madelyn

The jukebox in the corner was playing something sultry and slow when you felt the familiar weight of a presence settling onto the barstool beside you.

You didn't need to look.

You knew that heavy silence, that particular brand of stillness that only one person possessed.

“Didn't peg you for a whiskey drinker,” Toji's voice rumbled, low and rough like gravel wrapped in velvet.

You took a slow sip, letting the liquid burn down your throat before answering. “Didn't peg you for someone who notices what people drink.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you caught the slight curve of his mouth.

Not quite a smile.

Toji didnt do smiles.

“You've been avoiding me,” he said, flagging down the bartender with a lazy gesture.

“Have I?”

The lie sat bitter on your tongue, but you held it there anyway. Because the truth was worse. The truth was that you had been avoiding him—ever since that moment three months ago when you'd seen him across a crowded room and something in your chest had snapped into a new, terrifying alignment.

When did that happen?

When did the man you'd known for years, the one whose disgusting habits you'd tolerated, whose dry humor you'd learned to navigate, whose very existence had once been as unremarkable as furniture—when did he suddenly become this?

This magnetic pull in the shape of a man with broad shoulders and scarred hands and eyes that held secrets like pockets hold loose change.

The bartender appeared, and Toji ordered the same whiskey you were drinking. No hesitation. Like he wanted to taste exactly what you tasted.

“You've got that look,” he said, turning slightly on his stool.

The movement brought his knee close to yours. Not touching. But close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off him.

“What look?”

“The one where you're thinking too hard. Getting all tangled up in your own head.” His dark eyes swept over you, deliberate and slow. “Used to be able to read you easily. Now you're all closed off.”

You laughed, but it came out breathier than you intended.

“Maybe I've changed.”

“Maybe.”

He picked up his glass when it arrived, clinking it gently against yours. “Or maybe I just never bothered to look close enough before.”

The admission hit you somewhere low in your stomach. You downed the rest of your whiskey in one go, letting the burn ground you.

The bar had grown louder around you, but it felt muffled, distant.

Toji had turned fully toward you now, one arm resting on the sticky counter, the other holding his glass loosely between his fingers. He was wearing a dark shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, forearms on full display. You'd seen those arms a thousand times—seen them punch, seen them carry heavy loads, seen them draped lazily over furniture. But tonight, the veins that ran along his skin seemed to draw your eye like a map to somewhere dangerous.

“Your place or mine?” he asked.

The question was so casual, so complete in its directness, that you nearly choked on your own spit.

“What?”

Toji shrugged, a gesture that did nothing to hide the intensity in his gaze. “We've been dancing around this for months. I'm not a patient man.”

“And you think you know what ‘this’ is?”

He set his glass down, turning to face you fully.

The movement brought his knee between your thighs, pressing against the edge of your stool. Intentional. Everything Toji did was intentional.

“I know you've been watching me,” he said, voice dropping lower. “I know you've been finding excuses to touch me. I know that when you thought I wasn't looking, your eyes would go dark and hungry and confused all at once.”

Your throat went dry.

“I'm not confused,” you managed.

“No?” His hand came up, fingers brushing against your jaw with surprising gentleness. “Then tell me what you want.”

The jukebox switched tracks.

A sultry beat filled the air, and you felt the lyrics sink into your bones like honey.

You grabbed his wrist, not to push him away, but to hold him there. His thumb traced along your jawline, rough calluses catching on your skin.

“I want—”

The words stuck in your throat.

“Say it,” he urged, and there was something almost vulnerable in his voice. Almost. “I need to hear you say it.”

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you registered that this was insane.

This was Toji.

The man who left dirty dishes in the sink, who never remembered your birthday, who you'd threatened to kill at least a dozen times over the years. But the man looking at you now wasn't the same one who'd existed in the periphery of your life for so long. This man was looking at you like you were the only real thing in the room.

“I've known you for years and now suddenly I can't think straight around you.” The words tumbled out of you, half-laughing, half-desperate.

Something flickered in his eyes. Triumph, maybe. Or relief.

“About three months ago,” he said, and your heart stopped. “I noticed you at that party. You were wearing this black dress, laughing at something Satoru said. And I thought—”

He paused, jaw working. “I thought I was going to lose my damn mind.”

“You never said anything.”

“Neither did you.”

His hand slid from your jaw to the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair. The pull was gentle but firm, bringing your face closer to his.

“I'm saying something now,” he murmured against your lips.

The kiss wasn't soft. It was hungry, demanding, years of unspoken tension pouring into the space where your mouths met. His tongue slid against yours, tasting of whiskey and something darker. Your hands found his chest, gripping the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer.

When you broke apart, both breathing hard, he was looking at you with an expression you'd never seen on his face before.

“Your place,” he said, voice rough. “Mine's a mess.”

You laughed, breathless. “Typical.”

The walk to your apartment was a blur of stolen touches and heated glances. He kept his hand on the small of your back, possessive and grounding. Every few steps, he'd lean down to press kisses against your neck, your shoulder, the shell of your ear, murmuring things that made the heat pool low in your belly.

“What if someone sees?” You whispered as his teeth grazed your earlobe outside your building.

“Let them.”

The door clicked shut behind you, and then his hands were everywhere. He pressed you against the wood, body hard and warm against yours, mouth finding yours again. His hands roamed down your sides, gripping your hips, pulling you flush against him.

“Bedroom...” you gasped against his lips.

“Here first.”

His hands found the hem of your shirt, pulling it up and over your head. His eyes raked over you, dark and appreciative.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “You have no idea how long I've wanted to see you like this.”

“Show me.”

The words were barely out of your mouth before he was on you again, lifting you easily, your legs wrapping around his waist. He carried you to the living room, laying you down on the couch with surprising care before covering your body with his.

His mouth traced a path down your neck, teeth scraping against sensitive skin. You arched into him, fingers scrambling at the buttons of his shirt.

He laughed—a low, genuine sound that sent shivers down your spine.

“Eager?”

“Shut up.”

He batted your hands away, sitting up just long enough to tear the shirt over his head. The sight of him made your breath catch. Scarred, muscular, real. He was beautiful in a way that had nothing to do with perfection and everything to do with presence.

“See something you like?” he asked, a hint of smugness in his voice.

“Maybe.”

“Liar.” He leaned down, mouth hovering just above yours. “Your eyes are eating me alive.”

“Then stop talking and give me something to really look at.”

The smirk that crossed his face was dangerous. He made quick work of your jeans, pulling them down your legs along with your underwear. His fingers found your core, already slick, and he groaned.

“Mhm...”

“All this for me?”

“You're insufferable...”

“And you're dripping for me.” He slid a finger inside you, slow and deliberate. “Tell me to stop and I will.”

You grabbed his wrist, holding him there.

“Fuck... Don't you dare...”

He worked you open with practiced fingers, watching your face as you came undone beneath him. His thumb found your clit, circling lazily as he added a second finger.

“Toji... Ngh—please...”

“That's it,” he murmured. “Let me hear you.”

You bit your lip, trying to keep the sounds in. He pulled his fingers out, making you whimper at the loss.

“None of that.” His hand found your jaw, gentle but firm. “I want to hear every sound you make.”

“Then get on with it.”

His laugh was dark, approving. He stood, making quick work of his belt and pants. His cock sprung free, thick and hard, and your mouth went dry.

“Like what you see?”

“For someone who claims to be impatient, you sure do a lot of talking."

He lined himself up, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance. “Just savouring the view.”

And then he pushed in.

“Ohh—shit...”

The stretch was perfect—full, deep, exactly what you'd been craving without knowing it. He bottomed out, holding still, giving you time to adjust.

“Move...” you demanded.

“Bossy.”

But he obeyed, pulling out slowly before slamming back in. The rhythm he set was punishing, exactly what you needed. Your nails raked down his back, and he hissed, thrusting harder.

“Ahh! Mhm... Fuck...”

“That's it,” he growled. “Take it. Take all of it.”

The coil in your belly wound tighter with each thrust. He reached between your bodies, fingers finding your clit again, pressing in circles that matched his pace.

“Ohh—Toji... Ahh...”

“Cum for me,” he ordered. “Now, baby.”

The orgasm crashed through you, waves of pleasure that pulled a cry from your lips. He followed moments later, buried deep inside you, his own groan of release mixing with yours.

“Fuck, baby...”

You lay tangled together on the couch, breathing heavy, skin slick with sweat. His hand traced lazy patterns on your hip.

“So,” he said eventually. “About three months ago, huh?”

You laughed, burying your face in his chest. “Shut up.”

“I'm just saying.” His voice was lighter than you'd ever heard it. “If I'd known all it took was a red dress and some patience...”

“Toji.”

“Yeah?”

“When did you get so insufferable?”

He pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “About three months ago.”

You hit his chest, but you were smiling.

And when he pulled you closer, you went willingly, letting the warmth of his body and the steady beat of his heart lull you into something that felt terrifyingly like peace.

“How about you, hm? When did you get hot, princess?”

the car pulls up to his place—a rundown garage he calls a lab, where he tinkers with weapons and stores his gear. he kills the engine and reaches for the door handle, but you don't move. you're watching him. waiting.

"coming in?" he asks.

you unbuckle your seatbelt slowly. deliberately. you don't get out of the car.

instead, you climb.

the center console digs into your knee as you swing your leg over, settling into his lap with your back to the steering wheel. he raises an eyebrow, caught off guard for once. the hunter's instincts flicker, then settle into something darker when he sees the look in your eyes.

"oh," he says, voice dropping an octave. "so that's how it's gonna be."

you don't answer with words. you answer by reaching down, palming the growing bulge in his jeans. he's already half-hard—the bastard gets off on making you jealous, you know that now. the realization should make you angry. instead, it just makes you want to ruin him.

his breath catches when you work his belt open, metal clinking in the quiet of the car. the leather of the driver's seat creaks as he shifts, letting you work. you pull his cock out—thick, heavy, already smearing a bead of precum across his stomach. he hisses when your fingers wrap around the base.

"thought you were mad," he says, but there's no bite in it. his hand finds your hip, grips hard enough to bruise.

"i'm not doing this for you." you lean down, lips brushing against the tip. "i'm doing this so you remember who you come home to."

his laugh dies in his throat when you take him in your mouth.

you don't start slow. you're too wound up for that. your lips seal around the head, tongue swiping across the slit, tasting salt and want. he groans, deep and guttural, and his hand slides from your hip to the back of your head. he doesn't push. just rests it there, fingers threading through your hair as you sink lower.

he fills your mouth completely, stretching your jaw. you breathe through your nose, adjusting to the weight of him on your tongue, then pull back with a wet sound before taking him deeper. his hips twitch. that vein on the underside of his cock pulses against your tongue.

"fuck," he mutters, head falling back against the headrest. "you're trying to kill me."

good.

you set a rhythm—slow descents, hollow-cheeked pulls, your hand working the base in time with your mouth. precum slicks your lips, makes the slide easier. the car windows are fogging up, the world outside forgotten. there's only the wet sound of your mouth on his cock, his breathing getting rougher, his fingers tightening in your hair.

he's getting close. you can feel it in the way his thighs tense, the way his hips start to fuck up into your face with shallow, desperate thrusts. you double down, taking him all the way to the back of your throat, holding there until your eyes water.

"shit—" his voice cracks. "i'm gonna—"

you don't pull away.

he comes with a guttural groan, hand fisting your hair as his hips buck. hot pulses fill your mouth, thick and bitter, and you swallow around him, working him through every last spasm until he goes slack beneath you.

you pull off slowly, dragging your tongue along his length, tasting the last traces of him before wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.

he stares at you, chest heaving, dark hair plastered to his forehead. that lazy grin returns, softer now.

"damn," he breathes. "maybe i should make you jealous more often."

you slide back into your seat, buckling your belt with a satisfied smirk.

"get the info first. then we talk."

“Brat.”

Now that gave you pause.

You lay frozen in the dark, blinking wildly at the shadowed bulk on the couch opposite you, trembling hand still tucked into your slick panties. Maybe you’d imagined it, the gruff, familiar voice of your best friend curling out from the darkness.

But Sukuna wasn’t stupid, it wouldn’t have taken a detective to figure out what you were doing. Not with all the frantic breathing and the half muffled moans barely caught by the damp fabric of your pillow.

“Sorry,” you swallowed a thick, dry breath before you continued, “just needed to… uh…”

The lump on the sofa across from you began to shift, and you realised as your eyes slowly adjusted that he was rising to his feet, slipping free from the sheets with a low groan and a few muted cracks.

You followed suit, pulling yourself to your elbows before a sharp and disappointed tut made you stop.

“Stay where you are,” came the short command, “don’t move.”

After a moment of pause, you acquiesced and settled back onto your belly, arms outstretched to clutch your pillow beneath your chin.

Sukuna approached without another word, a broad shadow eclipsing your vision until you felt the delicate thrum of fingers dancing along your lower back.

“Hips up.”

Your pulse raced, that familiar sticky heat licking up your neck at the sternness of his tone. When you complied, he shoved a pillow beneath your hipbones, forcing your spine into a severe arch.

“Good.”

Thick fingers hooked over your waistband, tugging your sleep shorts down with little effort. You shivered against the cool kiss of air for only a moment before you were blanketed by his body heat as he settled into place behind you. There was the barely audible shuffle of clothing in the still silence before you felt him - the grind of thick inches pressed against you, hard and raw.

“Deep breath,” he murmured, waiting to hear the shaky pull of air from your lips before he finally nudged inside.

He sunk in slowly, let you map each pulsing vein stretching your tight heat until you felt the delicate tickle of hair at his base, and your eyes rolled back.

“Oh… S’kuna…” you breathed, a whiny little exhale slurred where your cheek was pressed against the pillow.

He hit deep like this, so deep that with each breath you could feel him poking incessantly at what could have been your stomach for all you knew. It was stunning, enough to make your thighs tremble and a spineless little moan escape you.

He gave no reply, just slipped out a few dizzying inches before pressing back inside with a wet sucking slap. He set a steady pace, not rushed or particularly delicate - firm and intentional, just like everything he did.

“Don’t know why you insist on touching yourself like that,” he grunted, head craned so that you could feel the puff of his breath against your sweat-soaked nape with each accusatory syllable, “when you’ve got a perfectly good cock right here.”

As if to prove his point, his thrusts slowed - firm deep pumps pulled all the way out only to sink back inside with a force that pulled a broken little sound from your throat.

His voice was low and serious, still thick with sleep as he worked you open with the practised roll of his hips. The weight of his words sent a little tremor of need through you, and you heard him curse when you clenched around his length.

“Didn’t -hn-… want to wake you…” you panted, tongue slipping on the words as your brain gave in to the fuzzy haze of pleasure beginning to settle over you.

Each nudge earned a sticky slap, heavy balls smacking against your creamy cunt as he took you apart, fucked you into the couch in a mean prone bone.

“Don’t be stupid. It’s yours,” He grunted, hips pressed snug into a mean grind that had little blinking stars dancing in the blackness behind your eyes. “So use it, whenever you want.”

His bluntness, alongside the kiss of his cockhead against your cervix made you writhe desperately, tenfold when with the next rock of his hips you felt the slick sheen of the leather sofa graze your tender clit.

Your brain was foggy, swirling with obscene images of waltzing into his room whenever you pleased, tugging down his sweats and settling down onto his fat cock like you belonged there, using him like a toy who’s only purpose was to get you off.

“You… hn-… you mean it?” You sniffled, cheek smushed to the side just to throw a desperate glance over your shoulder.

“Fuck, of course I do,” he growled, breaths coming a little frantic now, “I’ve said it before haven’t I? My hands, my mouth, my fucking thigh if you want.”

Knuckles dug into the couch cushions either side of your head, and his lips grazed your throat, the shell of your ear, the delicate hair curling at the nape of your neck.

“So I don’t want to see you touching this needy little pussy again. No toys, no fingers, no humping the goddamn pillow, got it?”

You buried your face between your arms and nodded limply, sinking into the sheets, feeling less and less lucid with each targeted buck.

your thighs squeeze. your eyes are teary when you look in the mirror, face flushed, tits heaving. "i have nice breasts."

"mmh," toji slides a palm up your side. he lets his thumb brush against your aching nipple, before twisting and stretching the pebbled peak between his fingers. you arch into him on instinct. "so nice, dollface. and what else? look at this pussy in the mirror, baby. tell me all about it."

his thumb presses into your clit. but then he slides it away.

you moan, loud, slick dripping down your thighs. toji’s cock twitches against your ass, but clearly he’s got the self control of a god.

your lashes are tear rimmed. “i have—i have a pretty pussy!”

“so pretty,” he murmurs, tugging your clit before pressing his thumb against it, rubbing slow circles over the bud. “prettiest pussy i’ve ever fucking seen. so wet and noisy for me. tell me more, sweetheart.”

“my pussy is so tight,” you rasp, breathless and hips twitching as toji rubs his thumb against the sensitive bud. “hnngh—so tight and wet for you, toji.”

"yeah?" he murmurs against your ear. his cock nudges your slick folds, pulsing and throbbing at the entrance. "love this fucking pussy, you know that?"

you can only whimper in response.

"love how puffy it is," he continues, dragging his swollen cockhead up your slit, only to drag it down again. "love how it tries to swallow me. see that, baby? see how it slobbers all over my cock?” he pushes his swollen head in as your cunt flutters around him. “fucking perfect.”

“toji—“ you gasp, “please—“

“please what?” he growls, pushing his hips into you. his thick cock swells between your folds, pulsing and stretching your puffy cunt. “want me to play with this pussy, baby? fuck you so hard your tits bounce in the mirror?”

“mhm—“

“words, sweetheart.”

“want you to fuck me,” you gasp out, hips bucking back to chase his cockhead and push him deeper into your folds. “want you to play with my pussy and fuck me till i’m dripping—“

“fuck,” toji groans, slamming into you, hard. “thaaaat’s my fucking girl. see how easy it is to please me?”

mirror s*x, end.

"Maybe they were climbing a mountain."

His mother's lips twitched. "A mountain?"

"Or a castle."

"A castle is much more likely."

"I think so too." Dick nodded solemnly. A castle explained the scrape much better than simply falling over.

Castles had stone staircases and secret passageways. Castles had dragons and villains and daring escapes.

His soulmate was probably off on an adventure.

His mother finished securing the bandage before pressing a kiss to the top of his head.

"Your soulmate must be having quite the day."

The thought filled him with excitement.

For the rest of the afternoon, Dick imagined another child racing through hidden corridors, ducking beneath traps and escaping dragons by the skin of their teeth.

The possibility that they had simply tripped over their own feet never even crossed his mind.

←↓→↑

When he was seven, he spent two days complaining about a toothache.

The pain settled deep in his jaw, throbbing every time he tried to smile.

By the third day, it disappeared as suddenly as it had arrived.

His father explained that soulmate resonance sometimes worked that way.

That his soulmate had probably gone to the dentist.

Dick immediately sat upright. "What if they were scared?"

"I'm sure they were brave."

"What if nobody held their hand?"

John looked up from the costume he was repairing. "Dick."

"What?"

"They're not stranded on a deserted island."

"You don't know that."

His mother laughed so hard from the other side of the trailer that she nearly dropped her equipment.

Dick didn't see what was so funny.

His soulmate was out there somewhere.

They might be scared of dentists. Or hated needles.

The thoughts lingered with him long after the conversation ended.

Sometimes, late at night, Dick would stare at the ceiling and wonder if they ever thought about him too.

Whether they looked at the strange injuries that appeared on their skin and imagined a boy they'd never met.

He didn't know it then, but that question would follow him for years.

↑→↓←

Dick had developed a habit of asking questions nobody could answer.

What was their favourite colour?

Did they like animals?

Could they do cartwheels?

Did they live nearby?

Did they know about him?

Did they ever wonder the same things?

His parents always answered as though the questions mattered. With interest. As though his curiosity wasn't silly.

As though wondering about the person connected to him was the most natural thing in the world.

Maybe that was where it started.

Not the soulmate bond itself, the encouragement. The way nobody ever told him to stop asking. The quiet certainty with which his parents treated his soulmate's existence.

They never spoke about them as a possibility. They spoke about them as a certainty.

That somewhere in the world, there was a person who was completely his.

→←↓↑

At night, after the performances ended and the circus grounds settled into a comfortable hush, Mary often read to him before bed.

Dick's favourite stories weren't fairy tales.

They were stories about connected souls.

The old book lived beside the couch in their trailer, its spine cracked and softened with age. The pages had been turned so many times that the corners curled.

Inside were dosens of accounts collected from all over the world.

Stories about soulmates separated by oceans, soulmates born years apart, soulmates who searched for decades, or who stumbled into one another entirely by accident.

Dick never grew tired of hearing them.

He already knew most of the endings by heart. But that wasn't the point. The point was that every story promised the same thing.

No matter how long it took, how far apart they started, or how impossible it seemed, the soulmates always found each other.

Every single time.

The certainty of it settled somewhere deep inside him. A truth as unquestionable as gravity. As natural as the rising sun.

His soulmate was out there. And one day, they would be his.

By the time Mary finished reading, Dick would already be staring out the trailer window.

Wondering how they would meet. What they looked like. If they laughed loudly or quietly.

If they liked the circus.

Wondering if they were looking at the same stars scattered across the night sky. If they ever touched the marks that appeared on their skin and thought about him.

The thoughts comforted him.

No matter how large the world felt, where he went or how many cities the circus travelled through, there was always someone in it who belonged to him.

Someone he hadn't met yet.

A person he was already learning how to love.

↑→↓←

When he was eight, before the fall, he started keeping things.

Not intentionally at first.

A postcard from a city the circus had passed through. A photograph he liked. A joke that made him laugh. A story he thought someone else would enjoy.

Small things.

The kind of things most children forgot about by the following week.

Dick didn't.

Because whenever he found something special, he caught himself thinking the same thing.

I should tell my soulmate about this someday.

The thought came so naturally he never stopped to question it.

Why would he?

His soulmate was part of his future. Everyone said so.

Some days, he imagined finally meeting them and emptying years of collected memories into their hands.

Showing them every postcard.

Telling them every story.

Introducing them to every place he'd loved.

As though all the little pieces of his life were simply waiting for the right person to share them with.

As though he'd been saving a seat beside him all along.

Years later, after Gotham, after Robin, after everything that came afterward, Dick would still remember those moments.

The scrape on his knee.

The toothache.

The bedtime stories.

His parent's laughter.

The quiet certainty in their voices whenever they spoke about soulmates.

People often assumed his faith in destiny came from the bond itself.

They were wrong.

The bond only connected him to another person.

His parents were the ones who taught him to care. To wonder and to wait.

They were the ones who taught him that somewhere in the world there was a person meant for him.

Someone important who was worth searching for. Someone worth believing in.

Long before he knew anything about them at all.

He loved the idea of them first. Everything else came later.

Before he ever even had a reason to.

Most people loved talking about destiny.

Adults spoke about soulmates with the same certainty they reserved for death and taxes. Teachers smiled when the topic came up in class. Grandparents reminisced over holiday dinners. Entire television networks built reality shows around reunions.

It was impossible to escape.

Not that anyone seemed interested in trying.

