💜mia💜

❝ 360 ❞ by @houseofhyde — Sun, June 28, 2026

fleeing from a messy situationship, you embark on a journey to travel across the globe and discover the hidden beauties earth has to offer. you find the rarest beauty of all in him, bucky barnes. honey eyed, smooth-talking, and capable of working just about every job under the sun. as you continue to crash into him with every country you travel through, a chilling thought starts to take hold of your heart: is fate pushing you together, or is something darker chasing you?

❝ Club classics ❞ by @superbassbuck — Wed, July 1, 2026

If managing a housing complex in Greece during peak tourist season wasn't hard enough, your stupid, DJ manchild of a tenant, Bucky Barnes, goes one step further to make it even more difficult—that is, until he overhears an argument between you and your boyfriend, John, and decides to prove that he actually cares about you for more than just pissing you off with his loud music.

❝ Sympathy is a knife ❞ by @tw1sters — Sun, July 5, 2026

Your lives have always moved in parallel: close enough to touch, yet separated by an irreconcilable distance. Bucky is a prince and you are his sister's lady-in-waiting. But love ignores rank, and so does the kingdom's newest desire-inducing substance.

❝ I might say something stupid ❞ by @superbassbuck — Wed, July 8, 2026

While Bucky Barnes is back in New York navigating his feelings, love unexpectedly becomes one of them. It’s a beautiful, natural emotion—something a man like him never thought he would get to experience again. But he can’t. Not when the person he’s falling for is his therapist.

❝ Talk talk ❞ by @pinksplace — Sat, July 11, 2026

What if the hottest thing Bucky Barnes has ever heard is a language he can’t understand? While everyone else is trying to translate your words, Bucky is far more interested in the way they sound rolling off your tongue. The more time he spends with you, the less he believes he needs to understand you at all. There are plenty of ways to talk.

❝ Von dutch ❞ by @houseofhyde — Wed, July 15, 2026

one brand campaign. two models who hate each other’s guts. three months of torture, bickering, and looks that linger. bucky barnes might have a pretty face, but his heart is rotten to the core and his ego is larger than life. his need to make his dislike of you know is borderline obsessive, never failing to keep your name in his mouth... so maybe it’s time he just confess it: you’re his #1.

❝ Everything is romantic ❞ by @heldbybarnes — Sat, July 18, 2026

when you and bucky reach for the same bag of lemons at the farmer’s market, the touch triggers flashes of the many lifetimes you’ve spent loving each other. as those memories keep surfacing, the two of you have to figure out what it means to fall in love again in the life you’re living now.

❝ Rewind ❞ by @tw1sters — Wed, July 22, 2026

Two names just landed on your hit list: your father, who dragged you back to the tiny town you swore you'd never see again, and Bucky Barnes, the infuriating farmhand whose smart mouth and sexy smiles threaten to ruin your career and your heart.

❝ So I ❞ by @firingstars — Sat, July 25, 2026

notorious for a reputation he worked so hard for, bucky barnes is certain the world is his. he has it all- money, good looks, a fraternity that hangs on his every word; what more could he possibly need? ah, that's right. the pretty girl he met back in freshman year of university that refuses to give him time of day.

❝ Girl, so confusing ❞ by @danysdaughter — Wed, July 29, 2026

bucky barnes can handle almost anything except the way you make him feel chosen one moment and disposable the next. loving you would be simple, if you weren’t so fucking confusing.

❝ Apple ❞ by @54nboo — Sat, August 1, 2026

after hundreds of years of corrupt ruling and tyranny your family had wrought upon your kingdom, a disease wipes out half of the continent. as the last remaining royal in your family, the crown finally falls into your hands. with your council plotting your deposition, you are left with only your knight to support your claim to the throne. can you fix the years of ruin your ancestors had left to you, or does the apple not fall far from the tree?

❝ B2b ❞ by @barnesonly — Wed, August 5, 2026

as a rising singer, signed and promoted by Barnes Records, you try to find your way through the overwhelming whirlwind that is LA. Little do you know, your producer, Bucky, is determined to do everything to keep you as his biggest star.

❝ Mean girls ❞ by @iamthatonefangirl — Sat, August 8, 2026

it seems as though everything is finally falling into place for you: you’ve just won your first Oscar academy award for your film Rendezvous, and you’ve just scored your first deal with the world-renowned film studio, Piston Pictures. it’s everything you’ve ever wanted and more. that is, until the leading actor in your new film, the up-and-coming Bucky Barnes, makes a grave mistake that completely destroys your carefully crafted reputation overnight. except the mean girls of Hollywood can’t stop you from honing your craft, and they certainly can’t keep Bucky Barnes away from you, no matter how hard they try.

❝ I think about it all the time ❞ by @unificsation — Wed, August 12, 2026

bucky makes you think about having a child all the time. but the funny thing about time is it always, always runs out.

❝ 365 ❞ by @pinksplace — Sat, August 15, 2026

There are eight million people in New York City. Statistically, you shouldn’t keep running into the same man. You definitely shouldn’t keep fucking him.

── .✦ due to outside circumstances, our beloved @/spdrveil & @/artficlly cannot take a part in the collab. but don't worry, they're out there bumpin' that .ᐟ

it was the first time since the pair of you started dating that he'd had to go away, and whilst you missed him greatly, you hadn't expected him to miss you so much.

it started small, with texts.

I saw a dianthus plumarius today.

what's that?

oh sorry, garden pinks. they

made me think of you. :-)

well thats very sweet, dr reid :)

he'd message you things like this almost daily. small trinkets he saw that reminded him of you, random facts in the middle of the night when he couldn't sleep on the uncomfortable hotel mattress.

you'd found it a little odd, the sudden influx of texts. whilst spencer usually had some random anecdote or fact to tell you, it had never been so much as this week. he even scolded you over text when you replied during your work hours, despite the fact that he spent most of the case texting you underneath the table like a highschooler.

you thought that he was being clingy over text; you weren't prepared for what he'd be like when he got home.

he'd gotten home at about half ten that night, the sound of keys jangling in the lock notifying you of his arrival. perking up from the couch, you scamper over to the door, just in time to see him toe off his shoes and shrug off his coat. it was a warming sight, seeing the spaces that had felt so empty for so long (a week) be refilled.

he notices you then, head tilting towards you like a curious puppy. despite the tiredness in his eyes, you see that familiar flicker of affection ignite. dragging his feet, he closes the short distance between you two, wrapping you up in his arms. "hi, honey."

his voice is so warm, so full of sleepy tenderness, and you feel butterflies fill your stomach, burying your head into his shoulder. his shoulders are tense for just a second, before they deflate with the aid of your hug.

he doesn't leave your side for the rest of the evening.

or the rest of the weekend.

saturday morning, you decide to bake for your bookclub that afternoon. he spends the entirety of it with his arms looped around your waist, head resting on your head the entire time, pressing kisses every two seconds.

when you try to move to the fridge for the eggs, spencer weighs you down. "spence- i can't move."

he flusters a little, blushing as he hesitantly removes his arms from around you. "oh. sorry." he flexes his hand, scratching the back of his neck bashfully.

he's basically a wreck when you have to leave. he's seconds away from begging you to let him come with you, but he has some dignity.

staying home, for that dreadfully long hour, is like hell. he's restless, he cant stay still for a second. he tries to watch doctor who, but he cant seem to pay attention. he tries teaching your cat to do tricks, but juno is uncooperative and he keeps getting frustrated.

so he sits on the couch, bouncing knees, and stares at the door until he sees you walk through.

sunday is a similar affair. you both decide to stay in, and spencer spends it with his head in your lap, or braiding your hair. he even goes to far as to sitting next to the tub whilst you have a bath, reading to you from whatever obscure russian novel he'd reading.

laying in bed that night, with spencer's arms wrapping around you from behind, cheek pressed against you back, you realise. you realise that spencer is just as clingy as you, just as needy for affection, he just needs an opening.

and so you grant him that opening, here and there. you lay your legs over his when sat on the couch, you link your pinky with his on walks, you borrow his sweaters without asking.

Daryl couldn't stop thinking about you, and he looked for you every opportunity he got. When a walker resembled you with similar clothing or hair, he had to make sure it wasn't you, just in case. His heart would jump into his throat and pound loudly in his ears until he knew it wasn't you, and his fear fell away the moment the walker dropped lifelessly to the floor.  

When he couldn't finish searching the shipping containers at Terminus, Daryl convinced himself that you were gone. That you were still in prison, trapped, or suffered a worse fate out there on your own. After losing Beth, Daryl couldn't get his hopes up anymore; he needed to mourn. 

You were out of a run with Deanna's sons, Aiden and Spencer, which should've been a day's job at most, but unfortunately, when the overrun warehouse plunged into darkness, the three of you were gone for five days. Ruthlessly and strategically fighting your way out with no guns or dropping a single supply; luckily, you were experienced and driven enough to make sure the three of you would make it out alive.

Arriving back in Alexandria in the middle of the night wasn't what you wanted, but another night of sleeping in the car with two brothers who had a serious snoring problem would've killed you off for good. 

"We're done for today." Aiden smiled, wiping some blood off your forehead.

You smiled back, "I think we're done for a long while after that," you managed to laugh lightly before saying good night and going back to your home, dragging your feet, feeling sore and tired.

You climbed into bed, too tired to erase the four days' worth of blood, dirt, and grime built up on your body and face, and went to sleep; little did you know Daryl was three doors away, alive and under a roof not too different from your own.

When you first walked into Alexandrea and went through Deanna's gruelling interview process, you felt reluctant to share your story with her. Still, when you were promised that Aaron would do his best to track down your people, you couldn't stop yourself from telling her everything.

"Daryl is hard to figure out at first," you smiled as you made yourself comfortable on Deanna's couch, enjoying her lit fire, "he doesn't let people in."

"He let you in, all the way it seems," Deanna responded, her gaze intense.

You nodded your head, "Yeah, but it took him a long time to trust me, we've been together since the start... we're always together, this is the longest we've been apart."

"Is he a good man?"

"Without a doubt. Daryl and that group are my family, I wouldn't be here if it weren't for them."

When you were on that run with Aiden and Spencer, Aaron lured Daryl and his group back to Alexandria. Whilst they were rightfully wary after what they went through at the prison and terminus, when Aaron name-dropped you and gave them a picture of you looking alive and happy, they agreed to go with him to this new community.

Deanna put every one of them through the same process, shoving her camcorder in their presence, asking them question after question, but it was Daryl who was the most impatient and on edge; unable to keep still. 

"Where is she?!" Daryl grumbled,  "Am gettin' sick of waitin!"

"She's on a supply run with my two sons," Deanna replied calmly with a smile, "she'll be back soon."

"Where is she?!" Daryl repeated, pacing around the room.

"An old warehouse, a couple of miles out, they are clearing through it and are coming back," she sighed, feeling slightly anxious at the thought of her sons not returning, "if she isn't back by tomorrow night, I'll send for others to search for her.”

When your eyes opened the next morning, you forced yourself into your shower, scrubbing away the dirt caked on your face and neck before digging the dried blood from underneath your fingernails. When massaging your scalp under the warm running water, scrubbing in the shampoo you took from the warehouse, you could hear Daryl's voice, calling out your name. 

At first, you thought you were still dreaming, trapped in a nightmare or experiencing another reality similar to what life was once like, but when you finished your shower, got dressed and could still hear his voice, you knew this wasn't a dream, and you knew you weren't hearing things.

"Daryl! Daryl, stop!" Rick's voice boomed. 

Your eyes widened as you ran down the stairs, your hair still damp and your feet sockless. 

Daryl tried every door in the community, trying to force his way through people's homes to find you, convinced that you were being hidden from him. Rick had to grab him and use all of his strength to pull him away from the last door he hadn't opened: yours. 

Your hand brushed at the doorknob and you gripped it with tears welling up in your eyes. As you pulled the door open, Daryl looked up with hope and froze for a split second in disbelief that you were standing right in front of him, without a single scratch or bruise. 

Rick let go of Daryl, his arm dropping and dangling by his side. 

"Is-Is that really-" Rick started almost breathlessly. 

"Daryl-"

He rushed towards you and lifted you up in his arms, his face nuzzling into your neck, inhaling the scent of your soap. Your heart thumped ferociously against his, and you wrapped your arms around Daryl tightly, afraid that if you let go, he'd vanish into thin air. 

"I thought-" Daryl sobbed.

"I know, I thought too," you cried, your voice wobbly.

"You've been 'ere, the whole time?" he asked, his voice gruff, reluctantly pulling away. 

The rest of the group piled around outside your house, watching with wide smiles and tears in their eyes, relieved that you made it. 

"The whole time," you sniffled as Daryl wiped a rolling tear away. 

Daryl shook his head, "If you didn't come back, I..." his croaky voice trailed off, and you shushed him. 

"It's okay now," you cooed, "it's okay."

Daryl finally put you down but still kept his hand around yours, allowing the rest of the group to come and embrace you in tight hugs, and as you scanned the group, you noticed new faces you had yet to meet, but noticed the absent faces of those you were certain had safely left the prison unharmed. 

Gun to his head and a demand to say one good thing about you? Bucky is taking the bullet.

In every sense of the word, you’re a good person. You’re a reliable partner, a shadow that lurks among crowds and keeps an eye out for your teammates. You’re patient, always the last to raise your voice when tensions are high and the others are divulging into a cacophony of outrage. You help Bob with the dishes, you give John tips on how to get blood out of his suit, you invest your time into researching methods to ease Ava’s chronic pain, you take care of Yelena’s guinea pig when she’s away on missions, and you encourage Alexei on all of his awful PR stunt misadventures.

It’s no wonder that the rest of the team adores you, yet, for reasons he can’t explain, Bucky can barely tolerate your presence for more than a minute without breaking out in hives and debating putting his own skull through a wall. The worst thing about hating you is knowing it’s irrational. 

“Someone’s approaching your nine, James,” maybe, he ponders as your voice speaks through his earpiece, it’s your peculiar insistence on using his first name. “Roland Andrews, big shot lawyer and son of tech billionaire, William Andrews. His father has been accused of tax fraud more times than you clean your knives yet he always seems to get away with it, scot-free.”

Sure enough, the stout figure of a prematurely balding man is creeping along the left of  Bucky’s peripheral. The champagne in his hand isn’t sweet enough to mask the bitter taste of admitting you’re correct.

“Thanks for the encyclopedia dump, what’s it to me?” Or maybe it’s the fact you make him irresponsible, nerves too frazzled to remember to be discreet when he speaks over the comms — the couple to his right are staring at him confused, surely wondering why he’s talking to himself.

“His father has been linked to the likes of Kingpin and, more relevantly, Hydra. So if we’re hoping to investigate the rumours of their resurgence…” As if your voice in his ear isn’t enough, fate chooses the perfect moment to have him spot you over the rim of his champagne flute, standing across the museum hall, sparkling beneath the chandelier. Your eyes are somewhere else; unlike how the small crowd surrounding you has busied themselves with focusing on their own reflections in the glass, you seem to take genuine interest in the exhibit behind the pane.  “Sorry, I assumed you read the mission brief.”

No, he hadn’t. In fact, the time that should have been dedicated to reading the brief had been wasted on watching you. Specifically, the way your knee bounced across from him on the Quinjet. Had the plane not landed when it did, Bucky would have leaped over and put a stop to your distracting movement.

“I was busy,” this time he makes sure it’s but a whisper, loud enough for only the mic to pick up. “What do we know about his father’s links to Hydra?”

“Not much, unfortunately. Rumours, at best. An entire history of funding them, at worst,” the man grows closer while your voice grows more distant over the earpiece, an interference of two strangers conversing near-by. “He’s closing in on you. Leave the line open.”

Bucky wants to disobey.

He wants to turn off his mic and drop it into the remaining bubbling liquid in his glass. He wants to rip out the earpiece and crush it beneath the heel of his italian leather shoes. He wants to make a big scene, point down the length of the display hall and announce your presence to each and every overly-wealthy, underly-empathetic tech-head and government body within the vicinity.

It matters little that he would be blowing your cover, unveiling your role as a quiet partner of the Avengers, and subsequently putting the oligarchs in the room on edge. It would all be worth it, even the part where he’d be risking his own place within the team, if it meant you would get the boot and no longer be here, hovering in his peripheral like a persistent, buzzing little bee.

Unfortunately, a baritone voice stops him from giving into his wildest fantasy.

“Good evening, Congressman Barnes,” Roland Andrews is every bit the image of a hot-shot lawyer, right down to the Rolex living obnoxiously on his wrist and the bottle of cologne he appears to have doused himself in. “Though I suppose it’s just Barnes now. Avenger Barnes? It’s hard to keep up with all those… heroic names.”

“I know he’s insufferable, James, but unclench your hand. You’re a second away from snapping the innocent neck of that champagne flute.”

His fingers almost tighten as you whisper through his earpiece.

“Do they call you Lawyer Andrews-”

“You’re being hostile!” Bucky can feel your eyes on him, unnerving him.

He bites back a scoff, coughs up a plastic smile, “Just call me Mr Barnes.”

“So, you've heard of me,” of course that is all a man like Roland would pick up on, salivating at his mouth for that little morsel of validation to feed his ego’s belief in his right to be in a room like this, surrounded by the other ‘big-deals’ who managed to wrangle themselves an invite to the exclusive event.

“It’s hard to tell from all the way over here but I swear you knowing his name has got him so excited, he’s popped a boner,” you’re in his ear again, just as Bucky takes a sip of his drink.

The sharp inhale he pulls almost causes him to choke and, for a moment, he can’t help but shoot a quick glare your way.

A glare you don’t even notice, too invested at blinding a stranger with your aggravating smile.

“Yeah, well, don’t go feeling too flattered,” a twisted feeling of satisfaction nestles itself in his gut as he watches the man’s face fall to a frown. “I know your father.”

If decades of being a puppet through which others’ enacted evil and bloodspill had taught James Buchanan Barnes anything, it was to notice everything. The way his shoulders straighten a little at the mention of his father. The way his weight shifts from his right foot onto both. The way the pupils of his alcohol-stained eyes stretch an inch, growing with his interest.

For a lawyer, he’s got an awful poker face.

“Is that so?” While the man’s mouth is stoic, his voice is laced in intrigue.

“Well done, you’ve got him hooked. Now, reel him in.”

Bucky is really wishing he’d shut off the line.

“We once worked together,” there’s always a bitter aftertaste that comes with a lie, that’s what Bucky has come to learn, like his mouth is physically rejecting his own dishonesty. “You could even say, we’re old friends.”

“My father and you,” he’s familiar with that tone behind the lawyer’s words. Not disbelief but disgust, the kind one stares down at a wretched bug with. “Worked together? He never told me he’d taken any interest in your campaign for congress.”

“You know what you have to do,” you’re watching again. He knows it because the hairs on the back of his neck rise and his chest feels tight, like it’s boxing his lungs in.

“Like I said, old friends,” Bucky had thought the scheming and the calculated words would all come to an end alongside his term in congress. It’s missions like this that remind him it never ends, not when he’s stuck inside a sandbox full of snakes, waiting for him to turn his back on them for a chance to take a bite. “Our organization met some obstacles a few years back. But, what’s that old saying? Cut off one head, two more shall take its place.”

There Mr Andrews goes again, spilling all his secrets onto his visage. There’s a subtle stilling of his breath, a twitch in his left brow, a parting of his lips.

Recognition stares Bucky in the eye. And, for the first time since he regained his mind, it seems Hydra is staring at him too.

The torture, the mind control, the words that turned him into an unfeeling monster…

“Say it,” you’re there to cut off his next thought, his next memory.

As easy as slipping on a tailored suit, those old words roll off Bucky’s tongue, “Hail Hydra.”

Like a wave, ice cold and chilling to the bone, nausea washes over him. He blinks and, behind his eyelids, a montage of violence that wears his face yet lacks his soul. Pain shoots up his left arm, nonsensical and impossible in every way, yet it's there all the same, stabbing at his metal arm and lingering along the missing nerves.

What a punch in the guts it is — after so many years of working on himself, bettering himself, remembering himself — to be cruelly reminded of his inability to ever fully escape his past. No pardon and no psychologist could ever suck the evil fully out of James Buchanan Barnes, so long as he was living beyond his lifetime and walking amongst the collateral victims of his violence.

Instinct commands him to reach for two things.

First, a glance over at you. Closer than before, hovering among a crowd of eager-eyed suits. Just like the rest of his team, you have them effortlessly wrapped around your finger, clinging onto every ounce of attention you fill their cups with.

A sneer on his lips, the soldier looks away.

And, secondly, he tilts his glass up and reaches for a final sip.

“Good boy, James,” this time, he does choke.

Champagne burns the back of his throat and his neck nearly snaps at the speed his head turns to you, still playing your cards of flattery to your crowd of loyal watchers and completely unaware of the paleness taking over Bucky’s face, the anger clenching its fist around his heart, and the heat melting his loins.

Why would you say such a thing? How could you say such a thing, and have the gall to not even be looking at him? It isn’t fair, in any universe, for you to be so unaffected while you nearly kill him with three words. You must not be human, must not be real, must not be trusted.

There, that’s what it is.

Bucky doesn’t trust you, that must be why he wants you gone.

“Beautiful woman,” Rolland Andrews commands Bucky’s attention back to him, and that’s when the soldier realises his mistake.

He’s been staring at you, openly and undoubtedly, making the subject of your investigation not only aware of your existence but of Bucky’s interest in your whereabouts.

His right palm is growing sweaty.

“You think?” Bucky makes a point of taking two steps to the right, blocking the view of you over his shoulder and forcing a load of eye contact onto the lawyer. If he plays his cards right, he can pivot the conversation away from you and back over to the point of the mission. “I hadn’t noticed. She’s just-”

“His assistant,” there’s your voice again, but it isn’t in his ear. It’s by his side and accompanied by you coming fully into view between the two men. Bucky watches your hand shake the outstretched paw of Mr Andrews before you turn your attention onto him, a mellow smile pairing well with the red of your lipstick. “Sorry to interrupt, Mr Barnes, but there’s been an incident downtown that requires your assistance.”

He doesn’t mean for his eyes to narrow, but that’s just the kind of reaction you inspire in him: confusion and disgruntlement.

“What a shame,” there’s nothing confusing about the way the lawyer’s leopard-like eyes are glued to the neckline of your dress. Perhaps the soldier’s jacket would be of better use over your shoulders. “You’re stealing him away just when our conversation was getting interesting.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry, sir!” You slip right past Bucky’s attempt to grab your forearm, and lay a hand on the man’s shoulder, a faux apology in your gaze. “But this really is a pressing matter. Here,” you’re back to keeping your hands to yourself, too busy rifling through your clutch to entertain whatever perverse thoughts are growing in Andrew’s mind. “Take Mr Barnes’ card, perhaps we can arrange for you both to continue this conversation somewhere a little more private.”

As easy as a dog herds sheep, you escort a bewildered Bucky Barnes away from the target.

You lead the charge, weaving through the clusters of people so effortlessly that he struggles to keep up, his path occasionally thwarted by an unmoving mass and forcing him to watch as you continue your pursuit of the up-ahead, leaving nothing but the shape of your dress to follow. It’s only once the chill of the night bites at exposed skin that he manages to catch a hold of you, halfway down the entrance staircase.

“What was that?” He seethes into your ear from one step behind, hand wound around your arm.

“Smile, James,” you glance back at him, “unless you want to end up on the front page of the news with accusations of mistreating your poor assistant.”

Waiting beneath the staircase sits a promenade of black cars and personal drivers, queuing up to collect their decorated debt otherwise known as their employers. Alongside the white light of burning headlights, there’s the incessant flash of cameras going off, a wall of photographers and journalists hungry to catch a glimpse and steal a moment from those attempting to flea the event’s festivities.

