”

Again with that name.

“You know, I love when you call me that, Mrs. Barnes.”

Bucky was peering up at you now, soaking in the sight of your body in a white lace bra, panties, and stockings.

“Is my bride feeling shy?” he teased, gently nipping at your inner thighs.

You weren’t sure what you were feeling in that moment, to be honest. Revulsion, betrayal, arousal, you name it—each crowned with an all-encompassing hatred for the man currently occupying the space between your legs—while a still stronger desire almost hoped he would stay.

“You can hate your husband all you want and still let him tonguefuck you,” Bucky growled against your skin.

Like he’d read your mind.

In reality, your husband hardly needed the powers of telepathy to tell him just how turned on you were; the sopping wet spot in your panties said as much. From his vantage point, Bucky saw the disgust in your eyes slowly eclipsed by lust, and with a single flick of his tongue, he knew he would have you exactly where he wanted you.

“Just let it happen, honey.”

He felt your fingers thread tight through his hair and the first stir of your hips in tandem. One small, delectable whimper crossed your lips, and it took everything in Bucky not to tear your panties straight off with his teeth.

Instead, the man opted for a soft, gentle lick over your clothed slit. Testing the waters.

Your whimper was quick to meld to a moan, and then, just as fast:

“N-no, Bucky.”

To your dismay, his tongue didn’t retreat, only making firmer laps against your centre while his lips grazed the lace. He gripped your thighs and wedged himself deeper, and again, you cursed the paper thin fabric of your panties for letting you feel everything his mouth was doing. He hadn’t even made proper contact with your cunt, and your knees were already starting to shake.

He pressed a kiss above your clit through the flimsy material, and you almost tore a clump of hair from his head.

“No. Please.” You hardly made sense to yourself; it was clear you wanted his touch, but something inside you wasn’t quite ready to submit to the idea that this was all okay. That your husband’s tongue and lips might be meant for something like this, and you didn’t have to feel so guilty for wanting it either. Fucking purity culture.

“My pretty girl,” Bucky presently murmured above the fabric, words sending a dozen little shockwaves in their wake, “My beautiful fucking wife.”

The man inhaled your scent and could’ve sworn he was in ecstasy. Blinded by desire as he was, he really wasn’t bullshitting in the slightest when he gathered you to him and said you were the best; he’d genuinely grown transfixed by the feel of you, in spite of every fibre of his being telling him not to. The marriage was arranged, fake, and fueled by hatred—and somehow, Bucky couldn’t get enough.

Nor could he wait any longer. One light swipe of his finger tugged your panties aside, and then he was latching on, no cover this time, to take your clit between his lips. Sucking hard, going fast, needing it bad.

A moan rang loud in his ears, and your hand on his head was instantly joined by the other. You yanked his hair like you never had before, pulling so tight at the roots as though your pleasure depended on it. Bucky smiled around the soft pearl in his mouth and flicked it gently with the tip of his tongue.

“Feel good, baby?” he breathed.

His head tilted up to you, and he could see you were struggling just to breathe, face painted with a medley of emotions.

You didn’t know if you could, or should, be feeling this good from a man so evil. Bucky flattened his tongue and licked a long stripe up your pussy to ensure that you would. Then he posed the question again, smirking.

“You like my tongue on this wet, needy cunt?”

His words were so damn obscene, but you nodded anyway. Feeling small and powerless beneath those big, broad hands as they pinned you back on the marble and spread you even wider for the taking.

He loved how innocent and lewd you looked at once, wincing with pleasure and still trying to keep your composure like you thought a good girl should.

Bucky wanted to break that resolve. He brought one hand closer to your entrance.

And, just as your breaths were starting to hitch and grow more ragged in your chest, he pushed two fingers inside. The act surprised your husband almost as much as it did you—not quite, but almost—upon feeling how tight you were, how resistant to even two digits you seemed to be. He hardly knew whether to shove them deeper or pull them out, so fast did your muscles contract around him.

When you whined a loud, protracted, ‘FUCK!’ he figured he would stick with the former. He grinned, having never heard you speak, much less swear, out of pleasure like this.

Your head lolled back and your body made an arch when his fingers curled inside you. You were panting, moaning, coating his hand with your juices, and Bucky knew you were close.

He started pumping his fingers in and out while his tongue worked your clit, chin practically doused in your arousal by now. A swell of pride rose within him: he could finally bring you home to that sweet release, have you a shaking, soaking mess above his face like you were wholly his and no one else’s. He moved his tongue even faster and sank his fingers straight down to the knuckle.

Then, unexpectedly, both were robbed of your touch.