Soulmates were proof that the universe cared. Proof that nobody was truly alone. That somewhere out there existed a person created specifically for you.

People loved that idea.

You hated it. Not the concept itself, just yours.

When you were younger, you'd thought soulmate injuries sounded romantic.

A sore wrist because they spent too long writing or a tiny burn from touching a hot pan.

The sort of stories people laughed about.

"My soulmate tripped over again."

"Mine wears his rings on too tight."

"I love when she bites her lip when she’s nervous."

Everyone always sounded so fond when they talked about it. As though every ache was a love letter. Like pain somehow became sweeter when it belonged to someone else.

Bonds manifested differently depending on the pair.

Some people shared emotions, some met each other in dreams. A small percentage could hear each other's thoughts during moments of intense stress. The most common bond, however, was physical resonance.

If your soulmate got hurt, so did you.

Not the injury itself, the consequences. A broken bone wouldn't suddenly appear in your arm, but the pain would. The ache, tenderness, and limitations.

If they twisted an ankle, you'd spend the next few weeks limping around on a perfectly healthy leg.

If they got a migraine, you got one too.

Most people only experienced minor inconveniences.

Nothing life-altering. Nothing that interfered with daily life. At least, not often.

You were not most people.

You stopped finding it romantic at twelve.

Because scraped knees and accidental burns were one thing. Waking up unable to feel your left arm was another.

The pain hit without warning. One second you were asleep, the next you were on your bedroom floor screaming.

Your parents rushed you to the hospital.

The doctors found nothing wrong.

No fracture. No dislocation. No nerve damage. Physically, your arm was perfectly healthy.

Unfortunately, your soulmate's wasn't. Apparently they'd shattered theirs.

Badly.

The pain lingered for nearly two months.

Everyone acted excited.

Your soulmate survived.

Isn't that wonderful?

You received congratulations.

Congratulations.

As though being unable to lift a backpack was somehow a milestone worth celebrating.

The years that followed only got worse.

Your soulmate got shot.

They got stabbed.

Sometimes they manage both within the same week.

You developed a concerning familiarity with painkillers. The nurses at your local urgent care knew you by name. One doctor suggested keeping a journal to track symptoms.

You filled three notebooks.

Looking back through them felt less like medical records and more like a crime scene timeline.

Gunshot wounds. Broken knuckles. Dislocated shoulder. Concussion. Concussion. Another concussion.

You had spent years trying to imagine what kind of person accumulated this many injuries.

At first you'd pictured an athlete.

Then a firefighter.

Maybe a soldier.

Eventually, you'd settled on a simpler explanation.

Your soulmate was an idiot.

At the time, it felt like the only reasonable explanation.

Years later, you would discover that the truth was significantly worse.

But for now, all you knew was that somewhere out there existed a complete stranger whose self-preservation instincts had apparently been beaten to death in an alley.

And for reasons you would never understand, the universe had decided that person belonged to you.

←↓→↑

The first time you missed a school excursion because your soulmate had managed to break something important, everyone treated it like an unfortunate coincidence.

The second time, they called it bad luck.

By the third, people had started joking that your soulmate had a personal grudge against your social life.

You laughed along because it was easier than admitting how much it bothered you.

Most people, hell, everyone romanticised soulmates.

Talked about fate and destiny and finding the missing piece of yourself.

Most soul pairs experienced a handful of major injuries throughout their lives.

Yours seemed determined to collect them.

You remembered when your soulmate somehow got stabbed before your final exams. The pain had hit so suddenly you nearly collapsed in the middle of class.

Your friends had thought you were having some kind of medical emergency.

In hindsight, they weren't entirely wrong.

You sat the exam anyway.

You failed it.

The examiner wasn't interested in hearing that somebody else's knife wound had ruined your concentration.

Life kept moving regardless.

Teachers didn't extend deadlines because your soulmate had been hospitalised.

Employers didn't care that you were limping because someone you'd never met had twisted their ankle chasing God-knows-what.

The world expected you to adapt,

So you did.

You learned how to function through headaches. How to smile through pain. How to swallow frustration before it became bitterness.

You learned exactly how many over-the-counter painkillers you could safely take.

You learned how to fake being fine.

But most importantly, you learned how to stop hoping.

Because every time you wondered if maybe things would get easier, your soulmate proved you wrong.

At first you'd worried about them.

What kind of life were they living? Were they sick? Were they trapped in dangerous circumstances? Did they need help?

That concern lasted until the fourth broken bone.

Then the sixth.

Then the first gunshot wound.

The shot had been a turning point. Because normal people did not get shot. Normal people definitely didn't get shot more than once.

You remembered lying awake in bed afterward, staring at the ceiling while pain radiated through your shoulder.

What the hell is wrong with this person?

The question never really went away.

As the years passed the injuries kept coming. Sometimes there would be weeks of peace.

Then suddenly your soulmate would decide to throw themselves off a building.

Or through a window.

Or into traffic.

At least that's what it felt like.

You didn't know who they were. Didn't know their name. Didn't know where they lived. But you knew they had absolutely no regard for their own safety. No fucking regard for your safety either.

And eventually, concern became irritation. Irritation became anger. Anger became resentment.

Not because of the pain. Not even because of the injuries. Because of what they stole from you.

Your freedom. Choices. The ability to plan a normal life. Every decision came with a silent question.

What if my soulmate gets hurt that day?

You missed birthdays. Missed opportunities. Cancelled plans. Skipped events.

Not because you wanted to.

Because experience had taught you that sooner or later another injury would arrive.

Meanwhile your soulmate remained a stranger. A ghost. A burden you carried without ever being asked if you wanted to.

It always did.

It made you angry.

Not the broken bones. Not the scars. Not even the countless nights spent curled around pain that didn't belong to you.

The fact that someone you'd never met had become one of the most important influences on your life.

Without your permission, your consent, and without ever even saying sorry.

Somewhere out there, your soulmate was choosing to live their life this way.

And every time they did, you paid the price.

You wondered if they ever thought about you. If they ever felt guilty.

If they even cared.

Or if, wherever they were, they simply got back up after every injury and ran headfirst into the next disaster.

Unaware that somewhere across the country, someone was beginning to hate them.

Dick found the post three weeks later.

If anyone asked, it had been an accident. A coincidence.

The sort of thing that happened when someone spent too much time scrolling through soulmate forums at two in the morning.

Nobody asked. That was probably for the best. Dick knew himself well enough to recognise a lie when he told one.

There had never been anything accidental about the way he searched for traces of his soulmate.

The post appeared halfway down a discussion thread titled:

What's the worst injury you've ever shared with your soulmate?

Most of the replies were harmless.

Broken wrists.

Appendectomies.

A woman whose soulmate had somehow fractured their nose trying to impress someone with a skateboard.

Dick smiled despite himself.

Then he kept scrolling.

The smile disappeared.

←↑→↓

I've had more concussions than some professional athletes.

At this point, I'm convinced my soulmate has a death wish.

If I ever meet them, my first question is going to be what the hell is wrong with them.

The post went into concerning details about their injuries dating from over ten years.

Dick stared at the screen.

Read the post again.

Then a third time.

The amusement slowly drained from his face.

Because the timeline matched. Not approximately. Not close enough to be concerning. Exactly.

The gun wounds, the stabbings, concussions, fractures. The endless collection of injuries that had become so commonplace to him he rarely thought about them anymore.

His stomach twisted.

For a long moment, he simply sat there. Laptop balanced on his knees. Apartment fading into the background.

The words blurred.

Not because he couldn't read them. Because he couldn't stop.

Every sentence felt heavier than the last. Not the complaints.

Those made sense.

God, they made sense.

What hurt was everything beneath them.

The frustration. The years of accumulated resentment packed into a handful of sentences.

Not anger born from a single bad day. The kind that settled in after years of disappointment.

His chest tightened.

He scrolled further.

The account wasn't anonymous. There was a username. Years of history.

Dick clicked on it before he could talk himself out of it.

The oldest post was five years old.

The next mentioned another concussion.

A missed birthday.

A cancelled trip.

A broken rib.

An emergency room visit.

Each entry felt like another weight settling onto his shoulders.

Dick had spent years accepting pain as part of his life.

Bruises, bones and cuts all healed.

It had never occurred to him that somebody else had been dragged through it alongside him.

A stranger.

Someone who had never agreed to any of it.

Someone who had spent years waking up with injuries they couldn't explain.

Dick closed the laptop.

Immediately opened it again.

His jaw tightened. He rubbed a hand over his face.

For twenty years, he'd wondered about his soulmate. Wondered who they were. What they were like. Whether they ever thought about him the way he’d always thought about them.

A quiet curiosity that surfaced in the spaces between missions and late-night patrols.

He'd imagined meeting them someday.

Not because soulmates guaranteed a happy ending. Life had taught him better than that.

But because they'd always been there.

Every broken bone. Every near miss. Every moment he'd walked away from something that should have killed him.

They'd felt it too.

Somewhere.

Somehow.

The idea of them had become a constant. A second shadow stretching alongside his own.

And now, for the first time, he was seeing things from the other side.

The reality of it. The cost.

His throat felt tight.

tBecausehey weren't waiting for him.

They weren't searching.

If anything, they sounded exhausted by the idea of him.

And for the first time, Dick found himself wondering whether meeting him would be the last thing they wanted.

The thought hurt far more than it should have.

Dick had managed to stay away from the profile for three days.

He told himself it was respect.

Privacy.

Common decency.

They had spent years dealing with consequences they never asked for, the least he could do was leave them alone.

Three days lasted longer than he expected.

Not nearly as long as he'd hoped.

On the fourth night, he opened the page again.

Just for a minute.

Just to look.

That was the excuse, anyway.

One minute became an hour. Then two. Then the rest of the night.

He read everything.

Posts. Comments. Replies buried in forgotten threads.

Tiny fragments of a life scattered across years of internet history.

Favorite movies, music recommendations, complaints about work.

A rant about a terrible landlord. An argument over whether pineapple belonged on pizza.

Meaningless details.

Except they weren't meaningless. Not to him.

Every new discovery felt strangely precious. Like hearing a voice through a wall after years of silence.

For the first time, his soulmate wasn't an abstract possibility.

They were becoming real.

And Dick found himself wanting more.

What did their laugh sound like? What expression did they make when they were annoyed? Did they drink coffee in the morning? Did they still sleep curled up on the same side of the bed they'd mentioned three years ago?

The questions multiplied faster than he could answer them.

By sunrise, he knew more about them than he'd ever thought possible.

By sunrise, he also knew that it wasn't enough.

↑→↓←

The more Dick learned, the more impossible it became to ignore the distance between you.

You were real.

A real person living somewhere beyond his reach.

A real person carrying scars that belonged to both of them.

And once he knew that, how was he supposed to walk away? How was he supposed to forget? Keep waiting?

Dick spent years helping strangers.

Pulling people out of collapsing buildings. Talking frightened kids off ledges. Running toward people who needed help. Doing nothing had never been one of his strengths.

The realisation should have worried him.

Instead, it felt reasonable. Natural.

Almost inevitable.

By the end of the week, he found himself revisiting old comments. Looking closer.

A mention of weather. A complaint about public transit. A local restaurant.

Tiny details.

Nothing significant on their own, but what became patterns when placed together.

The detective in him noticed before the rest of him did.

A city narrowed to a suburb. A suburb narrowed to three possibilities. Three possibilities narrowed to one.

Dick stared at the screen. His pulse quickened.

A line had been crossed somewhere.

He wasn't entirely sure when.

Only that he should probably stop.

Instead, he opened another tab. Then another.

His fingers hovered over the keyboard. Long enough for hesitation to appear. Not long enough for it to matter.

Because you were out there, and you were hurting.

The first search took less than ten seconds.

The second took even less.

And when the first genuine piece of information appeared on his screen, Dick felt his heartbeat stumble.

For the first time in twenty years, his soulmate wasn't a dream.

You were becoming a person.

And Dick Grayson had never been very good at letting go of the people he loved.

The next morning began the same way most mornings did.

Pain.

You woke before your alarm, blinking groggily at the ceiling while a dull ache settled somewhere between your shoulder blades. Not terrible. Not even particularly surprising. Just another reminder that your soulmate was still out there making questionable decisions.

At least nothing felt broken.

That was practically a victory.

You lay there for another minute before forcing yourself upright. The soreness protested immediately, but years of experience had taught you how to judge the difference between annoying and hospital-worthy.

This fell firmly into the first category. Which meant work.

Lucky you.

By the time you arrived at the coffee shop, Gotham was already awake.

Rush hour traffic crawled through the streets outside. The sidewalks overflowed with exhausted office workers, students, tourists and people who looked like they hadn’t slept in three days.

Which, in this city, narrowed nothing down.

The familiar smell of coffee beans wrapped around you the moment you stepped behind the counter.

Honestly, it was one of the few things you genuinely liked about your job.

The customers were a different story.

By eleven o’clock, you’d already been yelled at twice.

Once because a man believed waiting three minutes for coffee constituted a personal attack.

The second because somebody thought you controlled the weather.

“Rough morning?”

You glanced up, the question knocking you out of your haze.

Your coworker was already grinning.

You sighed. “When isn’t it?”

“Fair.”

The lunch rush arrived shortly after.

Orders piled up. Names blurred together. Your feet hurt. Someone dropped their drink. Another person complained because their coffee was too hot.

You resisted the urge to suggest that coffee was generally known for that.

Then the bell above the door chimed.

Normally, you wouldn't have looked up.

Lunch was a bloody nightmare. There were six drinks waiting to be made, three customers already staring holes into the back of your head, and somebody was arguing over oat milk. You had better things to do.

Yet somehow your eyes lifted anyway.

The man who stepped through the door looked like trouble. Not due to anything he was doing, but because nobody should have looked like that.

For a second, your brain simply failed to process him properly.

Dark hair. Blue eyes. Tall enough to stand out without seeming imposing. Broad shoulders hidden beneath an ordinary jacket that somehow wasn't ordinary anymore because he was wearing it.

The details registered one at a time.

Like your mind was struggling to decide where to look first.

It wasn't just that he was handsome. Handsome was too simple a word. Too ordinary.

Handsome was the guy on a billboard, the actor in a movie, the model in a magazine. This felt different. More annoying.

Like somebody had reached into your head, extracted every preference you'd ever had, and assembled a person around them.

You immediately disliked him for it.

Unfortunately, that didn't make him any less attractive.

His smile appeared as he spoke to the customer in front of him. It transformed his entire face. Softened it.

Made him look approachable in a way beautiful people rarely managed.

The kind of smile that made strangers smile back. The kind that suggested he remembered names. Held doors open. Helped old ladies carry groceries.

He looked like someone that got people into trouble because they assumed nobody that nice-looking could possibly be dangerous.

You tore your eyes away.

Absolutely not.

You were not doing this today.

He was just a customer. A stupidly attractive customer. Nothing more.

Several minutes later, he stepped up to the register.

Up close was a mistake. You realised that immediately.

Most attractive people benefited from distance.

A few feet between you and them gave reality time to point out imperfections.

The lighting changed. The angles shifted. Something human emerged.

Not him.

If anything, proximity made things worse.

His eyes were brighter than you'd thought. Not just blue, more like a deep ocean colour that caught light. The kind that made direct eye contact feel strangely unfair.

There was a faint scar near his eyebrow. Another disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt.

Tiny imperfections that should have made him look less attractive.

Instead they only made him look real.

"Hi." His voice wrapped around the single syllable with effortless warmth.

He sounded so fucking pleased to be talking to you.

"What can I get for you?"

For a moment, he simply looked at you. Like he'd forgotten whatever he'd originally intended to say.

Then he smiled.

And suddenly it felt difficult to remember how to breathe.

"I'll take a large flat white."

Of course.

Of course the voice matched the face.

Why wouldn't it?

You entered the order before your brain could embarrass you.

The register beeped.

He handed over his card.

His fingers brushed yours for half a second.

It was nothing, really. Barely contact at all. Yet something strange tightened beneath your ribs.

Gone before you could identify it.

You frowned. Weird.

"Name?"

"Dick."

You blinked.

He looked entirely too pleased by your reaction.

"You serious?"

His eyes crinkled at the corners as his grin widened. The bastard somehow became even prettier. "I get that a lot."

A laugh escaped before you could stop it.

Hd let out a deep shaky breath, like he'd been hoping for it. Waiting for it.

As though making you laugh had accomplished something important. Like a strangers happiness mattered.

The look vanished so quickly you almost missed it.

For a brief, inexplicable moment, it felt less like meeting a stranger.

And more like being recognised.

The city belonged to him at night.

Not officially. Gotham belonged to no one. It clawed at anyone foolish enough to try and claim it.

But Dick knew its rhythms better than most.

He knew which rooftops held the best sightlines. Which alleyways concealed drug deals. Which fire escapes groaned beneath a person's weight. Which apartment windows stayed lit long after midnight because the people inside couldn't slep.

And he knew yours.

Perched on a neighboring rooftop, Dick lowered his binoculars slightly.

Your bedroom light had turned on twenty-three minutes before your alarm.

Again.

His jaw tightened.

The bond was never subtle.

He rubbed the back of his neck, the strain from yesterday's patrol still lingered. A bruised shoulder. A pulled muscle. Nothing serious.

Yet the thought of you waking up sore because of him left an uncomfortable weight in his chest.

You sat on the edge of your bed for several moments before standing. Slow and careful. Judging whether the pain was worth worrying about.

Dick recognised the routine.

You'd done it countless times.

The first time he'd seen it, he'd nearly broken a criminal's jaw.

It was then that he'd truly realised what years of sharing injuries with a vigilante must have been like.

You'd learned to evaluate pain before breakfast.

His fingers tightened around the binoculars.

You deserved answers.

You deserved him.

The thought arrived as naturally as breathing.

Dangerous. Wrong. Impossible to stop.

Dick watched you leave for work.

Then he followed.

He knew how surveillance worked. Knew exactly how easy it was to make someone feel watched.

So he stayed distant. A block behind, sometimes two.

Just another face in Gotham's endless crowd.

The irony wasn't lost on him.

Nightwing could disappear from sight whenever he wanted. Dick Grayson found excuses to linger near coffee shops.

By eleven, he was seated across the street with a newspaper he hadn't read once.

His attention remained fixed elsewhere.

On the way you tucked loose strands of hair behind your ear when concentrating. On the tiny crease that appeared between your eyebrows whenever customers irritated you. On the exhausted smile you gave coworkers despite clearly wanting to go home.

His chest ached.

He hated seeing you tired.

Hated seeing people take advantage of your kindness.

Hated that he couldn't simply walk inside and tell everyone to be careful with you.

Because you were important.

Because you mattered.

Because.. No.

Dick shut the thought down before it could finish.

This wasn't about ownership.

It couldn't be.

The soulmate bond wasn't ownership. It was connection.

Destiny.

A promise written into both of them before either had been born.

At least that was what he told himself whenever the possessive thoughts became harder to ignore.

By lunchtime, the crowd had thickened.

Good.

That made entering easier. Less noticeable.

The bell above the café door chimed as he stepped inside.

Immediately, he saw you.

The sight struck him with embarrassing force.

Every single time.

He'd spent months watching.

Months learning your routines.

Listening to your laugh from across rooms.

And somehow the impact never lessened.

You stood behind the register looking exhausted. A little annoyed. Ethereal.

Dick looked away before anyone could notice he'd been staring.

The line moved forward.

One customer. Two. Three. His pulse accelerated.

Ridiculous.

He'd fought assassins without flinching. Faced alien invasions. Stood against enemies capable of leveling cities. Yet somehow speaking to you felt more intimidating than any of them.

Because this mattered. Because you mattered.

The customer ahead of him finally left. And then it was his turn.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Your eyes lifted to meet his. Everything else disappeared. The noise. The conversations. The espresso machines. All of the buzzing was gone, just for a second.

Just long enough for Dick to feel the strange, impossible certainty he'd been carrying since the first moment he'd seen you.

There you are.

His soulmate.

His.

"Hi." The word came out softer than intended.

Your gaze remained fixed on him. Trying very hard not to stare.

Dick nearly smiled.

You had no idea.

No idea how many nights he'd spent imagining this conversation.

How many times he'd rehearsed introducing himself.

How often he'd wondered whether the bond would feel different when you finally met.

Instead, you asked professionally, "What can I get for you?"

For one disastrous second, Dick forgot the answer. Forgot he'd ordered the same thing repeatedly for weeks specifically because it was easy to remember. How human conversation worked.

You looked even better up close.

God, your eyes. Your voice. The tiny signs of exhaustion. The familiar shape of someone he'd spent months studying from a distance. Real.

You were finally real.

"I'll take a large flat white."

Smooth.

Very smooth.

Dick internally cringed.

You entered the order.

The register beeped.

He handed over his card.

Your fingers brushed his. The contact lasted less than a heartbeat. Lightning shot through him anyway.

The first touch.

The first real touch.

Dick forced himself not to react. Years of training saved him. Barely.

Then you asked the question he'd secretly been waiting for.

"Name?"

His mouth twitched. "Dick."

The blink you gave him was immediate.

Perfect.

Dick couldn't help smiling.

For the first time all day, genuine amusement broke through the tension knotting his chest.

"You serious?"

A laugh threatened to escape him.

God, he loved your voice already. Far too much.

"I get that a lot."

Then you laughed.

His breath caught.

Don't.

Don't do this.

Don't build a future out of a single laugh.

Yet he couldn't stop.

For a brief moment, your eyes met his again. Confusion flickered there. Recognition without understanding. A pull neither of you could explain.

And for the first time since entering the café, Dick wondered if you felt it too.

If you could physically feel that he was someone who looked at you and saw the center of his world.

You frowned slightly.

Dick’s smile was warm. Harmless.

The same smile that convinced criminals he was merciful and civilians he was safe.

"Thanks," he said.

Then he stepped aside to wait for his coffee.

And for the first time in months, waiting didn't feel difficult. Because now you knew he existed.

Dick returned three days later.

Then again the day after that.

Soon, the visits became a part of his routine so deeply ingrained that he no longer questioned it.

Patrol.

Sleep.

Reports.

Coffee.

You.

The order never changed.

He learned your schedule without meaning to. Or maybe he had meant to. Dick wasn't entirely sure where the line had disappeared.

At some point, knowing things about you had stopped feeling like gathering information and started feeling lke breathing.

He knew which coworker made you laugh.

Which customer always left you irritated.

Which days exhaustion sat heavier on your shoulders.

He knew the difference between your real smiles and the fake ones. The difference between a smile that reached your eyes and one offered out of politeness. The difference mattered.

Everything about you mattered.

Sometimes guilt still surfaced. Usually late at night. During the quiet moments after patrol, when Gotham finally stopped screaming for a few hours and left him alone with his thoughts.

That was when he remembered the forum posts.

The complaints.

The frustration.

The resentment.

Years of it.

You didn't want a soulmate. Not one who left you waking up sore after fights. Or one whose life seemed determined to get itself stabbed, shot, electrocuted, and thrown off rooftops.

The thought should have hurt.

Instead, Dick found himself staring at the ceiling and feeling strangely calm.

Because you didn't hate him.

You hated the idea of him.

The unknown. The stranger connected to your life.