“You’re not taking another step until you answer my question,” he mutters all the same, grip reinforcing itself on your arm.

Despite that, Bucky doesn’t stop you from journeying down another two stairs.

“Your question wasn’t very clear,” at this point he’s certain you must be doing it on purpose, picking and choosing the words you need to drive the soldier up the wall.

“I had him right where we wanted him, and you-”

“I what?” Again, you’re looking back at him, and again, you’re smiling perfectly for the cameras, manoeuvring him to loosen his grip on your arm and switch to locking elbows instead, just in time for the press to take notice of his presence and begin turning their lenses. “Come on, use that caveman brain of yours.”

“Do you get a kick out of ruining my missions?” He registers a shout of his name, and then another, and then another.

Like a pack of starved vultures, the press scramble to gather at the bottom of the stairs, microphones and cameras grasped in their talons as they screech out questions he has no intention of answering.

“We’ve been over this before, James,” if you’ve noticed the fact he is descending slower in light of the chaos that awaits, you say nothing. You simply match his pace. “I get a kick out of helping.”

Bucky remembers the last time you said those very words, both of you lost in the outskirts of France and struggling to find any signal. When he was sure that would get you reprimanded for inefficiency, you pulled through and managed to salvage the mission.

Before that, there was a late night in Tokyo, where you and Walker boarded the jet with blood drying into the cracks of your fingernails. Despite the bloodshed, the mission was a success, and Bucky’s chastising words aimed at you fell upon deaf ears.

In truth, he still the first time you said those words, two days into the job and faced with his interrogative eyes in the dark of the kitchen whilst you were trying to sneak away with a midnight snack.

“Funny, cause you never seem to help.”

“Roland Andrews may be an obnoxious asshole but he’s not an idiot,” as you lift your foot to tackle another step, the heel of your shoe catches on the hem of your dress. His elbow locks and his vibranium hand is steadying you before he can even ponder what a satisfactory sight it would be to watch you roll down the stairs and strike out the press in some twisted game of bowling. Much to his own disgruntlement, his subconscious doesn’t know how to let harm come your way. “He wasn’t about to confess in the middle of the Smithsonian that your old torturers are planning a resurgence. Thanks to me, he has your card. Which means he has your number, which means he’ll call.”

His pride won’t give in and allow him to tell you it’s a good plan, so he narrows his eyes and questions it instead, “Why are you so sure?”

The press are so close now, a mere three steps below, yet he hears you perfectly clear among all their harmonious yelling.

“Like you said, you had him right where we wanted him,” his eyes follow your own as they glance backwards. At the top of the stairs, Rolland Andrews stands watching you both leave. “Trust me, he’ll call.”

Five weeks pass before the call arrives.

On a Thursday morning, six forty three am, with dawn smearing the horizon in shades of tangerine, Bucky wakes from a dream he can’t quite remember. There is light, there is laughter, and there is someone laying by his side, keeping count of his heartbeat while he traces constellations over a naked thigh. Then, the phone rings and he’s thrust back into his body, sweating beneath sheets and consumed by the empty space to his right.

On the other end of the line is not the most-anticipated Roland Andrews. It’s his assistant, with a voice as chirpy as a bird singing its morning song, relaying a short list of demands veiled as an invitation — one of which leads him to now, four hours later, pacing the living room while you wax poetic about your genius, world-saving, revolutionary plan.

The very same plan that’s going to send Bucky to his belated grave.

“Absolutely not,” he says for what feels like the millionth time, metal fingers tangling themselves in the web of his hair. The sting against his scalp is the only thing that seems to ground him, aiding him in holding back even a modicum of the frustration your persistence is simmering within him. “Over my dead body.”

“It makes perfect sense, James,” in opposition to his own rabid demeanor, you’re cool as ice, spread out atop the couch and sipping away at your morning coffee. Movement is occasional, optional — in the desperate times when he’s intercepting the path between your eyes and the television, where reruns of some awful reality show hold your attention captive. “Come on, you know my plans always work.”

They do, and he hates it. Despises it. Wishes you would hurry up and screw up enough to stop being put in harm’s way. But no, you just have to be perfect at everything.

“How many more times do I have to say it? No,” like a broken record or an ever-looping echo, he’s repeating words, over and over, all in the futile hope you’ll sniff out the suspicious nature of Andrews’ demand and agree to Bucky’s terms instead.

“You’re being stubborn,” you lean to the left, trying to catch a glimpse at the screen past his stoic stance.

Perhaps a little overzealous, Bucky had hoped your proposal of continuing the conversation somewhere private would be just that: private. It seems the lawyer and his different definition of privacy had other plans in the form of a summoning to attend an exclusive gala at his family’s estate. The point of contention, however, is the request tacked on at the end of the invite: Mr Andrews requests your assistant come too, as his personal date for the evening.

“And you’re being reckless!”

“Newsflash, that’s kind of my job.”

The first thing Bucky learnt about you was your history — better said, your lack of history.

A life lived in silence. Quaint and quiet are pretty synonyms for invisible. Your existence is nothing but a blank, untraceable slate, up until you at last appear on the proverbial map of agents and demons, as merely a drop in the ocean formerly known as S.H.I.E.L.D.

Sometimes, Bucky thinks he remembers seeing you. Just once, with the Winter Soldier shielded by shadows in Pierce’s office. You stood on the other side of bulletproof glass, a mournful Steve to the right of you and the despicable mass of Alexander Pierce in front of you, face painted in faux sympathy and a hand squeezing down on your shoulder. But the waters of his memory are murky and leave him needing to come up for air before he can ever make a real shape out of anything.

After the downfall of Hydra, you returned to being a ghost. Unheard from and inactive, until the war between heroes, a silent partner in Sharon Carter’s ploy to steal back Steve’s shield and Sam’s wings. While Bucky was turned back to ice, you were running around Europe, protecting the whereabouts of the men who fought for his freedom. Then came the dark days, after half the world turned to dust. Somewhere along the record books, you became a mercenary.

An agent turned killer for hire, and one of the top earners under Valentina’s payroll. When the time came for her to do away with all the loose-ends of her crimes, you were lucky enough — or just busy enough — to ignore her deadly invitation into the furnace that housed Bob. Seven weeks after he was declared an Avenger, Miss De Fontaine turned up at the tower’s door with you. Sweet smile, sharp senses, one job: look out for the team.

From agent, to mercenary, to glorified babysitter.

“Your job is to gather intel, to be an informant, to keep a close eye,” the pacing has seized and Bucky has now taken to facing you, right knee popped out and hands on his hips, the very image of a parental figure mid-lecture. “It’s not your job to answer to some daddy’s boy on a power trip.”

“This might be our only chance to get a lead on the Hydra rumours,” whether it’s prompted by the change in his stance or by your own disinterest, you reach for the control and turn the television off. “You owe it to yourself to let me help.”

The only noise that remains is you two bickering, while the rest of the tower’s inhabitants are sleeping away their morning how you had hoped to — before a certain soldier pulled you out of your slumber—: undisturbed and uninterrupted. 

“I’m going alone,” before he can even fully commit to his sentence, you’re standing up and rounding the coffee table.

“Please, just take a minute, breathe, and think about this rationally,” your approach is one that calls for peace, the demeanour of someone trying to calm a street cat: hands stretched out in front of you and a plea in your eyes that screams ‘please don’t run away’. “Andrews isn’t just inviting you to one of his posh parties, James. He’s testing you, trying to see how easily you’ll grant his request. He wants to see how much he can trust you. I’m tougher than I look, okay? Let me be the collateral to you getting the answers we need.”

One of the worst things about you is your ability to make a good point, even out of a damn circle. Your argument is just the correct mixture of rational, impactful, and personal to almost have him giving in and accepting your offer to help.

But, why should you have to be tougher than you look? Last time Bucky checked, your skill is stealth and brains, not muscle — he is all the muscle you, or, better said, any mission could ever need.

Though frozen in thought, the soldier can see those open arms growing closer, and closer, and closer. You’re two inches away from resting your hand on his hunk of vibranium when Bucky finally reacts, flinching out of a touch he doesn’t quite get to feel and turning away from you.

“I’m not pimping you out,” he shakes his head, voice stern and brow furrowed. “Not to Andrews. Not to anyone. You’re an agent, not an escort.”

“Honey traps have existed since way before your day and age-”

“I’m the leader of this team, my word is final,” for his own self-preservation, he’ll pretend he doesn’t notice the smile sliping down your face. “You’re not coming.”

Bucky’s beginning to doubt this team knows the definition of the word ‘leader’.

Otherwise, he wouldn’t be dressed to the nines and looking like a ten, people-watching out the tinted window of a car in an effort to distract himself from your reflection in the glass and the cloud of titillating spice your perfume floats his way.

Of course you end up coming with him to Mr Andrews’ event, and so Bucky Barnes has to result to gaslighting himself into believing this is what he really wanted all along: him in another suit, you in another dress, and nothing between you but the thinning space of a middle seat. The illusion shatters each time he recalls that the silk resting atop your skin has been hand picked by the lawyer himself, delivered to Bucky’s office with a note that conveniently never found its way to you — For that pretty assistant of yours, Barnes. Tell her to wear nothing beneath.

The subtle strain of your hardened nipples has him uncomfortably aware that you’ve complied with Roland’s request, despite being none the wiser to its existence.

“Don’t drink anything you’re not there to witness being poured,” his throat is raw from the lack of use, the forty minute drive in silence nearly coming to an end as the grand gates to an estate come into view. “I don’t trust Rolland Andrews, there’s something… off.”

“Yes, James, that’s why we’re here.”

“Did you just-” His head finally turns away from the window to look at your image in full dimension, something more than just a poor-man’s imitation of you in the window. “Did you just roll your eyes at me?”

“Roll my eyes at you? Never, my dear leader!” And you have the audacity to offer him a mint, hand mid-rifle through your purse. He accepts it, and prays the sharp flavour on his tongue will be enough to calm the jitterbug traversing through his veins. “I was trying to catch a glimpse at my brain, that’s all.”

“The only chance of seeing your brain is with a microscope,” the gates open slowly, dramatically, and do nothing to aid in the soldier’s uneasy feeling.

“Have you ever considered becoming a motivational speaker?” You chirp, and cross your right leg over the other. “With words as kind as that, I feel empowered to take on the world!”

Once more, you’re a liability to Bucky, a distraction in the shape of a shin peeking out. He’s not usually so bothered by a woman’s skin… But when it belongs to someone he loathes entirely, it’s hard not to seeth at the sight of it.

At the top of an obnoxiously long driveway sits the Andrews estate, a courtyard mansion stripped right out of the Renaissance and sticking out like a sore thumb atop nine acres of flat terrain. Cars are queued up, one after the other, slowly rounding a central water feature, disposing of their passengers, and driving back out of the expensive lot. Unlike the Smithsonian, not a single member of the press is circling the masses with screeching questions or invasive cameras, and, in a twist not even the soldier expects, he almost wishes there was someone, if only to document whatever evil may take place beyond those walls.

“Tell little miss Totally-Spies she looks pretty,” for a moment, Bucky mistakes the voice for his subconscious… But no, it’s just Yelena, no doubt laughing at him all the way over on the Quinjet.

“What? No she doesn’t,” something bitter comes over his tongue. “Tell her yourself.”

“How can I tell her when she is not wearing a wire, genius?” Bucky takes a mental note, adding Yel to the list of women who have rolled their eyes at him this evening — so far, it's two for two. “Oh, and do you copy? Walker says to check our connections before you two step into your high-school Hydra reunion.”

“Of course I fucking copy-” He should have retired to a farm when he had the chance.

The evening does not unfold in the disastrous way Bucky anticipates — it’s even worse.

Barely a foot in the door, the man of the hour conjures before you both as if from thin air. He greets you first, hands laying themselves over all the right places to rile Bucky’s nerves as the man pulls you in to press a sloppy kiss against your cheek. The smile you shoot at the soldier is one of pacifism, a non-verbose reminder to remain calm and focus on the object of your mission.

Since he cannot spare you from Andrews’ wandering touch, Bucky intercepts the wine glass he attempts to hand you, swallowing it down in one large gulp with the blind hope that his super soldier serum has any possible inbuilt date-rape repellent.

Rolland Andrews is possessive, infectious  — an invasive species that is destroying the already endangered ecosystem of Bucky’s tolerance. As the night unfurls, he wears you like the watch on his wrist, a silent jewel perched on his arm and paraded throughout the room. Expected to smile and encouraged to stay quiet, you play your role to perfection. Bucky can’t help but watch you, study the way you shapeshift into someone he’s never met, a chameleon whose nature it is to blend in with her surroundings.

For hours, he’s forced to watch the light shade of your dress be eclipsed by the lawyer’s dark tux. Across the room or stood among the same circle of oligarchs, the sight of you burns his eyes all the same. To add salt into the agitated wound, he has yet to achieve a moment of real privacy with Andrews. And, so, the soldier decides you are not a distraction, but an obstruction.

If Bucky’s eyes stick to you like glue, it must be for two very simple, extremely logical, and completely impersonal reasons.

Firstly, despite the lack of respect he’s afforded by you all, he’s a good leader — a man made of responsibility, who has sworn to take care of his agents, no matter how often he flirts with the idea of you being kicked off the team. And, secondly, in hopes that you’ll notice the panicked widening of his eyes and help steer the lawyer into taking Bucky someplace private to resume their dealings from the Smithsonian’s gala.

It’s not until he finds himself in the mansion’s central courtyard, lost in a mass of swaying bodies and nursing his fourth whiskey on the rocks, that Bucky loses sight of you.

You’re gone, until you’re not. A glimmer of light in the corner of the soldier’s eye, beckoning him to look up. Row after row of empty balconies protrude from the mansion’s walls, staring down onto the festivities below. When he finally spots you, his stomach drops.

“Something’s wrong,” he reaches for the comms like it’s a crutch, something that will steady this uneasy feeling.

“Don’t be cryptic, Bucky,” Yelena’s voice rings through within a moment, somehow sounding equally alert as she is bored. “It does not suit you.”

Traveling over quicksand is easier than moving through this crowd — Bucky would know. He makes it seven steps, sight glued to you, before a solid figure forces him to look away.

After carving out a new path to get inside the home, his eyes find you right where they left you, “She’s on a top-floor balcony.”

“O…Kay? Are you worried she is going to fall in love with the view and betray us?”

“No!” His sudden outburst garners a few looks. Bucky pushes harder through the rows of bodies, neck tilting to watch how your dress dances in the wind. “No. It’s just… weird.”

To the left of you Bucky notices the blurry shape of Rolland Andrews. Were he as logical as you, perhaps he’d see this as the perfect opportunity to snatch a moment alone with the lawyer. Instead, all he sees is a threat at your side, causing a fresh wave of nausea to crash over him and his footsteps to fall a little faster.

“Why?”

“Because she’s afraid of heights,” the words are a reflex, pouring out of Bucky with no thought put behind them — the only thought he seems capable of is you.

“She is?” Walker jumps on the line. “When did she mention that?”

“She didn’t mention it,” an elbow digs into him as a woman stumbles over her heels and, suddenly, a martini glass smashes to pieces on the floor and the stench of vermouth stains his clothes. “I just noticed.”

“Oh, so you notice things now?”

“Don’t say it like that,” he quietly chastises Yelena as he side steps both the woman profusely apologising and the stranger approaching him with tissues in their hands.

There’s no time for interruptions or distractions, he needs to keep moving.

“Like what? This is just my voice.”

“Like there’s something you’re not saying.”

“Busted,” the Widow’s tone conjures outrage inside him, and stains his ears in hues of red. There’s a tight feeling in his chest, in his throat, uncomfortable and unwelcome as she continues to speak. “I’m just thinking how much someone needs to watch her to notice that.”

It only takes him a second to notice you are uncomfortable, cornered against the balcony’s ledge while the target of your mission hides his face in the crook of your neck, arms much stronger than your own caging you in.

Perhaps this is all the makings of Bucky’s own feelings, his own discomfort at the sight of an agent under his care being put in this position, somehow being irrationally projected up onto you. Too good at your job for your own good, never once has he known you to let your guard slip. Does your disdain of heights affect you so viscerally that it’s now cracking away at your hard-shell exterior?

A throat clears itself over the comms.

“Yeah, well, it’s not exactly hard to tell when you sit through a six hour flight with her bouncing her knee,” remembering to reply grows harder as he continues to search for a break in the crowd of foreign faces.

There’s an ache in Bucky’s neck, one that promises to be unforgiving when he wakes up tomorrow morning. Putting his pain on the backburner, he tilts his head back further.

“It must have been so hard for you,” something curls up inside his loins, ashamed, as Walker speaks, mockery bleeding through the speaker. “Wishing she was bouncing on your dick inste-”

“I’m going up. Get the jet as close as you can.”

The pieces fall into place in perfect harmony: a doorway back inside the mansion appears on his right, just as Rolland disappears off the balcony and leaves you all by yourself.

The ascent is one of desperation, a disgraced angel scrapping its way back up the stairway to Heaven. Bucky tackles the marble steps in pairs of twos and threes, using the length of his legs and the strength in his muscles as an advantage to cut down time. When he reaches the top floor, each breath is the result of a heaving chest and sweat is pooling at the base of his neck.

The third room on the left is where he finds you, back turned on the view of the courtyard and lip caught between your teeth.

“What are you doing out here?” He doesn’t mean to startle you, to have your shoulders jump in surprise at the sudden appearance of his voice, but it’s like he just can’t help himself, he cannot stand another moment of seeing you like this — hunched in on yourself, itching to be anywhere but where you stand.

“James,” amidst your fear, you’re still more level-headed than he’s ever been around you. While most see your disregard of your feelings and fright as another testament to your skills, he’s increasingly finding it to be a sign of recklessness. Would it kill you to put yourself first, for once? “Get lost! If Andrews comes back and finds-”

“Finds what?” Bucky challenges as he steps out onto the balcony. There’s your perfume to greet him, again, washing over him with the breeze of the night. “Me speaking to my assistant?”

A stare-off ensues, one that gives him far too much time to notice how the moon sits reflected amidst a pool of stars in your eyes, then you finally huff in defeat, “Dammit, you’re right.”

“For once.”

“Feels nice, doesn’t it?”

Something else feels nice when he catches a glimpse of your smile.

Not the sly, temptress curls of your lips you’ve been shooting at Rolland all night, but the loud smile — the one that puts your teeth on display, and pushes the swells of your cheeks up, and wrinkles the corners of your eyes. Bright and real, the kind that lights up the whole tower when it's an ungodly hour and you spot Bucky emerging into view as you dig into your usual midnight snacks.

A heavy gust of wind arrives to remind you of where you are, sweeping the smile right off your lips.

Anxious feet dance beneath the trail of your dress, the click of heel upon marble reaching his ears. As any good leader should, he takes a step closer and takes a hold of your wrist, too aware of the shake in your hands to fully envelope them with his own. He moves one step back towards the room and beckons you to follow.

“Come on, let’s get you away from the ledge-”

“Wait, just a second,” you’re turning to fully face him, invading his space.

For a moment, it feels like the world is caving in around you both, the walls of the universe nullifying the distance between you with a force greater than gravity. All he can see, all he can smell, all he can feel is you. His lungs are running out of oxygen. When was the last time he took a breath?

You’re in the air, and in his eyes, and pressing a single finger to his cheek.

“You’ve got something on your face, righttt… Here!” You inch back enough to display your pride and joy to him, a single eyelash perched on the tip of your finger. How is it that something so tiny, so inconsequential can capture your attention so easily, while Bucky — for all his power, and all his valor, and all his strength — can barely get you to look at him most days? “Make a wish.”

A myriad of words dangle off the tip of his tongue, thoughts that have echoed through his head from the moment you stepped foot into his life — not just as a ghost in Steve’s stories, but as someone tangible, and real, and blood-boiling. I wish you would… Leave the team, stop helping, notice when I clean your gun, realise it’s not Bob who keeps ordering all the food you like, acknowledge that I don’t like you, inch closer and kiss me.

He doesn’t get to make a single wish.

All he gets is the harrowing view of playful eyes staring at him, unaware of the glowing red dot dancing up the length of your face before coming to a halt at your temple.

With no time to alert you, Bucky pulls your frame against his and dives back into the room as a bullet cuts through the air. Both of you tumble to the ground in a tangle of limbs before the soldier hauls you behind the wall. With the comfort of you hovering at his back, tucked safely against him, he peeks his head out just in time to catch the sniper’s laser stretched out across the courtyard. A second shot is fired, and a window is blown to smithereens.

“We’ve got an active shooter situation,” he barks into his microphone, ducking out for another glimpse at the sniper’s location. “Third floor, west wing, can’t tell which room.”

“James,” he barely registers the soft call of his name.

“On it,” Yelena responds, a thread of ease to weave his fraying mind back together.

“James.”

“You two get to the roof, I’m bringing the jet around,” as John’s voice fills the line, so does the sound of the plane’s engine.

Selfish as he is, Bucky can’t just walk away from tonight, can’t let you being put in harm’s way, again, all be for nothing.

“Leaving compromises the mission, Walker. I need to speak with Andrews first-”

“Bucky!”

The soldier’s neck snaps to look at you, a rush of whiplash burning down the left side. The yell knocks something out of you, your back slowly descending down the length of the wall while your legs give out beneath you. Like a mirror, he mimics your movements, coming to a crouch beside you on the cold floor.

Bucky can no longer smell the spice of your perfume. Now there is only metal, something sticky that drags down his throat upon inhaling and fights its way out of him. Sickly sweet and traumatically familiar, his limbs freeze in its presence.

“You’re bleeding,” he speaks with wonder, disgust, disbelief as a river of red flows down the length of your left leg.

“Listen to me,” there’s an eerie calm in the way you’re speaking, one that does not pair well with the way your hands tremble through their attempts to drag your dress up. Four hands work faster than two, and so his own join you in your mission, flinching to grab at the meat of your thigh upon the wound coming into view. “I need you to make me a tourniquet.”

“Andrews set this up,” his eyes feel like they’re about to fall out their sockets, opened wide and refusing to blink as his brain short circuits out of control. Nothing seems to be making sense. He spotted the sniper, just in time, and got you away from the danger. So why is there a bullet lodged in your upper thigh and why are his hands stained with your blood? “That sniper was meant to kill-”

“Hey!” There’s a sharp sting against his scalp and his attention jumps right up to your face. “Snap out of it. You keep saying you’re the leader of our team, yeah?” He nods into the grip of your fingers, letting the tension of straining strands knock the sense back into him “So be a leader, cut off the bleeding, and get us both out of here. Alive.”

The skirt of your dress winds up ripped in half and tightened in a knot around your upper thigh. You shoulder the pain like a champion, quiet and unbothered if not for the grip he lets your nails dig into his arms with, and the permanent indent of your teeth clamping down onto your lip. Eased back onto your feet, the soldier tolerates a total of three winced steps before he’s scooping you up into his arms and against his chest, silencing your protests with a pointed look.

“There’s a door at the end of this hallway, around the corner,” your voice is methodical, running through words like they’re programmed to come out of you rather than something you’re conjuring with your own mind. “That should get us up to the roof.”

“How do you know that?” He’s moving as carefully as he can, painfully aware of your blood drying into his skin. 

“Lesson one, James,” the return of his first name has never stung so much. “Always know the layout before you enter a building.”

A shot rings out from behind before he can respond.

Emerging from the stairway is one of Andrews’ bodyguards, weapon on display as he openly fires at you both. Bucky doesn’t even have to tell you to reach into the hidden compartment of his suit, your fingers already fishing out his gun and pointing it over his shoulder.