Seized with fear, you shoved Bucky off and stumbled away from his glistening face. You took off toward the doors and fled the balcony before you could think.

“What the f— honey? Honey?!” Bucky sputtered. He bounded after you.

You’d thrown yourself in the master bathroom and locked the door behind you in the blink of an eye. Outside, your husband had only to stare in pure bewilderment and awe, mind reeling at what had just happened.

Fucking hell, he knows. He knows! You collapsed against the door and slid down a couple inches. Your hand reflexively flew to your mouth to stifle the sounds when Bucky began pounding the wood behind you.

“Baby, what’s wrong? What’s—what’s goin’ on?”

In truth, you’d rather chug bleach than divulge the thought that had just scared the everliving fuck out of you back there. It was stupid and senseless and should’ve been frightening you for weeks before it ever came to this, but here you were, panicked in the bathroom of your honeymoon suite because you’d never done this before—and you’d never reached climax in your life without bursting into tears.

Fuck, you felt stupid. How could you think this would be any different—or that Bucky’s tongue wouldn’t eventually attempt to wrest an orgasm out of you?

It’d just felt so good, you thought maybe a new climax brought by someone else’s fingers might free you from the same unsavory demise you’d met a hundred times before, but then it hit you, shortly after Bucky had plunged his fingers inside, you were going to cry.

You winced when Bucky’s knocks grew louder, his voice gaining more ire by the second, it seemed.

“Open the fucking door!”

He’d rake you over the coals for this. Getting so close to what he wanted, only to have his silly little bride snatch it all away and run hiding in the en-suite bathroom? Your stomach turned at the thought of what men in the mob were liable to do with women like you—what Bucky might conceivably do now that you’d sparked his rage.

Your eyes darted to the window just as his fist shook the doorframe behind you. You ran over to the tub, tucked squarely beneath the windowsill, and climbed onto it just to get a hold of the fastenings around the glass.

One click synchronized with the furious cadence being hammered on the door, and just as you started to slide the pane up the way, a heavy thud sounded outside. The weight of your husband’s body being thrust against the door, most likely.

You bit your lip and lifted one leg over the windowsill, shuffling your body even closer to the outside world.

Three floors up! Have you lost your mind? You could hear your father’s words ringing in your skull already. There was a ledge, you reasoned, no more than ten feet below, if you could just grab hold of the frame right there and slide down the cool stone you might—

“Fuck,” Bucky groaned.

You watched your husband heave through the busted door of the bathroom, wide eyes and a ‘Here’s Johnny’ flourish raging hot on his face. Your heart leapt to your throat, and you started to lower yourself out of the window, hoping desperately for that ledge below to be sturdy. But before you could make it even half of the way there, strong arms were circling your frame and yanking you back inside, hurtling straight into the bathtub with Bucky tumbling over you.

“What are you doing?!” he roared.

You wriggled under his weight, petrified of the fiery look in his eyes as he lurched over your frame.

He straightened up just enough to shake you by the shoulders—like a parent reprimanding a child.

“What the fuck was that?! Huh? You think that’s fucking funny, jumping out windows?”

No, no, not funny, you wanted to bite back, but found your mouth dry and unable to speak. When Bucky shook you again, you had only to whimper a pathetic sound.

The man was enraged. Stubble still damp with your juices and looking undeniably frazzled and spent, he drew closer to your face and demanded you look at him. When he took hold of your cheeks in both hands, the command couldn’t have reached you any more clearly.

“What— what was that for?” his voice lowered as he tried to catch his breath. You still couldn’t move.

“I-I don’t—” you stopped and hardly knew how to say it:

Sorry to cut our tonguefucking session short, I was just afraid I might burst into a fit of uncontrollable tears while you licked and sucked me through the best orgasm of my life. I’d rather jump off, or out of, a building than tell my mob boss husband that I can’t cum without crying. By the way, I’m a virgin!

Instead, you just blinked and stared back at him.

“Can’t…do it,” you murmured.

Bucky’s expression only grew more puzzled by the words out of your mouth. He squeezed your face tighter and leaned in even closer.

“Do what? Sex? Fuck, I— I didn’t mean to be that aggressive, hell, I’m sorry.” He stopped to run a hand through his hair, and for the first time, you could’ve sworn you saw the first glint of compunction in his eyes.

He looked away a few seconds, as if collecting what fragmented thoughts he could, then brought his head back down to your level and took your hands in his.

“Honey?” he tried getting your attention, just barely above a whisper now, “I know the whole thing’s fucked, I know.”

That was the understatement of the century. To your surprise, Bucky’s gaze softened when he saw a scowl cross your face.