You hated the inconvenience.

The pain. Uncertainty.

But him?

You didn't know him yet.

How could you hate someone you didn't know?

You didn't know about the nights he spent bleeding through cracked armor because civilians needed help. About the disasters he'd prevented. The people he'd saved. The promises he'd kept.

You didn't know how many times he'd nearly told you the truth.

How many times he'd stood outside your apartment building and wondered if tonight should be the night. How often he thought about you. How he worried.

You didn't know.

But you would.

Eventually.

Dick believed that with absolute certainty.

Because every day gave him something. A conversation. A smile. A joke.

Tiny, worthless things.

Things nobody else would notice.

By the second week, you knew his order.

By the third, you smiled when he walked through the door.

The first time it happened, the entire day felt brighter.

Ridiculously embarrassing of him, he knew that.

Yet the memory replayed in his head for hours.

The way your face lit up with recognition. How you'd greeted him before he even reached the counter.

Like you were happy to see him.

Like he'd become part of your day too.

A crack in the wall.

A tiny one. But cracks spread. Eventually walls collapse.

Dick was patient enough to wait. To let things unfold naturally.

Most of the time.

You still didn't know the truth.

Didn't know that he could identify your footsteps.

Could find your apartment window from almost anywhere in the neighborhood.

Didn't know he'd memorised the route you walked home.

The backup routes too.

The places where the streetlights didn't work. The alleys he disliked.

The intersections with the highest crime rates.

Important information. Necessary information.

Someone had to know those things. Someone had to keep you safe.

The city certainly wasn't going to.

Dick smiled to himself as he watched you lock the café doors one evening.

The sun had already disappeared. Streetlights painted gold across the pavement.

You looked tired. A little cold.

Still breathtaking.

Always so fucking ethereal.

His chest tightened with pure unfiltered need.

The overwhelming, consuming need to make sure nothing bad ever touched you again. To stand between you and every ugly thing Gotham could throw your way. To erase every danger before it reached you. To make the world safe enough that you'd never have to worry.

Hell, even the need to just push you down and capture your mouth in a kiss so intimate that you’d never want to let go.

The feeling had become stronger lately. Harder to ignore.

Before, you had been a concept. A hopeful possibility.

Now you were you.

You had a face. A laugh. A favorite drink. A life.

And every day made the thought of losing you more unbearable.

You disappeared around the corner.

Dick waited.

Five seconds. Ten. Then he rose from his seat. Following. Never too close. Never enough to be noticed. Just enough.

To intervene if something happened.

Making sure you got home safely.

Just enough to reassure the restless part of himself that always seemed to whisper what if?

What if someone followed you first?

What if someone hurt you?

What if someone took you away?

The thoughts were irrational. Dick knew they were.

Most people walked home every day without incident. But most people weren't you.

His jaw tightened.

That was the difference.

People talked about soulmates as though finding them was the end of the story. Like destiny did all the work.

As if fate guaranteed a happy ending.

Dick knew better.

Finding you wasn't the difficult part. Keeping you safe was. Protecting you was. Making sure the universe didn't decide to take back the greatest thing it had ever given him was.

His gaze remained fixed on your retreating figure. Unwavering.

The possessiveness no longer startled him.

That battle had ended weeks ago.

Every justification had been exhausted. Every argument dismantled.

The truth remained.

You were woven through his life. Through his thoughts. Through every future he could imagine.

His soulmate.

His person.

The one thing in this city he couldn't lose.

And somewhere along the way, the distinction between wanting you and needing you had quietly disappeared.

Dick watched you disappear into your apartment building. Only then did the tension leave his shoulders.

Safe.

The word settled warmly inside his chest.

Safe for another night.

His eyes lingered on the illuminated window that he knew belonged to you.

Terrifyingly devoted.

The universe had tied your lives together years ago.

And Dick had no plans on fighting fate.

And if the day ever came when something, or someone, tried to take you away from him, Gotham would learn exactly how dangerous Nightwing could be when the only thing he loved was threatened.

The first time you noticed something was wrong, it didn't feel important. Just strange.

"Wait."

Your friend blinked across the table. "What?"

"You got offered a job in Blüdhaven?"

"Yeah?"

You frowned. "When?"

"A few months ago."

A few months ago.

That couldn't be right.

You'd applied for that same position. Gone through three interviews. Spent weeks waiting for a response.

And then nothing.

No rejection.

No acceptance.

Nothing.

"I never heard back."

"Really?" they said. "That's weird."

It was weird. You'd checked your emails obsessively at the time.

Nothing.

Not even spam.

Eventually you'd assumed they'd gone with another candidate.

The conversation moved on.

You didn't.

↓→←↑

Then another thing happened. And another.

"..You never told me your landlord sold the building."

Dick looked up from where he was cooking. "What?"

"The building."

You leaned against the counter. "The landlord was apparently trying to sell it last year."

Something flashed across his face.

"Huh."

"He said he couldn't find a buyer."

Dick hummed. "Guess it wasn't the right time."

You frowned.

That wasn't what the landlord had said. The exact words had been: "Every buyer that showed interest pulled out at the last minute."

←→↓↑

Then there was your ex.

Not an ex, technically. Just someone you'd gone on a few dates with before Dick.

Someone who suddenly moved overseas without warning.

You only found out because you bumped into one of their friends.

"Yeah, he was furious."

"What?"

"They withdrew the visa investigation thing eventually, but by then he'd already accepted another position."

You blinked. "The what?"

The friend frowned. "You didn't know?"

No.

No, you definitely hadn't known.

↓←→↑

The pieces don't fit together immediately.

Not until one late night, sitting on Dick's couch.

When his phone lit up.

You hadn’t even meant to look, the flash just caught your attention. The “image of the day” was a photograph.

Your photograph.

Not a recent one. Not one you’d sent him.

A candid picture.

Taken months before you met.

You were standing outside of your apartment.

"..Dick."

His entire body goes still at your tone.

Like prey hearing a gun click.

Slowly, he looks up.

You hold out the phone.

The photograph staring back at both of you.

Your pulse begins to hammer. "When did you take this?"

Nothing.

For a second, Dick just looks at you.

Then at the photo.

Then back.

“…Before we met."

Your stomach drops. "What?"

"I took it before we met." His voice is calm. Too gentle. The same voice he uses when you're upset.

Like he was expecting to tell you that everything was okay.

"I found you before the café."

The room suddenly feels too small. "How long?"

"A while."

"Dick."

"A few months."

The answer hits like a truck.

Months.

Your laugh comes out strained. Unsteady. "You're joking."

"No." He doesn't look ashamed.

If he looked guilty, maybe this would make sense. Instead, he looks concerned.

Concerned about you.

Like you're the one having a difficult time.

"Dick, that's stalking."

His jaw tightens immediately. Hurt.

Like you've accused him of something unfair.

"I was making sure you were safe."

"No." You stand. "Dick-"

Your heart is racing now. Too fast. "What the fuck do you mean you were watching me?"

And for the first time since you've known him, Dick looks frustrated.

Not because he got caught. Because you're not understanding.

"You lived alone."

"Dick-"

"You walked home after dark."

"Listen to me!"

"There were three muggings within four blocks of your apartment." His voice rises. Emotion breaking through.

"And I knew what Gotham was like."

You freeze. He sounds desperate. Terrified.

"I couldn't just leave you there." His eyes are shining now. Raw.

Honest.

The truth finally spilling out.

"You think I wanted to scare you?" His voice cracks.

"I spent twenty years looking for you."

You take a step backward.

Dick notices immediately. The devastation that crosses his face is instantaneous.

He actually believes that he's innocent. That every line he crossed was reasonable.

Because every choice was made for the same reason.

Love.

And suddenly all those little coincidences don't feel like coincidences anymore.

The failed job.

The vanished opportunities.

The relationships that somehow never worked out.

The people who drifted away.

The life that kept shrinking until Dick occupied most of it.

The door slammed hard enough to rattle the frame. For a second, neither of uni moved.

You stood frozen in the hallway outside Dick's apartment, one hand still wrapped around the doorknob, your pulse pounding so hard it made your ears ring. The argument replayed itself in fragments. Accusations, denials, half-finished explanations. None of it felt real.

Behind the door, you heard Dick's footsteps. Part of you expected the handle to turn. Expected him to come after you. To stop you before you left. To grab your wrist, block the doorway, force the conversation to continue.

Instead, the footsteps stopped. You could picture him standing there on the other side of the door. Not chasing you. Not arguing. Just... standing there. Devastated.

If he'd gotten angry, maybe this would have been easier. If he'd yelled, if he'd lied, if he'd given you a reason to hate him, maybe the hollow ache opening inside your chest wouldn't have felt so unbearable.

Instead, he'd looked heartbroken. Like he was the victim. Like you were the one tearing something precious apart.

The walk home passed in a blur. You barely remembered unlocking your apartment. The second the door shut behind you, instinct took over. Deadbolt. Chain. The secondary lock.

You checked the windows twice. Then a third time.

Only when every entrance was secured did you allow yourself to breathe.

Your phone vibrated. The screen lit up. Dick.

You stared at the name. The call rang until it stopped. A second call appeared almost immediately. Then a third. The messages started after that.

Can we talk? Please answer. I just want to know you're okay.

For a dangerous second, your thumb hovered over the screen. Then you blocked him.

The number disappeared. You blocked his social media. His email. His Spotify. Every account you could think of. Anything connected to him. Anything that could give him a way back in.

When you finally finished, the apartment felt unnaturally quiet. You'd wanted silence.

Hadn't you?

So why did it feel like something was missing? Why did the absence feel so loud? Sleep never came. Every time you closed your eyes, another memory surfaced.

The internship opportunity that had vanished after months of promising interviews. The friendship that had somehow dissolved without explanation. The coworkers who'd grown distant. The photograph.

At four in the morning, you found yourself sitting on the couch wrapped in a blanket, staring into the darkness. The city lights beyond your apartment window painted faint reflections across the floor.

You couldn't stop thinking. Every memory felt poisoned now. Every coincidence felt deliberate. How much of your life had actually been yours?

How many choices had been choices at all?

You didn't notice yourself drifting into a shallow sleep until your alarm exploded beside your head. You jolted awake.

Immediately regretted it. Pain tore through your leg so violently that for a split second you genuinely thought something had exploded. A scream ripped from your throat. White-hot agony shot from your shin to your hip.

The room tilted. Your knee gave out. You hit the floor hard enough to knock the breath from your lungs. The impact barely registered. All you could feel was the pain. It burned. Throbbed. Pulsed with every heartbeat.

You curled instinctively around your leg, gasping for air through clenched teeth. "What the fuck!" The words dissolved into another strangled cry.

Minutes passed. Or maybe longer.

Time became difficult to measure when every movement felt like driving a knife through bone.

Eventually you managed to drag yourself onto the couch. Sweat clung to your skin. Your stomach churned. The pain wasn't normal. It wasn't a cramp. Wasn't a pulled muscle. It felt broken. A fresh fracture.

Then a bitter laugh escaped your throat. Of fucking course.

You’d barely survived the worst night of your life and apparently your soulmate had decided now was the perfect time to break something. Again.

The bitter laugh that escaped you sounded almost hysterical. The empty apartment offered no response. Not that you expected one.

Your soulmate had never apologised before.

Several hours later, three sharp knocks echoed through the apartment. You froze.

The sound cut through the silence like a gunshot.

Another knock followed.

Then a familiar voice. Every muscle in your body locked. You remained motionless.

Maybe he'd leave.

Another knock sounded, softer this time. Almost hesitant. "…Please open the door." The concern in his voice made your stomach twist.

You hated that it still affected you. Hated that some part of you still wanted to believe him.

Then came the sentence that made your blood turn to ice. "You shouldn't be standing."

Everything stopped. Your breathing. Your thoughts. Your heartbeat. Slowly, very slowly, you turned toward the door. The apartment suddenly felt too small. Too quiet.

"Dick?" A pause.

Then: "I brought groceries." His voice sounded tired. Careful. Like he was approaching a wounded animal. "I also got pain medication."

You stared at the door. A sick feeling began unfurling in your stomach.

"Can you let me in?" No. No, no, no. Maybe coincidence. Maybe a lucky guess. Maybe-

"You need to stay off that leg." The world seemed to tilt. Your pulse thundered.

How? You hadn't told anyone. You hadn't gone to the hospital. You hadn't even texted anyone. There was no way he could know. Unless-

The thought hit so hard it felt physical. You forced yourself upright and limped toward the door. Each step sent another wave of pain through your leg.

By the time you reached it, your hands were shaking. You opened the door only a few inches.

Dick stood on the other side. One arm loaded with grocery bags. Takeout containers balanced in the other hand. A bottle of painkillers tucked beneath his elbow.

The second the door opened, his gaze dropped.Straight to your injured leg.

"There it is." The words slipped out before he could stop them. His expression tightened immediately. "You really shouldn't be putting weight on-"

"How do you know?"

Silence.The question landed between them like a blade. Dick froze.

You felt your heartbeat climbing higher and higher. "How do you know my leg is injured?"

For the first time since you'd met him, Dick looked caught off guard. Not angry. Not defensive. Caught.

Something that looked dangerously close to guilt crossed his face. And suddenly you understood enough to make your blood run cold.

The fracture hadn't happened to your soulmate. It had happened because of them.

Dick's expression changed immediately. Not much, most people probably wouldn't have noticed, but you'd spent months learning the subtle shifts in his face. The slight tightening around his eyes. The way his shoulders stiffened.

"Angel-"

You took another step backward on instinct. Pain shot through your injured leg. A sharp hiss escaped you before you could swallow it.

Dick flinched. The reaction was instantaneous. His hand jerked forward as though he meant to catch you before he stopped himself. The concern that flashed across his face was so immediate, so visceral, that it made your stomach turn.

For a horrible second, you couldn't stop thinking about it. The way he'd known. The way he'd looked directly at your leg. The medication tucked under his arm. The certainty in his voice when he'd told you not to stand.

Maybe he really had felt it. Maybe every pulse of pain that had left you curled up on the floor this morning had reached him too.

"You knew." The accusation hung between you.

Dick's jaw tightened. You stared at him. Stared at the man standing in your doorway carrying groceries and painkillers like some devoted boyfriend stopping by to take care of you after a bad day.

"You knew you were my soulmate." For a second, one stupid, desperate second, you hoped he'd deny it.

Maybe there was another explanation. Maybe you were wrong. Maybe this entire nightmare had gotten out of control.

Dick looked down. "...Yeah."

Every injury. Every unexplained ache. Every ruined plan because somebody you had never met couldn't stop getting themselves hurt.

You remembered sitting in emergency rooms as a teenager, trying to explain symptoms doctors couldn't understand. Missing school because you'd woken up unable to walk on an ankle you'd never injured. The migraines. The broken fingers. The bruises.

The soulmate bond had shaped your life whether you'd wanted it to or not. And all this time, it had been him.

Not a stranger. Not some faceless person halfway across the world. Dick. Your Dick.

The man who knew how you took your coffee. The man who remembered insignificant details about conversations you'd forgotten having.

The man you'd trusted enough to love.

Your hand found the wall beside you before you even realised you were reaching for support.

Dick took a step forward automatically.

You recoiled.

The look that crossed his face was immediate and devastating.

He stopped moving at once. "Angel..."

"How long?" Your voice sounded strange. Thin. Distant. "How long have you known?"

For the first time since arriving, Dick looked genuinely uncomfortable. Ashamed.

His gaze dropped briefly to the floor. "Eight months."

"Eight months?"

"Angel, I know how bad that sounds-"

"You knew for eight months." Every word came out sharper than the last. "You knew and you didn't tell me."

"I wanted to." The answer came immediately. Too quickly. Like he'd rehearsed this argument a hundred times. "I did. God, I wanted to tell you from the beginning."

"Then why didn't you?"

Dick looked away. That was answer enough.

Because he'd been watching. Learning. Getting closer. Fitting himself into your life before you knew what he was.

"You let me hate them."

Something flickered across his face. A strange sadness. Not guilt exactly. Something closer to regret. "I never wanted that."

"You let me spend years hating my soulmate." His expression tightened. "I know."

"You let me blame them for everything."

"I know." The quiet sincerity of the response only made you angrier. He wasn't denying it. Wasn't making excuses. He understood exactly what he'd done. And somehow, he still thought he'd been right.

The apartment fell silent.

Dick stood near the door surrounded by grocery bags and takeout containers. The sight would have been almost domestic under different circumstances. Ordinary.

Something in his expression softened. "You don't have to do this anymore."

You frowned. "What are you talking about?"

Dick hesitated. For the first time since arriving, he seemed unsure of how to explain himself. "..You've spent your entire life paying for things that weren't your fault."

The words were quiet. Measured. His gaze dropped briefly to your injured leg before returning to your face. "I know every hospital visit."

A chill crawled down your spine.

His voice grew softer. "I know every surgery. Every cast. Every time you had to cancel plans because I did something reckless." The guilt in his expression looked genuine. "I know what it cost you."

"Dick."

"I do." His voice cracked slightly. The sound startled you.

"I know exactly what I've put you through."

For a moment neither of you spoke. Then Dick slowly set the groceries on the floor. "You shouldn't have had to deal with any of it alone."

Something about the direction of the conversation suddenly felt wrong. Dangerous. "Dick..." "I mean it." His eyes never left yours.

"You shouldn't have had to worry about medical bills because I got shot. You shouldn't have had to miss work because I decided jumping off rooftops sounded like a good idea. You shouldn't have had to build your life around my mistakes."

A humorless laugh escaped him. "You definitely shouldn't have had to spend years wondering who was responsible." The guilt in his voice was so real it almost hurt to listen to.

And somehow that made what came next even worse. "But you don't have to do that anymore."

The knot in your stomach tightened. "What does that mean?"

Dick looked genuinely confused by the question. As though the answer was obvious. "As long as I'm here, you're not dealing with any of it alone."

"You don't need to worry about rent." The words landed heavily.

You stared at him, dumbfounded. "What?"

"I'll take care of it." "No."

"You don't have to keep working two jobs." "No."

"You don't have to stress about groceries or bills or whether you can afford physical therapy."

"Dick!"

His voice remained calm. Patient. Like he was trying to explain something simple. Something reasonable. "I can handle all of that."

"You can't just decide that." "Why not?" The question came out so naturally that it stopped you cold.

Dick frowned slightly, confused. "As far as I'm concerned, taking care of you is my responsibility."

Your heart dropped. The conviction in his voice was absolute. Not possessive in the way you'd expected. Like he wasn't describing what he wanted. He was describing reality.

"You don't owe me anything," he continued quietly. "You don't have to love me back. You don't even have to forgive me. But I'm not going to stand there and keep watching you suffer because of things I've done."

His gaze held yours. Steady. Intense. Terrifyingly sincere. "You've carried this alone for long enough."

The apartment suddenly felt too small. Too warm. Too difficult to breathe in. Because you finally understood. Dick wasn't asking for a relationship. He wasn't asking for forgiveness. He wasn't even asking for another chance.

He was asking you to hand him control.

The first escape attempt had been almost gentle. A mistake, in hindsight. You’d underestimated him. Underestimated his understanding of you.

By the time you reached the outer perimeter, your leg had already started to fail in ways that didn’t make sense at first. Pain bloomed without warning, sharp, targeted, precise, as if your body had been waiting for permission to collapse.

It was him. Dick Grayson had already noticed you leaving. Already made his choice.

He carried you back without comment when he found you kneeling in the rain like you’d simply run out of endurance. Like your body had just… stopped cooperating. Like he couldn’t even feel his own pain shooting through him.

For three days after that, he barely spoke. Not anger. Not even punishment. Adjustment. Because he was learning how far he could push the bond, and how far he could push himself.

The second attempt cost you more. Not because he was harsher, because he was faster. You barely remember leaving the room. You remember waking up in a different one. Reinforced, seamless, wrong in ways your instincts couldn’t map.

Dick sat beside the bed like he’d never moved. Like time had folded around him. “You dislocated your shoulder,” he said calmly, as though that explained everything.

You tried to sit up. Your body refused. His hand rested on your wrist before you could test it further. “You pushed too hard,” he added. “I had to stabilise it.” “I didn’t-”

“Yes,” he interrupted, still calm. “You did.” But what he didn’t say, what you only began to understand later, was that he had done the same thing to himself at the exact moment you tried to leave.

The third time you tried, there was no hallway. Just motion that died halfway through becoming action. Your body locking down in controlled, precise waves of agony. Like a switch had been thrown. And somewhere behind you, his voice. “I told you not to do that again.”

When you woke, your ankle was wrapped. Your phone was gone. The doors had changed again.

That was when you understood the rule. You could try. He would let you try. Not because he expected you to succeed, but because every attempt gave him data. Every spike of your pain told him what the bond could tolerate. And every time you pushed too far, he matched you. By breaking himself just enough that the connection snapped you both back into place.

Now, in what he liked to call the living room, too controlled to feel like a home, you listened to him in the kitchen. Normal sounds. Water running. A cup set down carefully. Like nothing was wrong.

You swallowed. Your voice weak from disuse. “..I want to leave.”

“You don’t want that,” he mumbled, not looking up from the pan.

“I do.”

“No,” he said gently. “You want the version of it that doesn’t hurt.” He walked patiently over to you. His hand lifted, hovered near your shoulder, then settled. Warm. Certain.

“.. I won’t let it get that far.”

Your throat tightened. “You’re hurting me.”

This time, he didn’t deny it immediately.

He just looked at you for a long moment. Then, “No,” he said quietly. “I’m stopping you from breaking past the point where there’s no coming back.”

“You don’t get to leave anymore,” he said at last. “Not like that.” Not a threat. A conclusion.

“And you won’t try again,” he added, softer.

“Because I won’t let either of us survive what happens when you do.”

Then he turned back toward the kitchen. As if the decision had already been made. As if your life together had always been structured this way.

And in a sense, it had.

10K+ Words, 61K+ Characters, 1K+ sentences, 36 min average reading time, 58 min average speaking time.

"let them burn," he growled, and then his hands were under your thighs, lifting you effortlessly against him. your legs locked around his hips on instinct, heels knocking against his perfectly tailored slacks as he carried you backward toward the kitchen. the counter dug into your lower back when he set you down, but you barely noticed—not when he was shoving the apron up your thighs, his palms rough against your bare skin.

your breath hitched as nanami’s fingers hooked into the waistband of your panties, dragging them down your thighs with a slow, deliberate tug. the cool air of the kitchen kissed your exposed skin, but it was nothing compared to the heat of his gaze—dark and intent, like he was mapping every inch of you.

"kento," you breathed, fingers tangling in his hair as he dropped to his knees between your legs. his palms smoothed up your calves, then higher, thumbs pressing into the softness of your inner thighs to spread you wider.

"you taste so sweet," he murmured, voice rough as he leaned in, his breath ghosting over your damp skin. the first lick was slow, deliberate—a teasing drag of his tongue that had your hips jerking forward. nanami chuckled, the sound vibrating against you, and his grip tightened to keep you still.

"impatient," he chided, but there was no real scold in it, just that low, honeyed warmth that always coiled low in your belly.

his mouth was relentless after that, alternating between broad, languid strokes and sharp, focused flicks that had your toes curling against the tile. every sound you made—every gasp, every whimper—only spurred him on, his fingers digging bruises into your skin as he dragged you closer to the edge.