The guard fires again and Bucky ducks to the right, leaving the bullet to lodge itself in the wall. As he picks up his pace, you fire a few rounds back at your attacker.

“Instead of wasting our bullets, maybe try aiming next time,” Bucky snaps as you blow out a window.

“Sorry, aims a little shaky right now on account of the whole bleeding out thing,” you fire and miss, again. “They don’t exactly teach you this at spy school!”

“Spy school?” He parrots back, readjusting his grip on you.

The end of the hallway is close enough he can taste the sweetness of freedom and the chill of the night air.

“Less questioning my methods of distracting myself with humour,” a final shot rings out in Bucky’s ear before he hears the unmistakable sound of a body hitting the floor. “More getting us to safety.”

Yelena is already awaiting you both as you reach the rooftop, a spray of someone else’s blood across her cheek. The pair work in unison to move you onto Bucky’s back and, as the familiar shape of the jet comes into view, the soldier warns you to hold on tight before grabbing hold of the dangling rope ladder. Climbing his way up to safety, Yelena follows close behind.

“Get us out of here, Walker!” Bucky’s quietly thankful for the blonde’s outburst, too busy tending to you to take control of the situation.

Guiding your frame down to the floor, his hand finds your face, your skin cold to touch despite the sweat dripping down your forehead.

“Tell me again how your plans always work,” he says in an effort to keep you awake, the weight of your eyelids growing with each slow blink you take.

The war zone of your leg is too much to handle, yet something compels him to take a peak, turning his own stomach at the bloody wound. Were he more sane of mind, he’d question why it’s affecting him so gravely after a whole century of working in the field of guts and gore. Tightening the bloodied scraps of your dress is of far more immediate concern to the soldier.

“Don’t go throwing your ‘I told you so’ party yet,” your voice is weaker than he’s used to, none of that calm confidence that shakes up his bones. Uneasy fingers tear the necklace off your neck and drop it into his palm, flipping the feature gemstone over and presenting a nearly unnoticeable bug microphone. “Let’s just say Andrews gets mouthy when he gets touchy.”

Bucky replaces you with a new enemy — time.

Where it used to fly, now, clipped of its wings, it crawls. There’s a drag behind every second, a noticeable existence surrounds every minute. Hours turn to days, and days fade into weeks. Midday in the tower is chaos, no level-headed voice to break through the yelling egos, while his midnights are quiet, somber, absent of any loud smiles when he creeps into the kitchen for a glass of water.

You being kicked off the team was never supposed to go like this.

It was supposed to be harm-free, a necessary solution to the problem of your hazardous lifestyle. It wasn’t supposed to be due to a bullet slicing right through your thigh, forcing you into temporary sick leave.

Worst of all, Valentina refuses to give up your location — citing some bullshit excuse about protecting your rehabilitation from any distractions. The soldier would sooner believe it’s the team she means to save from distraction, prying their focus away from whatever awful, stomach-turning, mind-numbing state you’re in.

Five months have passed, winter has brought destitution, and the team has slowly winnowed down those involved in the Andrews’ conspiracy to reestablish Hydra. Thanks to your little bugging trick, Rolland’s hands now only touch the steel bars of a jail cell, his father’s enterprise of tax fraud has at last been brought down, and any real hope of seeing you fully removed from your role as spy has fled Bucky’s grasp.

What is in his grasp, however, is the handle to your bedroom.

One turn of the latch and he confirms what he already knows awaits him beyond the door: an empty room full of your absence. It’s a cruel ritual that takes place when the soldier finds himself alone in the tower — John is visiting his kid, Ava and Yelena are somewhere in Europe working on extraditing someone, Alexei and Bob are in the West Coast negotiating PR deals. And Bucky is completely alone. Or, at least, he should be.

Until he hears a crash followed by a slew of words a nun would never dare repeat.

Knife in hand, Bucky treads through the tower with practiced ease, a silence in his steps reminiscent of his days as an assassin. He sticks to shadows, avoids any sparse ray of sunshine bleeding in through the windows as he clears the place, room by room. On his way past the empty maintenance room, the intruder makes noise once more and alerts him to their location: the training room.

Carefully pushing the door open, the last thing he expects is a high-pitched scream.

“Oh my god, James!” Hand clutched to your chest, your back is hunched over in search of both a steady heartbeat and breath. “Why are you sneaking around like some crazed serial killer?”

“Me?” The heavy door slams behind him as he pushes further into the room, the mirrors that circle the room reflecting his slow approach towards you and the way he safely tucks his knife away. “You’re the one banging around the place like a burglar!”

“Oh please, who on Earth- No, actually, in the entire universe would want to steal your stinky vests and rusty weights?”

He knows that he should reply, that he shouldn’t settle for you speaking to him in such a way. But he can’t. Not when you step out fully from behind the leg press and put your skin on display, the tiniest pair of black running shorts clinging to the plush of your thighs.

The visible loss of muscle definition is to be expected, yet it still hits him in the chest like a sledgehammer, knocking the wind right out of his lungs. The lack of usual bruising should be a comfort, yet it pulls on one of his heartstrings until it snaps, another reminder of how you’ve been out of commission. And then there is the scar.

Resting atop the outside of your left thigh is a patch of fresh skin. It stands out in both its colour and texture — an almost waxy, freshly polished finish behind the way it reflects the angry white lights of the training room ceiling. The scar tissue is new, gnarly, and squeezing at his throat with its existence.

You weren’t supposed to get hurt.

“What are you doing here anyway?” He forces himself to speak, and rips his eyes away from your thighs in search of distraction.

“I was going to do some weight training but, as you can see,” your outstretched hands point at the cluster of fallen weight disks. “The whole thing decided to collapse on me.”

“You’re supposed to be on medical leave,” there’s a pinch in Bucky’s forehead as he pries you away from picking up the mess, the permanent frown you rouse in him at long last returned. “How are you still finding ways to be a nuisance?”

An evil torturer wrapped in lycra, you reach for something to the right of him as he’s knelt down to grab the final disk, putting your legs perfectly on display before him.

“It’s all for the love of the game, James.” At your airy giggle, he looks up and finds you smiling down at him, one hand slipping inside a familiar boxing glove before you’re landing a cushioned, mock-punch against his cheek. “We should spar.”

You’ve changed your shower gel. Bucky can smell it on your skin: once a wall of musk and earth, now layers of something fruity and floral. The deep inhale that follows is intended to stabilise him but only seems to unnerve him even more.

“Not happening,” he tries to grab at your wrist, but you twist it out of the way, leaving his hand to brush over your midriff. “Leave.”

“But I just got here,” you whine, and Bucky must be suffering from an injury of his own — a concussion, perhaps — because something carnal is melting into his loins at the sound, sight, smell of you. “Do you know how hard it was to get Valentina off my back? C’mon, train with me.”

“I’m not fighting you,” at last successfully grabbing a hold of you, he rips his boxing glove off your hand and tosses it over his shoulder to land elsewhere in the room. “You’re injured.”

There’s a downside to capturing you: you’re touching him now, too, prying his hand off your wrist and leading it southbound.

“Pft, that was a flesh wound! See?” You press him against your thigh, the ghost of a gunshot beneath his fingertips almost enough to distract him from the warmth of your flesh. Almost, because he feels it, just like he feels you: alive, present, tempting. “I’m fine, so fight me, Barnes.”

A lingering brush along your thigh follows the soldier’s ascent, snagging on the hem of your shorts as he rises off his knees and towers over you. His hand snaps back to his side like it’s just touched open flame, skin blistering under the heat of feeling you, rebuking your touch.

“No,” he brushes past you, shoulder bumping shoulder, and manages no more than five steps.

“Winner chooses the punishment,” you barter, delicate fingers grasping around Bucky’s forearm and holding him in place in the centre of the training room. It doesn’t matter where his eyes run to hide, he sees you in every mirrored crevice of the walls. “Any punishment.”

The fighting tug he puts up against you is powerless, a flicker of the strength coursing through the livewires of his veins, but it’s easier than letting himself believe he’s giving himself up to your will.

A pause of intense staring between you both persists until the soldier cracks like an egg, “As soon as you surrender, you’re going back on sick leave.”

“Surrender’s a big word for you, James,” you wink and he feels himself falter. “Better get used to the shape of it in your mouth.”

Bucky’s not at all disappointed when you drop his arm in exchange for stretching out your muscles. Not one bit. That deepening of his frown? It’s nothing more than a side effect of realising he truly has to fight you just to get you to obey.

Facing each other, hands raised to the level of your eyes, the faux battle commences. Where the soldier pulls his strength, resulting to grappling with your punches and blocking the swipes to take at his feet, you ram full speed ahead. A kick to his shin, a knee to his guts, a failed attempt at tangling your legs around his neck — it seems Yelena has been training you in the Widows’ specialty.

You get the better of Bucky, eventually, taking advantage of the pause in his strategy that comes at the flinch of returning your injured leg to the ground. His right foot goes first, kicked out from behind, and then your shoulder shoves into him and knocks him on his ass.

“Best of three,” and he’s back on his feet within seconds, cutting off your incoming declaration of victory.

The second round is tougher, longer, one that doesn’t feature Bucky being as delicate as before. Still playing nothing but defense, his hands simply grab a little rougher, hold a little tighter, restrict your movements a little harder than before. You lift your leg and attempt to swing it at his face but the soldier is faster, grabbing your ankle with a firm squeeze and flipping you over.

But you like to play dirty.

A hand balling at his shirt, fingers that tighten their grip and rip him down alongside you. The cotton tears in two, all the while his vibranium arm flies out just in time to break his fall and save you from shouldering the entirety of his weight collapsing atop you.

Two chests that move in perfect sync — for each of his inhales, you exhale, and vice versa. Your limbs are both a tangled web of legs and arms, and your faces are suffocatingly slow, the warmth of your breath melting at his skin until a bead of his sweat drips down and lands on your lips. Holding his gaze with your own, your tongue licks off his residue and reaffirms why Bucky Barnes will always hate you.

“You’re reckless,” he seethes in your face, teeth bared like a feral animal as he slowly presses more of his weight down onto you — not completely, just enough to make you struggle through your next breath and give you a burn of the fire you insist on playing with. “You know that? Conceited, too, always bragging about your little plans that only work when something goes wrong.”

A light flickers overhead and his shadow casts over you a little darker, a little more all consuming, smothering you beneath the figurative weight of his outline. 

“And you’re selfish,” he continues with no protest from you, lips slightly parted as you gaze up at him from your brows, a salacious parody of the famed Kubrick stare. “You don’t give a shit about how you distract me from doing my job when you go off script and make me worry about you.”

His mouth is a loose cannon, firing off thoughts he’s kept hidden under lock and key for far too long. It’s electrifying, freeing, sending a buzz of pent up energy right down to his toes as he spreads your legs with his own and presses even more of himself against you, pinning you to the foam mat beneath.

Motionless and trapped, you blink up at him with the desperation of prey longing to be free.

“You thinking of saying anything,” he quirks a brow, biting back the satisfied smile twitching at his cheek. “Or are you just going to keep fawning at me like a little doe?”

The glaze over your eyes fades away into something far more sinful, far more daring, as a fit of giggles bubbles out from your chest.

“Can’t you feel it, James?” You shift beneath him. “You’re hard.”

Denial is freezing cold, turning him into an iceberg — the real danger lurks beneath the surface of his Calvin Klein’s and is currently poking against your inner thigh.

Fury resolved through friction, you roll your hips up into him and render him useless, mouth agape in a broken attempt at capturing a grounding breath.

That’s all it takes for Bucky’s entire world to tilt over its axis as he’s flipped onto his back. Instead of the ceiling, his eyes find you, sitting atop his torso and pinning him between your legs. He tries to tilt his head down, better his view of your shorts riding up, but he’s met with an immovable force pressed against his neck.

“Close your mouth, James,” your hips swivel, inching up his body, and the blade of his own knife tickles his skin. “You’ll catch a doe. Or, actually, the doe will catch you.”

Try as he might, he can’t seem to pick up his jaw as you struggle to get comfortable atop him, the search for a seat quickly dissolving into a search for traction, your knees digging into the mat on either side of him while you cant your pelvis back and forth.

You pry off the tattered remains of his shirt with one hand while reinforcing the other’s grip on Bucky’s knife, the sweet sting of an almost cut teasing at his neck.

“I thought we were fighting,” an expert at self-sabotage, the soldier can think of nothing better to say to ruin this moment.

“Who says we’re not?” You chirp, tilting your head to the side and gifting him the inquisitive look of a puppy. “I am holding a knife to your throat.”

The blade scrapes at his skin as he swallows down a ball of nerves, a sharpened edge that effortlessly slices along his three-day long stubble. His body, more treacherous to itself than the days of mind-control, responds to you grinding against him by tightening the strain beneath the layers of gym shorts and boxers.

“Then hurry up and put me out of my misery,” he grits out, unsure of how exactly he wants you to do so.

Would slicing his neck work? It would certainly be a finite solution, if you did it right, a permanent end to his days of playing the role of dog herding up the headless sheep of so-called New Avengers. Maybe his request is not quite as dramatic, an exaggerated plea to be put back on his feet to spar with you one last time before he sends you on your un-merry way back to quiet nights and days of rehabilitation.

“I suppose, if you’re bored, you could always just…” you pause for dramatic effect, rolling your hips as you roll your tongue. “Surrender.”

The fever brewing in his loins, in his chest, all over his body has him fearing the worst — that he wants you like this, mounted atop him, one hand to his throat and the other laid flat above his racing heart.

No sooner than that wave of fear crashes over him, the knife begins to journey down his skin. Delicate as glass, you drag its pointed edge over the curve of his collarbone, through the valley of his chest, over the bumps and ridges of his abdomen. When the blade reaches the blockade of your body, you let it dance over your skin too. The soldier holds his breath as he watches it slip over your scar.

“You’re so good at sharpening knives, James. I bet this could just-” hooking his knife beneath the waistband of your shorts, an effortless flick of your wrist is all it takes to bring the fabric to ruins. “Cut right through cloth.”

When Bucky woke up this morning, he went back to bed.

Not for long, barely clocking in an extra twenty minutes of sleep. Realistically, he had not truly been tired — it was about principle, about enjoying one morning to himself where no one was going to interrupt him with news of the kitchen burning down or a world-ending crisis.

Right now, as he flickers all over the shape of you — naked from the waist down, pussy slicked by your own arousal and hovering a few inches above his skin — the soldier’s not so sure he ever did wake up.

You must be a dream.

“Fucking Christ,” is the tamest of things that come to his mind as he watches you.

And, oh, does he watch.

Eyes turned to steal, a metal force that locks them in place, unmoving and unblinking as you bring the knife to your core. Flat on its side, the sharp edge and its pointed tip angled safely away from the puffy, delicate, desperate flesh of your cunt, you draw the weapon up over the glistening folds and against the hidden pearl of your clit.

“Say ah,” is your only command as you bring the knife up to his mouth, where instinct has betrayed him and presented his tongue to you.

The taste of you stains his blade, a mouthwatering tingle against his taste buds that hijacks his system and hardwires a new addiction into him. Never again will he sink his knife into an opponent and not think of this, of you. You’ve cursed him forever, a hindrance that will haunt him even when you don’t.

You’re back to grinding against him, skin pressed to skin. Over his abdomen is a trail of your wetness that, upon noticing it, has his arm gripping at your undulating hips and guiding them down harder against him. There’s something magnetic in the way you move, holding his focus to every half-gasped moan that ripples out of you, and every strain of your muscles, and every roll back of your eyes.

It’s all so appetising, he could eat you.

“If you’re going to rut against me like a bitch in heat, at least do it on my face.”

“That’s no way to speak to a woman wielding a weapon,” despite the warning, you give no protest to the way his hands are leading you up and over his body.

Your knees now knocking at each side of his neck, the soldier salivates as you sit against his chest, your sweet pussy teasing him, too close and not close enough.

“What are you waiting for?” Bucky gruffs out, all his confusing feelings drowning in the pools of your eyes.

“Nothing,” the gentle shift in your voice has him stilling, heart sucked up into a mini-tornado before it lurches back into his chest. When your hand cups his face, he wonders what he did to deserve it. “Just admiring the view.”

“You can admire it from here,” the soldier regains some of his sanity in manoeuvring you up to his mouth.

You sink down onto his face and Bucky goes to heaven. Quite literally dies and meets his god — goddess.

Flattening his tongue, the soldier licks a tentative stripe up your cunt, hands squeezing tight against your waist and halting your attempt to flee from his touch. Once you’re secured in his hold, he’s diving deeper, tongue claiming ownership of your body for as long as you’ll allow him.

Sweet and heady, he smells your arousal all around him as your hips rejoin the dance in honour of your pleasure, the tip of his nose bumping against your clit once, then twice, then a third prolonged time while he presses you fully down on his face.

“God, James,” a full-chested moan ripples out of you and his knife at last slips out your grasp, meeting the floor with a cushioned thud.

Bucky has always known you would be the death of him, he just never imagined he would die like this. Tongue buried in the tight walls of your cunt, nose nestling into the repeated ruts of your clit, the all-consuming, brain-melting, life-changing weight of you pushed down on his face. If he’s to suffocate between your thighs, he’ll go happily into whatever after-life awaits him.

The soldier shifts his legs, bending them at the knee and planting both feet on the ground, driving your lustful stare away from his and glancing over your shoulder instead.

“Are you pitching that tent just for me,” you turn further around, one hand sliding over the expanse of his abdomen and dipping its fingers beneath his waistband. “Or are you always this hard during fights?”

Much to his own reluctance, Bucky lifts you off his mouth.

“Bit of both,” a featherlike touch brushes over the tip of his aching cock and nearly drives him feral, a hiss caught between his teeth before he sinks them into the meat of your thigh. “Fighting’s an adrenaline rush.”

“Then what am I?” You barely manage, voice divulging into a gasp as he bites you again, harder, tattooing indents of his teeth into your supple skin.

“You,” he drags the word out, just like he drags a soothing lick of his tongue over his bite mark. “Are a pain in the ass.”

The soldier can feel you trying to tug down his shorts but the angle is awkward and, for every inch of skin you reveal, the waistband slips up another two inches. And while it rouses a frustrated sigh out of you, it’s fully driving him into the depths of desperation, the epicentre of his heartbeat shifting from a thump in his chest to a throb in his dick.

So he’s more than complicit when you do a one-eighty.

“Since I’m such a pain in the ass,” you arch your back, pawing your way down the expanse of him, and Bucky swears he witnesses your hole wink at him, sticky and wet and inviting him back in for another taste as it hovers above his face. “Enjoy the view of mine.”

Each side of you sinks down on him in sync, your cunt against his lips and your mouth around his cock. You become everything, all his, grinding your hips against his tongue while your own lathers itself in the salty taste of his skin, gliding up the length of his dick.

Bucky’s left hand grips at your thigh while the other imprints his fingertips into the globe of your ass cheek, grounding himself with a squeeze of your flesh amidst the hazy clouds of pleasure that threaten to swallow you both whole.

The soldier decides you must be a masterpiece, crafted by the hands of a visionary genius and lost to the hands of time, only to wind up here, tangled atop the training mat with him, feeding him with a honey of sin and moulding something new out of him with a hand steadying the base of his cock while you swallow down all you can take of him. Even then, it’s not enough for Bucky.

His own hips lift off the floor, feeding an inch of two more into your gaping mouth before he soon hits the back of your throat.

“Wish I could see it,” the rasp in his throat makes it hard to speak, while the feeling of you gagging on his dick makes it hard to think. “That pretty little mouth of yours finally being put to good use.”

His fingers seek you out, passing over the puckered hole of your ass before burrowing themselves — middle and ring — into your cunt. While your hand busies itself massaging your drool along his shaft and over his balls, he’s switching between beckoning you towards him with curling fingers, pressing against the gummy walls of your pussy, and scissoring you open while his tongue laps up the molten pleasure you spill over his knuckles.

“There you go, doll,” there’s a thrill to running his mouth, unabashed and unguarded, spewing out the first obscenity that pops in his head and watching how you viscerally react, a whining, moaning, desperate thing falling apart just for him, because of him. “Take him as deep as you need. Practically begging me to paint that mouth white, aren’t you?”

You bob your head over him, the vibrations of your moans shooting right down to his base and pulling his balls tight and desperate for release.

“Want you to cum down my throat, James,” you grind back against him as he mouths at your clit. “Wanna taste how you surrender.”

That word snaps Bucky’s mind back into place, awakens him like a sleeper agent.

In a matter of seconds, you go from straddling his face to being shoved onto all fours atop the training mat, manhandled like the perfect ragdoll he wants you to be. Malleable and manipulated into whatever position, angle, hole he wants from you.

Even a saint, when faced with the sight of your arching back, couldn’t hold themselves back from landing a skin-tingling slap against your ass — and the soldier is no saint. The spank is not enough to bruise, just enough to have you choking on a breath and keening back into the apologetic kiss he soothes the stinging flesh with.

“Please, oh god,” you moan when, for old times sakes, Bucky helps himself to another taste of you, tongue prodding at your hole from behind.

“Don’t reckon he’s willing to save you now,” he punctuates his snark by spitting on your hole — not because you need the extra lubrication, but because he craves to see you dripping in at least one of his fluids.

You melt away the minute his cock enters you — one fatal thrust of his hips that burrows him all the way to the hilt inside of your dripping pussy — your arms giving out beneath the weight of your body and winding up outstretched along the floor as your face meets the ground too.

One shallow thrust, a barely-there roll back of his hips, and he feels your walls squeezing to hold him inside.

“‘S this what you were needing, huh?” The hand gripping at your waist is gentle, soothing, his thumb rubbing over your skin, yet his tone is anything but — authoritative, chastising, in charge. “All those times I berated you over your misactions, who knew I should’ve just tried fucking some sense into you.”

“Bucky,” your voice is muffled against the foam mat.

“Oh so now you want to call me that,” he tries another thrust, eyes glued to the view of his length retreating from the grip of your pussy lips, covered in your juices. “Finally feel close enough to me now that I’ve got you stuffed full?”

“So full,” you’re babbling and drooling, a wet patch forming just below where you press your cheek against the floor and glance back at him.

“You wanted to fight me, so go on,” it nearly kills him to pry his hands off you. “Use those hips like a fucking weapon.”

The soldier can tell it takes a moment for you to process his words, eyes glazed over as you gape at him from the floor, but you catch on eventually. Clench your walls, take a deep breath, and at last begin moving.

You fuck yourself back against his cock in slow, stuttered movements, fingers flexing along the floor in search of a piece of reality to grip at while your nails press into the foam, permanently marking the training room with evidence of your reckoning. The view is enthralling and tongue-tying, driving him mad in search of appraising words that falter into nothing but pleased hums.

His hands resist the urge to touch you, to guide you back against him, too stubborn in his desire to see you work for it, work for him. A pathetic mess sprawled out on the floor, yearning for any friction you can get from holding his cock snug within your walls and rutting your hips back against his own.

Bucky can only deny temptation for so long.

“Shh, atta girl,” every drop of mockery in his tone is intentional, heartfelt, his pity for you only going far enough to rouse a faux pout on his lips as he starts to meet your cunt with thrusts of his own and watches you start to sing a broken melody of moans and whines. “I know he’s big but you’re taking him like a champ, she’s taking me like a champ.”

A hand skirts down the expanse of your spine, enhancing the arch of your back as his hips slowly start to dig out a rhythm, fucking you deeper, harder, better. By the time his fingers reach the back of your neck, he’s forcing your head down against the ground and relishing in the sound of his balls slapping against your soaked folds as he works his dick inside of you.

One glance ahead sends Bucky down a new avenue of desire, something more primal and carnal stirring in his guts.