“We don’t…have to do anything. I was just pushing your buttons earlier. Being a dick.”

His tongue moved to wet his lips once more, this time without the seductive, smug demeanor he usually wore and simply exhibiting discomfort. He swallowed. The bow tie around his neck appeared to him to be fastened far too tight all of a sudden, and then, haphazardly, he started clawing at the garment to get it off.

You didn’t know why you felt compelled to help. It was like all ten fingers just lifted of their own accord to join Bucky’s hands in trying to undo his tie.

The silk fabric wasn’t tied, but knotted, crudely and inflexibly, beneath the little black bow. You frowned. Still unable to meet his gaze as you worked your fingers under the tangled material and tried to pretend like the two of you weren’t still sweating profusely from the events that had just transpired—both the tonguefucking and the window-jumping.

“Who tied this, a five-year-old?” you muttered.

“I’m thirty-eight, thanks,” Bucky returned just as quietly.

Both of you indulged in a smile that lasted no longer than a second, but you felt the tension ease a little.

This was not where you thought your dreaded wedding night was headed before. Curled up in a bathtub with your hands around your husband’s neck—and not actually trying to kill him—while Bucky blinked almost nervously the longer your hands lingered on his collar. It seemed he’d found something especially tantalizing on the wall behind your head, because his stare remained fixed on that spot the whole time you fiddled with his tie.

Maybe that, along with the last ebb of alcoholic influence from the reception still coursing through your veins, had emboldened you to come right out and say it while Bucky was looking away. You couldn’t be sure.

“I’ve never had sex before.”

At last, the tie loosened a little.

Bucky flicked his gaze back to yours in a second.

“What?”

You lifted a brow, wondering if he really needed an explanation as to what it meant to have never gotten laid before, but you decided against indulging him any further. Bucky seemed keen on doing that all by himself.

“You’re a virgin?”

You nodded.

“Didn’t my overbearing mother make sure you knew?”

“Yeah, I thought she was full of shit,” Bucky answered bluntly. Then, catching sight of the semi-offended look in your eye, mixed with a tad more amusement than indignation, he added, “I mean— I didn’t think you’d, uh, wanna wait…twenty-five years for some action.”

He winced when he realized that sounded just as bad. His throat cleared shortly to make way for a new attempt at comity, but you cut him off, shaking your head as you finally got the knot to untangle.

“No, I get it. I don’t know why I waited this long either,” you shrugged.

As soon as you’d freed him from his bow tie, you started to stand from the bath tub. Bucky, too, straightened to his full height and started to close the window while you walked back to the bedroom.

You eyed the rose petals strewn across the duvet and felt a little more relaxed this time around. The weight of the V-word had been lifted from your shoulders, and now you had only to share the crying-while-cumming stuff to Bucky later on. Much later on, you hoped.

You crawled onto the bed and stretched out on your belly, playing with the soft red petals and wondering if room service was still offered at this hour.

Bucky had just stepped out of the bathroom when he halted at the threshold. Saw your body sprawled out on the bed, back arched and ass pointed in the air as you reached over for the phone on the nightstand. He stared for a second too long and felt a familiar stir in his pants.

Sonovabitch, he started to think, before chiding himself silently, Shut up, man, she’s a virgin. Be cool. Be cool—don’t make her jump out a window again.

He ducked back in the bathroom and eased the door to just a crack while you discovered a voice on the line:

“Hi! Hey, I’d like to order room service to, uh…” your voice trailed off. Then, covering the mouthpiece, “James, what’s our room number?”

Inside the bathroom, Bucky squeezed his eyes shut at the sound of his name. Already palming his erection through his dress pants as he leaned against the wall.

“We rented the whole building, dear,” he called back.

“Oh.” He could just imagine the slight pout on your lips as you spoke. Then you asked if he wanted anything to eat, Bucky thought only of the sweet nectar between your legs, and he answered aloud, no, he was fine, really.

For the first time in his life, the man felt positively ashamed he was about to rub one out in a bathroom, alone. It wasn’t like this was the first it had ever been done, but now there was you, innocent and oblivious in the next room over, while Bucky undid his belt and quietly freed his cock from his dress pants. It felt kind of perverted, in a way, but he knew he needed this release to put his mind at ease and not feel so affected by you.

While you scanned your phone for a menu and chatted with the concierge downstairs about various food items, Bucky was spitting in his hand and fumbling for his shaft. You talked American Wagyu sirloin, lobster thermidor, and seared Faroe Island salmon while he thought achingly about the way your cunt had tasted and how badly he wanted to try it again.