"love you like this," he rasped between kisses, lips glistening. "love you messy, love you unwashed—fuck, you’re perfect."

the oven beeped again, a distant, forgotten noise as you arched into him, fingers tightening in his hair. nanami groaned against you, the vibration sending a shockwave of pleasure up your spine.

"that’s it, sweetheart," he murmured, dragging his tongue over you in a way that made your vision blur. "come for me.

your thighs trembled around nanami’s shoulders as his tongue pressed deeper, relentless in its rhythm—every flick and curl deliberate, every breath he exhaled against your skin sending shivers up your spine. the countertop was cold beneath your palms, but you barely registered it, too focused on the heat of his mouth, the way his thumbs dug into your hips to keep you from squirming away.

"kento," you gasped, voice breaking as his teeth grazed your inner thigh, a sharp contrast to the softness of his lips just moments before.

"say it again," he demanded, voice rough, and when you moaned his name louder, he rewarded you with a slow, torturous lick that had your back arching off the counter. the apron tangled between your legs, bunched up in his fists as he dragged you closer, until you could feel the scratch of his stubble against your skin.

"god, you’re sweet," he muttered, lips moving against you as he spoke. "could eat you for hours."

you clutched at his hair, tugging slightly, and he groaned, the sound vibrating through you as his grip tightened. "close?" he asked, voice thick, and when you nodded frantically, he hummed in satisfaction, lips curling into a smirk against your skin.

then his fingers joined his mouth, pressing inside with the same slow, deliberate precision, and you shattered, a broken cry tearing from your throat as your hips jerked against his face. nanami didn’t let up, drinking you in as you came, his free hand sliding up to press against your stomach, pinning you to the counter as you trembled.

"good girl," he murmured, finally pulling back to press a kiss to your inner thigh, his breath hot against your oversensitive skin. "so good for me."

you slumped forward, barely catching yourself on his shoulders as your legs threatened to give out. nanami stood in one smooth motion, his hands sliding under your thighs to lift you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist on instinct. his mouth found yours, deep and possessive, and you could taste yourself on his tongue—sweet and faintly salty, mingling with the vanilla still clinging to your skin.

"missed you," he admitted against your lips, voice quieter now, almost tender.

the kiss broke with a soft, wet sound, and nanami pressed his forehead to yours, his breath still warm against your lips. the kitchen smelled like burnt sugar now—somewhere between the oven’s forgotten cookies and the heat still radiating off both of you. you laughed, breathless, and he smiled, just a little quirk of his lips, before pressing another kiss to the corner of your mouth.

“you’re ridiculous,” you murmured, fingers combing through his hair where you’d missed it moments earlier. his tie was completely undone now, hanging loose around his neck, and his shirt was wrinkled beyond repair. nanami didn’t seem to care, his hands still firm on your thighs as he held you against him.

A/N: so, this is my ticket to hell. I posted this back in october as part of my halloween series trick or tease, which I will continue here. anyway, I wanted to give this one-shot an actual plot, so there have been some important changes since it was pretty much pwp before. disclaimer: this story contains monsterfucking, so please avoid sending weird inbox/comments (yes, it already happened). if you follow me, know that this is a recurring theme, as a matter of fact I already have two stories about orc!bucky. it's very simple: if you don't like it, don't read it. hope you'll enjoy 🖤 trick or tease masterlist

You love your apartment in a way that would probably sound ridiculous if you ever tried to explain it, because it’s not particularly beautiful, nor does it sit in some idealized neighborhood where everything feels arranged for aesthetic approval.

The building is old, long past charming. The pipes occasionally groan through the walls as though protesting against their own existence, and the floors remember every step, even when you try your best to be quiet. The kitchen is too small to ever feel fully practical, the bathroom is always slightly colder than the rest of the apartment no matter the season, and the elevator has broken down often enough that you have stopped trusting it entirely.

Objectively, there are better places to live.

And yet every evening, after a day spent among crowded sidewalks, half-finished conversations, and obligations that somehow leave you far more exhausted than they should, the knot in your stomach begins to loosen the moment the front door closes behind you.

Nobody interrupts you here. Nobody watches you with critical eyes. Nobody tries to dictate the way you exist. It’s just you.

Which is probably why you develop the habit of talking to yourself once you step inside.

It’s not something you ever decided to do, it simply followed you from earlier versions of your life. At first it was practical, a way of sorting out stress and untangling thoughts that felt too messy to leave trapped in your head, but over time it became part of who you are.

“Stark scheduled five meetings today.” You drop your keys on the counter. “New record.”

You kick off your shoes, already moving towards the fridge for some water.

“I swear he finds some sick pleasure in wasting everyone’s time.”

You never expect a response, of course, but carry on with the small rituals of the evening while the walls quietly absorb your voice.

Ultimately, you stop keeping tabs of how often it happens, because you talk while cooking, cleaning, and taking showers. You comment out loud while scrolling through your phone and revisit past conversations while folding laundry. Even when sitting on the couch at the end of a long day, you debate whether you’re too tired to start anything meaningful or too restless to do nothing at all, as if the pillows could answer back.

Still, there are moments—usually late at night—when the absence of another human being becomes harder to ignore. A small ache settles in your chest at the realization that entire days can pass without anyone else seeing them. Your thoughts, your victories, the countless insignificant moments that make up a life... all of them exist only inside your own memory.

The feeling never stays for long though: somewhere along the way, you just learned how to be content with your own company.

Most of your friends live hours away now, scattered across different cities and different lives, and trying to keep those connections alive feels mortifying when it becomes clear you’re not worth the effort.

Making new ones has never been any easier. Too many people seem worn down by disappointment, and retreating into themselves feels safer than risking another let-down. The rest treat every relationship like a negotiation, weighing what can be gained from it before deciding how much of themselves they are willing to offer.

So you fall back into your routine, and the apartment remains your favorite place, where you spend most of your time.

However, the feeling is not one-sided, because somewhere within the walls and foundations, something has begun, very slowly, to consider you a constant.

It has occupied the building for longer than any human memory can account for.

Long before you arrived. Long before the current structure of rooms and hallways. Not trapped within it, or bound in any conventional sense, but present like a memory inside a familiar object, woven through walls and doorframes and the quiet space between moments.

For centuries, humans were irrelevant.

They came and went, briefly altering the surface of things without ever touching what lay beneath. The Entity never thought of them as individuals, but as noise. Temporary disturbance that always faded back into silence.

Until you.

At first, you are nothing exceptional. Just another tenant. A fragile arrangement of blood and flesh moving through a structure that has already forgotten most of what it has held. You unpack and settle into your routines.

And then you start talking.

Constantly.

As though silence is something you have to keep at bay to stay sane.

And that’s what catches its attention. At first, it assumes you are speaking to someone outside its perception, but there is no other presence, no other voice.

Only you.

So it begins to assume the words are meant for the space itself, for the apartment as a whole—for the being that chose its shadows as a place to rest.

The conclusion is obvious.

You are talking to it.

The Entity initially listens passively. Your voice is just another sound among many, no more important than the groan of old pipes or the distant hum of traffic beyond the windows.

But as you keep talking, your voice stops blending into the background.

It learns your rhythms before it understands why they matter: the time you come home; the way your footsteps change depending on fatigue; the subtle differences between your frustrated sighs and your tired one. The melody of your happiness and the miserable sound of your sorrow.

The details gather one by one without purpose.

And somewhere along the way, it stops thinking of you as transient.

The first changes are small. A temperature fluctuation in your room settles earlier in the evening than it used to. A recurring fault in the elevator that keeps waking you up in the middle of the night doesn’t return. A light that hesitated before turning on now responds immediately.

None of it is noticeable enough to make you suspicious. Until the reason behind these adjustments changes drastically.

In its memory, humans have always approached beings like it through extremes.

They arrive trembling with desperation that melts into obsession, or rigid with fear that collapses into obedience. Their speech grows cautious, as though a single wrong word might invite disaster. Even when they pretend otherwise, there is always an ugly tilt beneath their requests: ambition, hunger, greed.

But you only fill rooms with thoughts that have nowhere else to go.

You complain about a man named Tony scheduling meetings throughout the day as though he has personal authority over the calendar. You debate dinner choices—usually pizza or sushi—because the outcome might alter your mood for the rest of the night. You spend twenty minutes trying to figure out why a couple from your hometown broke up after everyone swore they’d end up married.

And throughout your little monologues, your voice never once bends toward reverence. It never tightens into fear.

And that becomes difficult to grasp.

Over time, those small routines become expected. And expectation creates its own kind of absence.

The first few times you leave for longer than usual, the apartment feels incomplete. Not empty, exactly, but quieter. The space remains the same, yet something about it feels wrong without you.

The conclusion it reaches is simple: if you are choosing to spend more time elsewhere, then the apartment must be failing you in some way. From that point on, every imperfection becomes unacceptable, and small inconsistencies are often corrected before they even have the chance to become problems at all.

Since you are completely unaware that something has started arranging the world around you, the changes continue without question.

You keep talking the way you always do, filling the apartment with things that would seem insignificant to anyone else, but not to the creature listening. You never thank it. Never ask for anything specific, or demand more. You simply exist inside a space that now quietly takes care of itself according to your comfort.

The simplicity of that still confuses it. The Entity has been worshipped before, feared, sought out for power... But no one has ever treated it like part of their daily life. Like an equal.

Your voice is familiar and reliable, and soon, you become its Polaris, the fixed point by which the rest of the world is measured.

The Entity has never concerned itself with anything beyond its own existence, most things are allowed to fade.

Anything connected to you is not.

When you come back that evening, something is different. 

You move through your usual routine after stepping inside, loosening your shoulders and mumbling softly under your breath. Yet there is something unfamiliar that clings to the edges of your presence. It doesn’t belong to the apartment, and because of that, it draws its curiosity at once. 

Humans carry traces of the outside world with them all the time: scents, particles, remnants of places and people. Most disappear quickly enough to be forgotten.

But this one doesn’t leave. It stays attached to you in a way that makes it hard to dismiss, fixed on a specific point of contact. Still, you move through the apartment exactly as you always do. You hang up your coat, set down your bag, and slip off your heels with a relieved sigh. There is no hesitation in your movements.

Something outside its space touched you and was allowed to settle. And it doesn’t seem to bother you at all.

That unpleasant realization manifests like the first thunder announcing an imminent storm.

The air changes, pressure building ominously through the room enough to alter the flow of oxygen.

You notice it a few seconds later, your breathing feeling slightly more restricted, your chest tightening in a way that is easy to misread as fatigue or stress from the day. You pause, one hand briefly touching your chest as if checking whether something inside your body isn’t working properly.

Frowning in confusion, you glance around the apartment before sprinting to the window to push it open, letting the crisp night air spill inside.

The suffocating feeling eases a little, but the Entity’s thoughts don’t.

The air shifts again, this time clammy enough to make your skin prickle. Out of the corner of your eye, the shadows along the edges of the room grow longer, creeping farther than they should. The impression vanishes as soon as your head makes a sharp turn toward the wall, leaving you with a kind of discomfort that will haunt your sleep for the rest of the night.

You were still its when you left this space, but something else got close enough to interfere with that.

Whatever that presence was, it shouldn’t have been near you at all.

The changes start revealing themselves later, in moments that seem insignificant at the time.

You take a shower every morning—it’s automatic, something that folds into your routine without much attention, the same way you sit on the edge of the bed with a towel around your body and half-awake eyes, letting the day assemble itself around you in slow pieces.

You turn on the tap and let the water warm up while you brush your teeth and check your phone. Sometimes you even have time to tidy your room a little.

But one day you realize you’re not waiting as long as you used to.

You simply find yourself rinsing your face while the mirror is already beginning to fog. You dismiss it as temporary luck and keep going through the same motions the next day.

And still, it keeps happening.

A few days later, you’re standing in your bedroom half-dressed and with an unexpected ten extra minutes before work, trying and failing to understand where they came from.

Other weird things follow, like the bedroom door no longer sticking when it’s too humid. Then, the kitchen cabinet that always needed an extra push starts closing smoothly, and the draft from the living room window stops bothering you entirely.

There is a gradual accumulation of small inconsistencies that leave you with the subtle impression that the apartment and your recollection of it are no longer perfectly aligned, to the point that you start wondering if the problem is you. Maybe you’re becoming forgetful, distracted... The thought never settles into genuine panic, but it lingers just long enough to leave a sour taste behind.

One evening you are lying on the couch with the television murmuring in the background when an email from Tony lands in your inbox. It marks yet another round of revisions of your presentation despite the fact that this is already the fourth time you have edited it.

For a moment you simply stare at the screen, the frustration that has been building all week finally manifesting with a sharp exhale.

“For fuck’s sake, Tony.”

“I could ensure he never troubles you again.”

The voice comes so quickly after your words that your brain just accepts it without question. Then, your limbs still at once at the realization. Slowly, you lift your head and look around the apartment.

The television continues playing. The kitchen is empty. The hallway is exactly where it should be.

You stare at it for another moment before forcing yourself to exhale.

Stress.

You imagined it.

Shaking your head, you turn your attention back to the show.

“Well?”

You sit up abruptly, confusion sharpening into alarm. 

“What the fuck?” You mumble, because whatever fragile explanation you were building in your head collapses at once.

You nearly trip over your own feet as you scramble to stand, your heart hammering against your ribs while your gaze darts frantically around the open space.

“Is someone here?”

There is a pause before the voice answers—calm, almost unaffected by your agitation.

“I am not visible at the moment.”

Your breath catches slightly.

“What does that even mean?”

“I am in the shadows,” it continues. “I am everywhere.”

You let out a short, disbelieving laugh, but it comes out strangled.

“Yeah, okay.” You mutter. “Sure.”

You quickly check the hallway and then turn back again, trying to locate any possible source that could explain the voice seemingly coming from the inside of the apartment. When you can’t find anything out of the ordinary, your body instantly angles towards the couch, one of your arms already stretched to get your phone and call someone.

Police. Your neighbor. Anyone...

But your fingers barely brush the object before it slides out of reach.

You freeze.

“No.” You whisper, because now your brain is splitting between panic and denial.

You stare at the device like it has personally betrayed you.

“This is insane,” you say, unconsciously backing up, your chest heaving dangerously fast. “This is fucking insane.”

“He can be removed.” The voice states with confidence.

You shake your head sharply.

“What does that even mean? And what the fuck are you doing in my apartment?”

“I have been here for a long time.”

“What?” Your stomach tightens as you take another step back, shaking your head again like that will be enough to reset reality.

“Get the fuck out or I’m calling the police.” You threaten more firmly this time, even if the trembling in your voice refuses to fade.

The air shifts at once, suffocating in its heaviness.

“I am not an intruder.”

Until now, despite everything, some stubborn part of your brain had been trying to force this situation into a shape that made sense—a prank, a squatter, even a neighbor with far too much free time.

Something explainable.

Human.

“I have always been here.”

The words settle like a boulder on your chest.

A chill crawls down your spine.

Nothing around you changes: the walls are still standing, the lights are still on, and the floor is not splitting open beneath your feet. Yet your attention is obsessing over every neglected corner. On the narrow seam where two walls meet. On the vent above the kitchen doorway. On the faint cracks hidden beneath layers of paint.

Places you have never paid attention to before.

Places that now feel claimed.

You have lived here for years, slept, eaten, cried... Spent entire weekends doing absolutely nothing. And the thought that something might have been present through all of it sends a fresh wave of nausea through your body.

That is enough for you to notice the change in your breathing. Each raise of your chest feels slightly shallower than the last, your lungs stinging as they instinctively prepare for a danger your eyes cannot place.

“Reality parts for me. I have drifted through the birth of galaxies, swallowed storms of time, watched empires swell and rot. Your world? An insignificant speck in the vastness of the universe. Your species? Flimsier than smoke. You puny humans only know how to crawl from the mud to devour each other over shallow trinkets and territory.”

You swallow thickly, flinching hard as your back brushes against the wall close to the front door.

You don’t even remember moving.

“Okay,” you mumble, your voice still uneven. “Someone’s a little too full of themselves.”

A thunderous roar crashes through your skull, pain exploding behind your eyes so suddenly that your vision blurs around the edges.

A sharp gasp tears from your throat as you double over, your body folding in on itself before you can stop it. Your hands fly to your head, fingers digging into the skin of your temples as your eyes squeeze shut against the pounding agony.

“I only speak the truth. I am eternal, and your defiance is inconvenient. Remember, human: if I wish to, I could bend you into nothingness before your heart finishes its next beat.”

The temperature of the room drops below zero. Biting cold wraps around you so viciously that it feels as though warmth has been erased from existence.

A violent shiver runs through you, and your arms promptly fold around your torso in a futile attempt to make yourself smaller, safer, somehow less exposed to its wrath.

The threat itself should sound ridiculous, the sort of thing a comic book villain would say before getting punched through a building. Yet what frightens you is the certainty burning bright beneath its voice.

There is no anger, no urge to convince you.

An uncomfortable, deafening silence settles over the room, until the voice comes back quieter—almost timid.

“I have frightened you. That was not my intent.” It sighs wearily. “Your fear is bitter. Forgive me. I often forget how small your hearts are, how fragile your existence can be.”

The cold begins to retreat, slowly loosening its grip on your body until you can feel your fingers again. The pressure squeezing your throat eases with it, and you quickly draw in a breath, gasping as if you have been forced under water.

You don’t answer. Instead your eyes close briefly, and inside your head you keep repeating that this is only a dream.

It has to be.

Dreams can be terrifying.

Dreams can feel real.

Dreams can make absolutely no sense whatsoever.

“I apologize. I am not used to... converse with humans.”

The explanation is absurd. Completely ridiculous. Sure, people do that too. They make themselves louder—hostile, more intimidating. They show their teeth because they are afraid they are going to get bitten first.

And it’s difficult to be terrified of something while simultaneously understanding it.

“I would not harm another being, unless strictly necessary. Like Tony.”

There is a beat of silence after that, the kind that feels like waiting for a clarification.

Your eyelids slowly flutter open.

“Tony?” Your brows furrow in confusion.

“Yes.”

Your stomach drops. “I—Tony is my boss.”

“I am aware.”

That answer does absolutely nothing to make you feel better. Still, a weak, tired chuckle falls from your lips, the sound still sitting on the edge of disbelief.

“Well,” your voice wavers. “Next time you want to show off, try to be a little more polite.”

There is a pause that lasts just long enough to feel like the conversation might actually end there.

“I will…” It rumbles. “Little star.”

You blink.

For a moment you genuinely wonder whether you heard it correctly. Of all the things it could have said, that had not even crossed your mind as a possibility.

“What?” You ask uncertainly.

“You are smaller than me,” it starts calmly. “And you shine the brightest when surrounded by darkness.”

The words hit you like a punch in the stomach, because that name feels like it was always meant for you—like this weird creature has spent some unknowable amount of time observing the universe and reached the conclusion that you deserved your own little place inside it.

“And you just… decided to call me that?” You say slowly, staring blankly at the wall.

“Yes.”

The answer arrives with complete confidence.

Your eyes scan the space again: the walls are still the same walls, the furniture remains exactly where you left it, the front door is only a few feet away if you decide to make a run for it. However, now there is also the crushing knowledge that you have never been truly alone in what you considered your safe haven.

And yet, despite the trembling in your hands and the excruciating headache, the apartment has never felt this warm.

After that night, the voice doesn’t appear on a schedule you can trace, and it doesn’t behave like something that interrupts your life so much as something that exists alongside you, its presence filling the apartment as naturally as sunlight through an open window.

Eventually you resign yourself to the fact that if this is real, then it has always been real. The Entity has existed somewhere beyond the edges of your perception all along, tucked into the shadows while you moved through your life unaware.

You are not discovering something new. You are simply learning how to share your home with a creature whose ego is, unfortunately, backed by evidence.

Strangely, that realization no longer feels like you’re losing your sanity. Every appearance still sends a jolt through you though, even when you start anticipating it. The jolts finally become sighs, the sighs fade into pauses... And then, somehow, they turn into full conversations.

“Allow me to intervene.”

The words emerge from nowhere and everywhere at once, threading themselves through the sound of running water.

Your reaction is slower than it would have been a month ago.

Pausing with a glass still slippery beneath layers of soap, you glance at the counter.

A deep exhale escapes your nose. “That’s not what I meant when I said Pierce should stop being an asshole.”

The silence that follows feels thoughtful.

“He deserves it.” The voice answers.

The certainty in its tone immediately tells you that this conversation is going to leave you with a migraine.

You calmly set the glass aside and reach for another.

“No, he doesn’t.”

“He repeatedly enters the apartments without warning despite causing distress to their occupants. He ignores maintenance requests. He collects rent while refusing to fix anything. He is unpleasant.” It growls at last.

You stare at the sink deadpan, because the worst part is that none of those observations are technically wrong.

“You still don’t get to decide what happens to my landlord.”

“You have developed a habit of assuming the worst about me, little star.” The response almost sounds offended.

“Last week you said you could fold the mail carrier into another dimension because he bent one of my packages.”

“He damaged your property.”

“He dropped a box.” You remark annoyed.

“He damaged your property.” It repeats, louder.

Your eyes close, and for a moment you simply stand there with your hands submerged in warm water, wondering whether anyone else in human history has ever had to explain proportional responses to a cosmic entity living inside their apartment walls.

“You can’t solve everything with violence.”

“At least my ways are effective.”

The tone is so childish that something dangerously close to a laugh threatens to escape you. You barely suppress it, unwilling to give the Entity the satisfaction.

The last thing you want is to encourage it.

“You’re missing the point.” You sigh.

“And he is disruptive.” It retorts, returning to the original topic with persistence. “I remove disruption.”

A month ago, that statement would have sent ice flooding through your veins, now it makes you tired. Concerned, certainly; still mildly horrified. But mostly tired.

You noticed pretty soon that the creature inhabiting the darkness has apparently divided existence into two simple categories: things that bring you comfort, and things that do not.

And whenever something falls into the second category, it immediately begins offering solutions.

Usually terrible ones.

You still can’t fully comprehend what it is, yet you don’t reject it anymore, choosing instead to adjust yourself around it the same way people learn to coexist with eccentric roommates, noisy plumbing, or old neighbors with weird habits. But speaking more carefully than you used to has become necessary. Not because you are afraid of being overheard—you passed that stage weeks ago—but because the Entity is always listening, hungrily waiting for the slightest excuse to make itself useful.

The first time you muttered that a coworker was making you want to disappear, it was so concerned that it spent twenty minutes trying to understand whether your desire to “cease existing” was metaphorical or literal. Then you made the mistake of joking about your neighbor’s barking dog, and it calmly informed you that silence could be arranged...

Spending hours explaining hyperbole to a being older than galaxies had not gone particularly well, so now you think twice before speaking. You also complain less dramatically, avoid idle threats, and clarify statements before they can be interpreted as instructions.

In addition to not knowing how metaphors work, it becomes clear that the Entity also doesn’t understand the concept of privacy. Or perhaps it understands it perfectly well and simply sees no reason to respect it.