“Look at us,” his words are drawn out by wonder as the hand at your neck rearranges your head until your chin is pressing into the mat and your eyes face forward, meeting his steely blues in the mirror. “This is how it’s supposed to be. The leader on top, and you grovelling on your knees.”

Your reflections are nothing but sin, capturing every movement that passes between you both. The perfect dance of how your body welcomes him in. The way the soldier’s mouth gapes open, firing off capricious words and man-whore moans. The way your eyes are borderline lost behind your eyelids.

That last one has Bucky outraged, resolute to change the attention you give to the mirror.

The hand at your neck curls around the front and hooks you in the grasp of his elbow, before Bucky’s yanking you up, your back to his chest while he holds you in a headlock.

“You’re too perfect like this to miss, sweetheart,” he croons in your ear, eyes pinned to both your reflections. “So look.”

“James,” his name sounds like a blessing, brought out in your time of need.

He echoes your own name back to you, pleased to find your eyes blown wide open and equally as enraptured as he is by the show you’re both putting on. 

Your hands find his bicep and cradle the capture it’s taken over your throat. Bucky finds himself wishing he’d peeled your top off, the tight fit compression gear denying him the luxury of watching your breasts bounce alongside his ministrations. Before he can lament for too long, his free hand graces over the scar in your thigh and there’s something more pressing that upsets him.

“That bullet was meant for your head,” a gasped out confession, interrupted by your hips grinding down on him. “I nearly watched you die. You think that’s fair?”

He hates the way you shrug, like the prospect of being permanently gone means nothing to you, “You still would’ve- Ahh- Caught Andrews.”

“I didn’t give a shit about him,” his face turns towards yours, nose flattened against the side of your temple as his lips brush over your cheek, breathing you in. “It would’ve all been for nothing if I lost you.”

“James,” you whisper, his thrusts brought to a complete halt under the intensity of your eyes — your real eyes, not a reflection — finding his own when you turn to face him. “I’m right here.”

He blinks, slow, and when his eyelids reopen, you’re still there for him to behold. Infuriating, blood-curling, heart-shaking you and that loud smile.

You give him what he needs most, hand finding his jaw and your lips meeting his. The kiss is careful and composed, an explorative union of mouths, until it’s not. Until he’s desperate, hungering for more of you, his tongue brushing into your awaiting mouth and his lips moulding themselves against yours in hopes they fuse you both together, forever.

Bucky finds it impossible to turn away from you, so you do it for him, fingers gripping at his jaw and forcing his gaze forward again, bringing him back to where he needs to be. In this room, with you in his arms and him in your cunt, equal players in this game of pleasure.

One last kiss seared down into your shoulder and the soldier’s back to fucking you properly, winding his hips back just to admire the way you welcome his whole length, embrace his whole girth so pliantly. There’s an end in sight, one that promises momentary bliss, and all he wants is to take you there, to the very brink of ecstasy.

“D’you want to cum?” He slurs in your ear, the hand at your thigh snaking its way over to pinch at your clit. “Yeah? Then say you surrender.”

“You surrender,” and, oh, you must feel so smart, his beautiful vixen, a choir of giggles spilling out of you.

He tightens his hold around your throat, flexes the muscle in his arm, and watches how the silence is choked into you, no noise remaining but a broken moan.

“C’mon, baby,” Bucky needs it, just as much as you do, that greenlight to finally let himself explode. “Wanna feel her squeeze me real tight. Say it, for me.”

“I sur-” You’re cut off by your own pleasure, a half-shrieked scream that rips out of you while the soldier does the impossible and, tilting at a new angle, fucks deeper, tip bumping against what has to be your cervix.

“Uh-huh, that’s it,” the mirror spills all his secrets and feeds you the sight of his kisses being peppered up your neck, against your cheek, and sweat-soaked strands of hair that sit glued to his forehead. “Say it nice and clear for me.”

“I surrender,” you manage the full word, barely, and Bucky’s so proud of it, of you.

Of how you fall apart for him, hands grabbing at his arm in search of something grounding amidst the chaos of your shaky legs, and spasming walls, and weepy eyes. Of how you give yourself up to him, let him guide you through the blinding haze of your orgasm, cunt swallowing every subtle nudge his dick bullies into it. Of how pretty you gasp his names for him, a spillage of Jameses and Buckys all over the training room floor.

And of how, as his own orgasm crashes over him, you help him too, don’t even protest when his cock leaves you empty, slipping out only to search for friction between your two thighs. You squeeze them around him, marvel at the blush of his leaking tip as it rocks back and forth up to your clit.

When Bucky spills at last, it’s with his teeth clamped down on your shoulder and a hand clutching at your thigh as the thick, hot, white ropes of his cum paint your skin.

Exhaustion melts you both to the floor. A few moments in grasping at breaths pass before his hands are turning you around, in search of your face. When he finds it, there’s still a challenge in your eye.

“I lost,” you concede. “What’s my punishment, sergeant?”

The only response he can muster is to roll his hips.

Seasons ebb and flow into new ones.

Spring blooms and brings flowers into Bucky’s life, a handful a week delivered discreetly in the dark of a midnight rendezvous. With summer comes the heat — in both the temperature and the accusatory looks from the team each time his hand lingers on you during debriefs. In autumn, the leaves come crashing down alongside the truth, a pile of ‘I knew it!’s mixed in with the disgruntled paying of debts to Alexei for winning the ‘When Will They Tell Us?’ betting pool. And now, a whole year passed in the blink of four eyes, winter has returned.

More aggressive than ever, it seems, as Bucky stares out the window to a sea of desolate white.

Perhaps it's not so much about the season as it is about his location, the clue very much being in the name: Iceland.

“Come back to bed,” a soft drawl from behind him, the gentle rustle of limbs stretching over a mattress. “It’s cold, James.”

Of course you’re cold, naked atop the wrinkled sheets with his fingerprints burned into your skin and his cum leaking out your slit.

The soldier rolls his eyes in feigned annoyance, turning away from the fogged up window and crossing over the creaking floorboards to rejoin you, grabbing the blanket — discarded during earlier activities — off the ground.

“That snow’s showing no sign of stopping,” he shares the observation as he crawls up the bed to you, lips brushing over your skin as he goes. At the top of your thigh, he pauses, takes the effort to kiss the marred skin gently, a silent ritual where he gets to thank whatever power in the universe delivered the bullet there instead of your skull. “We’ll be trapped here at least another night.”

“Oh no, what a shame!” Grabby hands that hook under his arms to drag him the rest of the way up to you. “I guess we’ll just have to keep warm somehow.”

The soldier holds you how he knows you like it best: his left arm as your pillow, his right one resting at your neck, and his legs tangled in yours in an indecipherable mess. Silence lasts but a second or two before his thoughts get the better of him, memories of how wrong the first part of today had gone with the arrival of the blizzard.

“Am I allowed to say I told you so yet?” Even with your eyes closed, he knows you’re aware of the teasing smile on his face.

“Do you really think I don’t know how to check a weather app?” 

“You’re seriously stalling us both here while there’s bad guys to be caught.”

“There’s always bad guys to be caught,” your fingers flex in the grasp of his own, a satisfied sigh sweeping through your chest as you find warmth at last. Not from any blanket resting heavy on you, but from him and the way he holds you. “There’s not always a snowed-in cabin, or time to enjoy having my half-naked hunk in bed with me.”

“You’re making me irresponsible,” still, Bucky’s resting further into the pillow beneath his head, eyes welcoming the dark.

“When it comes to me, you’ve always been irresponsible.”

He has, and he hates it. Loathes it with every fibre of his being.

The worst thing about loving you is how entirely it consumes him.

“...Six, seven, eight,” you whisper out into the dark of the cabin.

“Mhmm,” a hand finds your thigh, fingertips tracing manmade constellations into your skin. “What are you counting?”

“Your heartbeat.”

+ extra hyde.

· my headcanon of bucky being incapable of processing emotions manifests in two ways: 1) unspoken yet undying devotion (manchild!bucky) and 2) deducing that any positive feeling must actually be a negative one because that's all he's ever known & thus mistaking love for hatred (the loser bucky present in this fic) · besties, somebody needs to throw me an intervention on how to properly list warnings on a fic, it's getting ridiculous. · dear anon who requested this: i hope you enjoyed, i'm sorry if you didn't! i know your request wanted banter, however, i was kind of worried too much banter would just turn this into the exact same reader i wrote in manchild and i didn't want to do that ( probably did it anyway by accident, oopsy daisy!)🧍‍♂️ · anyway i'm about to hit post like its a detonate button and the only safety distance from the explosion is to log out of tumblr for 24 hours, see you on the other side <3 · lore accurate photo of bucky in this fic;;

Because if you look too closely, you’ll give yourself away.

And you can’t afford that.

Not when you’re already picturing the headline in your mind like a private little prayer.

Superman learns to be gentle.And you’re the only one he trusts enough to teach him.

The offer comes to you off the books, like a confession slid across a table instead of money.

A place. An hour. A promise that no one will know your name.

And then, after a pause that tastes like shame, the real truth:

“Every time I’ve tried,” he says, eyes fixed somewhere over your shoulder, “someone gets hurt.”

It’s not an admission that makes him smaller. It makes him terrifying in a new way—because he isn’t talking about bruises the way ordinary men do. He’s talking about physics. He’s talking about the reality that a good night can become a hospital visit if he forgets himself for half a second.

He swallows, and you watch his throat bob like he’s forcing down something sharp.

“I can’t—” He stops. Starts again. “I want to be… normal. With someone. I want to be able to let go without… without being afraid of what I’ll do.”

You nod like you’re a professional. Like your pulse isn’t kicking against your ribs.

“What exactly are you asking me to do?” you say.

He looks at you then, properly—blue eyes too honest, too bright. The kind of eyes that make people trust him with their lives.

“I want you to help me practice,” he says, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world. “Control. Feedback. Limits.”

Practice.

Like this is a skill he can learn the way he learned flight. Like you can run drills until his body understands what his mind has been doing alone for too long.

You should say no.

You should tell him there are therapists for this, doctors, specialists who won’t get tangled up in the way your stomach drops at the idea of him losing control on top of you. You should tell him this is a terrible idea, morally and practically and in ways that will haunt him if it goes wrong.

Instead you ask, “Why me?”

His mouth opens. Closes.

Then, softly, “You didn’t flinch.”

A beat.

“You didn’t look at me like I’m a weapon.”

Another beat, the air humming with the effort it takes him to say it.

“You looked at me like I’m a person.”

You let your expression stay smooth, careful. You let him believe it.

Because the truth is uglier than that.

You didn’t flinch because you’re not afraid of him.

You’re hungry for him.

And you’ve always been the kind of person who learns best by touching the fire.

He takes you to the place he trains when he needs the world to stop looking at him.

It’s underground, somewhere beneath Metropolis, a hidden room carved out of bedrock and reinforced like a bunker. No windows. No cameras. Just fluorescent lights that cast everything in stark honesty.

There’s a heavy-duty workout bench bolted into the floor like an altar.

Steel frame. Thick padding. The kind of equipment built for gods who don’t want to accidentally kill anyone.

Clark stands in the center of the room with his hands at his sides, posture rigid, like he’s bracing for impact.

“I’ve never brought anyone here,” he says.

You circle the bench slowly, letting your fingertips ghost the worn edge of the padding. It’s been used. Punished. Tested.

“You’re trusting me with a lot,” you murmur.

He nods once, sharp. “I have to.”

There’s something about that—about his need, his honesty, his desperation to be safe—that makes you want to bite.

Not him. Not yet.

Just… the idea of it. The control. The power in being the one person he can’t do without.

You set your bag down on the floor and pull out what you brought: a small bottle of lube, a simple set of cuffs with soft lining, a piece of fabric that could be a blindfold or a gag depending on how you fold it.

His gaze flicks to each item like he’s cataloguing weapons.

“You came prepared,” he says quietly.

You shrug, like you’re casual. Like you didn’t spend last night imagining the exact shade of red his cheeks would turn when you put him on his knees.

“This is training,” you say. “Training needs structure.”

His nostrils flare. He looks away, then back, as if forcing himself to stay.

“What do you need from me?” he asks.

It’s the question that matters.

Consent isn’t just a checkbox with someone like him; it’s the only thing that makes this anything but catastrophic.

You step closer, closing the distance until you can feel the heat of him—sun-warm, steady, impossible.

“I need you to be honest,” you say. “If anything feels wrong, you tell me. Immediately.”

His jaw tightens. “I will.”

“I need you to listen,” you continue, voice even. “To my words. To my body. To what I say and what I don’t.”

His eyes track your mouth like it’s the most important thing in the room.

“And I need you to understand something,” you add, and let your gaze hold his until he can’t look away.

“This only works if you let me lead.”

His breath catches—just a little, but you see it.

“I can do that,” he says, like it’s a vow.

You smile faintly.

“Good,” you murmur. “Then we start slow.”

Slow is a lie you tell him so he’ll agree.

Slow is the way you get your hands on him.

You have him sit on the bench first, feet planted, posture too perfect. He looks like someone preparing for an interview, not someone about to be touched.

You stand between his knees and place your palms on his thighs through his sweats.

He stills like a statue.

“Breathe,” you remind him.

He inhales. Exhales.

You lean in, close enough that your voice can stay quiet and still reach him.

“Tell me what you’re afraid of,” you say.

His throat works. “Hurting you.”

“That’s the big picture,” you say gently. “I mean right now. In this moment.”

He hesitates.

Then, barely audible: “That if I start… I won’t be able to stop.”

Something inside you thrills, sharp and bright.

You tilt your head. “Is that what’s happened before?”

His eyes close for half a second, like he’s bracing against memory.

“Yes,” he admits. “Not… like this.” He gestures vaguely, to the room, to you, to the setup. “But I lose track. I forget. Everything feels too—too good and then—”

He cuts himself off, shame rolling off him in waves.

You slide your hands up his torso slowly, feeling the solid heat of muscle under fabric, the way his body reacts even when his mind is trying to be polite.

“Then we build a system,” you say. “We make it so you don’t have to rely on fear to stop you. You rely on me.”

His eyes open, blue and raw.

“You’ll tell me to stop,” he says.

“Yes.”

“And if I can’t—”

“Then we use tools.” You lift the cuffs slightly, letting them glint under the lights. “We use limits that aren’t negotiable in the moment.”

His gaze drops to them. He swallows.

“Do you want that?” you ask.

It matters that he chooses it.

He nods once.

“Yes.”

You step back, and his shoulders visibly loosen with the permission.

“Good,” you say. “Stand up.”

He does immediately.

You move behind him, fingers brushing his wrists as you guide his hands back.

He tenses for a second—instinct, not refusal—and you feel the war inside him: power vs surrender.

“Clark,” you say softly.

He stills.

“I’m going to cuff you,” you tell him. “Not because I don’t trust you. Because you don’t trust yourself.”

His breath shudders.

“Okay,” he whispers.

You loop the cuffs around his wrists and secure them to the bench’s anchor points. He tests them automatically—gentle pressure. The bench doesn’t budge.

His eyes flick to you, uncertain.

“You’re stuck,” you say, voice calm. “And that’s the point.”

Something like relief crosses his face, quickly buried.

You step around him to face him again.

“Say your safe word,” you instruct.

He frowns. “We need one?”

“Yes,” you say, and don’t let him argue. “Pick something you won’t say by accident.”

His lips part. He thinks.

“Starling,” he says finally.

A strange choice. A soft one.

You nod. “Starling means everything stops immediately. No questions.”

He nods too, solemn.

Then you touch him.

Just a fingertip along his jaw, the edge of his mouth, the curve of his throat.

He inhales like he’s been starving.

“Tell me where you hold the most tension,” you murmur.

“My shoulders,” he says, voice strained.

You slide your hands up, kneading the thick muscle there, feeling how hard he is even while he tries to relax.

“Good,” you say. “We start by making you feel good without making you lose control.”

He lets out a shaky laugh.

“That seems… unlikely,” he admits.

You smile, slow.

“That’s why you hired me.”

You take your time undressing him, not because you’re kind, but because every second he has to wait is a lesson.

Patience. Control. Listening.

His shirt comes off first, folded neatly like he still thinks he’s in danger of wrinkling it. His skin is warm, gold under the lights, covered in faint marks that look like they came from things trying and failing to hurt him.

You trail your fingers along one of them, and his chest rises sharply.

“Sensitive?” you ask.

“Everywhere,” he admits. “I… I feel things strongly.”

You hum, pleased.

His pants come next. His boxer briefs after that.

When he’s bare, he looks almost embarrassed by how perfect he is—like it’s an accident he keeps apologizing for.

His cock is already hard, thick and heavy against his abdomen, and the sight of it makes your mouth go dry.

You don’t touch it yet.

Instead you undress yourself slowly, letting him watch. Letting his eyes take you in like he’s afraid if he blinks, you’ll vanish.

You climb onto the bench carefully, straddling his lap. The cuffs pull his arms back just enough to keep him open, vulnerable.

His breath catches when your bare skin meets his.

“Okay,” you say softly, hands on his shoulders. “Rule one: you don’t move unless I tell you.”

His eyes widen. “I—”

“Do you understand?” you press.

He swallows hard. “Yes.”

“Good,” you whisper, and press a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

He trembles.

You reach down, wrap your hand around him once, just enough to make him jerk.

He sucks in air like he’s drowning.

“Still,” you remind.

He goes rigid, fighting himself.

You slick him with your palm and then lift slightly, guiding him to your entrance.

He looks at you like you’re about to save him.

“Tell me if you’re okay,” you say.

“I’m okay,” he breathes, voice wrecked. “Are you?”

You smile.

“I’m better than okay.”

And then you sink down onto him.

He makes a sound that doesn’t belong to someone who is also supposed to be Superman.

It’s too broken, too needy—like something inside him finally snapped in the right direction.

You set your hands on his chest, feel the thunder of his heart under your palms, and move slowly.

For a few minutes, it almost feels gentle.

Almost.

His restraint is visible, the way he holds himself back like he’s gripping a wild animal by the throat. He stays still when you tell him. He bites down on every instinct to thrust up into you.

You roll your hips, take him deeper, and he shudders so hard the bench creaks.

“Good,” you murmur. “That’s good control.”

His laugh is breathless. “I’m trying.”

“I know,” you say, and lean down to drag your mouth along his throat.

He goes taut.

Your teeth graze his skin—just a hint—and he gasps, eyes squeezing shut.

“Still,” you warn.

He obeys.

You should be proud.

Instead you feel the ache of temptation, the way you want to push—just to see what happens when he breaks.

You pull back, meet his gaze.

“Tell me what you want,” you say.

His eyes are bright, desperate. “You.”

“That’s not specific enough,” you tease.

He swallows.

“I want to move,” he admits. “I want to—fuck, I want to take control.”

You tilt your head. “And what happens when you do?”

His jaw clenches, shame flashing. “I don’t know.”

“That’s why we’re here,” you say softly, and then, like kindness, “We’ll do it in steps.”

But the truth is you’ve already decided.

You don’t want to fix him.

You want to be the line he crosses and can’t uncross.

You shift your hips faster, riding him with more intent, your breath starting to hitch. His eyes track your movement like he’s trying to memorize it—like he’s afraid he’ll never get this again.

“Clark,” you breathe, and his focus snaps to you instantly.

“Yes?”

“You’re doing so well,” you praise, and feel his whole body tense at the words. Praise hits him like a drug.

You smile at that. File it away.

Then you press a hand to his jaw, force him to look at you.

“I’m going to let you move,” you say. “But you have to listen. If I say stop, you stop.”

His breath is ragged. “I will.”

“If I say slow down, you slow down.”

“Yes.”

“If I say ‘Starling,’ everything ends.”

He nods hard.

You hold his gaze another beat, as if you’re making sure he means it.

Then you shift your weight forward, bracing your hands on the bench near his shoulders, and whisper:

“Okay.”

“Move.”

The change is instant.

Clark’s hips drive up like he’s been shot out of a cannon—and then he catches himself, stops mid-thrust with a strangled sound. His muscles are shaking with effort, his face tight with restraint.

He looks at you like he’s waiting for punishment.

You moan instead.

“Good,” you gasp. “Yes—like that, but slower.”

He forces himself down to something controlled, something almost human.

Almost.

The bench groans again under the new rhythm, the metal complaining in stressed little screams.

You wrap your legs tighter around him, taking him deeper, and his breath breaks.

“You feel—” he chokes, eyes wild. “You feel so good.”

“I know,” you pant. “Stay with me.”

He nods, jaw clenched, and keeps moving.

It’s still controlled, still careful—until you tilt your hips just right and a sound tears out of him, raw and helpless.

His thrust stutters.

You feel the edge of him slipping.

And you—god help you—you lean into it.

“Clark,” you moan, and his eyes snap to yours.

“Don’t hold back from me,” you say, soft as a sin. “I can take it.”

He freezes.

“That’s—” he starts, panic flickering. “That’s not—”

“You hired me because everyone else got hurt,” you whisper, lips close to his. “Let me be different.”

It isn’t fair. You know it isn’t.

But you watch the words land like a match in dry tinder.

His control wavers.

He swallows hard. “Are you sure?”

You nod, slow. “Yes.”

You are sure of one thing only:

You want him ruined.

You want him addicted.

You want him looking at you like the only safe place he’s ever had.

You shift again, and he groans like he’s in pain.

His thrusts speed up, heavier now, the force behind them increasing. The bench starts to shudder under you, bolts vibrating.

“Slower,” you tell him, testing.

He slows—barely.

“Good,” you murmur, and then you give him what he really needs: permission dressed up like trust.

“That’s it,” you whisper. “Use me.”

A sound rips out of him—too raw, too broken.

His hips drive up harder.

The bench squeals, metal legs flexing under stress that wasn’t meant to exist.

You brace yourself on his chest, fingers digging in.

He looks at you like he’s drowning and you’re the only thing he can grab.

“I’m going to—” he gasps, panic rising. “I’m going to lose it.”

“Then lose it,” you breathe, and roll your hips to meet him.

He tries to stop. You feel it—the way his body fights, the way he attempts to pull back, to slow down, to do the right thing.

But you keep moving.

You keep coaxing.

You keep whispering the exact kind of praise that makes him unravel.

“Good,” you moan. “So good, Clark—God, you’re perfect—just like that—”

His restraint snaps.

Clark’s thrusts turn brutal, unstoppable. The room fills with the sound of skin meeting skin, the bench crying out under every impact.

The reinforced steel legs buckle with a sharp, violent shriek.

The entire frame dips.

Padding tears with a ripping sound like fabric giving up.

You yelp, startled, but his hands—still cuffed, still restrained—flex helplessly as his body surges upward again, chasing you like he’s lost the ability to think.

“Clark!” you gasp, half warning, half name-saying prayer.

He looks wrecked, eyes blown wide, mouth open in a sound that’s more animal than man.

“I can’t stop,” he chokes.

You should say Starling.

You should end it.

Instead you hook your legs tighter and pull him deeper.

“Then don’t,” you whisper.

The bench gives another sickening groan, steel joints cracking under pressure. One of the anchor bolts shears clean off with a metallic snap, skittering across the floor.

Clark makes a broken sound and slams up into you again, harder, the force rattling your teeth.

The pleasure is too sharp, too intense, turning your limbs weak. It feels like being claimed by something holy and catastrophic.

Your body takes it because you told him it could.

Because you wanted this.

Because you wanted to be the proof that he can lose control and still not destroy the person beneath him.

His breath is a ragged roar in your ear. “Tell me to stop,” he begs, even as he keeps moving. “Please—tell me to stop.”

You bite your lip, eyes stinging with the strange, vicious tenderness of it.

“Look at me,” you demand.

He drags his gaze to yours, frantic, guilty, desperate.