How did he feel about an artisan cheese platter? Bucky hardly had the wits about himself to answer beyond a strangled, ‘Whatever you want, honey’ and a tightened fist around his cock, stroking hard to get the filthy thoughts out of his head before the food arrived.

Ever sweet, soft, supple, and savory—his mind reeled with fresh memories of that place between your thighs, and he almost lurched forward in pleasure.

Your brute of a mob boss husband was irreparably pussy-whipped and hadn’t even fucked you yet. He gripped the bathroom sink beside him and sincerely wished it wasn’t his hand doing the work right now. But of course, he had to be patient, had to be kind—couldn’t force himself on a woman who clearly wasn’t ready.

Again, he spit in his palm and jerked himself fast.

Any minute now, he thought with some relief.

Your feet padded softly into the living room as the pleasure inside him was starting to crest. Still pining for your warmth and the way your legs trembled around his head, Bucky was all but fucking his hand at this point. He’d snagged his bottom lip between his teeth in a lopsided smile and groaned, too low to be heard, and pumped himself even faster for his impending orgasm.

A thought crossed your mind as you stopped ahead of the sofa. You pivoted.

Suddenly, you were skipping back to the bathroom, wanting to know Bucky’s wine preferences before you placed another order.

You barged in and froze.

“Sorry!” you squeaked, darting out just as fast.

Five seconds slower and you probably would’ve seen Bucky blow his load all over the sink. As it was, the man was left sorely at a loss for any form of release and heaving fast, ragged breaths from the colossal scare you’d just given him.

Good fucking going, Buck—your wife wants to cuddle and eat cheese and you’re out here beating your meat.

Bucky shoved himself back in his pants and waited an excruciating minute for the sound of your second window exit of the night. A slammed door, a frantic phone call, a few sobs into your pillow as you realized how dirty and depraved your husband was, anything.

He was only met with silence.

Taking one more shaky breath, Bucky reached for the doorknob and started back out. Cautiously.

The man took his slow, silent leave of the bathroom with his gaze trained toward the doors—half-expecting to see his bride rappelling from the balcony—but then quickly shifted to the bed. Finding you kneeling at the edge.

“James?”

Your voice almost pained.

A word was all it took. Bucky was back on his knees.

“I’m sorry. I just wanted it to go away, honey. I’m sorry.”

Go away? You quirked a brow and couldn’t hold his gaze much longer; just trailed your vision down his torso to his pants, then his erection, still standing prominent as ever.

Bucky struggled to decide whether you were ticked off or intrigued, seeing your eyes make their painful appraisal of his length beneath his pants. Your brow was pinched, but your head was cocked. Almost curious.

“Are you mad at me?” you asked, gaze fixed on the spot.

Immediately, Bucky rose to his feet and crawled back on the bed, seizing your body with both of his hands.

“No! No, not mad at all,” he mumbled as he sidled up beside you. Pleased to see you hadn’t recoiled, “I was just, uh…missing you, ‘s’all.”

If his men could see him now, Bucky was sure he’d be the laughing stock of all the town. Doting and kind, eyes softened beyond recognition, he just watched you and wanted nothing more than to repair the smile that had ebbed from your face. Come ridicule, hell, or high water, the man was infatuated with his bride—all broken plates and attempted window escapes be damned.

Presently, you brought your hand down to his bulge.

Bucky stiffened but didn’t speak. He wanted you to do this on your own, of your own volition.

“You seem kinda mad to me.” You hardly knew what you were doing. Just rubbing his length and hoping it was something he’d like.

Where Bucky had wanted to see you smile, you just wanted to hear him grunt and whine—maybe grab your hips and beg you to do something, please. You’d never felt any such degree of control, and you suspected Bucky had never not felt it himself. You wanted him desperate.

You were playing a dangerous game, you knew it, but something inside those baby blues said he wanted to do it, too. Do anything for you, quite frankly.

You watched the rise and fall of Bucky’s broad chest and stroked his length even softer.

“James.”

“Uh-huh?” His mouth hung open with a gentle grunt, fighting every instinct to buck into your touch.

At last, you squeezed his shaft and prodded him on. Let your head drift closer to his so his lips would graze the apple of your cheek, and just when you sensed he wanted a taste, you tilted your face toward his own,

“We haven’t even kissed since the ceremony.”

Bucky stared blankly at you, enrapt with the pulse of your fingers. You could tell he was aching to move.

“Oh yeah?” he murmured.

You nodded a wordless affirmation and slid sharply back in bed as Bucky lunged after you. Your hands flew from his pants to the plush mattress behind you as you shifted—or, rather, scrambled—back in place and felt your husband climb over you hungrily.

“That what my wife wants?” he murmured, frame slotting tight between your legs.