You are still trying to determine which possibility is worse.

Thursday has been peaceful so far. Tony hasn’t started any new scandal that requires damage control, and your landlord hasn’t called asking for money to deal with the umpteenth gas leak.

Yet by the time you finally make it home, exhaustion sits heavily in your muscles—the kind that accumulates steadily over hours spent hunched over a desk, attending meetings that should not exist and dealing with your boss’ particular talent for creating problems out of nothing.

The apartment is quiet when you step inside.

After abandoning your heels somewhere near the entrance, you drag yourself to the bedroom with the same determination of someone whose social battery has been completely annihilated. All you want is to change into something comfortable, eat whatever requires the least amount of effort to prepare, and spend the rest of the evening watching some trashy reality show.

The peaceful silence follows you as you set your bag on the floor and begin pulling your blouse over your head.

“This level of exhaustion is unacceptable.”

A startled yelp escapes your lips as you jerk backwards, immediately yanking the blouse back down.

For one humiliating moment, you are left standing in the middle of the room, tangled in fabric and staring at absolutely nothing.

“Jesus Christ.” Your hand presses against your sternum.

The apartment remains perfectly calm.

“You scared me.”

“I did not intend to.”

“Yeah, I know.” You let out a weary sigh. “You never intend to.”

Finally pulling the blouse off, you throw it toward the laundry basket with significantly more force than necessary.

The Entity says nothing for what feels like forever, so your eyes narrow at a random corner.

“Were you just... watching me?”

The question leaves your mouth before you can stop it, and the silence that follows stretches long enough to make you squirm uncomfortably.

“You returned home forty-three minutes later than usual. You removed your shoes after entering, yet consumed no food despite having done so at the same time during the last three days. And your shoulders have remained incredibly tense since you arrived.”

You promptly let your shoulder relax, suddenly self-conscious of your posture.

“That wasn’t an answer.”

“It is.” The creature sounds genuinely puzzled. “You asked whether I was observing you.”

Technically, that’s a logical answer to your question, but it doesn’t make having a pair of monstrous eyes tracking your every movement with unwavering attention any less unsettling.

“You really keep track of all that?” You eventually ask, almost shyly.

“My attention is always upon you.”

The response arrives with such simple certainty that it makes the next words die on your tongue, leaving you frozen in the middle of your bedroom.

This thing has existed for an amount of time you cannot begin to comprehend. It notices things. It remembers things. It pays attention in a way that humans generally do not.

The reminder sends a strange heat crawling beneath your skin, and suddenly you are being hit with a feeling of disquiet at being so exposed.

“He should not be allowed to exhaust you like this.”

“No.” It falls from your lips before the conversation can continue.

“No?”

“No. Whatever you’re thinking, the answer is no.”

“You cannot know what I am thinking.”

“Oh yeah? So it has nothing to do with taking care of Tony?” You mock its gravelly voice.

Another pause.

“You know me so well.” It sounds almost pleased.

Sinking onto the edge of the bed, you rub a hand over your face.

“Please, stop trying to find a reason to kill my boss.”

“I was not offering to kill him.”

Relief immediately floods your chest.

“Oh.” You tilt your head, positively surprised.

Maybe all those evenings spent teaching the Entity how to behave more like a human and less like one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse are finally paying off.

“I would only harm him.”

Your face falls instantly.

“Oh my God, stop it!”

“It is significantly better.”

“No.”

“It is objectively better.”

You let out a long groan and cover your face with both hands.

“Why do you always bring him up?”

“I was simply stating an observation.”

You scoff, removing your jewelry with far more energy than the action itself requires. “You always make observations right before suggesting violence.”

“I do not always suggest violence.”

The statement is delivered with enough dignity that you almost believe it.

Almost.

“You suggested throwing an officer into the ocean because he gave me a ticket.”

“He was incorrect.”

Your eyes close in irritation. “You suggested relocating my upstairs neighbor because she vacuumed once at six in the morning.”

“Sunday is the only day you are permitted to sleep in.”

“You spent three days trying to convince me my internet provider is a hostile entity.” Your voice gradually rises, and the apartment slips into complete silence.

“Little star,” the Entity starts slowly. “The service they provide is unacceptable.”

You curse the day you decided to explain how the internet and phones work to this relentless, stubborn creature.

“That’s not the point.” You say through clenched teeth.

The room grows quiet again, as though it is genuinely attempting to understand something that refuses to fit within its understanding of reality.

When it speaks again, the question sounds sincere.

“Why is Tony different?”

You let your head fall back with a sigh.

As much as its insistence and anger management issues drive you insane, you always need to remind yourself it truly wants to understand how your mind works.

“He isn’t different,” the words are no louder than a murmur, your body sagging slightly as irritation drains away. “People are just allowed to be annoying. That’s part of the human experience.”

You can practically feel the disagreement radiating off the walls.

“That seems inefficient.” It frets.

A chuckle escapes you before you can stop it, still low but entirely genuine.

“Maybe it is.” You shrug.

“You dedicate a surprising degree of creativity to insulting him.”

“Because he frustrates me.”

“He makes you unhappy.”

“Hm, sometimes.” You nod.

“He increases your stress.”

“Yes.”

“You dread interacting with him.”

You hesitate for a second. “Well, only when he sends me to drag angry women out of his penthouse.”

“Then I fail to understand why removing the problem is unacceptable.”

There it is—the same impossible logic it always returns to.

Everything else stops mattering the moment it involves you, so when something upsets you, it should be immediately addressed. The conclusion is predictable by now: anything causing you discomfort simply shouldn’t be allowed to continue existing. That’s the entire structure of its reasoning, there is no room for improvement or compromise.

For a few seconds neither of you speaks.

Then, very carefully, as though explaining something to a particularly intelligent but catastrophically misguided dog, “Harming my boss won’t fix my anxiety. And you can’t split people into categories based on whether they annoy me or not.”

The silence lingers, but you have learned enough about the creature by now to recognize when it is really considering your words.

“There are additional categories?”

This time you cannot help it—you burst out laughing, the sound immediately brightening the room, loud and alive.

“Yes, you silly creature.” You breathe out, still smiling. “There are additional categories.”

Somewhere within the walls, the Entity appears to spend the rest of the night reevaluating its understanding of interpersonal conflict. You are not entirely sure the lesson will stick. Still, it feels like progress.

When your eyes snap open, the frantic pounding of your heartbeat is the only thing you can hear. You find yourself disoriented, small but stubborn fragments of the nightmare still clinging to you.

There was a corridor that seemed to stretch forever, doors opening one after another into empty darkness, and the overwhelming certainty that something was following just out of sight. The details fade almost immediately, but the fear lingers heavy in your chest.

“You are not alone.”

The rumbling voice cuts through the eerie silence out of nowhere, nearly making you jump out of your skin.

Your body goes completely still as for one awful second, fantasy and reality blur together. Then, fear shifts into exasperation so quickly it makes you faintly nauseous.

“It was a dream.” You whisper, pressing a hand over your eyes.

“Yes.” The answer comes immediately.

You let out a long breath, instinctively reaching for the lamp on your nightstand. Light has always helped after bad dreams. It gives your eyes something solid to land on so you can breathe a little easier; something ordinary enough to remind you that whatever was chasing you belonged to the deepest pits of your unconsciousness.

Before your fingers can touch the switch though, the temperature in the room drops slightly and the lamp clicks on by itself. You stare at it blankly, before glancing up at the ceiling.

“Have you been in my bedroom this whole time?” 

When the answer arrives, it carries a note of confusion.

“I am always with you.”

You instinctively pull the sheets closer around yourself.

“Hm, not really comforting.”

“I simply illuminated the room.”

“That’s not what I was talking about.” The words come out feebly, as though they were meant just for you.

The pensive silence that follows suggests it is trying to work out what you meant anyway. Eventually, it steers the conversation towards something it deems far more important than your discomfort with its incessant hovering.

“You were in distress.”

A chill crawls across your skin despite the warmth of the blankets.

“It was just a dream.” You dismiss as your eyes drop to your quilt.

“You have experienced similar dreams repeatedly.”

“What do you mean repeatedly?” You instantly look up.

“You have experienced seven variations of the same fear pattern within the last month.”

You frown at the wall in front of you.

“You remember them all?”

“Of course.”

You are not entirely sure what unsettles you more: the fact that the Entity has somehow found its way into your dreams, or the fact that it has categorized them so analytically.

“It was a nightmare.” You swallow eventually.

“Yes.”

“But you don’t have to do anything about it.”

“I disagree.”

Of course it does.

You rub your eyes in exhaustion. “Everyone has nightmares once in a while.”

“You are not everyone. I do not care about everyone.” The word is thrown out in disgust. “And you were terrified, that’s enough for me to intervene.”

Your head falls back against the headrest with a dull noise. “It wasn’t real.”

“It still scared you.” It insists.

The simple logic of the statement irritates you, because there is no easy way to argue with it. The distinction between reality and dreams seems irrelevant to a higher entity—fear is still fear.

“What was chasing you?”

You immediately regret answering any questions at all, hoping that lying on your side will implicitly communicate the conversation is over.

“Nothing.”

“What was behind the door?”

“Nothing.”

“Your heartbeat was dangerously fast when you remembered.”

You pull the blanket higher and settle deeper into the mattress, ready to ignore it.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to me.”

The response is so quick your eyelids flutter open again.

The Entity releases a sigh. “You return home exhausted. You experience distress during sleep, and it lingers long after you wake up. I do not understand why you continue insisting these things are insignificant.”

The sincerity behind its words makes it unexpectedly difficult to swallow.

You know it’s not asking out of curiosity, or to eventually use your own fears against you for some hidden purpose. It genuinely cares about you, but not in any way that gives you space from it. Its attention doesn’t arrive and withdraw; it persists, clinging to you with a kind of obsessive inevitability. It feels less like being observed and more like being suffocated—a desperate grip around your throat that won’t loosen even when you need oxygen.

That attention has begun to register as pressure inside your nervous system, a second current running beneath your own reactions. As though something inside the process is already anticipating where you will move, what you will feel, what will unsettle you... and meeting you halfway.

Under the apparent reverence lies something far more obstinate: a deep, unwavering hunger to reach past what you can recognize as yourself. It follows you beneath language, control, into the parts of you where emotion arises before it becomes yours to name—until even the boundary between what you truly feel and what you want to show is blurred.

“Because not everything needs to be fixed.” You ultimately sigh.

“Why?”

Your eyes close in resignation at the question that the Entity keeps asking since manifesting itself to you. It sounds so plain and obvious until you try to look for an answer that actually makes sense, devoid of useless excuses.

“Because sometimes people are just tired, and that can cause bad dreams. It’s called stress and it’s normal.”

The quiet that follows stretches long enough that you hope the conversation has finally reached an end.

“What was behind the door?”

You let out a groan. “Jesus Christ.”

“Little star—”

“Goodnight.” You exclaim loudly enough to cut directly across whatever question was coming next.

Several seconds pass and your body gradually melts against the mattress, your chest finally deflating with a relieved sigh.

“Goodnight.”

A pause follows.

“I am always here. You may inform me if the dream returns.”

You bury your face deeper into the pillow.

“I won’t.” It comes out muffled.

“I would still like to know.”

You gesture blindly toward the ceiling.

“Goodnight.”

The lamp switches itself off.

Several days pass after the nightmare conversation without incident, which should probably be reassuring. Instead, it leaves you vaguely suspicious, because you have already learned that silence doesn’t necessarily mean absence. More often than not, it simply means the Entity has decided to not comment on whatever it is currently observing.

You are cooking dinner when it manifests. Or well, attempting to cook dinner, which is definitely not the same thing. The recipe is open on your phone, and the ingredients are technically correct. Whether the final result will be edible remains a question for the future.

The water has finally begun to boil and you are standing in front of the stove trying to remember whether the smoked salmon goes in before or after the tomato sauce, when the familiar baritone drifts through the kitchen as if commenting on the weather.

“You should not consume that.” It throws off-handedly.

You stop stirring altogether, your eyes still fixed on the sauce before slowly turning to the empty kitchen.

“What?”

“The nutritional value is poor.”

You can only blink. Being criticized by an ancient being for your dinner choices... Not everyone gets to put that on their résumé

“You don’t even eat.”

“Correct.”

“Then how do you know what’s good for me?” You squint.

“I have observed your species.”

The spoon returns to the pan and you continue stirring, determined to not encourage it. Unfortunately, that strategy stopped working after the third day.

“You consume insufficient vegetables.”

A sigh escapes you. “Stop.”

“It is the truth.”

“We’re not having this discussion now.”

“You purchased zucchini and carrots three days ago and have yet to consume them.”

Your wrist stills. Scarily slowly, you lower the utensil onto the spoon rest, and look at the wall with challenge burning hot in your eyes.

“You know what’s concerning about that sentence?” You cross your arms to your chest.

“The fact that you know when I bought them.”

“You not consuming the vegetables.” It speaks over you.

“Oh my God,” you snap as you sharply turn toward the empty kitchen. “Are you my roommate and nutritionist now?”

Silence follows, and you hope it has finally run out of opinions.

“Roommate is… acceptable classification.”

You freeze at its reply, because it suddenly dawns on you the mistake you just made. You decide to play it cool though, and turn back to the pan to resume stirring, your movements now a little more sluggish than before.

“That wasn’t an invitation.” You mumble after a while.

No response comes. At least, not verbally. The flame beneath the pan flares a little higher before settling again, not enough to affect the cooking but just enough to feel deliberate.

You frown at it, annoyed that this Lord of the Darkness-wannabe apparently considers itself a member of the household now.

“You should also sleep more.”

Your shoulders slump in defeat.

The conversation had been going so well.

“I sleep plenty.”

“You averaged five hours and forty-one minutes over the last seven days.”

The spoon nearly slips from your hand.

“Stop tracking my sleeping habits!” Your voice drips with indignation. 

“You are tired.” It retorts at once. “Tired humans make poorer dietary decisions.”

“Who isn’t in this day and age?”

“Well, you are more tired than most people.” It barks back, agitated.

You are beginning to suspect that the Entity’s only hobby is monitoring your wellbeing with a level of dedication that borders on the absurd—and absolutely no sense of when to mind its own business.

Maybe you should introduce it to birdwatching next.

It becomes obvious that it also reacts to the people surrounding you. Not in anything you could immediately point to as proof, but small inconveniences cluster around certain names, voices, intrusions that are not physically present in the apartment and yet somehow seem to have been catalogued all the same.

At first you tell yourself it must be a series of coincidences.

A delayed train to go back home for Thanksgiving, forcing you to text your family that you won’t make it. A rooftop bar reservation that gets cancelled just as you’re getting ready to leave—the kind of place you were going to with old friends who insisted it was “important to catch up properly.” Plans with people you actually like quietly unraveling at the edges, and conversations turning into vague reschedules that never settle into anything concrete, leaving your evenings empty at home.

The pattern becomes harder to ignore.

You finally connect the dots thanks to Steve.

You’ve been seeing each other for a few weeks, nothing serious yet, though that feels less and less accurate when your evenings keep turning into phone calls that stretch far longer than either of you originally intended.

It’s late in the afternoon and you are talking to him while tidying the living room, the conversation drifting easily as you gradually stop dusting and end up leaning against the couch, your cheeks hurting from how much you have been smiling.

It’s easy with someone as sweet and kind as Steve. You always feel a little lighter after spending time with him.

Perhaps that’s why he becomes an obstacle to remove.

“... and then she told me I should apologize to her cat.”

You chuckle. “What? Why?”

“Apparently me stating I have a dog offended him.”

After your laugh fades, your mouth parts to answer with a story of your own about disastrous first dates, when the call abruptly ends.

It doesn’t crackle, it simply cuts off. One moment Steve is speaking, the next there is silence.

You check the screen with astonishment written all over your face, and sure enough there is only your wallpaper staring back at you.

Your stomach twists with a familiar, uncomfortable feeling.

Slowly, you lower the phone, and that’s when it registers that the apartment has been quiet for a while.

Too quiet.

“That boy is annoying.”

Your brow lifts skeptically. Steve Rogers is many things, but “boy” is definitely not the first word that comes to mind when talking about him. The man has shoulders that deserve their own zip code.

You huff out a weary breath. “What did you do?”

“I ended the interaction.”

The answer is tinted with poorly concealed smugness, not a single attempt to hide what it has done—and it’s that stupid brashness wrapped in the arrogant conviction of always being right, that makes fury flare in your chest.

Your grip tightens around your phone.

“I noticed.” You smile caustically. “Care are to explain why?”

“The call had continued long beyond necessity.”

The scoff leaves your mouth before you can stop it. “Since when do you decide what is necessary in my relationships?”

“The puny human was occupying your attention.”

“We were having a conversation.” You state tartly.

“You have many conversations.”

“So what?”

“They occur too frequently.”

You blink at the wall, utterly flabbergasted by its impudence.

“Are you kidding me?” You chuckle drily, no traces of humor in it. “You were jealous of Steve and—and your solution was to violate my privacy and go through my fucking phone?”

Your arms rise in a gesture of helpless disbelief, only to drop again by your sides a second later. “What are you? Six?”

“He occupies a disproportionate amount of your time.”

“I like him.” You fire back.

“He is temporary.”

The answer is a roar that makes you flinch. Irritation evaporates, leaving behind a cold, hollow feeling beneath your ribs.

“What did you just say?” Your voice comes out quieter than you intended.

“He is temporary.” The Entity repeats calmly this time, as if the statement has already been settled rather than offered for discussion. “You have known him for weeks.”

There is a brief pause before it continues—still unhurried, still confident in its presumption.

“I have known you longer.”

The words are final in a way that doesn’t invite contradiction.

The dreadful realization that this fragile boundary between you had been crumbling day after day without you noticing makes it impossible to keep your voice steady.

“You don’t get to decide who matters to me.”

The apartment shifts—not physically, or visibly—but it feels like the air has suddenly reoriented toward the sound of your voice.

“I do not decide who matters to you.” 

A pause follows, strategic.

“I only decide what enters my domain.”

The apartment is not a place it inhabits, but a condition that defines what can be present within it. And for the first time, the implication is not about Steve at all, or any of the other people the Entity has quietly pushed to the edges of your life.

It’s about you.

“This apartment is not your domain.” You swallow, forcing the trembling out of your words.

“It contains you.”

Your stomach churns so harshly you feel like vomiting at how completely unremarkable the Entity seems to find that statement.

There is something profoundly unsettling about its inability to separate you from the spaces you occupy, the people you interact with, or the things that demand your attention. Everything collapses into the same category in its reasoning, tied together by the simple fact that it exists in relation to you, and therefore falls under the quiet assumption that it has the right to interfere.

And judging by the calm confidence in its voice, it’s a belief that has been festering in the background for a very long time, undisturbed. As though the boundary between what it assumes and what you are has never been particularly solid to begin with.

Your grip on the phone hardens until your fingers ache against its hard edges.

“You can’t sabotage every relationship I have.” 

“That assumes they were ever stable to begin with.”

There was never anything meaningful enough to protect in the first place, only shifting connections that held or failed on their own terms. And yet your life still feels as though it has been reshaped so nothing ever keeps you away for long, every little detail arranged so the roots of its sick devotion sink deeper and deeper into your existence until eventually you’ll stop leaving entirely.

You are living your days bounded by a mere, temporary concession of freedom. The Entity has already gathered what serves its purpose.

The rest is nothing but a speck of dust meant to aimlessly wander across the vastness of the universe.

It’s a system that you reject but now find yourself placed inside regardless. The center of it all.

It’s the day Wanda comes over that you really understand how deep the Entity’s visceral attachment to you goes.

Your friend comes over on a Saturday afternoon after several weeks of failed attempts to meet up. The visit is long overdue, and you spend most of it moving between rooms while talking about work, mutual friends’ life updates, and whatever gossip has accumulated since the last time you saw each other.

For the first hour everything feels normal enough that you almost forget about the presence woven through the concrete. You are halfway through making coffee when the conversation stops abruptly. At first you assume Wanda is checking her phone, but the silence stretches for far too long.

When you step out of the kitchen, you find her standing near the entrance with an expression you cannot immediately identify.

She is confused, almost distracted—the way people look when they walk into a room with purpose only to forget why.

“Wanda?”

She blinks as if woken up by a dream, instantly meeting your worried gaze.

“Hm?”

You frown. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” The answer comes a little too quickly as she nods frantically.

Her gaze drifts upward again, lingering on the ceiling for a moment before returning to you.

She titters as she lightly shakes her head. “This is going to sound stupid.”

An unpleasant sensation tugs at your chest.

“What is?”

Wanda’s lips open and close once, as if something is holding her back.

“Do you ever feel like someone’s… watching you?”

For a second your heart forgets how to beat, but you eventually manage a strangled laugh.

“No?” The word sounds more like a question than an answer.

“It’s not bad,” she clarifies apprehensively. “I don’t know how to explain it. It just feels like…” She trails off, shrugging at last. “Like there’s someone else here.”

You stare at her and Wanda stares back for a quiet, uncomfortable minute, before her eyes briefly land on the cups waiting on the table, and everything is forgotten.

But your friend’s laugh is less loud, shorter. Her attention keeps wandering, and more than once you catch her glancing at empty corners as though she expects something to be standing there.

Eventually she leaves nearly an hour earlier than planned.

The excuse she gives you sounds legitimate. The timing does not.

You stand on the threshold long after she disappears down the hallway before closing the door, your forehead briefly touching the wooden surface as you let out a tired sigh.

An unnatural silence settles over the apartment.

“You dislike her.”

You roll your eyes, straightening up. “You’re slipping. Wanda is one of my closest friends.” 

“Your interactions are infrequent.”

“We’ve known each other for eight years,” you reply promptly, a faint edge to your voice now. “We don’t need to talk every day for our friendship to be real.”

The Entity’s voice is pensive. “She occupies little of your time.”

“That’s not how friendship works.” You huff, busying yourself with the dirty cups on the table.

“Proximity is important.” 

You let out a short, disbelieving breath.

“Friendship isn’t defined by how often someone is physically or temporally close to me.”

“Yours is an inconsistent system, then.” It concludes and you let the cups fall into the sink.

“What exactly is your criteria for liking people?” This time the question is not tinted with accusation so much as worn down into something closer to fatigue. You turn around, this time directly staring at the wall.

Arguing definitions with something that doesn’t operate like a human being is starting to feel pointless.

The answer takes longer this time.

“Not believing in the arrogant presumption that they could take you away from me. The delusion that something so small, so transient, could ever lay claim to what is mine is preposterous.” It states at last.

In some distant, irrational corner of your mind, the statement feels familiar enough to not shock you anymore. But the clinical insolence, and how effortlessly it believes it never had to ask for the right to make such a claim, is revolting.

It simply exists in it the way breath exists in you, natural and unquestioned.

You exhale sharply, jaw tightening as your teeth press hard enough to ache.

“And what makes you think you have any claim over me at all?” The words come out strained, held together by effort rather than control.

The silence that follows presses into your skin like the walls have leaned in a fraction closer.

The answer has always been in front of you. It’s only a matter of when you will surrender to it.