“You’re not hurting me,” you lie—because you can feel bruises blooming already, can feel the way tomorrow will ache, can feel the risk like a thrill under your skin.

“You’re making me come,” you say instead, and watch something shatter in his face.

His thrusts turn feral.

The bench finally gives up completely.

Steel legs fold inward with a violent crunch. Padding splits, foam spilling out like a wound. The entire structure collapses under you, dropping you both a few inches onto the floor with a crash that echoes through the bunker.

Clark freezes instantly—panic flashing so hard it’s almost blinding.

“Oh my God,” he gasps. “Are you—”

You grab his face with both hands.

“Don’t you dare leave me,” you snap, voice shaking.

He stills, eyes wide.

“I’m here,” he whispers, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he blinks. “I’m here.”

You’re still straddling him despite the ruined bench, still full of him, heat pooling between you. The cuffs pull at his wrists awkwardly, but he doesn’t even seem to notice them—he’s too focused on you, on the fact that you’re breathing.

“Move,” you tell him, softer now. “Finish.”

His throat works. “I—”

“Clark,” you murmur, and tilt your hips just enough to make him shudder. “You can. I’m right here.”

He exhales like surrender.

Then he starts again—slower now, careful, shaking with the aftershock of fear and need. His control returns in pieces, as if the crash sobered him.

His eyes never leave your face.

“Tell me if it hurts,” he begs.

“It hurts,” you admit, because honesty matters now, when the danger is real.

His whole body locks. “Starling?”

You swallow, pulse racing.

You could stop.

You should stop.

Instead you shake your head.

“It hurts because you’re real,” you whisper. “Because you’re—because you’re you.”

His face crumples, relief and desire twisting together.

You roll your hips, slower, meeting him halfway. You make it something you can both survive.

When you come, it’s with your forehead pressed to his, your hands cupping his jaw like you’re holding him together. Your whole body clenches, and Clark makes a sound like grief as he tries not to move too hard.

“Good,” you whisper shakily, breathless. “Good—there, just like that—”

He loses himself again, but this time it’s not violent.

It’s desperate.

He comes with a broken sob, hips jerking up, eyes squeezed shut, face twisted like he can’t believe he’s allowed to feel this.

When it’s over, he goes still—shaking, breathing hard, the cuffs still holding his wrists back like a reminder that he can’t take what he wants unless someone gives it.

You stay on him, chest rising and falling, listening to his heart slam against his ribs like it wants out.

Slowly, he opens his eyes.

They’re wet.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers immediately. “The bench—I—”

You touch his cheek, thumb smearing the corner of his mouth.

“It’s just a bench,” you say.

His laugh is a broken thing. “It was reinforced.”

“And you’re Superman,” you reply softly, like it explains everything and nothing.

He looks past you at the wreckage—steel twisted, foam spilling, bolts scattered. His face tightens, shame starting to rise again.

“I shouldn’t have—”

You interrupt him by pressing your mouth to his.

It’s not gentle.

It’s a claim.

He kisses you back like he’s starving.

When you pull away, you keep your forehead against his.

“You didn’t hurt me,” you say again, firmer this time. “You scared yourself. There’s a difference.”

He swallows. “I lost control.”

“You listened when I told you to slow down,” you remind him. “You asked permission. You checked on me. You stopped when the bench broke.”

His breath shudders. “Because I thought I’d killed you.”

You smile faintly, wicked and soft all at once.

“But I’m here,” you say. “And you’re here. And you’re not alone in this.”

Something shifts in him at those words—something that looks suspiciously like hope.

And you hate how much you like being the one to put it there.

He stares at you like you’re a miracle.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

You could tell him the truth right then.

That you didn’t come here to fix him.

That you came here because you wanted to be the one person he couldn’t forget. The one person his body would learn as safe, not because you’re a saint, but because you’re selfish enough to want the weight of him.

Instead you brush your thumb over his lower lip and say, “We can keep training.”

His eyes widen, earnest. “You’ll come back?”

You lean in, mouth close to his ear.

“That depends,” you murmur.

“On what?”

You pull back just enough to look at him, let him see the edge of your smile.

“On whether you can handle the fact that I’m not doing this for free,” you say.

His brow furrows. “You named a price.”

You hum. “Not that kind of payment.”

He blinks—confused, vulnerable.

You kiss him again, slower now, letting it sink in.

“When you start to trust me,” you whisper against his mouth, “you don’t get to decide you’re better off without me.”

His breath catches.

It’s an ugly thing to say. Possessive. Sharpened by intent.

He should flinch.

He doesn’t.

He looks at you like you just handed him permission to stop running.

“I don’t want to be without you,” he admits, voice shaking.

The words land in your chest like a trophy.

Good.

You ease off him carefully, body aching, and reach up to undo the cuffs. Your fingers brush his wrists, already reddening from the strain of holding him back.

His hands come free, and for a second he just stares at them like he doesn’t trust them.

Then he cups your face with both palms—so gentle it’s almost reverent.

“I thought I couldn’t have this,” he whispers. “I thought it would always be—dangerous.”

You swallow, throat tight.

“It is dangerous,” you say honestly.

His eyes flicker. “Then why—why would you—”

Because you want to be wanted by something that could destroy you.

Because you want him tethered to you by guilt and need and the memory of how good it felt to finally let go.

Because you want to be the pretty little casualty he can’t walk away from.

You don’t say any of that.

You just press your hand over his heart and feel it hammering.

“Because you’re worth the risk,” you lie, and watch his face soften like you’ve given him everything.

He kisses your knuckles, careful.

Then he looks over your shoulder at the wrecked bench again, and a hysterical little laugh escapes him.

“I’m going to have to replace that,” he says, voice hoarse.

You glance back at the twisted steel and torn padding, the foam spilling like snow.

“Consider it progress,” you say.

He shakes his head, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth—relief and awe mixed together.

Then his gaze returns to you, and the smile fades into something deeper.

“I can’t—” he starts, then stops, as if he’s afraid to name it.

“Can’t what?” you ask softly.

He steps closer, slow like he’s approaching a wild animal.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he admits. “Even before—before tonight. I—”

He laughs once, bitter at himself.

“I thought I was being selfish. Wanting someone. Wanting this.”

You tilt your head, feigning curiosity while your stomach flips with satisfaction.

“And now?” you ask.

His eyes burn into yours.

“Now I think I’ve been starving,” he says.

You let the words sit there, heavy and hot.

Then you step into him, press your body against his, feel the way he goes still like he’s afraid to break you even with a touch.

You reach up, thread your fingers through his hair, and pull his mouth down to yours.

“Then eat,” you whisper.

His hands slide to your waist, shaking.

“Are you sure?” he asks again, like it’s his religion now.

You smile.

“Yes,” you say, and mean it in the worst way.

Because he thinks this is the beginning of his control.

And maybe it is.

But it’s also the beginning of something else—something messier, darker, more tangled.

A need he’ll start to associate with your voice, your touch, your permission.

A tether that will tighten every time he comes apart in your hands and finds you still there afterward, warm and breathing and refusing to be scared.

You kiss him until his control starts to fray again, and you feel the moment it happens—the instant his body remembers what it did to that bench, the instant guilt rises like a tide.

You pull back and cup his face.

“Look at me,” you say.

He does immediately.

“You’re not a monster,” you tell him.

His eyes shimmer.

“And you’re not alone,” you add, softer. “Not anymore.”

He exhales like a man being forgiven.

Then he pulls you into his arms, careful as a prayer, and holds you like you’re the only thing keeping him anchored to the world.

You close your eyes against his shoulder, smiling to yourself.

Because this is the part he doesn’t understand yet:

You’re not here to save him from himself.

They say broken souls are born broken.

That there is no way to fix them, no matter how hard you try.

That villains are villains forever, that they can never change, that the evil inside them is like a stain nothing can wash away.

They also say that those born in hell are consumed by the same fire, that there is no escape, that pain is the only thing they know and the only thing they will ever have until the very end.

And you heard those words so many times that eventually, you believed them. You carried them carved into your bones, into the way you learned to stay quiet, into the way you lowered your gaze whenever someone spoke to you. Because for you, kind words never existed. There were only orders, blows, experiments, and the cold silence of the laboratories where you spent almost your entire life.

You should have known your life would be like this. From the very beginning. From before you opened your eyes for the first time. You should have known your destiny was to be called nothing more than a project, a thing, a number. Labeled as a machine created to obey, to do what it was told, to bow its head and never ask questions.

But the saddest part, the part that hurts the most, is that your first cry had been more human than any other baby's. Your first breath was just as fragile, just as small. Your wounds were as visible as anyone else's. The blood running across your skin was red, just like everybody else's. But the only difference, the only damned difference, was that you had not been born from a family. You had been born from studies, from numbers, from a project no one asked if you wanted.

No one asked for your permission to bring you into the world.

No one asked if you wanted to feel pain.

They just used you.

They injected things into you ever since you were so small that you cannot even remember a single day without needles. They pierced your skin over and over again, until the memories from when you were tiny disappeared completely.

The pain was so overwhelming that your mind chose to forget. Only the scars remained. Those pale marks on your skin that follow you everywhere. And the number on your shoulder. As if you were an animal. As if you were something that could be branded and locked inside a cage. “L008L.” That was what they called you. That was how they knew you. A code. A label.

Maybe you once had a family. Maybe someone loved you before you were ripped away from their arms. But you do not know. You cannot know. Because you had no father or mother. You only had an owner. Someone who created you, designed you, decided that you would exist only to serve him.

Your oldest memory, the only one that survived all that pain, was when you arrived at the laboratories. You were nine years old. Luthor was not in charge yet. But years later, he arrived. He was the one who, once you grew older, made you his. One day, he placed a hand on your shoulder and told you, “You are my project.” And he named you that way. As if you were a brand-new car or a weapon he had just purchased.

The other scientists used to say they had never managed to get anything useful out of you, that they had wasted years without using you properly, that you were a failure. But Lex Luthor looked at you differently. He gave you something that, in your ignorance, you called affection. Because you did not even know what that word meant. No one had ever taught you. No one had ever shown you what it felt like to truly be loved.

So when Luthor’s hand brushed through your hair after they broke your nose during a fight, after you collapsed onto the floor with blood dripping down your face, you felt it as if it were praise. Like a caress. Like something good.

“You passed the test,” he would say in that serious voice of his while wiping the blood from your lip with a white handkerchief. “You are strong. You are the best. But you are still lacking.”

And you would look at him with swollen eyes from crying so much, even though by then you could barely cry anymore. And you felt proud. Proud that he approved of you. Proud that he had not thrown you aside like garbage.

During those tests, they would pit you against two gifted subjects at the same time. They had families, real names, people waiting for them outside. You only had the cold laboratory floor and Luthor’s gaze watching from the other side of the glass.

The tears disappeared when you turned sixteen. You could no longer cry. Something inside you had broken completely, or perhaps it had simply dried out. You were only a project. They had told you that so many times that it no longer hurt. Or at least, that was what you wanted to believe.

They had carved it so deeply into you that nobody even had to deny you anything anymore, because you accepted it yourself. You never intended to resist what Luthor did to you. The thought of saying “no” never even crossed your mind. You were never taught that you could say that word.

At first, you were just another project. One among many. A strange little girl in a white room. But when Superman appeared in the world, when that flying man started saving people and being loved by everyone, then you stopped being “just another project.”

You became the one.

The one who needed to improve. The one with the power to manipulate things with her hands, to release energy like green rays of sunlight, to read minds. Necessary things. Useful things. Things meant to defeat Superman.

Luthor wanted you strong. Even when your hands burned from moving objects with your mind. Even when your head felt like it would explode from hearing other people’s thoughts. Even when it felt like your skull was splitting in half. He would only glance at the clock and write numbers into a notebook.

“Again,” he would say. “Do it again.”

And you obeyed.

You always obeyed.

One time, when you failed, when you could not raise the energy barrier quickly enough and they hit you so hard you collapsed onto the floor gasping for air, Luthor approached you with fury in his eyes. Not the fury of concern.

The fury of disappointment.

He grabbed your arm and yanked you upright before snarling through clenched teeth:

“If you are not stronger than Superman, then you are nothing. NOTHING. Do you understand me? You are worthless if he is stronger than you.”

He did not ask if you were okay. He did not take you to get treated. He simply let go of you and walked away, leaving you there on the floor, coughing up blood and feeling like you were dying from the inside out.

Luthor shaped you as if you were a sword. He sharpened you with pain. Hardened you with blows. And you let him do it because you knew no other way to live.

Maybe the flaw in Luthor’s plan was not assigning you to fight Superman directly. Maybe the real mistake was assigning you to go after Clark Kent. That clumsy journalist with thick glasses and wrinkled suits who always seemed to stick his nose where it did not belong. The one who looked so ordinary, so normal, so weak.

But Luthor knew something many others did not.

And one night, inside his office, with the lights turned off and only the city glow behind him, he called you in and said:

“Clark Kent is the idiot who knows everything about Superman. Everything. If we have him, we have that alien. You capture him, bring him to me, and put him on his knees in front of me.”

You nodded, just like always. You did not ask why. You did not ask how.

You only said:

“Alright.”

And he smiled. That cold smile he gave you whenever he was pleased with you. And for one second, just one second, you felt something close to happiness. Because he had looked at you. Because he had spoken to you. Because he had chosen you for that mission.

Of course he would send you. You had turned twenty-six a few days ago. An age where other women think about marriage, children, careers they enjoy. An age where people celebrate with cake and candles.

You had none of that.

Only a new number added to your file and another order.

Infiltrate the Daily Planet, that enormous newspaper where Clark Kent worked. Pull strings, forge documents, create an entire fake identity. For a man with the kind of money that swarmed around Luthor like ants, it was effortless. One check here, one phone call there, and suddenly you had a false name, a false story, a false life.

That was all.

You never intended to know Clark Kent. Your objective was something else. Your objective was to kill him once he told you where Superman was hiding. That was what you were supposed to do. What you had been ordered to do.

But that was the thing.

No.

You never truly had the intention.

Because to have intention, to want to do something, you first have to desire it. And you desired nothing. You only complied. You only obeyed. You only did what you were told, like a machine, like a trained dog, like a weapon someone loads and fires without asking.

You had an order. That was all.

The order of your owner.

That man who waited for you every single day with questions, demands, and that cold stare asking for results.

“What did you find out?”

“Did you talk to him?”

“Did you get information out of him?”

“Do you already know where the alien is hiding?”

And you had to answer. You always had to answer. You always needed to have something to say, something to show, something to prove that you were not wasting time, that you were not a failure, that you were worth something.

That pressure crushed your shoulders as though you carried a massive stone all day long.

And at the same time, you had to pretend you were a normal employee at the Daily Planet. You had to smile, greet people, learn names, remember birthdays, laugh at jokes that were not funny to you. You had to act like you were a real person, like you had a life, like you had gone to school, like you had friends.

Pretending exhausted you more than any fight ever had.

Pretending hollowed you out in a way you did not know how to explain.

And all of it together—the pressure from Luthor and the pressure of pretending—squeezed you tighter than ever before. You felt trapped. Suffocated. As if your chest were collapsing inward and you could no longer breathe.

Maybe that was why you never saw it coming. Maybe that was why Clark Kent took advantage of that gap. That small space between the pressure of work and the pressure of Luthor, that moment when you were so exhausted you could no longer keep your defenses up. And he slipped straight into your soul.

No blows. No orders. No violence.

Just by being himself.

That clumsy man who wore suits too big for him, who tripped over chairs, who blushed whenever someone spoke too loudly to him. That man who stopped being just “the target” and became “the one teaching you.” Because at first, when you arrived at the Daily Planet with your false identity and your invented name, Perry White, the boss, looked at you over his glasses and said:

“She’s new. Clark, help her settle in. Make sure she learns how everything works around here.”

And Clark smiled at you. A shy smile, with his cheeks slightly flushed, and said:

“Of course, Perry. Don’t worry.”

It was simple at first.

You hated him.

Of course you hated him. And not because you wanted to hate him. Not because he had done anything wrong to you. You hated him because that was what you were supposed to do. It was the order. It was the plan. You had to keep your distance, keep the hatred, keep your mind cold.

But when you realized that hating him was not working, it was because of something so small, so simple, that you were almost ashamed to admit it. It happened a month after you started working there. An entire month of watching him arrive every morning with his coffee thermos, of hearing him murmur to himself while he wrote, of seeing how he laughed at the jokes from the other employees.

A month of trying to read his mind and finding yourself met with a wall. A month of failing your mission because you could not get close enough, because something about him made you lower your guard without meaning to.

That morning, the coffee burned your hand.

You had been distracted. You filled your cup too much, and the hot liquid splashed over your fingers. It was a small pain. Nothing compared to what you had felt before. A simple sting in your body. One among the thousands you had already endured.

But Clark’s eyes widened as if you had screamed, and quickly, very quickly, he took the cup from your hands. Carefully. Without roughness. As if he were afraid of hurting you even more.

You looked at him. You had been hurt before. Many times. For much less. You had been hit for spilling things, for breaking things, for simply existing. But he only looked at you with concern, those clear eyes behind his glasses, while he held the steaming cup away from you.

“I can do it, Clark,” you said.

And your voice sounded different. Softer. More human. The voice you had been using there, in that place full of normal people, had stuck to you without you realizing it. You no longer sounded like a weapon. You sounded like a person.

Clark did not give the cup back to you. Instead, he took your hand very gently and looked at the burn. A red mark on your skin. Nothing serious. But he frowned as if it were something terrible.

“I know,” he told you, without letting go of your hand. “I know you can do it. But I’m supposed to take care of you. You’re assigned to me. Besides...” He paused and looked at you with those eyes that seemed to understand things you had never told him. “You’ve been working very hard. Really hard. Let me do it. I don’t mind.”

He said it and looked at you with a smile. His cheeks were red. You looked away.

You looked at your hand, the one he had carefully released, and felt something strange inside your chest. You had never looked away from anyone. Never. Not even when Luthor yelled at you. Not even when they hit you. You always stared straight ahead, like an animal that could not show fear.

But with Clark, you couldn’t.

You could not hold his gaze when he smiled at you like that. And the worst part, the strangest thing of all, was that you had never been able to read his mind. It was as if a simple human had a strong mind. And Clark did. But not a hard kind of strength, like a wall. It was a soft strength, like a deep current you could not cross.

And that confused you.

It scared you.

Because if you could not read him, you could not control him. And if you could not control him, you could not hate him. And if you could not hate him, what did you have left?

It was the strange things he did.

Strange to you, of course. Because you had never been treated that way. Never. Not once in your entire life. You had never felt what it was like for someone to buy you coffee without you asking. Because you were used to begging. Begging for food when they punished you. Spending entire days with your stomach empty, hearing it growl inside you, while the scientists ate in front of you as if you did not exist.

And of course, despite being named a project, despite being called L008L as if you were a box, your powers did not take away your hunger. Because despite everything, despite the way they had discarded you like trash, despite the fact that you never had a family who loved you, despite the way they treated you like a thing... you were human.

You had a human body.

You needed to eat. You needed to sleep. You needed someone to see you for what you were.

And Clark gave you coffee. Sometimes a pastry. He always said the same thing, with that silly smile and those red cheeks:

“Oh, I stopped by the bakery on my way to work. Bought too much. Want one?”

And you accepted it.

Because you were hungry. Because the hot coffee warmed your hands and your chest. Because the pastry tasted like something you did not remember ever tasting before. Something like... affection? You did not know. You did not know what that was called.

But you liked it.

And it scared you that you liked it.

Clark carried the papers for you. When you came back from an interview and had piles of documents with you, he took half of them or more, just so you would not have to carry so much. Sometimes, when they received small gifts at events or press conferences, bags with notebooks, pens, brochures, he took those too.

“So you don’t have to carry them,” he would say.

As if it were the most normal thing in the world. As if taking care of you were not an effort.

And he smiled. Every chance he got. When he saw you arrive in the morning, he smiled. When you finished a difficult article, he smiled. When you made a mistake while writing something and he corrected you in a low voice so no one else would hear, he smiled.

And he got so nervous.

So much that sometimes he stuttered. So much that things fell from his hands.

And you had never felt it until that day in the elevator. Never in your whole life. Not when they treated your wounds. Not when they said “good job.” Not when Luthor ran his hand through your hair after a fight. None of that had made your heart beat.

You thought you did not have a heart. Or that you had forgotten you had one. Because after so many years of pain, something inside you had fallen asleep. Or died. You did not know which one.

But that day, in the elevator, something woke up.

It happened so soon. So quickly that you almost did not notice it. The two of you were alone, going up to the office after coming back from an interview outside. The elevator was small, one of those old ones that made noise and moved slowly.

You were looking at the floor, as always, thinking about nothing and everything at once. Clark’s hand brushed yours by accident. A small touch. Nothing. Almost nothing.

But he looked at you. And he pointed at your face with a trembling finger.

“You have a... paper,” he whispered.

His voice sounded low, soft, as if he did not want to scare you. As if speaking too loudly would break something fragile.

You looked at him without understanding. You did not feel anything on your face. You did not know what paper he was talking about. You had worn your hair loose all day, and sometimes things stuck to it without you noticing.

But when you were about to raise your hand to your face to find it, he stopped. Clark lifted his hand, but froze in the air, halfway between you and him.

“May I?” he asked.

And that question went through you like a knife.

Because no one had ever asked you “may I?” No one. Not to touch you. Not to treat your wounds. Not for anything. They simply grabbed you, moved you, put needles in you, hit you, lifted you from the floor when you fell.

Never, never had anyone asked for your permission to come close to you.

That was when you felt it for the first time.

Your heart.

It was there. Waiting. And it began to beat hard, fast, like a bird trapped between your ribs. You had spent days wanting to feel him. Not just see him, not just observe him from a distance the way you did with everyone else. You wanted to feel Clark. You wanted to know what it was like for someone to touch you without it hurting.

And you nodded. You moved your head up and down, only slightly, because your throat had closed and you could not speak.

He came closer. Very slowly. Very carefully. His hand rose to your head and removed a small piece of paper hanging from your hair, the kind that comes from notebooks when you tear out a page.

But along the way, his fingers brushed your cheek.

A small touch.

Perfect.

So soft you almost did not feel it.

But you did.

You felt it down to your bones. It was as if that touch had lit something inside you, something that had been turned off for as long as you could remember.

Clark looked at the paper in his hand and then looked at you. His eyes were bright behind his glasses. And he smiled. That smile you were beginning to recognize, the one that made you feel less alone.

“That makes you officially a full-time newsroom employee,” he joked gently.

He tried to make a joke. He tried to say you had passed the test of having papers stuck in your hair. And something happened inside your chest. Something you could not control.

You smiled for real.

Not like the rehearsals you did to behave human, even though you were. Not like those fake smiles you practiced in front of the Daily Planet bathroom mirror so no one would suspect anything.

No.

This smile came out on its own. Without permission. Without an order. Without practice. Because Clark’s smile reached you, touched you, and you could do nothing but return it.

You lowered your gaze with red cheeks. They burned. They stung. But it was not a bad pain. It was a pain you wanted to keep feeling. You felt so much that you never wanted to stop feeling it.

Never again.

But outside, in the real world, in the cold world that waited for you every night, Luthor wanted proof. He wanted something. Anything. You had been at the Daily Planet for weeks and you had given him nothing useful.

Only silly things, things from Clark’s daily life, things that were useless for capturing Superman. Luthor was giving you time. Of course he was. He knew it was not an easy job. He knew you had to earn people’s trust, that you had to pretend, that you had to wait.

But time was running out.