You nodded again, and had only to suck in a breath before Bucky was devouring your lips. The kind of flushed, frantic, filthy kiss that would’ve doubtlessly wrought looks of horror on every face at your wedding had he grabbed you that way after the declarations of ‘I do’ had been spoken.

You loved him like this, impassioned and a bit unhinged.

His tongue worked his way past your lips and scoured every soft, fleshy inch between the insides of your cheeks before he took your face in his hands, kissing you roughly.

Something hard and throbbing nudged your sex, and suddenly you were whining in his mouth. Wrapping your legs around his waist.

“Ah, honey, don’t,” Bucky groaned, visibly straining to contain himself. When you dug your heels even deeper in his back, the groan that followed from him was hoarse and guttural.

“I thought— I…fuck,” your husband turned his head to curse as you grinded your hips up to his. You had to bite back a smile.

“I just wanna do what married people do,” you murmured coyly, pretending not to see when Bucky shot you the most red-hot, wanton look he’d imparted all evening.

“Yeah?” Like a kid in a candy shop the size of Sears.

Bucky took your face in his hands once more and made sure to scan your expression for any shred of doubt. On finding nothing there, he sat panting, half-disbelieving and half-contemplating all the wretched things he wanted to do to you. You squeezed his sides with your thighs and just hoped your husband knew what to do, because, in truth, you didn’t have the first fucking idea.

A few dry, clinical terms flashed before your mind’s eye, along with your mother’s bleak depiction of what treatment lay in store for a woman on her wedding night, and as Bucky started to work his belt and his pants off, you just hoped he wouldn’t be cruel.

He couldn’t be, right? He’d only mowed down a hundred men and dismembered dozens more, you were told, but surely a set of eyes this soft, caring, and kind couldn’t belong to a monster. You let him lift your hips and shimmy your panties, garter belt, and stockings down your legs, and when he returned, you tried your best not to betray the thoughts in your head.

Bucky hadn’t been with a virgin for as long as he could remember—maybe ever. His own ‘deflowering’ an ancient relic of his boyhood and the multitude of partners since then a mere flurry of nameless faces, he sincerely couldn’t recall a time when he’d asked, or cared, whether the woman beneath him had her cherry intact. He didn’t suppose it could be too different, as he peeled the last pieces of your lingerie set off your body and saw you seemed perfectly ready. He ran a finger between your folds and felt you shiver with what looked like excitement. Piece of cake, he thought, smiling.

No doubt he would take great joy in making you his own. His bride, his wife, an unblemished beacon of light in a life as sordid as his, looked perfect spread before him. You would adjust to his size. Bucky trailed the head of his cock up your slit and coated himself in your juices, and just when he’d bracketed his other arm around your head on the pillow, you let out a small sound.

“Are you sure it’ll fit?”

Bucky fisted his length and pressed the tip to your entrance.

“Uh…yeah. Yeah, I think so.”

He hadn’t yet met a woman who wasn’t able to fit him.

“Okay.”

Somehow, your voice sounded even smaller, head lodged between pillows and the crook of Bucky’s elbow. You felt small. Frankly, it didn’t seem like your husband was quite computing the worries that were pervading your brain, but you decided he knew best—your mother had assured you that husbands always did—and when Bucky first pressed the head of himself to the seam of your cunt, you hardly even whimpered.

You watched his brow furrow above you. He tried to go further.

Your folds were as soaked as he’d ever seen a woman’s, your hole practically pulsing with desire, and somehow, he couldn’t push in.

Bucky snagged his lip between his teeth and braced himself with the aid of the headboard, taking your hip in his other hand. A breath sounded on your lips the second he adjusted, and shortly thereafter, he felt your gaze on the same place he was watching: the spot where your bodies were trying to connect.

His features darkened at the prospect of failing, or even appearing incompetent to you in the slightest. He’d done this hundreds of times before, why wouldn’t it work?

When he felt your eyes trail back up his body and study his face—maybe wondering why her new groom hadn’t gotten around to thrusting into her yet, he thought—he felt a swell of panic and pushed.

Against his better judgment and the feel of your body, he muscled his way through and forced his cock inside. Bottoming out in a single, stabbing thrust.

You seized in pain but wanted to be a good wife for him.

Bucky, too, felt his hips stutter at the resistance your walls were giving him, but then remembered how he’d sworn to be a dutiful husband, and kept going.

Together, you stared anywhere but the other’s face and gritted your teeth for two entirely different reasons—you, in agony, and Bucky, in ecstasy, the latter hoping with everything in him that you liked this as much as him.