Some tv series you picked up days ago and barely remember choosing plays in the background, the voices rising and falling should be comforting, but their rhythm isn’t quite landing anywhere inside you. You keep your gaze on the scene out of habit, as if attention alone might eventually turn into engagement.

You have been repeating that to yourself for almost two hours.

You shift on the couch once, then again almost immediately after. Your shoulders settle, then lift. Your back presses into the cushions and then pulls away, searching for a version of contact that actually feels like it belongs to you.

Everything is technically fine—the room is warm, the couch is soft, the apartment quiet except for the television—but your skin feels strangely hot, too aware of itself, like it can’t stop registering the absence of something your brain refuses to name directly.

You cross your arms loosely, then uncross them again just to feel something brush against your hardened nipples under your camisole. The strong urge to have something hard and definite pressed against your body instead of this drifting tension that never fully resolves is driving you mad.

Your thighs press together without much thought—a slow, instinctive squeeze that makes your breath hitch when you remember you haven’t worn anything underneath in hopes of getting some stimulation against your clit. It ends up being a useless attempt to soothe the arousal, because it only sharpens the need to take care of the ache.

You let your leg bounce once against the couch cushion, then still it, then start again a moment later.

The Entity has altered your life completely. Privacy is no longer a clean boundary, but something porous that breathes back. It has turned upside-down the way you exist inside your own space, despite your earlier belief that you could simply ignore it and carry on as usual.

Some nights the fire licking at your insides becomes too unbearable, but a part of you keeps pulling back at the last second—the sole idea of being fully exposed to its monstrous eyes while having a dildo plunging in and out of your pussy makes your guts contort with shame.

Your mental health is on the line, because it leaves you suspended in this strange, unnerving state—restless, alert, but never fully grounded in anything else.

So your body keeps searching for relief in innocent motions.

You shift again, sinking deeper into the couch, then slide slightly forward. One arm presses into your side and your breath catches once, shallow and unexpected.

The television continues without caring whether you’re following it or not. A scene changes. A line of dialogue lands but leaves no imprint.

After a while, you stop trying.

Your attention slips away from the screen entirely.

Your hand instinctively reaches for your phone on the coffee table, and the cushions dip as you shift your weight again, abandoning any effort at sitting properly. You lie down, hoping to find a little comfort in a less rigid position.

One leg lifts and settles over the back of the couch while the other bends a little, enough to plant your foot securely on the soft cushions.

Instagram feeds you fragments of other people’s lives: house tours, obnoxious laughter, delicious recipes, cleaning reels, captions you don’t read all the way through. Your thumb moves without thinking, pulling you further down the stream.

For a few seconds, it seems to work, granting you some sort of reprieve, until a sharp gasp claws out of your throat.

The room sinks into darkness as the TV screen goes back, but the shock is soon replaced by a thrill of fear as something unfamiliar brushes your ankle. It’s a slick, cold contact that makes you flinch violently. When you look down, your vision catches on movement that doesn’t belong in the geometry of the room, emerging from beneath the couch as if the floor itself has opened to grant it access.

Your limbs stay frozen as oxygen gets stuck in your throat. Your eyes lock on the tentacle, wide and unblinking, because looking away means potentially giving it the chance to attack you.

Your voice is shaking with worry when you decide to ask for help.

“Please tell me this your doing.”

The Entity answers immediately, the sound not arriving from any clear direction.

“Yes, that is mine. You do not need to worry.”

Your shoulders relax at once.

“What the hell happened to you?” You frown, because your brain reaches for the closest thing it can tolerate, even if it makes no sense. “Did you turn into the kraken all of a sudden?”

The subtle recoil from the tentacle somehow reads as disdain.

“That insignificant squid with delusions of grandeur?” It growls, voice dripping with contempt. “Don’t lump me with that drooling, crude imitation ever again.”

Despite the shock still lingering, you snicker at the pure pique in its words.

You hum, shaking your head slightly. “My bad, Squidward.”

With a loud squeal, you find yourself dragged down until you’re fully lying on your back again, this time both of your thighs bent and spread open by two tentacles tightly wrapped around your ankles that keep you still and exposed.

“Quiet.”

Your heartbeat rings loudly in your ears. “Not my fault you decided to go all octopus on me.” You choke out, a mix of excitement and anticipation swirling wildly in your lower belly.

“That is because I know you enjoy it.”

Oh, you knew that tentacle-shaped dildo in the back of your closet would come back to bite you in the ass some day.

“Okay!” You loudly draw the word out, already feeling a familiar heat crawl up your neck. “Care to explain what exactly is going on?”

“You are not stable.”

Your left eyebrow lifts in perplexity at the ceiling. “Excuse me?”

“I feel your restlessness.” It hums. “It gets stronger day after day. Something is bothering you.”

You frown. “So?”

“I know what it is that makes you fidget like a little, frightened bunny.” Your eyes widen. “And I can help you.”

That earns it a short, disbelieving chortle.

“Jesus Christ,” you drag a hand over your face. “Okay, I—I can’t believe I’m really going to say it.” You mutter to yourself.

“Whatever, okay. Let’s see what you got, big guy, since you apparently have all the answers—oh.”

Two other tentacles peek out from under the couch, thicker than the ones wrapped around your ankles. You can’t really tell their color—perhaps a shade close to dark teal, bordering on black—the only source of light being the moon shining through the open curtains and the weak glow of the city lights in the distance.

Surely, being spread open by your filthiest fantasy is not helping you keep a clear head. 

The two curious appendages stop by your stomach to kiss the soft skin with gentle caresses through the flimsy fabric of your camisole.

Your breath catches in your throat when the tips teasingly graze your turgid nubs, but before a pathetic plea can fall from your lips, they wrap around your wrists to slowly guide both arms over your head. Their hold is firm but not brutish as they keep them anchored against the cushion.

“What—” The word fades into a soft gasp as two thinner tentacles slide up your legs before trailing under the hem of your camisole.

“You constantly squeeze your thighs. I am simply helping you soothe the ache.”

Your eyes roll back at the simple yet suggestive explanation, your mouth forming a perfect circle as each one of the appendages finally takes hold of your breasts, their tips flicking your already erected nipples with slow, sensual motions.

“You are… delightful to touch.”

“Thanks?” You frown in mild confusion, already panting from the playful contacts against your tits.

“And beautiful.” It contemplates almost absently. “For a puny human, you have a stunning body.”

“You sure know how to woo a girl.” You answer drily, huffing out a strained chuckle. 

“I apologize. I am not quite acquainted with this.”

“This as in… ?” 

“Sex.”

Your eyes widen, before a sly smirk brightens your features. “Are you saying that me—a lowly, puny human—is going to take the big, mean kraken’s virginity?”

“Stop associating me with that unintelligent abomination!” The voice roars disgusted, a new tentacle lightly smacking your thigh. “I am a cosmic entity. And sex is a foreign concept to us: we do not reproduce, nor feel the need to pleasure ourselves.”

Your witty answer falls short when small, hard suction cups graze your clit through the light fabric of your shorts. The movement prompts you to thrust your hips up, and the tentacle responds in earnest, steadying itself to allow you to hump its surface as more tentacles slither up to rub your hips.

It exhales shakily. “I would like to see it.”

“Hm?” You moan quietly, too lost into the heavenly, throbbing sensation in your core to pay attention.

“This curious, warm spot.” The tentacle against your clit twitches. “Your hidden treasure. Its smell is celestial whenever you wake up sweaty and whimpering in the middle of the night, my little star. Did you know that? Did you know how hard it is to ignore your pretty, little cries?”

You whimper at the raw need in its voice. “You mean my pussy? I’m all yours, honey.”

It seems to appreciate your answer since the tentacles restraining your limbs immediately tighten their hold on you.

“Your clothes are in the way.”

“Let go of my wrists for a s—” The sound of fabric tearing leaves you gaping. 

When you glance down, you immediately catch two thick tentacles releasing the ruined fabric of your camisole. It now hangs pathetically by the short sleeves around your shoulders. The appendages already teasing your breasts can finally move across your naked chest, patiently yet freely. You can’t prevent the loud moan that claws out of your throat at the lewd sight of those two slimy limbs wrapped around your tits, prompting you to push your chest into their touch. 

You toss your head back when the suction cups finally attach themselves to your nubs, steadily sucking on it. It’s not entirely similar to a human mouth, not only because of the texture borders on rubbery, but also because of their colder temperature that feels surprisingly pleasant against your stiff nipples.

A string of wanton sounds falls from your parted lips as they alternate gentle strokes to playful, harsher tugs that leave you gasping for more.

“May I?” It strains out, two tentacles slightly pulling at the hem of your shorts.

“Please.” You moan.

With a mere tug, the sides of your bottoms rip into two perfect halves, and the fabric is abandoned under your ass. 

The tentacles holding your ankles finally spread your legs wider with an enthusiastic pull as every limit has finally been annihilated.

“Oh.”

You giggle at the amazed tilt in its voice. 

“I have never seen anything like this before.”

You jolt as the cold tips of two thin, smaller tentacles unexpectedly brush against your inner thighs, lazily sliding forward until they take hold of your folds, parting them delicately as if afraid you might break.

“Your pussy is very pretty” It hums. “It is glistening.”

“Thank you.” You breathe out, still squirming at the stinging sensation of the tentacles playing with your chest.

Silence engulfs the space as the Entity stills you completely, admiring the way your core shines beautifully with the mess you made with your slick. The tentacles still trace your folds leisurely, enjoying the smooth, wet texture.

At some point, they start toying with your hole, letting their tip slowly breach it only for the creature to marvel at how it flutters in response. Furthering its inspection, the tip of an appendage kisses your clit, using some of your slick to get your nub wet.

You gasp as it rubs your arousal through your folds with slight pressure, prompting the Entity to release a low, unconscious hum. It is more than satisfied with the sloppy sounds that bounce off the walls along with your hushed whimpers.

As the strokes of its tentacles turn more intense, the urge to feel it inside you becomes utterly oppressive. You don’t know if it is trying to tease you relentlessly, or perhaps if the curiosity it feels towards your body is genuine, wishing to take its time to study your reactions—from your cute sounds to the way you tense and squirm under its tender touches.

“Sublime.” It whispers. You squeak in response, writhing in its firm hold.

“Settle down, my little star.” It grumbles. “I am going to give you what you have been craving very soon.”

You nod eagerly, a cry erupting from your throat as the other appendage puts more pressure on your throbbing clit, the suction cup following the example of the two tentacles abusing your nipples by steadily tightening and releasing your nub.

Despite its weird, unique texture, it still feels like a mouth suckling on your clit.

“Must you move so much?”

“It feels—” You almost choke on your own saliva. “So good.” Your eyes squeeze close.

“Oh, my darling. You are such a vision.”

Your hips attempt to chase the stimulation, yet there are other appendages already emerging from different sides of the couch to carefully wrap around every exposed inch of your body, until you are forced to lie spread and still for the Entity to turn you into its personal fucktoy.

“Fuck.” You whisper, panting at the pure display of dominance.

The fact that you are fully restrained and exposed for this unknown, powerful creature to do as it pleases should terrify you—considering the sick obsession for you it flaunts so proudly.

Yet here you are, pliant and eager for it to finally lose control and possess you.

“That is indeed what I plan to do with you, lovely.”

“Oh, please.” Your teeth sink into your bottom lip to unsuccessfully stop a shameless whine.

“You are an impatient little thing.” It chuckles eventually.

You would love to wipe the smugness out of its voice, see its tentacles flinch in disdain at another one of your silly nicknames, but then a smaller appendage joins the one that has been gently working on your clit and the two focus on two different rhythms, alternating quick, flicking motions to slow, intense sucks.

“Oh God.” You squeak, letting your head fall limp to the side. 

“I could spend an eternity buried in your little treasure and still, it would not be enough.” The voice grunts. “Sing for me, my little star.”

All it takes is the suction cups on your nipples tugging at the sensitive flesh for you to come. Your climax is so intense that your mouth opens around a loud, raw moan, your vision momentarily fading out as your body attempts to arch into the wicked stimulation.

“Gorgeous.” It marvels. “I need more.”

Your eyes widen as your pussy is lavished with attention by several more tentacles tracing your folds, forcing you into that delicious state of perpetual pleasure.

With rapid and decisive movements, the Entity quickly drives you over the edge over and over again, leaving you flinching pathetically in its hold, your muscles tensing up so often that you feel a faint ache throbbing in your tendons.

The appendages on your breasts are still eager on your tender nipples, abusing them with their suckling motion and cruel flickers.

“Looking at you makes it difficult to believe anything else deserves attention, little star. I apologize but I will never tire of your sweet sounds. You are ravishing when you surrender to pleasure.” 

“I can’t—” You sob, finally being granted a moment to breathe as a thin tentacle slides up your neck to catch the tears threatening to spill, lovingly stroking your cheeks and your damp forehead as you sniffle. 

Your eyes briefly roll back as those two sneaky tentacles keep your clit wet and sensitive, electricity running through your veins as your hips hopelessly jerk against the Entity’s appendages trapping your lower half.

“Do you wish to stop, pretty thing?”

“No! No please.” You cry out, your eyes instantly snapping open. “Just—need you inside, please.” A mewl falls from your lips at the gentle pressure on your hole.

You briefly catch something moving in your peripheral vision, and when your head turns, your heart almost stops at the sight of a new, perfectly thick tentacle emerging solemnly from underneath the couch. Its bumps and ridges are far more numerous and prominent than the ones scattered across the others.

“I know you are fond of certain… sizes.”

You whine, before something crucial finally dawns on you.

“W—what’s your name?”

It seems taken aback. “My name…” It muses. “It is too difficult for humans to pronounce, little star.”

“What should I call you then?”

“For now,” you moan shamelessly at the sensation of being finally filled. “I want to hear you scream for me.”

The appendage works inside you, the ridges a pleasant addition as they stroke along your walls in a steady motion while it carefully feeds you of its length.

“More.” You whimper.

“Hm?”

“Give me more.” Crying out, your hips attempt to thrust up.

Huffing a chuckle, the Entity manifests a few smaller tentacles that carefully push inside you along the bigger one, each of them focusing on a new spot to rub. Your eyes cross in bliss at the incredible feeling of being so stretched. The fullness is almost absurd, to the point that you briefly wonder if your body is going to explode at some point, all burning and taut as you feel trapped in an endless orgasm.

The depravity of being restrained and pounded by a mess of eager tentacles right in the middle of your living room only makes you moan louder.

“You have to be quieter, little star. Someone might hear you.”

The urge to chortle and reply with something sarcastic is strong, but right now you can barely recognize your surroundings.

“There could be the entire building watching me from the window for all I know and I still wouldn’t give a fuck.” You breathe out.

A wail roughly makes its way out of your chest when the little suction cups tug at your nipples harshly, the length of the appendages curling around the flesh of your breasts to fondle and squeeze them together. 

The Entity lets out a growl so guttural it makes your bones shake. 

Your breath catches when something slimy brushes over your bottom lip—another tentacle, quite thick but not like the one thrusting inside you. 

“Open.”

You obey at once, parting your mouth as it doesn’t waste any time to slip inside. Its motions are less harsh compared to the Entity’s possessive tone, and that allows your lips to wrap around it and suck at your own pace.

“I warned you before I would harm other beings if necessary.” It starts, your body tingling as the hair on the back of your neck raises at its baritone echoing right into your ear. 

The large tentacle around your waist tightens, almost protectively. 

“I will rip the flesh and feast on the bowels of anyone who dares to touch you.” The Entity’s tentacles inside your pussy pick up their pace, furious and wild, eliciting a string of loud moans out of you that get promptly muffled by the appendage curiously exploring your tongue.

“I love watching pleasure consume you, my lovely, beautiful creature.” It grunts. “You are perfect. So soft, and wet and warm.” It blabbers, as delirious as you.

A low moan quietly resounds in the living room as it plunges in and out of your pussy while the other tentacles work in unison to send you over the edge, never stopping their unforgiving twists and sucking on your nipples and clit until you are thrown back into pure and utter ecstasy.

“You are coming, right? I can feel your pretty pussy clench around me.” The tentacle inside your hole gently whirls as it slides in and out.

“I am going to mark you so deep with my essence that every being, mortal and celestial, will know not to challenge my claim on you.”

The Entity gasps as the tentacles holding and fucking you suddenly tense up, trembling and pulsing. It roars, the sound so primal it travels deep into your bones till it reaches the tips of your nerves. 

The warm, viscous liquid filling you initially catches you by surprise. Then, you eagerly accept it as if you’ve been craving it for eons, doing your best to relax your throat to accommodate the spasming tentacle.

The one on your clit moves harder and faster, clearly determined to break you completely.

You keep shuddering in sensitivity, yet the tentacles avidly work one last time to make the unbearable tension in your lower belly snap.

You shriek around the slimy flesh stuffing your mouth, not even noticing the smaller appendage that comes up to stroke your cheek, as though to calm you down. The other tentacles cling onto you, tightening their hold in tenderness to keep you safe throughout the burning climax that shatters the only ounce of composure you had left. 

Only when your body ceases its severe shaking, leaving you pliant and drenched in sweat, the Entity eases its grasp. The skin of your cheeks is gently held as the tips of two more appendages wipe away the tears the moment the tentacles leave your pussy.

The others begin a soft kneading motion on the sore muscles of your legs as the ones previously attached to your clit curiously brush your puffy folds, marveling at its cum steadily running down your hole and inevitably dirtying your ruined shorts.

You barely have any energy left to notice the deep ache in your joints when the Entity guides your arms back by your sides and your legs on the couch, trying to control your stuttering breath as those two sneaky appendages keep stimulating you with their tender curiosity.

“Rest, little star.”

You blink at the ceiling, startled that your eyes had been closed this whole time. 

You can’t even form a proper answer, your ears and mouth both feeling like they’ve been stuffed with cotton wool. “Huh?”

“Rest, little star.” It purrs, still caressing your sides, adoration dripping from each reverent touch. 

“You are safe with me here.”

The next morning, you wake with a lazy smile already tugging at your lips and your body still pleasantly sore from the night before. The memories linger a little more before consciousness can interfere—the beautiful sense of fullness, the phantom ache of being held firmly in place without needing to understand the technicalities, the warmth curled around you in the aftermath.

It’s only when you open your eyes that you notice the unusual quiet.

You lie still for a moment longer than necessary with bated breath, because some part of you is already reaching for that familiar presence that always lingers somewhere at the edge of your awareness. But you can’t find it.

You sit up almost lethargically, expecting the feeling to return now that you’re properly awake. The apartment is exactly as it should be, unchanged in every familiar detail, and somehow that only makes the emptiness beneath your ribs harder to ignore.

Of course you assume it will return, so you start your morning, anticipating the Entity to pop out of nowhere as you eat breakfast.

But the coffee grows cold in your mug. The television drones quietly in the background. The sunlight shifts across the apartment as the hours go by... And still nothing.

Usually, its silences never feel truly empty. Even when it isn’t speaking, there is always the certainty that it is there with you.

This is different.

And that’s where everything begins to change.

The next day arrives with a kind of stubborn normality that feels almost insulting.

You wake again expecting, without admitting it to yourself, that the absence might have been temporary, something that would fix itself the way it should. But the same void is still there.

What unsettles you the most is not the loss itself but the way your thoughts keep skirting around it, never lingering for too long, as though looking at it directly might make something inside you come apart.

It hurts to acknowledge the small pauses between actions, the moments where you find yourself waiting for something to talk, and then realize, too late, that there is nothing to respond at all.

Each time it happens, it leaves behind a faint sting of embarrassment as uncertainty grows more persistent.

By the third or fourth day, the idea that something was there starts to feel like a version of events that only exists because you keep repeating it to yourself, even when everything around you refuses to support it.

You keep going back over it anyway, turning moments over in your mind, trying to hold them in place, but they slip out of reach as soon as you look at them too closely.

It feels like a stab behind your ribs, because your memories of it are no longer anchored to anything that could confirm its existence.

There are moments when anger comes out of nowhere, sharp and immediate, usually when you catch yourself waiting again without meaning to. It feels ridiculous, humiliating even, reacting to something that simply left without a word.

That feeling turns quickly inward, because there is nothing else to blame that makes sense.

Only you.

After several days, its memory trails after you like a ghost—quiet enough to ignore for a while, but never far enough to forget.

You work, eat, sleep, and in between, there is always that quiet, painful feeling of something missing, a hollow space you keep returning to whenever your mind goes still.

Gradually, you accept that it is not going to return. Not because you have figured some big mystery out, but because the waiting has sunk its poisonous teeth into you. It feeds on every quiet moment, contaminating every stray thought, gnawing steadily at your sanity, rotting the vulnerable parts of your life.

Day by day, it consumes you out from the inside, leaving behind a space shaped entirely by its hunger.

At the end of the week, the silence has become ordinary in a way that almost convinces you it was always like this. The version of events where something had been present begins to feel increasingly difficult to defend, even in the privacy of your own mind.

It’s only later, while cooking, that it breaks in a way you cannot ignore or redirect anymore.

You are standing there, knife in hand, your movements automatic as you work over the cutting board, when something inside you finally tears loose, so violent that even breathing results painful.

Your movements slow without permission, until they stop completely.

For a long, horrible moment your still body exists in a space that feels suddenly foreign. Your eyes stare blankly at the counter as your vision gradually blurs. You blink once, sharply, hoping that it would fix it, but it doesn’t. Only then something wet falls on your cheek.

You let out a short, disbelieving huff.

“Shit.” You swallow thickly, but the word comes out wrong—thin, strangled. “What the fuck is wrong with me.”

You press the heels of your hands briefly against your eyes as if that could physically push the tears back into place. If anything, it only makes it worse, the lump in your throat growing heavier with every second.

“This is pathetic.” You whimper, not sure whether the anger is aimed at yourself or at the situation.

Or at the fact that there is no situation at all.

Because there is nothing to justify this.

Nothing that should be making you cry in the middle of making dinner on a random Friday night.

You let out a sharp laugh, but it breaks halfway through.

“I’m actually losing it.” You sniffle.

Standing there with your breath uneven and your face still wet, your hands wipe your cheeks a little too roughly.

Your attention goes back to the cutting board, as if resuming the task might finally steady that precarious balance you’ve been clinging to for days, but your hands don’t immediately follow. They hover—uncertain, trembling.

And beneath all of it, there is still that absence—hollow and impossible to prove—pressing against the inside of your awareness, a dull ache lodged between your ribs that no amount of distraction can soothe.

The next week is quieter.

You stop revisiting it. There is no point in chasing something that leaves only pain behind.

You’re not waiting anymore, not voluntarily at least. You still pause sometimes in doorways, still find yourself listening into empty rooms, but the expectation is gone. What’s left is only habit.

You eat because Tony still needs your help keeping the company running, there are too many things that would fall apart without you.

You clean because the mess won’t clean itself.

You move because stopping would mean having to untangle what comes next, and the sole thought of facing that feels like stepping off the edge of a cliff you can’t see the bottom of.

At night, you lie in bed and stare at the ceiling for hours—not really on purpose, sleep just evades you. When nothing happens, there’s no disappointment. Only a bland confirmation.

The absence stops being absence.

It becomes normality again.

Because remembering hurts more than letting go.