And every day you spent beside Clark, Luthor’s orders weighed more heavily on you. Because what you had were not secrets or plans or Superman’s weaknesses. What you had were irrelevant things. Things about Clark’s parents. Stories from his childhood in Kansas. Names of his friends. Places he visited.

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing about Superman.

And maybe, deep inside, you already knew. You were already beginning to understand why Clark never mentioned Superman. Why, whenever people in the office talked about the hero, Clark stayed quiet or changed the subject. Why he never, not once, said anything bad about him, but never anything good either.

It was as if he avoided the topic carefully, like someone walking over thin ice.

And that made you afraid.

Because if your theory was right, if what you were starting to suspect was true, then your mission became impossible. Then you had to choose.

And you had never chosen anything in your life.

One night, after a long day of pretending, you returned to the laboratory. Luthor was waiting in his office, the lights turned off, illuminated only by the reflections of the city outside. He did not greet you. He did not ask how you were.

He only said:

“What do you have?”

“There’s nothing related to Superman and Clark,” you replied without expression. Your voice sounded flat, empty. Maybe because you wanted to hide what was already beginning to fall into place deep inside your mind. Maybe because you were afraid he would see in your eyes what you could barely believe yourself.

Luthor nodded. Slowly, he rose from his chair and walked toward you. You did not run. You did not step away. You knew what was coming. It was part of life. Part of being a project.

A harsh slap struck across your face, so violent it forced your gaze down to the floor. Your cheek burned. The same cheek Clark’s fingers had brushed days before. And that contrast hurt more than the blow itself.

“I need that stupid flying man in the grave,” Luthor hissed, his voice dripping with venom as he stood so close you could feel his breath against your forehead. “Do you understand me? In the grave. And if that doesn’t happen, you’ll kill Clark Kent. Maybe then Superman will come to claim him. Maybe then he’ll crawl out of hiding to save his little journalist friend.”

You nodded.

You were used to it. The blows were part of you. The orders too. But something twisted painfully inside your chest when you heard his name.

Clark.

Kill Clark.

The words sounded different when you repeated them inside your head. It was not like killing a target. It felt like killing something you were beginning to love.

And no one had taught you how to survive that.

That was not part of the project.

You wanted to push him away. To tell Clark to leave. To run. To leave the country. To never come near you again.

So, in the following days, you started giving him options without him realizing it. You left papers on his desk. Job offers in other countries.

A job in Germany, you thought. He would be perfect there.

Clark would read them and look at you with a smile, not understanding what you were truly trying to tell him.

“Are you thinking about changing jobs?” he would ask with that innocent tone of his, with that way he had of looking at the world as if everyone in it were good.

You would smile and shake your head. Then you would leave more offers. New Zealand. A journalism exchange program in London. Good opportunities, the kind any reporter would accept without hesitation.

But he did nothing.

He read the papers, stared at them for a moment, and then set them aside. As if they did not matter. As if where he already was had become enough for him.

One night, while you were gathering your things to leave, being among the last people left in the office alongside Clark, he finally spoke. His voice sounded different. More serious. As if he had been thinking about it all day.

“I don’t want to change jobs,” he said suddenly.

Clark stood near the door, his jacket hanging from one hand.

“Did I make you think that?”

You shook your head quickly, maybe too quickly.

“No, I just... think you’re very good at what you do. That you could become a great international journalist.”

You played with your bag strap without looking him in the eyes. Your fingers trembled slightly.

Clark stayed silent for a moment. Then he nodded.

“That would be a big step, I admit.”

You nodded too, your head lowered. But he kept speaking.

“But I think I’m happy here. I have a good job. Good friends.” He paused, and when you finally looked up at him, his cheeks were red again. “And this job gave me the chance to meet you.”

Your eyes widened slightly.

Clark swallowed nervously and rubbed the back of his neck.

“I think you’re... a great journalist,” he corrected awkwardly, as if he had realized he had already said too much.

But it was too late.

You had already heard him.

You swallowed hard. Your heart was beating again, just like it had that day in the elevator. And for the first time, for the first time in your entire life, you decided to be honest.

Not because someone ordered you to.

Not because you had to pretend.

But because you wanted to.

Because you needed him to know.

“I’m happy here too,” you admitted softly, your voice barely above a whisper. “The difference between you and me is that... I don’t care whether I have friends or a good job. Working beside you somehow feels like enough.”

The words lingered in the air.

Silence followed. A deep, endless silence that filled the empty office. Through his glasses, you could see something shining in Clark’s eyes. Something you had never seen there before.

And then, without either of you planning it, you stepped closer.

He did too.

As if your bodies already understood what words could not say. As if both of you had realized that somehow, impossibly, you seemed to need each other. Ever since the moment you met, something in the world had changed for both of you.

Clark kissed you.

And you rose onto your tiptoes just to reach him.

His lips were soft. Warm.

You did not know how to kiss. No one had ever taught you. You had never kissed anyone before. But your body knew what to do. As if it had been waiting for this moment your entire life.

As if every blow, every wound, every night filled with pain had only been the path leading you here.

To this kiss.

To Clark.

And that was enough for you to realize that another life existed. A different kind of life. One where nobody demanded that you be the best. One where you did not have to beg for food. One where affection was not something you earned only after winning a fight.

A life without humiliation. Without blows. Without numbers tattooed into skin. Without laboratories, owners, or orders.

There was only Clark.

Clark with his glasses.

Clark with his flushed cheeks.

Clark with his gentle hands and tender voice.

Clark, who had unknowingly taught you that you were not a project.

That you never had been.

Clark was strangely adorable.

You did not say it lightly. It was not a word you used carelessly. But he truly was. Everything he did felt sweet in a way you could not explain.

The good morning hugs, when he arrived at the office and saw you sitting at your desk, and he would walk toward you slowly as if he did not want to bother you, only to wrap his arms around you and squeeze you just a little, whispering “good morning” against your hair.

The goodnight hugs, when he walked you to your apartment building after the two of you wandered through the dark streets together, and he stayed standing outside until you went inside, just to make sure you were safe.

Holding your hand while walking, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, as if his fingers needed yours to feel complete.

Kissing your forehead. Your cheek. Sometimes your nose, whenever he was being silly and trying to make you laugh.

Kissing you.

That.

The kisses he pressed against your lips, soft and slow, as if he had all the time in the world and nowhere else he would rather be except there, with you.

And that life, the one you had created with a name that was not a number, with someone who did not scream at you that you belonged to him as if you were an object... that was the life you wanted to live.

For the first time in your life, you wanted to wake up the next morning.

For the first time, you were not afraid of what would happen next. You wanted to get up just to see him, to hear his voice, to feel his hands. You wanted to keep pretending to be a normal employee, but not because you had been ordered to. Because that disguise allowed you to stay by his side.

That life was a dream.

A dream you never wanted to wake up from.

But the code carved into your shoulder, those letters and numbers you had carried for as long as you could remember—L008L—always reminded you of reality. They burned against your skin like a brand. Whispering into your ear that you were not real, that you were not a person, that you were only a project.

Reality waited for you outside.

Outside of Clark’s arms. Outside of his kisses. Outside of that bubble of affection that had wrapped itself around you without you even noticing.

One night, Clark invited you to his apartment for dinner. He said he was tired of restaurants, that he wanted to be alone with you, without people around, without noise, without anything except the two of you.

You accepted.

Of course you did.

You would have accepted anything he offered you.

When you arrived at his apartment, it felt so... him. Cozy. Messy but clean. With books stacked on tables and plants resting by the windows. It smelled like homemade food, like something cooked slowly and lovingly.

Clark was chopping tomatoes in the kitchen, wearing an apron that was slightly too small for him. You laughed seeing him so focused, his tongue peeking out a little while he cut them.

And suddenly, without stopping, he said:

“I think shaving your head during hot weather is actually a pretty smart strategy. I wouldn’t do it myself, but it’s a good strategy.”

You laughed. A genuine laugh, the kind that came more easily every time you were with him.

“But if you lost all your hair, you’d end up...” You gestured toward your head playfully. “That would hurt more, wouldn’t it?”

Then you handed him the onion you had chopped. He took it carefully and dropped it into the pot where something bubbled softly, releasing steam that smelled incredible.

“Well, that is an excellent point,” Clark admitted, turning to look at you with that smile of his. The one that completely unraveled you.

You smiled back.

But maybe your smile wavered a little. Just slightly.

Because deep inside your mind, in that dark corner you kept trying to ignore, you knew you had spent days ignoring Lex. You were not answering his calls the way you were supposed to. You were not giving him full reports. You kept telling him there were no updates, that Clark knew nothing, that you were still investigating.

You lied.

You lied every single time you opened your mouth in front of him.

And that lie sat inside your chest like a stone. But you could not stop. You did not want to stop. Because every time Clark looked at you, every time he touched you, you forgot Luthor existed. You forgot you had a mission. You forgot you were a project.

There was only him.

Only this moment, in this kitchen, with the steam rising from the pot and the smell of tomatoes and onions filling the air.

His hands were skilled and steady, even though he always pretended to be clumsy at the office. And you only helped when necessary, because he kept telling you to sit down, to rest, that you already did enough during the day.

“All I need is for you to kiss me every once in a while,” Clark would say whenever you complained about not helping enough.

He always said it with a mischievous smile, those flushed cheeks you loved so much coloring pink again.

And you would laugh.

And kiss him.

And he would continue cooking as if nothing had happened, though you could see the foolish smile spreading across his face every single time you did it.

At some point, your gaze drifted away.

You did not know how long you stayed like that, staring into nothing while thinking about everything. About Luthor. About the mission. About what would happen once all of this ended. About what would happen if he discovered you no longer wanted to obey him.

Clark noticed.

He always noticed everything about you.

Slowly, he walked closer, his hands still slightly damp from washing vegetables, and carefully tucked your hair behind your ear. His fingers brushed your skin, and you felt that familiar shiver running through your body every time he touched you.

“Everything okay?” he asked softly, concern filling his voice.

You nodded, even though it was not entirely true.

But you could not tell him the truth. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

He smiled, as if he had decided to believe you, and said:

“You’re my main assistant. Without your kisses, I can’t continue. Dinner will burn if you don’t give me one right now.”

“So dramatic,” you whispered.

But you stepped closer and kissed him anyway. Short. Quick. But filled with everything you did not know how to put into words.

Clark nodded in satisfaction.

“That’s better,” he said, continuing to cook as if nothing had happened.

If only he could hear you.

If only he were the one reading your mind and knew the guilt you carried.

That heavy, dark guilt crushing your shoulders every night when you were alone. The guilt of knowing you were supposed to obey, that Luthor was waiting for you, that the mission still existed even if you no longer wanted to complete it.

Because you did not want to anymore.

You did not want to obey.

You did not want to hurt anyone.

You did not want to return to that cold laboratory, to those needles, to those beatings, to those sleepless nights listening to the scientists’ footsteps echoing down the hallway.

You only wanted to stay with him.

You only wanted this forever.

This kitchen. This smell of homemade food. Clark’s hands holding yours.

But you were certain the world would still point at you and call you the villain.

Because that was what you were, wasn’t it?

That was what you had always been. A project built to hurt people. A weapon. A thing.

People never understand that sometimes villains do not choose to become villains. Sometimes they are placed on that road from the moment they are born and never given another choice.

And you had never been given a choice.

Not until Clark arrived.

You watched him smile while stirring the pot.

And then you remembered.

You remembered that night after the kiss in the office. The night he walked you home and stayed by your door because neither of you wanted to say goodbye. You remembered how he kissed you again, slower this time, deeper, as if he were trying to tell you something he could not put into words.

And during that kiss, in that moment when his lips touched yours and the world stopped moving, his mind opened to you.

Not intentionally.

Not because you searched for it.

It was as if the kiss had broken down a wall. Or as if, for the first time, he had lowered his guard completely.

That was how you found out he was Superman.

You discovered the truth you had spent months suspecting, the one spinning around inside your head like a knife that refused to sink all the way in.

Clark was Superman.

The man who flew. The hero Luthor wanted dead. The alien your owner claimed needed to be destroyed.

And you held him there in your arms while he kissed you as if you were the most important thing in the world.

Your suspicions were confirmed.

But not because you used your powers.

Because he revealed himself without meaning to.

Inside his mind, in that moment of tenderness, you saw everything. You saw the child arriving in a spaceship. You saw the parents who raised him in Kansas. You saw the first time he flew. You saw the symbol on his chest.

You saw Superman.

And you saw him smile, and cry, and love.

You saw him be more human than anyone who called him an “alien.”

Your mission was complete.

That moment should have been the end of everything. You had what Luthor wanted. The final proof. The connection between Clark Kent and Superman. You could have gone back that same night and told him everything.

And he would have smiled at you. Congratulated you. Given you that twisted version of affection you once mistook for love.

But you did not do it.

You could not.

You did not want to.

So you kept it to yourself.

Like a secret.

Like a treasure.

Because you wanted it to last a little longer. You wanted that night to never end. You wanted to keep feeling his lips, his hands, his warmth. You wanted to keep being the girl from the Daily Planet, the one with the fake name and the invented life who, for the first time, finally felt real.

You were afraid Luthor would grow tired of waiting. Afraid he would train you until you were capable of fighting Superman yourself.

And not only him.

You knew Luthor had other creations. Other projects. Other weapons. You knew that if you failed, he would use someone else.

And that terrified you.

Terrified for Clark.

Terrified for yourself.

Terrified for everything you had started to build.

But good things always come to an end.

You knew that. You had known it from the beginning, even if you had tried to cover it up with kisses and dinners at his apartment. Because a villain never got a happy ending.

Villains did not deserve one.

And at the end of the day, no matter how Clark looked at you as if you were a person, no matter how his hands treated you as if you were made of porcelain, you were still a project.

And projects were only carried out.

Or, if they did not work, they were discarded. Sometimes, they were useful until they fulfilled their purpose, and then the same thing happened.

They were discarded anyway.

Like trash. Like something useless. Like a broken toy no one wanted to fix.

You looked at Clark that day.

It was a night like many others, one of those nights you had started treasuring like someone saving coins in a jar, knowing that sooner or later, they would run out. You were standing at the door of your apartment after walking together through streets lit by lampposts.

He was saying goodbye with a kiss on your lips, one of those slow kisses that left you breathless. Your hands were on his shirt, tucked beneath his jacket, feeling the warmth of his chest through the fabric.

You were smiling.

You could not help it.

And your eyes shone like they had never shone before. As if, somewhere inside you, tiny lights had been switched on and no one had managed to put them out yet.

“We should go out tomorrow,” Clark whispered close to your lips, with that voice that made you shiver.

It was not an order.

It was never an order with him.

It was an invitation. An I want to be with you disguised as simple words.

“We’ve been dating for three months. I think I want to surprise you for the fourth.”

You smiled. But inside, something shifted. Something uncomfortable.

Because surprises were not meant for you. Gifts were not meant for you. Beautiful things had never reached your hands without you having to pay a price first.

“A surprise?” You looked at him, searching for his eyes behind his glasses. You swallowed before speaking. “I don’t think I deserve a surprise.”

The truth escaped your mouth before you could stop it. Because deep down, in that dark place Clark could not see, you believed it.

You did not deserve anything good.

Projects did not deserve.

Projects only received orders and punishments.

But Clark did not understand the depth of your words. He couldn’t. Because he did not know what you were. He did not know where you came from. He did not know what you had done, what had been done to you, what you still had to do.

He only saw you.

The girl from the Daily Planet. The shy reporter who blushed whenever he held her hand.

And he smiled at you with that wide, sincere smile of his, the one that broke something inside you every time you saw it.

“You deserve it more than anyone,” he whispered.

His hand rose to your face, and he tucked that same rebellious strand of hair behind your ear. The same gesture as always.

The one you loved so much.

“I’ll see you tomorrow at that Italian restaurant you like so much. Eight o’clock, after work.”

“Alright, then I’ll see you tomorrow... even though we’ll see each other at work,” you said, and your voice sounded happier than you felt inside.

Clark laughed again. That laugh that soothed your soul.

“Well, I’ve realized that seeing you at work isn’t enough.” He smiled, soft and impossibly fond. “I want to have you for my whole life.”

You looked at him with flushed cheeks. They burned. They stung. But it was a beautiful warmth, the kind you wanted to last forever.

You hugged him. Pressed your body against his and felt the way he wrapped his arms around you, holding you as if you were fragile, as if he were afraid of breaking you.

He had no idea.

No idea that you wanted to leave your real secret behind too.

No idea that while he was planning a surprise for your fourth month together, you were planning something much bigger.

Something that terrified you and gave you hope at the same time.

You looked into his eyes. Took a breath. And spoke from the deepest part of your heart, from that place you had believed empty until he filled it without asking permission.

“I want to have you for my whole life too, Clark,” you whispered.

The words came out trembling, but firm. It was the first time you had ever said something like that. The first time you had wanted something for yourself.

Not for Luthor.

Not for the mission.

For you.

And in that moment, you decided.

You would tell him.

Everything.

The laboratory. The experiments. The number on your shoulder. Luthor. The mission. Superman.

Everything.

If he could help you, if he could love every part of you, even with your past, with your scars, with the terrible things you had done and the terrible things that had been done to you, then you would help him defeat Lex.

Together.

Because you no longer wanted to be a weapon. You no longer wanted to be a project. You no longer wanted to be L008L.

You only wanted to be the girl Clark kissed in apartment doorways.

Clark kissed you one last time that night.

A long, soft kiss, filled with promises neither of you knew if you could keep. His lips parted from yours slowly, as if leaving was difficult for him, as if he knew something terrible was going to happen.

But he did not know.

He could not know.

“Tomorrow,” he said with a smile.

“Tomorrow,” you replied.

And he walked away down the sidewalk, looking back every few steps, smiling each time he saw you still standing in the doorway.

Until he turned the corner and disappeared.

You remained there, alone on the threshold, your heart beating so hard you could feel it in your ears.

Could you have a dignified life?

Was it possible?

Could someone like you, born in a laboratory, raised among needles and blows, trained to kill, have a happy ending?

You wondered that while climbing the stairs to your apartment. The building was old, the hallway lights flickered, and your steps sounded hollow against the concrete.

Maybe it was your illusion that blinded you.

Maybe it was hope, that new thing Clark had planted in your chest without you realizing it, that made you lower your guard.

Because as you climbed, you did not think to check the door. You did not think to listen before going inside. You did not think about anything except him, his smile, his I want to have you for my whole life.

You climbed the steps with a foolish smile on your face, your hands tucked inside the pockets of your jacket, feeling almost normal.

Almost happy.

You opened the door to your apartment.

The one you rented.

Or rather, the one Luthor rented.

Because nothing was truly yours. Not the walls, not the furniture, not the name you used, not even the clothes on your body. He had given you everything.

And everything had a price.

When you opened the door, your heart froze.

Lex Luthor was standing there, staring out the window as if nothing were wrong. As if it were his apartment. As if you belonged to him. As if nothing had happened.

His hands were clasped behind his back, shoulders straight, head slightly tilted. The streetlight filtered through the glass and painted his long, slender silhouette across the floor.

You walked forward slowly.

Every step took enormous effort, as if your legs had been filled with lead. The door behind you closed by itself.

Or not by itself.

You barely turned your head and saw one of his projects. One you had heard of, though you knew very little about him. Only that he was strong.

Very strong.

He was covered entirely in black, from head to toe, like a breathing shadow. He did not move. Did not speak.

He only watched.

Waited.

You looked at Luthor.

At last, he slowly turned around, wearing that false calm he always used when he was truly furious. His eyes traveled over you from head to toe, as if he were inspecting a defective product.

As if he had already decided you were useless.

“I don’t know what bothers me more,” he said, his voice low and dangerously calm. “That Clark Kent took advantage of my project, or that my project, the one that took me the longest to build, now has to be discarded.”

He stepped closer to you.

You stepped back.

One step.

Then another.

Your back hit the wall, but there was no way out. The man in black stood by the door. You could not escape.

“It’s part of the plan,” you said.

But this time, you did not manage to stay calm. Your voice trembled. Your hands trembled. You could not hold his gaze.

You lowered your eyes.

And that was the sign.

He knew that gesture perfectly.

He knew what it meant.

It meant you were lying.

It meant you were afraid.

It meant you were no longer his.

Luthor seized your chin harshly, his fingers cold as ice, and forced your face closer until his breath struck your skin.

You looked at him.

His eyes were full of rage. Disappointment.

Something worse.

“Part of the plan?” he spat the words like poison. “What the fuck is your plan?”

You trembled.

Your whole body trembled.

But you had to keep going.

You had to protect Clark.

Even if they killed you.

Even if they discarded you.

Even if they dragged you back to the laboratory and injected you until you forgot his name.

“Mr. Lex,” you said, your voice barely more than a thread.

He released your chin abruptly, as if you disgusted him. You stayed pressed against the wall, breathing fast, feeling as if your heart were trying to claw its way out of your chest.

“Clark Kent knows nothing about Superman,” you lied.

You wished it were true.

Wished he were not the flying man.

Wished he were only a clumsy, loving reporter who had nothing to do with the hero Luthor wanted to destroy.

“He doesn’t actually know where he is or where he lives. He thinks he comes to the planet whenever he wants.” Another lie. Your throat dried. “Clark Kent is just a... puppet. He is.”

Luthor stared at you in silence.

A long, heavy silence that crushed your shoulders.

He knew.

He knew something.

You could see it in his eyes. He did not believe you. He had never fully believed you. But he needed to hear you say it.

He needed you to condemn yourself.

“And what was my order if Clark Kent got in the way?” Luthor asked, his voice so cold it seemed to come from somewhere else.

You stayed silent.

The words stuck in your throat like thorns.

“What was it?” he shouted suddenly, and the sound bounced off the empty apartment walls.

You flinched.

The man in black did not move.

“To kill him and bring Superman down to earth,” you whispered.

The words tasted like blood. Like betrayal. Like everything you did not want to be.

Luthor nodded slowly, as if savoring your confession.

“Kill him,” he said.

It was not a suggestion.

It was an order.

Perhaps the last one he would ever give you.

“I want Clark Kent dead. Tonight.”

“I can’t,” you said.

And this time, you did not tremble.

This time, your voice came out firm, even as you were falling apart inside.

Luthor looked at you with a smile.

A small, ugly smile that did not reach his eyes.

And then came the slap.

Hard.

So hard it snapped your face to the side and made stars burst across your vision.

Before you could react, before you could raise your arms to protect yourself, the man in black grabbed you. He lifted you without any effort at all, as if you were a feather, as if you weighed nothing.

And hurled you against the wall.

The impact was brutal. The wall split open slightly, a long, ugly crack running through the plaster from top to bottom. The framed pictures hanging there crashed down over you, their frames breaking, glass exploding into shards that cut your face and arms.

You fell to the floor among the debris, your head spinning, blood running down your cheek, your ear ringing as if a bee were trapped inside it.

Luthor wiped his hand with a handkerchief, as if touching you had dirtied him.

He looked down at you from above, from that godlike height he had always held over you. And there was nothing in his eyes.

No rage.

No disappointment.

Not even hatred.

Only indifference.

As if you no longer existed.

As if he had already thrown you in the trash.

“Another damned failed project,” he said, sounding tired, as if even despising you bored him. “Take her.”

That was the last thing you heard.

The man in black approached you.

You felt a sharp sting in your neck, something cold, something metallic.

An injection.

The liquid entered your veins like liquid fire. Your body went numb. Your head filled with cotton. Your eyes closed without you being able to stop them.

And as you fell asleep, as the darkness wrapped itself around you like a cold blanket, you thought of only one thing.

Him.

Clark.

His smile.

His "You deserve it more than anyone".

The Italian restaurant.

The surprise you would never get to see.

His arms.

His warmth.

Everything you had wanted to have, now falling apart between your fingers like wet sand.