Bucky took a tender, if not slightly awkward, rhythm rutting against your body and stared steady at the headboard like he always did.

You were in pain and faced with nothing but his hulking chest, moving up and down, back and forth, over and over again like a goddamn seesaw from hell while it felt like your insides were presently being torn to shreds.

Who fucking enjoys this? you wanted to wail, but feigned a moan instead, raking your nails down Bucky’s back, Why isn’t he looking at me? Why isn’t he touching me?

Your walls involuntarily clenched around him, and he swallowed a moan.

Just think of baseball, beer, math, the Roman Empire, anything to keep from busting right now, Bucky told himself as he clenched his jaw and fought to maintain his pace. Your pussy just felt so. fucking. good.

Beneath him, you had tried and failed to fight back tears. The burn was just too much; the longer he thrusted, the more your walls contracted, and confusingly, stupidly, it seemed like he was using you. Your mother was right, most likely, that sex was just a means to an end for men like Bucky, and your husband didn’t care about your pleasure at all. You fought hard to keep the waterworks at bay, that one thing you hadn’t wanted Bucky to see, but eventually, the tears were flowing freely.

You stifled a sob that your husband mistook for a moan.

He fucked you even faster and felt a grin start to twitch at the corners of his lips when you made a sound that seemed consistent with pleasure.

“Feel so fucking tight,” Bucky grunted, about to lower his gaze to your face for the first time since he’d entered you, “So nice and tight and w—hey, hey, baby?”

He stilled inside as soon as he saw that you were crying. Took your face in his hands and almost couldn’t believe the sight of your tear-stained cheeks beneath him.

“What’s wrong? What happened?” he asked, scanning your face for any signs of harm.

You just shook your head and tried to brush him off.

“Keep going, I’m good.”

Bucky seemed angered at the suggestion. He brought your face closer to his and stared almost reproachfully down at you. Then he paused a beat and swiped one of your cheeks with the pad of his thumb.

“Am I hurting you?” he asked.

“N—”

“Don’t lie.”

You squirmed a bit and winced. That was answer enough for Bucky, and he slowly pulled out of you.

“Aw hell.”

The two of you glanced down to see a blooming red spot on the comforter. Bucky rubbed the blood in disbelief.

He’d gone too far. Again. Hurt something inside of you that couldn’t be fixed with a kiss. While you struggled to sit up among the pillows, Bucky was running a hand through his hair and cursing himself up and down.

“Why didn’t you say something?” he scowled.

“I didn’t wanna interrup—”

“If I’m making you bleed, you stop me, for fuck’s sake.”

“Well you seemed to be having a pretty good time!”

Bucky didn’t need to tell you in words what was painted on his face; he was pissed off and probably bound to slip off the bed any second, when your tears started welling up again. Then he eased off, remembering he was more mad at himself than anyone else, and slid closer to you. He tried pulling you into his chest, but you didn’t budge.

“C’mon,” you said, grabbing his wrist, “Let’s keep going.”

Bucky eyed you incredulously.

“Nuh-uh.”

“Uh-huh,” you insisted. He shot you a glare but didn’t protest when you guided his hand between your legs.

You were spread back open for him in no time. Still stinging like hell and ready for another go. Bucky almost couldn’t believe it.

“My headstrong wife.” He managed a smile before kissing the crown of your head, and kept right on kissing that spot no matter how far his fingers were traveling.

“You owe me two orgasms, remember, Mr. Barnes?”

It seemed Bucky’s boastful claims of late were in fact the furthest thing from his mind as he crawled back over your body. He pried your knees apart and left just enough room for his frame, taking his fingers to your folds and rubbing in light, gentle circles.

The bleeding had stopped. What little remained was long forgotten, and duly, the pain from recent memory was slowly but surely purged with every flick of his thumb. Bucky planted an arm next to your head and kept touching you there until your face relaxed completely.

When he chanced a finger inside, he was careful not to rub so much as plunge in quick, shallow motions, and at the first signs of pleasure, press light and tender kisses on your skin.

“If it hurts at all, you tell me.”

He sounded stern as he inserted another finger, but really, the man was all putty in your hands, wanting to please you and tease you in any way that he could.

When you told him faster, he sped up; you gripped his hair and said slow down, he did the same. He curled his digits in time with every whimper and moan you made and took care not to be too harsh on your sweet spot.

The only time he paused was when you looked up and asked him point-blank: could he fuck you sweet and gentle now?

Bucky paused. Swallowed.

The man would’ve screwed you six ways to Sunday if you asked him; that wasn’t the problem. The only traces of hesitation remained where your eyes said something different. Even as he shuffled between your legs at your behest, aligned his cock with your entrance, and felt a wave of desire wash over him, he pressed his forehead to yours and searched your glossy gaze once more.