Three months pass and you have finally taken some of the vacation days that have been accumulating in your file for months.

Well, calling it a holiday feels generous considering most of it has been spent catching up on everything you never seem to have time for while working.

Medical checkups you kept postponing. A dentist appointment you should have booked six months ago. And then there are the usual tedious tasks: laundry, groceries, cleaning...

By all accounts, it should feel productive.

Instead, you are left drained.

You move through your days checking items off lists and running errands across the city, returning home every evening with aching feet and the vague satisfaction of having accomplished something, only to discover the feeling never lasts particularly long.

The apartment is still your favorite place. At least, you think it is. Lately, it feels less like comfort and more like retreat.

There are moments when you catch yourself staring into nothing for no reason. Moments where a pit opens somewhere in your stomach before disappearing so quickly you almost convince yourself it never happened.

You have stopped trying to understand it, though. Whatever happened—or didn’t happen—refuses to become any clearer with time.

Maybe loneliness is capable of stranger things than people give it credit for.

Maybe your mind had built something elaborate to fill a void you didn’t even know was there.

Maybe that’s why the memory still feels like a knife buried deep in your chest.

By the final day of your leave, you have mostly made peace with what your life has become.

You spend the afternoon exactly as planned: sprawled across the couch, surrounded by junk food and no obligations in sight. For the first time in weeks, there is nothing demanding your attention.

When the doorbell rings, you’re halfway through a tub of ice cream and so absorbed in the new season of Abbott Elementary that it takes you a moment to realize the sound isn’t coming from the television.

You briefly assume it belongs to your phone, lost somewhere between the cushions, and decide to ignore it. You have every intention of enjoying the last few hours of freedom before returning to your personal circle of hell that is Tony’s company.

However, after exactly one minute, the shrill sound comes back a second time, clear and unmistakable, and now you are pushing yourself upright with a groan—your back aches from lying there all day.

You cross the space without much urgency, immediately regretting all your life choices once you open the door in pajamas and find a handsome man standing on your doorstep.

Tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a simple pair of jeans and a plain, dark t-shirt that perfectly hug his big, sturdy body.

He has the kind of face that would attract attention without ever seeking it. A man people notice instinctively and then spend the next several seconds pretending they haven’t, because there is something eerily intimidating about a face that looks carved by the gods themselves.

His eyes catch your attention next.

Blue. Startlingly so, almost unnaturally bright, the color so vivid and intense that it looks like pigment suspended beneath glass. You decide they must be contacts, because that’s the safest explanation and your brain is gradually learning to settle into this pattern for the sake of your sanity.

The moment he smiles, the effect is immediate.

It softens his sharp beauty, easy and unforced in a way that invites trust and warmth.

Such a shame that his presence is so staggering that you completely miss what really lies beneath the illusion—a crude imitation.

His body seems to always react a fraction later than intention: his shoulders shift a moment after his head turns and his posture corrects itself a beat too stiffly, as though alignment is a conscious reminder rather than an innate response.

When he steps forward, there is the faintest unevenness in his weight, one foot pressing down a little too carefully before the other follows. There is a faint trembling in his legs even when standing still, his knees locking into place a second later than expected.

Even his hands don’t settle easily. When they fall to his sides, a few fingers twitch and bend on their own accord before returning back to a more natural state.

“Hello.”

There is something unfairly easy about his voice, just as smooth as silk.

“I’m James,” he continues. “I just moved in next door. Apartment 6B.”

The tension you hadn’t noticed you were holding loosens without permission, leaving your shoulders a fraction lighter and your breath a little less controlled than it had been a moment before.

Unfortunately, you realize a moment too late that you have been staring at his gorgeous face.

“Oh—sorry.” You let out a short, embarrassed chuckle as you shake your head. “I didn’t know Ms. Esposito moved.”

The man tilts his head slightly, as if considering the name.

“Ms. Esposito?” He repeats, lightly, the name seemingly not settling the way it should.

That small hesitation makes your brows knit faintly in confusion.

“Yeah,” you add, half-amused. “She lived here. Apartment 6B. I just thought—”

You decide to stop as his expression remains unchanged, waving your hand dismissively. “Never mind.”

Maybe they didn’t have the chance to meet.

His gaze remains exactly where it is, fixed on your face with the same quiet attentiveness as before.

The silence stretches a second longer than it should, and you find yourself shifting slightly under it.

“Well,” you start with a small titter, eager to fill the gap before it becomes too awkward. “Nice to meet you, James.”

As you offer him your name, something shifts—a subtle spasm in his features, but it’s gone in the blink of an eye.

You accept his extended hand without hesitation. His grip is warm, firm without being excessive, but there is a curious deliberateness that suggests he is paying more attention to the contact than what is socially acceptable.

You are already preparing to let go when his grip abruptly tightens around your hand, enough that the bones in your fingers press together unpleasantly. The change catches you off guard. Your breath hitches as a sharp pulse of discomfort runs up your arm, and before you can stop yourself your gaze drops to your joined hands, noticing his knuckles turning an unhealthy shade of white, bordering on dark grey.

When you look back up in confusion, your stomach gives a small, sickening lurch.

James’ big smile is exactly the same, but it doesn’t respond anymore. It stays frozen in place with an odd consistency, as if it has been placed there and forgotten.

You don’t remember his eyes looking so... wide. His eyelids seem to draw farther and farther apart by imperceptible degrees, exposing a little more white with every passing second.

Your hand jerks in a reflexive attempt to pull away, but his grip doesn’t yield. It holds with the intransigent firmness of steel, his long fingers locked around yours as though they have forgotten how to let go.

And so you remain there, forced to watch as the features of this weird stranger soften until they slowly melt out of shape.

“Oh, I already know that, little star.”

END NOTES: thank you so much for reading 🖤 my masterlist → winteryn's masterlist

Leon knew you were a bit of a special case from the moment he met you. Where people would usually be shy, nervous, not confident enough to approach someone, you were... quite the opposite. You approached with a fire in your eyes and a buzz rushing through you and into him, and you weren't even drinking. The moment you approached him at that club, he knew you'd be a problem. And a problem you were. A good one. A problem he was lucky to have.

Until it came to things like intimacy. You'd managed to score a few dates, and eventually, you two ended up dating. The only problem? Once it was official, you became a little insistent on intimacy. Not forcing, but definitely making moves more often. Leon wanted to, he really did, but given the talks you'd had in the past about your lack of experience and how you didn't know what you could and couldn't take because you had never even felt the need for a sex toy on your own, Leon worried that it'd stunt your intimate moments as a couple.

Eventually, of course, Leon gave in, but only to an extent. He'd eaten you out, finger fucked you like his life depended on it, fucked your thighs, and yet, he refused to let you even suck him off, let alone take him into your impossibly achey and needy pussy. He always told you he was too big. He worried it'd hurt you, whether it was your mouth or your pussy. You knew he was big, and you still insisted.

You crawled into bed with him, just like normal, snuggling into his side as he read the book you'd recently recommended to him. He tugged you closer, leaning down to kiss your temple as he closed the book, seemingly ready for bed. It was approaching 9 o'clock, and he had an early meeting, you knew. The early meeting didn't stop you from snuggling up closer until you shuffled into his lap, straddling his hips and looking down at him with a grin. His hands rested at your hips.

"Really? We're doing this again?" He mused, low and laced with exhaustion.

"For real this time, because I'm tired of you giving me excuses." You huffed, hips already beginning to move in slow, easy motions back and forth.

"They're not excuses, they're honesty and protection. You think I haven't wanted so badly to bend you over and take you? Of course I have." He scoffed, hands soothing up your sides as he exhaled slowly.

"So why haven't you?"

"Because I'm too big for you. We'd need to take a lot of time to get you ready. You can barely take three of my fingers before you tell me it's too much." He explained simply, like it was a choice between what deal to go for in a grocery store.

"So what? The shapes are entirely different! How do we even know if I could take it if we don't try?" You frowned, hips wriggling incessantly.

"No, honey. I'm not gonna let your confidence get the better of you." He moved to lift you off his lap, but you grabbed his hands and pinned them beside his head. He raised a brow at you.

"Just the tip. That's all I wanna try." You insisted.

"You know, you holding me down has no change on my answer. It's sexy, but no." He laid his head back and hummed idly.

"Leeooon!" You pouted, hips grinding harder. You could feel his cock stiffening in his sweats. "Please, Lee, just the tip, and if it doesn't fit first try, we can stop."

"Usually, the guy begs for 'just the tip'," he chuckled. "Poor thing, I've really ruined you, haven't I?" He clicked his tongue, feigning guilt.

"Not yet 'cause you won't fuck me right." You grumbled.

"Oh, is that so? I don't fuck you right? Then how come I've got you cumming on my fingers and my mouth and my fucking thighs every other night? Huh? Care to explain that, if I don't fuck you right?" He took his hands from your grasp, one hand grabbing your chin and making you whine, brows furrowing.

"You won't fuck me the right way 'cause you think I can't take it."

"I really don't think you can." He agreed.

"Please, baby!" You shifted, only for him to stop you. "Please, I promise, if it doesn't work, I won't ask again, not until you can prep me right."

"You," he exhaled, grabbing you by the waist, sitting up. "Are such a fucking brat." He cursed, rolling over so that you were flat on your back with his body pinning you down.

You looked up at him, biting at your lower lip. He watched you for a moment, squinting. "Please?" You barely whispered.

"Fine. But don't think you're not gonna get something in return for your behavior. I'm only stalling because I don't have time to fuck around."

"But you have time to fuck me? Good, I wasn't sure I'd be able to wait much longer." You grinned, giggling like a kid who'd just been told they won a million dollars.

"Fuckin' brat." He chuckled, leaning in for a kiss. You met eagerly, lips pressing into his while your arms came to wrap around his neck. Despite his rough words, his hand came to tenderly cup your cheek, deepening the kiss. His other hand worked its way downward to the hem of your night gown, pushing it upward to expose what he expected would be a lace pair of panties—tonight it was bare in two different ways. How did he not feel that through his sweats? Jesus, you knew he'd give in.

He didn't bother trailing his hands up and down, teasing, instead going straight in to press his hand against your mound. You shivered slightly, mouth falling agape at the feeling of his cold fingers pressing between your folds. Of course, he didn't take any time to prep you with his fingers, just simply using two fingers to spread your arousal and massage your clit to accumulate more to act as lube. He knew it probably wouldn't work too well at first, but it'd have to do.

Your hands reached down, pushing lazily at the waistband of his sweats. "It's unfair." You pouted.

"Unfair? Honey, you came to me like this. You came to me all shaven, no panties, not even shorts." He took your complaint, shifting to push down his pants and boxers, letting his cock spring free. He shimmied out of the clothes and kicked them aside before settling his cock against your lower belly, letting you see the size properly. You swallowed, biting your lip as you looked up at him. He had a cocky look, like he expected you to change your mind.

"What? I didn't say stop. Keep going." You huffed, but Leon could hear the faint waiver of your voice as you spread your legs wider.

"God, you really are a needy little brat." He pulled his hips back, sliding his cock between your folds to gather some of your wetness along his length, focusing on coating his tip thoroughly. "You can still back out." He looked back up at you as he lined up with your entrance, using two fingers to carefully hold your folds open for him.

"No. Now hurry up and put your dick in me before I fall asleep." You huffed up at him, hips wriggling eagerly.

"Don't say I didn't warn you."

With that, he made the first move, careful as he pushed in, his tip nudging into you. His tip didn't even get inside before you gave a whimper, thighs shaking unexpectedly as your pussy twitched against his tip. He looked down at you, brow raised.

"Shut up. Try again." You demanded, teeth gritted slightly.

Despite that not being the original arrangement, he tried again, hissing as he nearly notched the tip inside, only for your hips to twitch away, overwhelmed at the way his tip tried to intrude so suddenly.

"What did I tell you?" He deadpanned down at you. "Come on, honey, let's just do it the normal way."

"Noo! No, this is the normal way!" You insisted. "'S not my fucking fault you've got a fucking monster cock."

"Mmh, you flatter me, sweetheart." He chuckled, leaning in to shut you up with a kiss. You expected him to pull away and call it a night, but his hand crept down again, thumb pressing to your clit and getting your walls to ease up ever so slightly, a soft mewl leaving you. With you melting into the pleasure, he took a selfish opportunity to push again. You gasped, a choked sound leaving you as his tip notched inside of you finally. You gave a stifled cry, hands flying to claw at his shoulders as your eyes squeezed shut.

"Fuck—okay, I-i don't know if I can do it anymore." You admitted, huffing with uneven breaths as you looked down where you two met. It really was just the tip, and you were already backing out.

"Oh, no," he pulled back, faux pity on his face. "Poor thing, you bit off too much, and now you can't chew? What a shocker." He watched you shiver and twitch, breath shaky as his tip stayed barely notched inside your impossibly tight, unadjusted cunt. "You told me I didn't fuck you right, so now I'm gonna show you just how well I can fuck."

"'M sorry, I thought I—"

"You thought you could take it? Yeah. And you didn't listen to my warning? Of course not. You never listen." You felt him push forward again, and another squeak left your lips, followed by a gasp. He didn't even push in another inch and you were pushing at his hips to get him to pull out.

"Fuck! I'm—haah—I'm sorry!" You looked up at him, brows furrowing.

"Admit it." He demanded, cock pushing its way in ever so slightly, but the burn was far from slight. You choked on something akin to a cry, and he swatted your thigh. "Admit that you've been nothing but a bratty little bitch and now you're whiney because you can't fucking take it."

Tears brimmed your lash line, lower lip falling and letting a small whine fall from your throat. "I-i can't take it, and I.." you paused with a gasp, walls squeezing around the first inch and a half of his length. Your head fell back, nails dragging down his front as your thighs trembled. "Fuck!"

"It's too late. If I stop now, all your progress will be lost. You don't want that, do you, honey?" He teased. You shook your head desperately. The stretch burned, his cock insistent as he felt you twitching and trying desperately to make room for him inside of you.

"Please," you whispered, eyes fluttering closed.

"Please, what?" He prodded for more from you. "I can't do what you want if you don't tell me. You were so eager earlier, now you can't talk? Typical." He scoffed.

"Please, just fuck me already!" You cried, breath hitching as his hips nudged back and pushed forward, allowing another inch to fit. He went through that cycle for a while—pulling back, pushing deeper, every push forcing a gasp or a stifled moan from you—until he was fully sheathed inside of you, your pussy impossibly stretched past every limit you didn't know about. His cockhead was snug against your cervix, barely fitting him all the way in. It was a good thing Leon knew how to properly get you going, or he'd be struggling to fit more than he already was.

By the time he was snug, fully pushed inside of you, your head had fallen limp, eyes closed, lips open with heavy breaths falling. He found it amusing, given he hadn't even tried to fuck you yet, and you were already beyond spent and shaky. He chuckled, watching you finally lift your head to look down where your bodies met.

"Holy fuck." You breathed. You could see a small bulge in your lower belly where he had somehow miraculously managed to fit inside of you, now bulging with his massive he was. Not only that, but you had never felt this full. Even when he was using his fingers to fuck you and you complained that his fingers were too thick and you felt 'sooo full'.

"You happy now? Now that you've got a proper cock inside of you?" He taunted quietly, bringing a hand to grasp your chin and tilt your head back and forth, he fingers lightly squishing your cheeks together.

"Uh-huh." You tried to nod in his grasp, dazed and, although embarrassingly, cock-drunk without even being properly fucked. He wasn't even grinding his hips, making no attempt to move, and he relished in the way your body responded to him. He thought it was the best thing ever when you'd cry and squirm, and this made things a whole lot better. He leaned back slightly, taking in the sight of you stretched out around his cock.

He dropped one hand, thumb finding your clit. You twitched, whining slightly as your walls clamped down around him. "What, you're already that fucking close? You're getting all twitchy and whiney so soon." He purred, hips pulling backward slowly, cock dragging out of you until his tip was all that was left. You looked down and watched, brows furrowed with need.

It burned with both pain and pleasure as he pushed back in faster than before. You moaned louder this time, back arching as your hands flew to grab his shoulders for support. Your eyes squeezed shut, mouth agape as he fucked his cock into you at a pace that overwhelmed your senses. Pain burned away and morphed into a new kind of pleasure that you didn't know you could achieve.

He angled his hips lower, his leaky cockhead pushing up against your g-spot as he thrusted into you, his thumb still focused on your clit. He meant it as a tease originally, but with how twitchy and shaky you'd become in just a minute or two of slow, rough, deep thrusts, he could feel that you were already close. His tease ended up being right. He growled slightly at the thought, brows knitted and nose scrunched in a focused manner as he looked down where your bodies met. You became oversensitive quick, your orgasm building. You tried to reach down to get his hand to slow down its abuse against your puffy clit, but he simply pushed your hand away and swatted at the throbbing bundle of nerves.

You cried out, hips bucking. "Lee—oh, fuck, please!" Your body locked for a moment, eyes rolling back as you bit your lip and fell into stifled whimpers and sobs, your orgasm quiet but intense, rippling through your body so fast you didn't even warn him. He fucked you through it, hips speeding up as your cunt clenched around him. Once your vision cleared, you looked up at him, dazed and mushy.

"And you think I cum too fast?" He chuckled. "Look at you—damn near squirting on my cock just because it's so, so big, and your poor little pussy can't take it." He purred deeply and reached with his other hand to your face, holding your head still by your chin so you couldn't look away as he pumped his cock back and forth, fucking you into overstimulation without even offering a breather. "I wonder—" He paused with a grunt, examining your face with a devilish look you didn't recognize. "You think I could make you squirt just from using my cock?"

Your cheeks flushed, eyes widening with tears that had spilled already. "Wait, n-no, no, 's too much, Lee!" You gasped, hands pushing at his lower torso, another sob ripping from your throat. "No—ooh!"

"C'mon, pretty girl, didn't you say I couldn't fuck you right? Isn't that what you wanted? To be fucked dumb on a fat cock?" He let go of your chin and brought a hand down just a little to wrap around your throat. You squeaked, pussy fluttering around him at the threat of him constricting your airway. He didn't, though. You got more than enough excitement from just the threat alone.

You couldn't be bothered with answering him. You simply laid there and took it—relishing in the sensitivity and the way he was absolutely ruining your pussy. Leon knew he was ruining you for anyone else, and that alone drove him crazy. He could feel his own orgasm building, cock twitching and balls drawing tight to his body. He denied himself the release, persisting in order to make sure he proved just how good he could make you feel.

He had a point to prove. His thumb resumed the previous ministrations on your clit, two fingers rapidly strumming with a firm pressure. You twitched, gasping as your eyes rolled back and fluttered. Your hands grabbed tightly at his forearm of the hand that was around your neck, looking up at him with an abrupt sob leaving your lips.

"Lee, please," you choked out, brows furrowing as you quivered beneath him, abdomen clenching as your body built up to the peak of the coil in your belly.

"Go on, take it. Take what you asked for and I'll make sure you're satisfied for fucking weeks." He slammed his hips harder, the skin slapping lewdly with the added sounds of your arousal coating his balls as they smacked against your ass. You tried to stifle it, but a scream of pleasure ripped from you as he subconsciously tightened his hand around your throat. Still not constricting, but it was enough to make you dizzy.

"Leon! Fuuuuck, fuckfuckfuck—'m cumming!" You sobbed, legs jolting outward as your hips tried to pull away, your orgasm rushing through you like never before. What you didn't process yet was the stream of clear liquid spurting from your sopping cunt, making an absolute mess out of his lower abdomen, your own abdomen, and the sheets below. He fucked you through it, both hands finally coming to grab your hips and properly use you like some kind of cock sleeve as he chased his high. Tears stained your cheeks, your moans becoming higher and longer as you squirmed and tried to run away from the pleasure.

"Stop fucking moving." He dug his nails into your hips. His demand was quickly followed by a growl, hips slamming and his thrusts becoming uneven as his balls twitched and his cock pulsed, his heavy load finally spilling into you. He had you so full that his cum seeped out around him as he bottomed out and let your pussy twitch and pulse, milking him of every last drop. Both of you were shaking. He stayed buried inside of you as he leaned down and mouthed as your neck. He lazily ground his hips, and you cried quietly, thighs squeezing around his hips.

"Lee," you sniffled, shaky hands searching desperately for his.

"Shh," he soothed, slowly pulling out of you as he grabbed your hands. You felt so empty, but so unbelievably satisfied. "Breathe, honey. I've got you." He mused softly, kissing along your collarbone until he found his way up to look at your face and assess the final product.

You were a mess. Tears down your cheeks, drool spilling down the right side of your face, hair messy and sticking to the sides of your face, lips kiss swollen and still wet. If he didn't know better, he'd try to start up round three, but given your sniffles and the way you shook your head, he didn't even try. He got more than what he thought.

He took his hands away only for a moment so he could brush your hair out of your face and gently wipe the tears and drool from your cheeks. When he sat back and guided you to follow into his lap, you curled into his hold, his arms wrapping around you delicately.

"You took me so well." He whispered, kissing the side of your head. "I know I got a little mean," he sighed, prepared to apologize for not listening to your cries.

"Can we do that more?" You asked, looking up at him as you shifted shakily in his lap. "The.. the whole.."

"Baby, we just did a lot." He chuckled. "But we'll talk more tomorrow." He scooted away from the mess and hoisted you into his hold, standing from the bed. "How about a shower?"

You nodded, falling into his hold as you closed your eyes. He really fucked the energy out of you. "Told you I could handle it. Might not be very experienced, but I can take what's given to me." You mumbled quietly.

Clearly, he didn't fuck the attitude out of your system yet.

"Brat." He lazily swatted your butt, only to lean in and kiss your nose with the utmost care.

"You like it."

"Only when it results in you shutting your mouth."

"Jerk."

He chuckled, setting you on the bathroom sink counter to start the shower.

Clark doesn’t make a show of being a gentleman—it isn’t performative, not something he switched on for appearances. It was simply who he was, in the quiet, steady way the sun rose every morning.

Doors, for example. He always got them. His hand would find the handle just before yours did, opening it with an easy motion. Sometimes his palm brushed lightly against your back as you walked through. And he always waited. Even if you were distracted, even if you took a second longer, he never let the door swing shut between you.

Chairs were the same. At dinner, whether it was at home or somewhere nicer in Metropolis, he was already stepping behind you, pulling your chair out smoothly. His hands would hover just slightly at your shoulder as you sit just making sure you’re settled before he’d gently slide the chair back in.

At home, it was even more noticeable. Clark was all quiet domestic habits and thoughtful touches. He’d fold laundry like it actually mattered, his large hands surprisingly precise as he smoothed out creases before stacking everything neatly. 

If you were cooking, he was there without needing to be asked. He’d reach past you to grab something from a cupboard, pausing just enough to say a soft ‘sorry’ even though you barely had to move. His hand might settle at your waist for a second as he passed behind you, warm and steady, gone before it lingered too long. 

And if you were tired? He noticed. Before you could even say anything, he was already pulling a blanket over the couch, fluffing a pillow with a gentleness that didn’t match his strength. He’d press a lingering kiss to your temple before saying something simple like, ‘c’mere,’ in that warm Kansas drawl.