You did not need to open your eyes. The smell told you everything.

That cold, clean scent, like a hospital but worse, like something that had never seen the sun. That smell of disinfectant and metal and fear. The sound told you too. That low hum of machines, that heavy silence of empty hallways, that echo of your own heartbeat bouncing off white walls. You were in your cell. The one you used to call a room because you had not known it could be called anything else. Because they told you it was your room, and you believed them.

But now you knew. Now you knew it was a cage. It always had been.

You opened your eyes slowly. Your gaze scanned everything, just as they had taught you to do, like a weapon activating after being shut down. The narrow bed. The padded walls. The metal door with no handle on the inside. The large mirror on the far wall, behind which you knew someone was always watching. And the clock.

You looked at the time. Twelve noon.

They had sedated you. Most likely so you would sleep as long as possible, so you would be weak when you woke, so you would not be able to fight. But you had to get out of there. You had to see Clark. You had promised yourself. You were going to tell him the truth. You were going to ask for his help. You were going to start a new life. A real life.

You stood. Your legs trembled slightly, but you managed to stay upright. You ran to the door with your hand outstretched, hoping it might be open, hoping it had all been a mistake, hoping they had not locked you in again.

But the moment you touched it, an alarm went off. A sharp, violent beeping pierced your ears like a needle, and before you could pull your hand away, an electric current shot through your arm, your shoulder, your chest.

You gasped. The pain forced you back, stumbling until you fell to your knees on the cold floor. Your fingers still trembled from the shock.

“I thought I could trust you.”

Luthor’s voice echoed through the room, coming from speakers you could not see. You looked at him through the large mirror. He was on the other side, as always, arms crossed, wearing that godlike posture of a man who believed he owned the world.

“And my most... valued project,” he said, pausing dramatically as if saying it wounded him, “betrayed me for one of Superman’s friends.” He nodded slowly, as though processing something tragic. “How painful.”

But all you saw in his eyes was irritation. Not pain. Not sadness. Irritation. Like when a favorite toy breaks. Like when something that belongs to him stops working the way he wants it to.

You stared at the mirror and frowned. Your mind focused on the glass. You could break it. You could tear through it with your energy. You could reach him.

The glass trembled a little, barely at all, but Luthor noticed.

And he smiled.

“No scenes,” he said calmly, dangerously. “Or I’ll be forced to sedate you again. And this time, you won’t wake up in twelve hours. Do you understand?”

You stopped. Lowered your hand.

Rage burned inside you, but fear was stronger. Not fear of being hurt. You already knew that one. Fear of never seeing Clark again. That was new. That paralyzed you.

Luthor left. The screen went dark.

You stayed alone in the white room, sitting on the floor, your arm still tingling from the shock. You looked at the clock again. One in the afternoon. You had to get out. You had to see Clark.

The restaurant. Eight o’clock.

You had seven hours.

Seven hours to find a way to escape, to slip past the guards, to reach him. But you needed to be patient. You could not throw yourself against the door again. You could not hurt yourself. You had to think.

And then it happened.

Five in the afternoon.

Footsteps sounded in the hallway. Doors opening. Low voices. A man entered, deactivating the electric lasers with a remote control. You knew him. You had seen him before. One of the usual guards, the kind who looked without seeing, who spoke to you as if you were an animal.

Behind him came a woman you also recognized, holding a metal tray. On the tray was a syringe filled with a transparent liquid you knew very well.

Punishment.

The reward for misbehaving. For disobeying. For thinking for yourself.

“Hello, pretty thing,” the guard said with an ugly smile that turned your stomach. “We were told you behaved badly.”

You looked away. You did not want to see him. You did not want to give them the satisfaction of watching you tremble.

The guard stepped closer, confident, as if you were the same as before. The one who stayed still. The one who endured.

“You decide,” he said, his voice almost amused. “Do you want to do this sedated or conscious?”

The woman stepped forward too, the syringe ready.

You knew what “conscious” meant. It meant feeling everything. It meant they would not put you fully to sleep, only weaken you, only strip away enough of your strength so you could not fight, but you would feel every needle, every blow, every humiliation.

And Luthor always punished that way.

It was not enough to hurt you. You had to know you deserved it. You had to feel it.

But something had changed.

Something inside you was no longer the same.

You stood slowly. Both guards froze, surprised. You never stood. Never defended yourself. Never spoke. You only knelt and waited.

“I decide,” you said, and a smile spread across your face. A smile they had never seen before. “That I want to kill you.”

Your hand moved so lightly they did not even see it. A quick, precise movement, one they had drilled into you through years of training. The needle on the tray flew through the air, and before the guard could blink, it buried itself in his neck. His eyes went wide. His mouth opened to scream, but only a choked sound came out.

He dropped to the floor like a stone.

The woman screamed and stepped back, but you were already on her. You struck her in the head with the metal tray, and she collapsed too. Both of them fell to the floor.

It had all lasted only a few seconds.

Before, you had done nothing. Of course you had the strength. Of course you could. But it had been carved into your mind that it was your fault. That you had to endure everything, even if you hated it, even if you had nightmares.

Because Lex said it was your punishment.

Because Lex said you deserved it.

And you believed him. You believed him for so long that you forgot you could say no.

But not anymore.

Now you had Clark.

Now you had a reason to fight.

You stepped over the guards’ bodies and left the cell. The hallway was long and white, just as it had always been. The alarm activated immediately. Red lights flashing. A loud, irritating sound filling the entire place.

You ran.

Most of the doors were locked, sealed by security. So you used your powers. You pushed with your mind, with the energy flowing from your hands, and the doors burst open by force, shattering locks, ripping metal frames apart.

Corridors. More corridors.

Then came the guards. They fired. Bullets flew toward you. You deflected them effortlessly with a movement of your hand, sending them ricocheting into the walls.

You kept running.

And then, as you were deflecting those bullets, a blow slammed into your body. Something enormous, something unstoppable, lifted you off the ground and smashed you against the wall. The impact was so brutal you felt the air leave your lungs.

You fell to the floor, coughing, your vision blurred.

“Bad, bad, bad.”

Luthor’s voice came from speakers mounted in the corners of every hallway. Your head hurt. Your ribs hurt. You lifted your eyes and saw the man standing before you, the same one who had knocked you unconscious in the apartment.

He did not move.

He only stared at you, waiting.

“Did you think it would be easy?” Luthor continued, his voice almost cheerful, as if he were enjoying the spectacle. “No one betrays Luthor, my dear project. Never.” A pause followed. A silence that froze your blood. “Besides, you couldn’t leave without being properly introduced to my newest creation. The one who is going to replace you.”

The man in front of you slowly lifted his hands, calm, as if he were in no hurry.

Then he removed his mask.

Your pulse stopped for a second.

Maybe longer.

Your lips trembled. Your heart stopped beating, then began again harder, faster, more afraid. Because it was like looking at Superman. A corrupted version of him, yes, but still. The same strong face. The same jaw. The same dark hair, though longer, more unkempt.

But no.

It was not Superman.

It was worse.

It was like looking at Clark.

Clark without the glasses. Clark with dark, empty eyes, without a soul, without love. Clark the way you had once been. The way they had raised you to be.

A project.

A weapon.

A thing without feelings.

“Meet Ultraman,” Luthor said, pride overflowing in his voice. “Isn’t he nearly perfect? A few small defects, perhaps, but better than you. Much better.”

You shook your head. It could not be. There could not be another like him. There could not be another like you.

“I’m certain he would kill Clark Kent,” Luthor continued, as if thinking out loud. “But first, he has to kill you. A little training exercise, don’t you think? A warm-up.”

And then Ultraman attacked.

You had no time to react. His enormous hand closed around your throat and lifted you off the ground. He flew with you, squeezing your airway, crashing you through the hallway walls.

Wall after wall.

Your back hit concrete. Your head struck hard. The pain was immense.

Then he released you.

You dropped to the floor like a rag, groaning, blood running down your forehead. Before you could stand, he lunged again.

But this time, you flew upward, covering your body in green energy to escape. The energy shielded you, strengthened you. You shot through the hallway, but he followed.

He was fast.

Too fast.

He caught you, seized your wrist, and when he lifted his other arm to strike you, your energy stopped him for one second.

Only one.

He shoved you back, and before you could see it coming, he hurled you downward. You gasped as you hit the floor. Something cracked inside you.

A rib, maybe.

Or something worse.

“And one more thing,” Luthor said through the speakers, like a narrator enjoying his own show. “He knows Superman’s movements as well as yours. He studied you just as much as he studied Superman. There are no secrets from him. No tricks.”

You swallowed, staring up.

Ultraman watched you from above, floating in the air with his arms crossed. He was in no hurry.

He knew he was going to win.

You began to attack him. Green spheres of energy shot from your hands straight toward him. Entire walls wrapped in your energy rose from the floor to trap him. But he was strong. Too strong. He broke through everything with his laser vision, like Superman. Like Clark. You fell once. Then again. Then again. Blood dripped from your nose. Your entire body hurt. There were only minutes left before eight. Clark had to be at the restaurant by now. Because whenever you had dates, he always arrived early. Always. It was his way of saying he did not want to lose a single second with you. But this time, you did not even know if you would ever see him again. If you were going to get out of there. If you were going to stay alive.

He threw another massive wall at you. He lifted it from the ground and hurled it in your direction. You stopped it before it could crush you, your hands trembling, your arms on the verge of breaking. The effort was titanic.

“That’s enough, Ultraman,” Luthor said, already bored. “Just finish her.”

You shoved the wall off you with a cry of effort. You stood. You were going to attack him. You were going to give everything you had. But he moved with a speed your eyes could not follow. Everything happened too fast. His hand appeared at your back. He was close to you. For one second, only one second, you looked into his eyes. And you saw Clark’s eyes. The same ones. The same color. The same shape. But empty. Like a broken mirror.

You gasped. He held you still without expression, watching your reaction as if he were barely learning what it meant. As if he did not know what tears were.

You placed your hand over Ultraman’s other one. The same hand where he had buried a dagger. A strange dagger, glowing green and purple at the same time. You looked at him with tears in your eyes. You did not want to cry. But you could not stop it. He drove it in deeper. You trembled. Gasped. You felt the poison entering your blood, spreading through your body like frozen fire.

And then you felt your body move. The dagger was no longer in his hand. It was Lex. Lex Luthor had arrived, had stepped close without you seeing him, and now he held your body and the dagger’s handle in his hand. You looked at him without understanding. Your vision blurred. Everything became hazy.

“I’m sorry, Clark,” you thought. The words formed inside your head like a prayer, like a whisper he would never hear. “I’m sorry I won’t make it to the restaurant. I’m sorry I never told you how much I love you. Not even my first ‘I love you.’ I’m sorry I wasn’t honest. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you everything from the beginning. I’m sorry I lied to you, even if it was through silence. I’m sorry I didn’t kiss you one more time before leaving. I’m sorry I didn’t stay that night. I’m sorry for everything. I’m sorry for everything, Clark. Everything.”

“My sweet, sweet project,” you heard Luthor’s voice pull you back to the present. He caressed your cheek with his cold hand, with a softness that disgusted you more than any blow ever could. His fingers traced your skin as if you were a pet, as if you were something pretty that belonged to him. “Do you know the best part?” he said, leaning close to your ear. His voice was a poisonous whisper, so close you could feel his warm breath against your skin. “How were you supposed to tell the man who was in love with you that sooner or later, you were going to betray him so I could stand face-to-face with Superman? How were you going to look him in the eyes and say, ‘I love you, but I was going to hand you over too’? See? This was better. I did you a favor. I spared you the shame. I spared you from having to see his face when he learned the truth.”

You looked at him in desperation. Your eyes, already fading, tried to throw hatred at him, but only sadness came out. You did not want his words to be true. But something inside you knew he was right. Not because of what you wanted. Because of what you were. Because of what they had made you into. Because you had been created to betray. Created to hurt. And even if you had wanted to change, even if you had wanted to be different, your fate had been written before you were even born.

“Don’t worry,” Luthor continued, straightening up and wiping his hand on his jacket as if he had touched something filthy. “Ultraman can finish your work for you. That dagger was necessary. Created from flowing energy and poisoned kryptonite. I just want you to know...” He paused. He looked at you with his cold eyes, without mercy, without a single trace of humanity. “Just as I created you, I can discard you. You are not the first. You will not be the last. You are only another number, L008L. That is all. You were never anything more.”

Those were his last words. He pulled the dagger out in one brutal motion. Blood spilled from your body, hot, too hot, and yet you felt cold. So cold. Your eyes slowly dimmed. The white ceiling blurred above you. The edges of your vision darkened. You could barely feel the pain anymore. Only an immense exhaustion. A deep sleep calling to you from the very core of your being. Your body fell to the floor with a dull thud. Blood spread beneath you like red wings. Your lips tried to form one word. Just one. The most important one.

Maybe it was not the life I wanted, you thought as the light went out forever. But I will never regret meeting you, Clark. Never. Not one day. Not one second. In the end, you freed me. You made me feel human. You gave me something no one had ever given me before: a reason to want to live. And even though I couldn’t stay... I leave peacefully. Because I had you. Because I felt you. Because for a few months, I was yours. And you were mine.

Maybe in another life, Clark. Maybe in another life I can have a better life. Maybe in another life I can be a real person. Someone who deserves you. Someone who can stay by your side forever. Maybe in another life, when you arrive at the restaurant, I will already be waiting for you with a smile. Maybe in another life I can tell you ‘I love you’ every morning. Maybe in another life, Clark... maybe in another life.

I love you, I love you, Clark...

And then, nothing. Silence. Darkness. Cold. Your heart, the one you believed you did not have, the one Clark had awakened with a touch inside an elevator, stopped. The heartbeats that had leapt with happiness when he kissed you, that had trembled with fear when Luthor caught you, that had cried with sorrow when you thought of never seeing him again... faded. One after another. Until none were left.

You never found out that Clark waited for you with a bouquet of purple and yellow tulips, the ones you liked because you said they looked like little suns. He had chosen them one by one at the flower shop, asking which were the prettiest, which would last the longest. The florist had laughed at him because he kept changing his mind. “They’re for someone special,” Clark had said with flushed cheeks. “For someone very special.”

You never knew that inside a small box lined with blue velvet was the key to his apartment. The one he was going to give you so you could spend more time with him. So you could stay. So you would know his home was yours too. He had gone to the hardware store that very morning, made a copy of his key, and placed it inside the little box as if it were a treasure. “I hope she likes it,” he had told the locksmith, who looked at him strangely. “I’m sure she will,” Clark replied, though he was not sure of anything.

You never knew he had rehearsed again and again in the men’s bathroom at work, standing in front of the mirror with a crumpled paper in his hand. That he had repeated the words until he memorized them, though he had written them down too, just in case. He had locked himself in the bathroom five times that day. His coworkers wondered what was wrong with him. Lois asked if he was sick. “No, no,” Clark said, “I’m just nervous.” “Nervous about what?” Lois asked. “Nothing,” Clark lied. And then he went back to rehearsing.

“I thought I would never meet the love of my life,” he whispered in the bathroom, looking at himself in the mirror, holding the crumpled paper he could barely read anymore after folding and unfolding it so many times. “And then you appeared as if it were nothing. And I thought it was a dream. But I love you. I love you so much that keeping it to myself any longer would be bad for my heart, because I don’t like lying, and lying to you would be not telling you this. So here I am. Here I am, telling you that I love you. That I love you and I want to spend the rest of my life with you. If you want that, of course. I don’t want to pressure you. But if you want to... I do.”

You never knew that he kept watching every time the restaurant door opened. That his heart jumped at every sound. That he ordered a glass of water just to have something in his hands, because he did not know what to do with his nerves. That he checked the clock every two minutes. That the tulips began to wilt on the table, their yellow and purple petals losing color, falling one by one like silent tears. That the waiter asked if he wanted to order something and he said, “No, not yet. She’s about to arrive.” That the waiter came back half an hour later and said, “Are you sure you don’t want to order something while you wait?” And Clark said, “No, thank you. She’ll be here any minute.” That the waiter walked away with a pitying smile, looking at him with sadness.

You never knew that the hours passed. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. The restaurant slowly emptied. Couples left hand in hand. Groups of friends said goodbye while laughing. The lights were turned off one by one. And Clark stayed there, sitting in the same chair, with the wilted tulips and the velvet box in his pocket, warm against his leg because he had touched it a thousand times to make sure it was still there.

You never knew he was the last customer in the restaurant. That the waiter had to tell him, regretfully, that they were closing. That Clark lifted his face, and for one second, the waiter saw something in his eyes he could not explain. An enormous sadness. An emptiness too vast to fit inside one person.

“Sir,” the waiter said gently, “I’m very sorry, but we’re closing now. We’ve actually been closed for an hour. We didn’t want to bother you, but...”

Clark blinked. He looked around. The restaurant was empty. Chairs were stacked on top of tables. The floor had been swept. Almost all the lights were off, except the one above his table. He had been waiting so long that he had not noticed everything slowly going dark around him.

“I’m sorry,” Clark said, his voice hoarse. He stood slowly, as if moving hurt. He took money from his pocket and left it on the table. Much more than necessary. He took the tulips and walked out slowly, aimlessly, with his heart heavier than ever. The streets were empty. The wind blew cold. Clark walked without knowing where he was going. He just walked. And walked. Until he reached the door of your apartment without knowing how.

You never knew that he did not sleep that night. That he called your phone again and again. Once. Ten times. Thirty. A hundred. That the phone rang and rang and no one answered. That he left messages at first, nervous, worried messages. “Hi, it’s me. Are you okay? I got to the restaurant. I waited for you. Did something happen? Please call me.” Then sadder messages. “Hey, it’s already eleven. Where are you? I’m worried because you’re not answering. Please call me when you get this.” Then more desperate ones. “It’s two in the morning. I called everywhere. No one knows where you are. Please, please answer me. Don’t do this to me. Don’t disappear like this. I’m begging you.” And then, near dawn, there was only one blank message. Thirty seconds of silence. Because he no longer had any words left.

You never knew that he went to your apartment and knocked on the door until his hand hurt. That he called the neighbors. That he asked people on the street. That no one had seen anything. That no one knew anything. That he sat on the hallway floor with his back against your door and waited until the sun came up. And when the sun rose, he was still there. With dead tulips in his pocket and the key he never got to give you. And he stayed there for much longer, until the building doorman had to ask him to leave because the neighbors were complaining.

You never knew that Clark returned the next day. And the next. And the next. That he searched hospitals, police stations, everywhere. That he used his powers, his superhero hearing, to listen for your voice somewhere. But he did not hear you. Because you could no longer speak. Because your voice had gone with your blood, with your heart, with your final breath. And Clark, no matter how hard he listened, no matter how much he flew across the city, no matter how many numbers he called... never found you. Because Luthor had erased you. Because the laboratories were hidden. Because the walls were thick and shielded. And because you were no longer anywhere.

You never knew that Clark never found out what happened. He never knew you had a number on your shoulder. He never knew you were a project. He never knew Luthor had created you. He never knew you had been sent to kill him. He never knew you protected him until the end. He never knew you died without telling him the truth. He never knew your final thought was him. He never knew you loved him. Because you never told him. Because you never had time. Because death arrived before your words could.

You never knew that you protected his secret with your soul. That not once, not even when the dagger was inside you, not even when you could feel death so close you could almost touch it, did his name escape your lips. You did not say that Clark was Superman. You did not betray him. You protected him. With your final breath. With your final thought. With the last beat of your heart. You protected him. And he never knew. He never knew that the girl who arrived at the Daily Planet with a false name and a rehearsed smile, the girl who blushed when he held her hand, the girl who kissed as if every kiss might be the last... had saved him. Without him doing anything. Alone. With her silence. With her death.

Maybe in another life, Clark would not have let you go that night. Maybe he would have stayed one more minute. Maybe he would have held you tighter, longer, as if something inside him told him it was the last time. Maybe he would have said, “Don’t go alone,” and walked you to your door. Maybe he would have gone upstairs with you. Maybe he would have been there. Maybe he would have heard Luthor. Maybe he would have seen Ultraman. Maybe he could have done something. Maybe he would have saved you. Maybe everything would have been different.

But this life was not made of maybes. This life was made of pain. Of projects. Of numbers on shoulders. Of owners who create you and discard you as if you were trash. And sometimes, only sometimes, it was made of loves that arrive too late. Loves that arrive right when there is no time left. Loves that teach you what it means to be human just before you stop being one.

And maybe that, even if it hurts more than any dagger, is enough. Maybe for Clark, it will not be. Maybe he will spend the rest of his life wondering what happened, why you left, why you disappeared without saying anything, why you did not answer the phone, why you never arrived at the restaurant, why the tulips wilted alone on the table while he waited for you with a velvet box in his pocket. Maybe he will never find answers. Maybe he will always wonder. Maybe he will always look for you without knowing there is nothing left to find.

Because you are no longer here. Because you left the same way you arrived: in silence, without anyone seeing it, without anyone knowing. Alone. Like a project that stopped working one day. Like a light going out, and no one noticing it was gone.

The house was packed shoulder to shoulder, thick with heat and laughter and bodies moving too close together. Your face had been hot from the second you stepped inside. You stood in the kitchen gripping a red plastic cup full of something you weren’t drinking, trying to look less uncomfortable than you felt.

“Why do you look like somebody brought you here at gunpoint?” You turned and there he was.

Sukuna Itadori.

Tall to the point of absurdity, broad-shouldered, built like he had been carved out of a fight, pale pink buzzed hair, hard mouth, and that same cocky look he always wore around campus like the whole world had been built for his amusement. He was on the judo team—top of it, everybody said. You believed it. He moved like someone who knew exactly what his body could do and had never once doubted himself.

He also, unfortunately, loved picking on you.

Not in a cruel way. Never truly cruel. Just… persistently irritating. The kind of irritating that made your heart trip over itself when he leaned too close and said something smug.

You frowned up at him. “I look fine.”

“You look terrified.”

“I am.” His mouth twitched.

Not a full smile. Sukuna almost never gave those away. But it was there, sharp and brief, like a crack in stone letting a little sunlight through.

“Then why’d you come?”

“My friend made me.”

“That’s embarrassing.” You stared at him. “For me or for her?”

“For you,” he said easily. “You should’ve said no.” You glanced at the door. “I’m actually about to.” He stepped sideways, one tattooed forearm bracing against the counter beside you, not touching, but close enough to make your breath catch. “You always run off that fast?”

“I don’t run off.”

“You do when I talk to you.”

“I do not.”

He lifted a brow.

You flushed. “Okay. Maybe sometimes.”

“Why?” 

Because you make me nervous.

Because every time you looked at me like that, like you had already decided you wanted something and were just waiting for the world to catch up, it made your skin too warm and your thoughts too soft.

Instead you said, “Because you’re mean.” His laugh was low, surprised, real enough that it startled you. “Mean?” he repeated. “You always pick on me.”

“I do not always pick on you.”

“You called my tote bag tragic.”

“It was tragic.”

“It had books in it.”

“It looked like it had sorrow in it.” You bit back a smile and failed.

Sukuna noticed immediately.

His eyes sharpened on your face, suddenly intent, as if that tiny almost-smile was something he wanted to study under a microscope.

“There,” he said. “What?”

“That.” He pointed lazily at your mouth. “You do know how to smile.” You rolled your eyes and looked down at your cup, trying to hide the heat in your cheeks. “You’re annoying.”

“And you still haven’t walked away.” That made you look at him again.

He was smug. Completely smug. But there was something else under it now, something strange and warm and almost boyish despite how imposing he was. He looked pleased that you were still there, pleased in a way that felt too sincere to be just teasing.

You hated how much that softened you.