“You sure about this, bunny?” he murmured.

Your heart melted at the name. You couldn’t deny you were frightened, and perhaps a bit worse for the wear after your last attempt, but his words were a comfort, his hand on your cheek a welcome gesture. When his thumb grazed your lips, you kissed it and nodded.

“Alright sweet girl,” Bucky said, tone laced with affection.

This time, before pressing the head of himself inside, Bucky caught your lips and kissed you softly. Rubbed himself up and down your slit—paying extra attention to your clit—and coated himself completely before trying to penetrate you again.

Your cheeks flushed, and you kissed him harder.

“P-please, Bucky, fuck me,” you murmured against his mouth, eliciting a small grunt from him.

“Yeah? You want your husband’s cock inside you, doll?” He kept the pretense of teasing, but really, he was just trying to make sure you wanted this as badly as he did. By the blissed out look on your face and the soft, ceaseless squelching noises produced by your arousal, he got the message pretty quickly.

He breached your folds with just the tip at first. You both felt your muscles contract. Instead of blindly pushing ahead like he had before, Bucky trained his gaze on your face and watched for any signs of discomfort.

“Everything okay, bunny?” he hummed as he brushed a few strands of hair from your face.

You were half in awe of how attentive he was, and doubly impressed by the stretch that followed—like a pinch, but nothing like the pain you’d felt before. You peered up at your husband and squeezed his shoulders.

“It— it doesn’t hurt this time,” you said, breathless.

Bucky could’ve caved at the sweet, innocent expression alone—like you were pleasantly surprised this hadn’t caused excruciating pain—and his lips moved down to pepper your cheeks with kisses again.

“Doll, I’m so sorry.”

The sounds and sighs of your pleasure beneath him, along with the words telling him it was okay, really, he hadn’t meant to do it, all made him feel even guiltier for having hurt you in the first place. It took him some time assailing your face with tiny, apologetic kisses before he even thought to feed you another inch.

When he finally plunged himself deeper, it wasn’t without your express permission; even then, Bucky feared he might split you in two.

The whole time he eased himself inside, he was moving his gaze between your face and the place between your two bodies—watching you open for him and take him inch by inch. He rubbed his thumb over your clit when you whimpered.

“Doing so good for me.”

“Stretching so nice for this cock.”

“My beautiful, beautiful wife.”

Every syllable of his praises flooded your head like honey. Feeling him stretch you out, fill you up, and rock you softly with his first shallow thrusts, all while talking you through it, had your mind ablaze and near-euphoric.

Pleasure practically searing your veins, you didn’t even hear yourself, or really mean to say it, as soon as you did.

“This doesn’t feel dirty at all.”

An epiphany to you and a puzzle to Bucky.

“What’s’at, honey?” He was still rutting his hips and slowly picking up speed. Your husband groaned when you clenched around him and pulled him even deeper—before you realized what you’d said.

Your cheeks flushed.

“I— I was always told sex made you dirty. This feels—” you stopped to swallow a moan when Bucky grazed a particularly sensitive spot inside you, “pretty nice.”

‘Pretty nice.’ Your husband couldn’t help the smile twitching at the corners of his lips as he leaned down to kiss you. He wrapped his big, muscly arms around you and pulled you closer to his chest.

“Makes you dirty?” Bucky said, disbelief evident in his tone before his smile broke into a grin, “Baby, you’re the cleanest, sweetest thing I’ve ever seen.”

He didn’t let you endeavor to protest, just buried his face in your neck and pressed teasing kisses all over the skin while he continued to pump in and out of you. He knew to keep hitting that spot, too.

You were drowning in whimpers and kisses when Bucky brought his lips to your ear.

“Doesn’t make you dirty at all,” he assured you, “Just makes you my wife.”

You clawed Bucky’s back when he sped up a little, and you felt the pleasure soar to even greater heights when he propped your legs above his shoulders—a brand new angle for him to bend you like a pretzel and fuck you good.

“You take this cock too nice to be dirty,” he gritted his teeth and continued to soothe you just how he knew you liked it, “Such a good little wife, sucking up every inch of me like you were made for it.”

Your lips parted in a soft ‘o,’ feeling him plunge the depths of your cunt like he never had before. Bucky slipped his thumb in your mouth while he held your face.

“That what you are, bunny? A good girl?”

You nodded your head and sucked his thumb, feeling yourself fucked dumb as you did. Bucky loved that blissed out look in your eyes.

“Good girl for daddy?” he cooed.