Even things like carrying groceries turned into something quietly telling. You’d reach for a bag, and he’d give you one—just one—while he effortlessly gathered the rest. Not to prove anything, not to make you feel small, but because taking care of you felt as natural to him as breathing. If you insisted on carrying more, he’d just smile that shy, crooked smile and say, ‘Alright… but I’m still taking the heavy ones.’

It was in those quiet, ordinary moments that his gentleness settled you. So when he wasn’t there, you felt it. The door that you opened yourself, the chair that stayed tucked in, the space beside you in the kitchen that wasn't quietly filled by his presence. 

You didn’t think much of it, not really. You just moved through your evening the way you always did, letting routine take over where his quiet care usually lived. And outside, the world carried on.

Rain drummed against the window, streaking the glass in blurred lines that caught the glow of the city outside Metropolis. Thunder rolled somewhere far off as you moved around the kitchen in a pair of sleep shorts and one of Clark’s old tops. Something sizzled on the stove, garlic and onions filling the space with a comforting, familiar scent.

Music played low from the radio—background noise more than anything—while you focused on chopping, stirring, grounding yourself in the routine. You were just reaching for the salt when you heard the door open and you glanced up instinctively, turning halfway toward the sound.

Clark stood in the doorway, glasses wonky and shoulders slumped. His tie was loose, hanging crooked around his neck, the top buttons of his shirt were undone, his sleeves rolled up unevenly, and the fabric clung to his body outlining every inch of him. His hair, usually so carefully styled, was an absolute mess, dark curls stuck to his forehead, water dripping along the line of his jaw.

He looked exhausted and there was something almost endearing about it. For a second, he just stood there, watching you. 

“There you are,” he said, his voice low, almost relieved—like he’d been searching for you all day.

You shook your head fondly and turned back to the stove, smiling to yourself. “Rough day?”

“You have no idea,” he muttered, nudging the door shut behind him with his foot as he toed off his shoes. He shrugged out of his jacket and let it fall over the back of a chair, already loosening his tie further as he made his way toward you. “I spent the entire afternoon thinking about how unfair it is that I didn’t get to see you until now.”

You felt him before he touched you—his warmth, his presence filling the space behind you. Then his arms wrapped around your waist, snug and familiar, pulling you back against his chest.

“Hey,” he said softly, the word brushing against your ear.

“Clark—” you laughed under your breath, trying to keep stirring despite the way he’d completely anchored you in place.

“Nope,” he cut in immediately, resting his chin against your shoulder, the faint scratch of stubble warm against your skin. “I missed you all day. I deserve this.” He tightened his hold just to prove the point, swaying you slightly. “Do you have any idea how many times I thought about coming home to you cooking dinner like this?

“Oh, did you?” you teased, though your voice had softened too.

“Mm-hmm,” he hummed, pressing a quick kiss to your shoulder. “Especially this part. Where I get to steal hugs and pretend I help.”

You huffed a small laugh and placed your free hand over his where it rested against your stomach, your fingers threading between his without thinking. Clark let out a deep, slow exhale and you felt his body relax against yours.

“This smells amazing,” he added after a moment, his voice dipping lower as he nudged his face closer, brushing his nose lightly along the curve of your neck. “You’re really setting the bar high. If you keep this up, I’m never leaving.”

You smiled, leaning back into him just slightly, letting your weight rest against his chest. “Pretty sure that’s the plan.”

His lips curved against your skin at that, the ghost of a smile pressed just beneath your ear as his arms stayed wrapped around you. Clark stayed right there, loosely draped around you, his weight relaxed but constant. Every so often, he shifted just enough to press another kiss to your shoulder, or your neck, or wherever he could reach without moving too far. 

After a moment, you shifted, turning slightly in his arms. Clark hummed, the corner of his mouth lifting into a subtle grin as you reached a hand up and straightened his glasses. Giving his cheek a gentle pat, you turned again, dipping the spoon into the pan and scooping up a small taste before lifting it toward him.

“Here,” you said. “Try this.”

His eyes lit up immediately. “Oh, I get privileges?”

“Don’t push it,” you warned, though there was no real bite behind it as you held the spoon just in front of his mouth.

He leaned in, lips parting slightly as he took the bite and a low, involuntary groan slipped out of him. His eyes fluttered shut for half a second as he actually processed the taste, his brows lifting just slightly in quiet disbelief.

“Oh—wow,” he breathed, voice softer now, roughened at the edges in a way that made heat immediately rush to your face.

“Is that a good ‘wow’ or…?” you started, but you could already feel yourself flushing, the warmth creeping up your neck to your cheeks.

“That’s—” he shook his head a little, letting out a quiet huff of a laugh, like he couldn’t quite believe it. “That’s really good.”

“You’re being dramatic,” you muttered quickly, already turning back toward the stove to hide the way you were smiling, focusing a little too hard on stirring.

“I’m not,” he insisted softly, but there was a smile in his voice now, one you didn’t have to see to know was there. “I mean it.”

You shook your head again, though it was more to yourself this time, trying to regain some sense of focus as you adjusted the heat slightly. “You’ll eat anything I make.”

You were just about to turn the heat down when Clark shifted behind you, his arms loosening slightly—just enough to make you think, for one brief, foolish second, that he was about to behave.

Then you felt his lips at your neck. It was subtle at first. A warm brush just below your ear that sent a small, immediate shiver down your spine which was followed by a slow, lingering kiss that made your grip on the spoon falter.

“Clark,” you warned, though there was already a smile tugging at your lips.

He hummed against your skin, clearly unrepentant. “What?” Another kiss, this one lower, unhurried.

You tried to focus on the stove, but he was absolutely doing this on purpose now—soft kisses along your neck, one after another, a faint press of his smile there like he knew exactly what he was doing.

“I’m cooking,” you managed, letting out a quiet laugh when he nosed gently at the sensitive spot beneath your jaw.

“Yeah,” he murmured, lips brushing your skin again, voice low and warm. “And I’m distracting you. Multitasking.”

You leaned forward just enough to glance back at him, lifting the spoon in a weak attempt at a threat. “If I burn dinner, I’m blaming you.”

“I trust you,” he grinned, entirely unapologetic. “You’re good under pressure.”

You shook your head, gently bumping your shoulder into his chest. “Menace.”

His thumbs traced slow, absent circles across your stomach, drifting higher inch by inch beneath the hem of your top, his touch warm and unhurried. At the same time, his mouth continued to place open-mouthed kisses lazily along your skin, like he was simply passing the time.

“Watch those hands, farm boy,” you mumbled, trying to sound stern.

His mouth continued its trail along your neck, his tongue and teeth leaving little marks that would fade by morning. Before you could protest again, Clark hands shifted—one sliding to your waist, the other catching your wrist to still it.

​​“Okay,” he said, voice light but intent, “new plan.”

Before you could question it, he turned you around smoothly, effortlessly, like it was muscle memory. Your back met the counter with a soft thud, and in one easy motion, he lifted you just enough to sit you up beside the stove, the spoon clinking faintly as it was set aside.

“There,” he said, satisfied, stepping in closer. “Much better.”

You blinked at him, a little startled, then laughed. Clark just grinned, hands bracing on either side of you as he leaned in again, his attention dropping back to your jaw, then back to your neck.

You placed a hand against his chest, giving a gentle push, though you were still smiling. “Dinner’s going to burn.”

Clark glanced briefly toward the stove, then back at you, completely unconcerned. “You’ve got it under control.” 

He pressed one more quick kiss beneath your ear before pulling back just enough to meet your eyes. He studied your face, eyes flicking back and forth between yours. He leaned forward, but instead of kissing your lips immediately like you’d expected, he shifted to the side. 

He rested his forehead against yours, his breath ghosting across your cheek. His hands shifted, fingers grazing the curve of your back, your waist, until they slid up your arms to rest on either side of your neck, tilting your chin up. He kissed you gently, his movements unhurried—almost tender.

Clark’s kisses were slow, thorough, and impossibly sweet. His lips moved against yours leisurely, his hands still holding your neck so gently, like he was cradling something fragile. He pressed a lingering kiss to the corner of your mouth, then a little lower, before returning to your lips. 

He pulled away just enough to meet your eyes, a mixture of adoration and desire clouding his own. But then his hands shifted, fingers sliding into your hair, and he tilted your head back ever so slightly. His mouth moved down your neck, his teeth grazing your skin, his tongue following the trail his lips left behind.

He lingered at your pulse point, sucking and nipping delicately at the skin. Every touch was slow and calculated—like he was trying to memorise every gasp and shiver his mouth drew from you. His hands slid down your sides until they gripped the backs of your thighs. He pulled you forward, until your legs were wrapped around his waist. 

Clark’s mouth continued its slow, deliberate path back up your neck, his hands running over your thighs. You could feel him everywhere, his body hot and solid between your legs. His mouth moved downward, to the junction of your shoulder and neck. He seemed determined to savour every inch of skin, his mouth tracing the curve of your collarbone before lingering at the hollow of your neck. 

He shifted his hips, grinding against you slowly, his need for more making itself known, though his pace remained unhurried. You moaned, fingers digging into his shoulders, your legs instinctively tightening around him.

One of Clark’s hands came up to pull at the neckline of your top, giving him more access to your skin. He shifted again, his body pressing shamelessly against yours, his mouth moved lower, down to your collarbone. His lips traced the curve of it, and then his tongue laved at your skin, hot and wet. 

“God, sweetheart,” his voice was raspier when he spoke, the vibrations sending goosebumps down your spine. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

His lips attached to your neck again and his hands dropped to your waist. His fingers toyed with the hem of your top for a moment before he finally slipped a hand underneath, palm flattening against your stomach. 

“Can I take this off?” he murmured against the hollow of your neck, his hands already starting to lift the material.

You gave a jerky nod and Clark’s hands immediately tugged at the hem of the your top, pulling it up and over your head. He tossed it somewhere behind him, his eyes already tracing the newly exposed skin of your chest. 

He paused, just looking at you, something almost reverent in his gaze. His hands rested at your waist, fingers splaying across your rib cage. He leaned in, pressing lingering kisses between your breasts, right above your heart. He nosed at the valley between your breasts, his tongue flattening against the sensitive skin. 

“Hmm, sweetheart,” he murmured, like it was a prayer.

You threw your head back against the cabinet as Clark wrapped his lips around your nipple. He circled the bud with his tongue, sucking at it with just enough pressure to make you gasp. One of his hands moved to your other breast, his thumb and forefinger finding your nipple and pinching it just right.

Your hands snaked up into his curls, tangling and tugging roughly. He groaned at the sensation, glancing up at you and meeting your gaze. He alternated between the two for a moment before switching sides, giving the other the same treatment. 

His mouth left a blazing path down your stomach, his hands sliding down to grip your thighs as he dropped to his knees in front of you. He kissed the patch of skin just above the waistband of your shorts, resting his chin against your hip as he rubbed soft circles into your thighs. 

“Clark,” you whispered, though it came out like a plea. 

He hooked his fingers under the waistband of your shorts, then pulled both them and your underwear down to your ankles where you kicked them off. His hands gripped your knees, urging them apart until you were fully exposed to him. His mouth moved to the inside of your thigh, biting and sucking at the delicate skin, leaving little marks in his wake. 

He shifted, placing one of your legs over his shoulder, and leaned forward. Clark’s tongue dragged through every inch of your folds like a man memorising scripture before finding your clit. He started with slow, soft circles, the tip of his tongue swirling against the sensitive bud. His mouth was insistent, his grip on your thigh holding you in place as he continued. 

“Just like that,” you whispered, closing your eyes as waves of pleasure began to build within you.

He was holding back, taking his time, but his breaths were already starting to hitch in his chest. He was enjoying this just as much as you were. Clark swirled his tongue around your clit before pushing it inside you. 

His nose nudged your clit and you jerked your hips up at the sensation. The action caused Clark’s glasses to slide down the bridge of his nose, the lenses fogged and frame hopelessly crooked.

One hand came up to blindly adjust them and the second they were straight again, he ducked back down with renewed fervour. His lips moved back up to your clit as his fingers traced your entrance.

Clark moaned against you as he slid a finger inside you with ease, the vibrations sending a shiver up your spine. His finger slid deeper, more firmly with every stroke, curling up like he was trying to reach as far as possible.

A second finger joined the first, stretching you just so as they curled and twisted and teased. He worked you like that for a moment, his mouth staying focused on your clit while his fingers moved in and out. His grip on your thigh was bruising now, his face buried between your legs. 

“Clark,” you moaned, your hand clenching in his hair. 

His name on your lips made him growl, his fingers speeding up their movements. His mouth switched from slow, teasing circles to a rougher, more direct pressure. He sucked your clit into his mouth, the tip of his tongue flicking against it as his fingers curled against that spot. 

You could feel your release building, the muscles low in your stomach clenching in anticipation. Your hips rocked forward slightly, but Clark held you in place, his grip tight on your thigh. His mouth kept up its relentless pace, spurred on by the small moans and gasps from your lips. 

Clark was a man on a mission, determined to take you apart one piece at a time. He was trembling with the need to please, to give you what you wanted. He could tell you were getting close as your walls clamped down on his fingers tightly, squeezing him.

Your legs were shaking, your heels digging into his back. He curled his fingers inside you one last time, putting pressure on your clit with the flat of his tongue, and sent you over the edge. 

You moaned his name as you came, your thighs clamping around his head as your body convulsed. His hands moved to hold your hips in place, his mouth still working you through the aftershocks. 

Clark gave one last kiss against your clit before pulling back. He stayed on his knees for a moment, catching his breath and, as he pressed his cheek against the inside of your leg, you could feel his panting breaths against your skin. 

Eventually, he rose to his feet with a shaky inhale, body trembling with the aftershocks of what he’d just done. He looked wrecked—hair mussed, glasses crooked, lips red and swollen. 

“You okay?” he asked, his voice a little hoarse.

You smiled softly, letting out a small, breathless chuckle. You raised a hand to his face, wiping your release from his chin with your thumb. Clark let out a huff of amusement, his eyes locked on yours as he leaned into your hand, his fingers tightening on your waist. 

“Messy, huh?” he asked, his tone teasing. 

Clark moved his hand up to catch your wrist, his thumb stroking the delicate skin there. Humming, you bit back a smile and rested your forehead against his. His hand moved up from your wrist and cupped your jaw, his thumb dragging across your bottom lip.

Your fingers danced up his arm, slid across his chest and curled around his tie causing Clark’s breath to catch in his throat. His thumb continued to trace over your lip before dipping past the seam of your mouth; the pad running across your tongue. 

Clark couldn’t look away if he tried—completely ensnared by you. You gave his thumb a teasing suck before pulling back with a smile. You tugged on his tie, connecting your lips and being able to taste yourself on his tongue. 

Your hands worked at the knot of his tie as Clark undone the buttons of his shirt. You lifted the fabric over his head and dropped it beside you before helping Clark push his shirt off his shoulders. 

As the kiss continued, you trailed your hand down his abdomen and cupped the very prominent bulge in his slacks. Clark’s hips bucked involuntarily, pushing against your hand. He broke the kiss, his head falling against your shoulder with a low curse as he tried to hold himself back.

His breathing came in uneven pants against your neck as your fingers unbuckled his belt with a soft clink before moving to undo the button of his slacks and peeling down the zipper. His trousers fell to the floor with a soft thud and your gaze settled on his crotch.

A gasp left your lips as you saw his cock pressing against the wet fabric of his boxers, straining and desperate to get out. Unable to help yourself, you reached out and traced the tip of your index finger over him.

Clark let out a choked-off moan, his hips twitching forward into your touch. Your fingers curled around the waistband of his boxers, gently tugging them down to free his cock from its confines.

You watched as his cock sprung free and slapped against his stomach, the tip flushed an angry red as precum dripped down the thick vein along the underside of his cock. You just couldn't seem to look away.

Your eyes followed the soft trail of hair leading down from his navel, and the darker patch at his base, thick and coarse. Your hand reached out and wrapped around him, feeling the way he throbbed from your touch. 

He was heavy in your hand as your thumb circled around his slit. Your name spilled from his lips in a strangled moan, his hips twitching forward. 

“Darling…” his voice sounded almost broken now. “Please, I need…”

He didn't even know what he needed, not anymore. The only thing he knew was you. He needed you—everywhere, all around him. He desperately needed to drown in you until he forgot about everything that wasn't you.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer and dragging his tip through your folds. You were soaked, your release ran down your thighs to his base and coating the hair there as he pushed forward, his tip working you open inch by inch.

Finally he gave one slow push, until his hips were flushed against yours—you could feel every ridge, every bump of his thick veins. Clark stayed like that for a moment, his body trembling as he fought to keep himself in check. 

Then, very slowly, he started to pull back, his hands gripping your waist as he eased himself out of you. And just as slowly, he pushed back in, just as deeply as before. He repeated the motion, setting a slow, tortuous pace. 

You reached your hands up to his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin. A ragged groan escaped his lips and his hips jerked involuntarily. The feeling of your nails dragging across his skin was enough to drive him wild.

Clark set a slightly faster pace now, still holding back but not as much as before. Your ankles locked at the base of his spine, heels digging into his back and pulling him in deeper. Clark glanced down and watched the way you stretched around him, his hips stuttering at the sight of his cock disappearing inside of you.

“Yes, s’good,” he panted, sweat dripping down his temple.

His pace was picking up, becoming less controlled and more desperate. Clark’s lips found their way to your pulse point; sucking and biting at the sensitive skin there. His fingers dug into the soft flesh of your thighs, gripping hard as he snapped his hips forward again and again; each thrust punching a gasp or a moan out of you.

The rhythmic sounds of skin against skin and heavy breathing filled the kitchen, accompanied by the occasional moan or whimper of pleasure. Each thrust from Clark brought a new wave of pleasure, leaving you wanting more.

You were unable to stop the gasps slipping from your lips as he filled you over and over and over again. You were close, so close and one more thrust was all you needed before your orgasm crashed over you. 

A broken moan fell from your lips as Clark fucked you through your orgasm, chasing his own. He kept his face buried in your neck as he moaned and groaned—his cock hitting that sweet spot inside you over and over again, prolonging your orgasm.

“Yea—oh fuck,” he cursed, his breath hot against your skin.

Clark’s thrusts soon became sloppy as he reached his impending orgasm. His cock slid out of you and as he thrust into the air, the first hot rope of thick, heavy cum hit your swollen folds. You gasped at the sudden heat of it and Clark groaned deep in his chest as he continued to paint your cunt.

He pressed a soft kiss to the pulse point beneath your jaw and pulled back as another warm pulse landed directly on your clit and dripped down to your entrance. With a shaky breath, Clark stroked himself once, twice, and then pressed the still leaking head of his cock against your folds. 

He smeared his release around in slow, deliberate circles—his fat tip dragging through the mess he made. Just when you thought he was going to slide back in you, Clark pulled you off the counter and spun you around to face it.

“Clark?” you gasped, confused. 

His chest was hard against your back; hips pressed flush up against your ass as he leaned over you, head dropping onto your shoulder. 

“I know, I know, I’m sorry, baby,” he murmured into your neck. “I just can’t help myself…”

He took a breath, pulling back and taking a hold of your wrists before pinning them behind your back. With his free hand, Clark lined himself up with your entrance again and slammed into you in one brutal thrust—the wet slap of skin echoing off the kitchen walls.

You were used to Clark being a gentleman but there was nothing gentle about the size of him. He had you face down, ass up, and back arched as his cock split you apart from behind.

Your skin was on fire beneath him—body arching up to meet his every move with a desperation that would’ve been embarrassing if he didn’t need it so damn badly. He was completely at your mercy, and he didn’t even care; driven wild at the feeling of you clenching around him.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” his voice was a low, filthy whisper in your ear, “you just feel too good…”

Heavy slaps of skin on skin filled the room, spurring Clark on. His thrusts were deep enough to make your legs give out and Clark had to hold you up with his hands. Your cheek pressed against the counter, the cold marble a welcome contrast to the heat of your body. 

Clark shifted his grip, releasing your wrists and wrapping an arm around your neck—pulling you up and pressing you flush against his chest. You choked as his bicep tightened in reflex and the sound made his hips stutter.

“I’m sorry, I'm sorry,” he repeated, his cheek resting against yours.

Clark couldn’t help it, he couldn't get enough of you. His hips snapped forward in brutal thrusts now—no rhythm, no control left at all as pleasure wracked through every muscle. His free hand ran down your body, over your hip; your waist; your thighs; your stomach—tracing rough patterns like an artist marking his canvas.

He was desperate to touch you everywhere—to mark every last goddamn inch of you until he was as much a part of you as you were him. The combination of his arm around your throat and his hips snapping into you caused your vision to white out for a second.

“You okay, baby?” he asked breathlessly, his thrusts not relenting. “I’m sorry…”

Sweat slicked your skin where you were pressed together, his chest hot and solid against your back. His lips grazed over the side of your neck, leaving hot, wet open-mouthed kisses down the sensitive skin.

Your voice cracked as you moaned his name, the pressure in your stomach building fast. Clark’s hand that was on your hip slid round and circled your clit causing you to clench tightly around him. 

His hips stuttered for a few seconds before finding that brutal rhythm again—chasing his own release with rough, uneven thrusts that had the counter creaking beneath your combined weight. 

The coil in your stomach tightened and finally snapped as your climax hit you tenfold; white-hot and blinding. Clark fucked you through it, muttering apologies agaisnt the skin of your neck.

“I’m sor–oh, fuck!” he groaned, squeezing his eyes shut briefly.

Then, with one final thrust, Clark’s hips stuttered as his own orgasm hit. He buried himself to the hilt and stayed there, pulsing hot, thick ropes of cum deep inside of you. He rocked his hips lazily, making sure you milked every last drop of him. 

Slowly, he lifted his head from your back, his arm releasing its grip on your throat. He pulled out of you carefully, holding your waist as your legs wobbled and threatened to give way. You let out a small whimper as his release dripped down your thighs, your cunt missing his cock already. Clark frowned softly, turning you around and lifting you back up onto the counter. With a weak, breathless moan, you tilted your head back against the cabinet. 

Clark’s thumb traced idle patterns on your waist, seemingly unaware of the action. His other hand slid up to brush a strand of hair away from your face, his expression softening. Clark watched you for a moment longer, his expression almost searching.

“You okay?” he murmured.

“Yeah,” you hummed, resting your hand over his.

“I’m sorry,” he panted, running his fingers through the mess between your thighs. 

You laughed breathlessly, shaking your head and slapping him lightly on the chest. He leaned down and pressed a lazy kiss to your temple, breathing in before pulling back. He moved his hands back to your waist, dropping his forehead against yours.

The two of you were in your own little world, everything around you fading away until you were brought back to reality by a loud, repetitive beep. The fire alarm blared to life, loud and jarring, slicing straight through the moment.

Clark’s eyes widened as he glanced toward the stove, then back at you. “Oh—uh. That’s probably not good.”

You rolled your eyes teasingly, not having the energy to do anything else. “This is your fault.”

“Wha—? Hey,” he said defensively, grabbing a dish towel too and wildly waving it at the ceiling, “Okay… hear me out… we order in.”

“I—” you went to protest but eventually gave in. “yeah, okay…”