Your ankles trembled around his neck as soon as he said it. You nodded again, yes, you were, and felt a light coil start to form in your lower stomach as Bucky kept pounding you and pushing his thumb between your lips.

Then, with a pop, he plucked the digit from your mouth and brought it down to your clit. He started soft at first, but before long he was rubbing vicious circles on that little bundle of nerves, watching you come undone before his eyes and clench around him even tighter.

“B-Bucky,” you whined, fisting the sheets underneath you both as you squirmed.

“Mhmm?” Your husband pretended to be oblivious.

“I w— I’m gonna—” The words could scarcely leave your lips without finding themselves punctured with a whimper as soon as they were spoken. Bucky thrusted harder.

“Gonna what? Cum for daddy?” he grinned, “Make a mess all over this cock?”

Your moans of pleasure more than sufficed for an answer. You nodded and winced, felt your whole lower half seize with a warm and heady feeling, and before you knew it, Bucky’s thrusts were sending you spiraling over the edge, with a wave of bliss following shortly behind. Sounds of skin slapping skin hardly faltered, and Bucky kept rubbing and fucking you all throughout the waves of your high.

Tears sprung to your eyes, and you didn’t care. Your mind was alight with more bright, fervid feelings than you could count or comprehend, and your body washed over with pleasure.

You clung to Bucky and felt him keep fucking you, even as you shrieked against his skin.

“One more for me, honey.”

You didn’t think that was possible. You had just spilled all over him, squeezing his cock like a vice and screaming his name, and now he wanted it all over again? So soon?

Your fingernails sunk into his arms as he continued to rut into you, and you started to shake your head.

“C-Can’t Bucky, I can’t, I can’t,” you sobbed, tears still streaming down your cheeks.

“Sure you can.”

Your husband had his mouth at your ear again, panting as the pace of his thrusts grew faster. He tilted his body slightly forward so your legs were pushed even higher above you—damn near grazing either side of your head—and pounded you relentlessly.

His voice seemed so calm and assured as he spoke,

“Cum for daddy. Show me just how fucking good this cock makes you feel and cum again for me.”

With a command like that, how could you refuse?

You came a second time, hands seizing Bucky's forearms, and screams tearing through your chest as you rode your high impaled on his cock over and over again. The sights and sounds and repeated, pulsing spasms of your pussy on his shaft sent Bucky chasing his release not long after, and you felt a warmth spread inside you.

Your eyes were filled to the brim with tears, your cheeks practically drenched already. As you came down from your high, you started to blink.

But just as you lifted a hand to sop up the moisture, Bucky was leaning over you and into you with the brightest smile. Then he was kissing each wet, salty stain like it was the most natural thing in the world, sponging soft and gentle touches all over the spots your tears had overflown.

It seemed every nerve ending in your lower half was on the fritz, your body little more than mush underneath him, but somehow you managed to catch his mouth as he traversed the skin. You kissed him back, and Bucky drew you closer.

The two of you separated for a second, Bucky’s cock still resting comfortably inside you and his broad frame engulfing you in bed. He paused a beat. Seemed to consider something in his mind before speaking aloud.

“Honey,” he started, unsure of how he wanted to say this.

You peered up at him, curious. His seed had filled every contour and crevice of your aching walls and was just then starting to dribble out of you. Bucky seemed unfazed. He cupped both hands around your face.

“I love you.”

You blinked. No fucking way you were hearing those words.

“What?” You felt too awestruck to say anything else.

“I love you,” Bucky repeated. A smile was starting to tug at his lips, his thumb tracing your cheek while you stared at him in disbelief.

You would’ve liked to speak.

Would’ve loved to say those three little words right back.

In fact, you had just opened your mouth to tell him that, when a sound at the foot of the bed startled you both.

The warm glow of moonlight pouring in from the window panes was your only means to see it. But sight wasn’t worth much at all when a man appeared and pressed the barrel of a gun to Bucky’s temple, letting out a chuckle.

Another man, clad head-to-toe in polished black tactical gear approached from the far end of the room. Bucky gritted his teeth but remained motionless, hearing that man cock his firearm as well. You were surrounded on either side of the bed. Your blood ran cold.

“Sorry to interrupt the fun, Mr. Barnes,” the man on the left spoke so low and gruff he could scarcely be heard.

When Bucky started to stir, the man on the right raised his pistol as well. Curled his finger on the trigger.

“We haven’t even met your beautiful bride.” A set of cruel, glinting teeth turned in your direction. Suddenly, all eyes were trained on you—along with a third handgun, pointed at your head, as another man approached.

“Wedded bliss treating you well so far, Mrs. Barnes?”

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