“I’m leaving now,” you told him. “Okay.” He didn’t move.

You blinked. “Okay?”

“Yeah.” He shrugged. “I’m coming with you.”

“What?”

“You said you’re leaving. I’m leaving too.”

“You cannot just come with me.”

“Watch me.”

“Sukuna.” He leaned closer. “That’s the first time you’ve said my name without sounding scared of it.”

“I am not scared of your name.”

“You’re scared of me, though.” Your voice came out quieter than you meant it to. “No,” you said. “I’m not.” That made him still. For one small beat the noise around you blurred. The kitchen, the music, the shouting from the next room—it all faded under the weight of the way he looked at you then.

Not like a joke.

Not like a game.

Just… looking.

Then he straightened and took your untouched cup from your hand, set it on the counter, and jerked his head toward the hall. “Come on.”

“Where?”

“You said you were leaving.”

“I can find the door myself.”

“I know. I’m being gentlemanly. Don’t ruin it.” You huffed a little laugh before you could stop it, and that seemed to satisfy something in him.

He walked you out through the crowd like it was the most natural thing in the world for a six-foot-seven judo menace to escort you from a party you hated. People moved for him without thinking. Some of them called his name. One guy from the team shouted, “Oi, Sukuna, where are you going?” Sukuna didn’t even turn around. “Taking her home.” The words hit you so fast your whole body warmed.

Outside, the night air felt cool and merciful. You drew in a breath like someone surfacing from underwater. The lawn was littered with paper plates and half-deflated decorations. Porch lights cast everything in gold.

You looked up at him. “You didn’t have to walk me out.”

“I know.”

“Then why did you?” He shoved his hands into the pockets of his black jeans. “Because you looked miserable.” You stared.

The answer was so simple, so unguarded, that for a second you didn’t know what to do with it.

Then, because you were shy and he made you nervous and honesty came out of you in the softest, strangest ways, you said, “That was… nice.” His gaze dropped to your face, slower now. “Yeah,” he said. “I can be.” You smiled then. Really smiled. Small and a little embarrassed and entirely helpless.

Something in his expression shifted.

You saw it happen.

Like he had been expecting to toy with you for another five minutes and instead had stepped into something deeper by accident.

He cleared his throat. “You live on campus?” You nodded. “I’ll walk you.”

“You really don’t have to.”

“I know,” he said again, almost impatient now, like your protests were starting to insult him. “I want to.”

So he did.

You walked side by side beneath the pale wash of campus lamps, past brick buildings and sleeping lecture halls and bicycles chained to racks. You learned, to your surprise, that talking to Sukuna when he wasn’t surrounded by people was… easy.

Or maybe not easy.

But alive.

He asked what you were studying, and when you said literature, he scoffed and asked, “So you read dead people’s feelings for homework?” You laughed and said, “That is the rudest possible way to describe it.”

“It’s accurate, though.”

“It’s art.”

“It’s depression with punctuation.” You gasped softly. “You are horrible.”

“You like talking to me.” You looked away. “That’s a strong assumption.”

“It’s not an assumption.” He was right, which was irritating.

By the time you reached your dorm building, your nervousness had gone from sharp and awful to something floaty and bright.

You stopped at the steps. “This is me.”

“I can see that.” You hesitated. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For walking me.”

“For surviving a party?” You smiled. “Both.” He looked down at you, the autumn wind moving lightly through the night around you both, and there was something restless in him now, something like decision.

Then he said, “Give me your phone.” Your eyes widened. “What?”

“Your phone.”

“Why?”

“So I can put my number in it.” You blinked up at him. “You could’ve asked that more politely.”

“I could’ve.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No.” You should have said no— Instead, flustered and fighting a smile, you dug your phone from your bag and handed it over. He tapped something in, then called himself so your number would be saved in his.

When he gave it back, you looked down.

Sukuna.

No last name. Just Sukuna and, for some reason that made your cheeks burn, a red devil emoji.

You looked up at him in disbelief. “Seriously?” He shrugged. “It suits me.”

“You put an emoji.”

“You noticed.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re blushing.”

“I am not.”

“You are.” You made a face and clutched your phone to your chest. “Goodnight, Sukuna.” He looked entirely too pleased. “Goodnight.” Then, just as you turned to go inside, he called after you. “Hey.” You looked back.

He stood there under the dorm light, hands still in his pockets, broad and arrogant and unfairly beautiful. “When I text you tomorrow,” he said, “don’t ignore me.” You laughed despite yourself. “That sounds less like a request and more like a threat.”

“It’s both.” And then he left you there smiling like an idiot on the dorm steps.

You did ignore his first text the next day.

Not because you wanted to.

Because you panicked.

It came halfway through your morning lecture.

You looked down at your screen and nearly choked.

Sukuna:  You still alive, literature girl?

You stared at it for the rest of class.

Then, after far too much internal debate, you replied.

You:  I have a name.

His answer came almost instantly.

Sukuna:  I know.

That was all.

Just I know.

You spent five minutes staring at that too.

It should have ended there. Maybe with a few texts. Maybe with nothing.

But Sukuna, unfortunately for your peace of mind, had apparently decided you were his new favorite thing to bother.

He started appearing everywhere.

Outside your lecture hall, leaning against the wall with that lazy, dangerous posture. At the campus café, taking your muffin off your tray and eating it while you stared at him in betrayal. In the library, of all places, dropping into the seat across from you and whispering, “You look cute when you’re annoyed,” while you tried not to combust between the shelves. “Do you even have classes?” you asked him one afternoon when he fell into step beside you on the way to the literature building. “Yeah.”

“Then why are you always here?” He looked down at you. “Maybe I like you.” Your entire body went still for half a second.

Then you recovered enough to say, “Maybe you’re a menace.”

“That too.”

He followed you around for weeks.

Weeks!

He carried your books without asking and refused to give them back when you protested. He stole bites of your food and acted offended when you called him rude. He sat beside you on benches, too close and not close enough, teasing you until you laughed so suddenly you covered your mouth afterward like you could take it back.

And he asked you out over and over in increasingly aggravating ways.

“Go out with me.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re insufferable.”

“You say that like it’s a real flaw.”

“It is.”

“Okay. Go out with me anyway.”

Or—

“I’m taking you to dinner Friday.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am.”

“You didn’t even ask.”

“I’m asking now.”

“That is not asking.”

And once, when you were walking out of the bookstore with a tote bag full of novels against your chest, he came up behind you, plucked the receipt from the top of the bag, glanced at it, and said, “You spent this much money on sadness?” You clutched your bag to you with a wounded noise. “Give that back.” He held it up out of reach. “Date me and I will.” You stared at him. “That’s blackmail.”

“It’s flirting.”

“It’s criminal.” He grinned then, full and wolfish and bright, and your heart did a stupid little somersault.

The worst part was that everyone noticed.

Your friends noticed how your eyes searched for him before you even realized you were doing it. His teammates noticed how he stopped lingering after practice to mess around because he was suddenly always “going somewhere.”

Once, at the campus coffee shop, one of the girls from your class watched Sukuna set a hot drink down in front of you without a word—your exact order, even though you had never told him—and when he walked away to grab napkins, she leaned over the table and whispered, “Oh, he’s down bad.” You nearly inhaled your own tongue.

“He is not.” She just looked at you with pity. “Honey.” The thing was, beneath all the cockiness, Sukuna was strangely attentive.

He remembered things.

He remembered which professor made you nervous, and which one you adored. He remembered that you hated loud places, that you always read the last page of a book too early when you were anxious, that you liked your tea sweeter than coffee and your sweaters oversized and your pens in black ink only.

He remembered when you had a presentation.

That afternoon, you came out of class shaky and drained and found him sitting on the steps outside your building with a little bakery bag in one big hand.

He looked up. “You’re late.”

“I had class.”

“I know. That thing you were whining about.” You frowned as you came closer. “I was not whining.” He held the bag out toward you.

You blinked. “What’s that?”

“Open it.” Inside was a pastry from the small bakery off campus you had once mentioned liking.

Your face softened before you could stop it. “Sukuna…”

“What?” he said gruffly, suddenly looking everywhere except at you. “You said you like those.”

“You remembered?” He scowled, like this was somehow offensive. “I’m not stupid.”

“No,” you said softly. “I know.” You stood there in the late afternoon light holding the warm little paper bag and looking at him like you had never seen him clearly before.

Not just the judo star everyone admired.

Not just the cocky, grumpy menace who loved making you blush.

But a boy trying, in his own rough-edged way, to place something gentle into your hands.

“Thank you,” you said.

His shoulders shifted. “Yeah.” Then, after a beat, “So. You gonna go out with me now or what?” You laughed.

He looked at you immediately, eyes narrowing. “Why are you laughing?”

“Because,” you said, smiling so hard it hurt, “you brought me a peace offering and still somehow made it sound like a challenge.”

“It is a challenge.”

“Why?”

“Because I want you.” The laughter faded from your mouth.

His gaze held yours, steady and hot and certain in a way that made your pulse start fluttering all over again.

Not casual.

Not careless.

I want you.

The softness of it was hidden only barely under his rough tone.

Your fingers tightened around the pastry bag. “You barely know me.”

“I know enough.”

“That sounds arrogant.”

“I am arrogant.” You smiled a little. “At least you’re self-aware.” He stood then, towering over you, but not in a way that crowded. Just… there. Solid. Warm. Real. “I know you’re shy,” he said. “I know you act like you hate me showing up, but you always smile when I do. I know you’re sweet to everybody, even people who don’t deserve it. I know you get nervous before speaking in class and act like you don’t. I know you make this face—” he gestured vaguely at your mouth “—when you’re trying not to laugh at me. And I know I haven’t stopped thinking about you since that stupid party.” Your breath caught.

He looked almost irritated by how honest he was being, like the truth itself annoyed him. “And,” he added, “I know you should go out with me.” You stared up at him for a long moment.

Then you said, very softly, “That was almost romantic.” He scoffed. “It was romantic.”

“Almost.” He leaned in just a little. “Don’t push it.” You laughed again, and this time when he looked at you, he looked gone.

Completely, helplessly gone.

You had a sudden, strange sense that if you asked for the moon right then, Sukuna would have climbed the sky barehanded out of spite and laid it at your feet.

Your voice came out shy. “Okay.” He blinked. “Okay what?”

“I’ll go out with you.”

Silence.

The wind moved around you both. Somewhere down the path, students were shouting and laughing and living their own small bright lives, but all of it felt far away from the look on Sukuna’s face.

For once in his life, he seemed genuinely speechless.

Then his brows pulled together. “You’re serious?” You nodded.

His mouth curved slowly, disbelieving and pleased and devastating. “Took you long enough.” You gaped. “Sukuna.”

“What?”

“I just said yes.”

“And?”

“And you’re supposed to act happy.”

“I am happy.”

“You sound rude.”

“I always sound rude.”

“That’s true.”

He stepped closer, close enough that your breath tangled a little. “Friday,” he said. “Friday,” you echoed. “I’ll pick you up.”

“It’s on campus.”

“I know.”

“You do not need to pick me up.”

“I’m picking you up.” You smiled. “Okay.” He studied your face a second longer, then reached out and tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear with surprising care.

It was such a gentle touch that it made your whole chest ache.

His voice, when he spoke again, was lower. “Wear something pretty.” You stared up at him, scandalized. “Are you saying I don’t dress pretty now?” He smirked. “I’m saying if you show up looking too good, I’m gonna start fights.” You laughed so hard you had to cover your mouth and just like that, that became the shape of you.

Dates between classes and long walks at night.

You in oversized sweaters sitting on the bleachers at his judo matches, your heart pounding every time he got slammed to the mat even though he always got right back up. Sukuna pretending not to look for you in the crowd, then walking straight to you afterward with sweat on his throat and victory in his grin.

Him sprawled across your dorm bed, too large for the space, grumbling while you highlighted passages from novels and read them aloud to him anyway. Sukuna saying things like, “This guy writes like he got dumped in the rain,” and you laughing until you nearly cried.

The first time he held your hand on purpose, really on purpose, you had been crossing the street in the cold. He caught your fingers in his big warm ones like it was instinct, like he had always been meant to do it. He never let go.

The first time he kissed you, it was outside the library at dusk. You had been rambling nervously about a paper, and he interrupted you with, “You talk too much when you’re anxious.” Then he leaned down, cupped your face in both hands, and kissed you like he was shutting the whole world up just to hear your heart.

Afterward, your lips parted in surprise and he rested his forehead against yours, looking unbearably smug and strangely tender all at once. “Told you,” he murmured. “Told me what?” you whispered. “That you’d like me.” You should have rolled your eyes.

Instead you smiled, soft and helpless and so full of feeling it scared you a little. “I do like you,” you admitted.

Sukuna’s gaze darkened, not with anything cruel, just with depth. With certainty. With the kind of emotion that sat heavy and golden in the chest. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I know.” And that was how it began.

With a party you hated.

With a boy who picked on you until teasing turned into orbit, until orbit turned into devotion.

With Sukuna following you around campus like a storm that had chosen, for once, not to destroy—but to stay and for all his arrogance, all his gruffness, all the sharp edges he wore like armor, he loved you in a way that felt startlingly simple in the end.

Like reaching for your books before you could carry them yourself.

Like memorizing your coffee order.

Like walking you home from places too loud for your gentle heart.

Like looking at you, again and again, as if he could not believe the world had made someone so soft and then somehow let him be the one to keep you.

———

The rest of the afternoon should have felt golden.

It should have felt like one of those college memories people carried forever—sun on skin, salt in the air, laughter still lingering from lunch, Sukuna fresh off a win that had every member of his team buzzing with adrenaline.

His team had taken first.

Of course they had.

And Sukuna had been the center of it, standing on the mat earlier with sweat shining at the edge of his throat, his expression hard and focused, his body moving with brutal precision that had made the entire room erupt when he won. He had taken down his final opponent so cleanly that even you, who still didn’t fully understand all the rules, had gasped and clapped so hard your palms stung.

Shoko had whistled loud enough to draw attention.

Utahime had laughed and shaken her head, muttering, “He’s so disgustingly good at this.” And you—sweet, shy, heart too full for your own body—you had stood there smiling at him like he had hung the moon just for you.

When he came off the mat, still breathing hard, he had looked through the crowd until he found you.

Always you.

Then he had walked straight over, medal hanging at his neck, and bent slightly so you could throw your arms around him.

You remembered the heat of him, the sweat-damp fabric of his shirt, the way he had grunted softly when you squeezed him too hard. “You did so good,” you had whispered, voice bright with pride.

His hand had pressed against your lower back. “Obviously.” You had laughed into his chest.

Cocky, grumpy, impossible Sukuna.

But he had let you cling to him, and when you pulled back to look at him, his eyes had softened in that way only you ever seemed to get from him.

Later, the four of you had gone to eat near the shore. The restaurant had been open-air, all sea breeze and white curtains fluttering at the edges, the tables crowded with people in sandals and sun hats and damp hair. Sukuna sat beside you, one leg stretched out, his medal still shoved carelessly into his pocket, accepting congratulations from his teammates and coaches like he expected them.

You sat close enough that your thigh brushed his every now and then.

Shoko and Utahime were bickering over a drink menu across from you. “You always order something dramatic,” Utahime said.

Shoko lifted a brow. “And you always act like lime is a personality trait.”

“It is in summer.”

“That’s the stupidest thing you’ve ever said.” You smiled to yourself, stirring your drink.

Sukuna noticed.

His fingers nudged your knee under the table. “What’re you smiling at?”

“You all are funny.”

“We’re not funny,” he said.

Shoko immediately said, “You are absolutely funny when you’re in love.” Sukuna’s head turned slowly. “Watch your mouth.” Utahime snorted into her water.

Your cheeks warmed. “Shoko.”

“What?” she said innocently. “He’s all terrifying on the mat and then she looks at him and suddenly he remembers how to be house-trained.” Sukuna clicked his tongue and reached for one of the fries off your plate without asking.

You turned to him with a small gasp. “That was mine.”

“I know.”

“You have your own.”

“Yours looked better.” You stared at him. “They’re the same fries.” He leaned back in his chair, expression smug. “Not anymore.”

That made Utahime laugh so hard she nearly choked.

The whole table had been warm with it after that—laughter, teasing, sunlight pouring over the floorboards. You had thought, for one foolish, beautiful stretch of time, that this was what your future would always feel like.

Simple.

Certain.

Yours.

After lunch, you all went back to the hotel to change.

You stood in front of the mirror in the little room you shared with Sukuna, smoothing your hands nervously over your swimsuit before pulling on a light cover-up. The fabric kissed your skin softly, and you adjusted it twice even though nothing was wrong. You were always a little shy at the beach, always too aware of your body, even though Sukuna looked at you like every soft part of you had been sculpted by divine hands just to torment him.

When you turned, he was sitting on the edge of the bed in black swim trunks, elbows on his knees, watching you.

You paused. “What?” His gaze moved over you with open appreciation, slow and unashamed. “Nothing.” Your face warmed. “You’re staring.”

“Yeah.”

“Sukuna.” He stood and crossed the room in a few easy steps, towering over you until you instinctively tilted your head back. His hands found your waist, large and warm, thumbs brushing the fabric there. “You’re cute when you get shy,” he murmured. “I’m always shy.”

“I know.” He leaned down and kissed you once, quick and warm, then again, slower this time, enough to make your stomach flutter.

When he pulled back, he looked annoyingly pleased with himself. “You better stay next to me out there.” You blinked. “Why?” His hands squeezed your waist. “Because everybody stares.” You laughed softly. “You are so dramatic.”

“And I’m still right.” The by the power of the cock-blocking God’s, Shoko arrived from the hotel her and Utahime were staying at down the street, banging on the door from the hallway and yelled, “If you two are making out in there, I swear to God—”

“We’re coming,” you called, mortified.

Sukuna smirked. “We could’ve kept going.” You shoved lightly at his chest. “No, we could not.”

“You’re no fun.”

“You’re impossible.” And then you all went down to the beach.

It was the kind of afternoon that looked almost unreal.

The ocean glittered blue-white under the sun. Children shrieked near the shoreline. Umbrellas bloomed in bright colors over the sand. The breeze was warm and carried the clean sharp scent of salt. Somewhere farther down, music was playing low from a portable speaker. Shoko and Utahime walked ahead, already arguing about where to set up.

Utahime pointed. “Not that close to those people.” Shoko groaned. “You say that like strangers are contagious.”

“Bad energy is contagious.”

“Please never say that again.” You stayed beside Sukuna, one hand lightly hooked around his forearm, your sandals sinking into the sand. He carried a bag over one shoulder, looking deeply unimpressed by the existence of sunlight and humanity.

Then someone called his name.

“Itadori!” Sukuna looked up.

A few yards away stood his coach, shirt half-buttoned, sunglasses on, waving him over. Beside him was another man you didn’t recognize—older, well-dressed even on the beach, posture straight in a way that made him seem important before he even spoke.

Sukuna muttered, “Coach.” He glanced down at you. “Stay here.” You nodded. “Okay.” He walked off toward them.

You and the girls kept moving toward a spot closer to the water, laying down towels and setting bags in the sand, but from where you stood you could still see Sukuna in the near distance. His coach clapped him on the shoulder, speaking animatedly. The older man extended his hand. Sukuna shook it.

At first, you didn’t think much of it.

He had just won. People were always talking to him after competitions. Coaches, team members, recruiters. Sukuna was too talented for anyone not to notice.

Shoko was kneeling in the sand digging for sunscreen when she said, “He’s getting cornered by sports people.” Utahime glanced over. “He looks interested.”

You followed her gaze.

Sukuna did look interested.

More than interested.

Focused.

The older man reached into a leather folder and pulled out papers. Even from this distance, you could tell the moment something changed. Sukuna’s posture sharpened. His attention narrowed. His coach was grinning now, talking with both hands.

You drifted a little closer without meaning to, close enough now that the wind carried fragments of the conversation toward you.

“—professional track after graduation…”

“—national level…”

“—three-year contract…” Then a place name that landed in your chest like cold metal. “Korea.” You went still.

The older man was smiling politely. “We believe you have extraordinary potential, Itadori. There’s a place for you if you want it. Training, housing, salary, international circuit development. This would position you well beyond university.” Sukuna stared at the papers for half a second, then gave a short laugh in disbelief. “This is serious?”

“Very.” His coach spoke next, pride practically glowing out of him. “I told you they were watching. Didn’t I tell you?” Sukuna took the folder fully into his hands now, flipping through the pages. You could see it all over his face—that electric, hungry look he got whenever something awakened the part of him that wanted to win, to rise higher, to be the best in every room he entered.

The older man said, “We’d need an answer soon. Ideally within the month.” Sukuna looked up. “This sounds great,” he said. “Of course.” The words hit so fast you almost thought you imagined them.

Of course.

Not let me think.

Not I’ll discuss it.

Not my girlfriend and I—

Just of course.

Your hand loosened at your side.

The sea breeze suddenly felt too cold.

You didn’t realize Shoko had come up beside you until she said quietly, “Did he… already agree?” You swallowed. “I think so.” Utahime looked from you to Sukuna, her expression tightening.

Farther away, the conversation continued. The older man nodded, clearly pleased. Hands were shaken again. Sukuna looked almost exhilarated, and some part of you hated yourself for understanding why. This was big. Bigger than college, bigger than weekend tournaments, bigger than anything he had ever hinted at before.

But another part of you—softer, more frightened—kept whispering, Why didn’t he tell me? Why didn’t he even look at me first?

When the conversation ended, Sukuna started back toward you.

The folder was still in his hand.

His face was unreadable now, but there was a brightness under it, something sharp and alive.

He walked right up like nothing had changed.

Like your world hadn’t just tilted under your feet.

You looked at the papers in his hand, then at him. “What was that?” He shrugged one shoulder. “An offer.” You stared. “An offer for what?” He looked almost impatient that you were making him say it out loud. “Professional judo. After graduation.” Your heart beat hard, uneven. “In Korea?”

“Yes.”

The word was casual.

Too casual.

You blinked at him, waiting for more.

None came.

Around you, the beach kept moving. Waves folded onto shore. Someone laughed nearby. Shoko and Utahime stood just behind you, both suddenly too quiet.

You wet your lips. “And… what happens to us?” Sukuna’s brows drew together. “What do you mean?” Your chest tightened. “I mean us.” Your voice came out smaller than you wanted. “You just said yes.” He scoffed lightly. “I didn’t know I had to get your permission.” The sentence cut deeper than it should have. “No,” you said carefully, your throat already starting to burn. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?” You looked at him, really looked at him, trying to find the boy who used to wait outside your lecture hall, who remembered your coffee order, who once told you he couldn’t stop thinking about you. “I thought…” You swallowed. “I thought after college we were going to move in together.” He said nothing.

Your voice trembled despite your effort to steady it. “You said that. You said we’d figure things out together after graduation.” Sukuna’s jaw ticked. He glanced away toward the ocean, then back at you. “I can’t give up my career to move in with you and live on your teacher salary.”

The world went silent.

Not truly silent.

The waves still moved. The gulls still cried overhead. There were still voices all around you.

But inside you, everything stopped.

You stared at him.

The way he had called it teachers salary.

Not your career.

Not your dream.

Not the life you had spent quietly, shyly imagining with him.

Just a small, dismissive reduction. A thing beneath him.

You took a tiny step back. “What?” He exhaled hard through his nose, already sounding annoyed. “I need this.”

Taken aback did not begin to cover it.

Your fingers curled at your sides. “So that’s what you think of me?” He frowned. “Don’t start.”

“Don’t start?” you repeated, incredulous now, wounded enough to forget how shy you usually were. “You made a huge decision without even talking to me, and then you talk about my life—my future—like it’s some pathetic thing you’d be settling for.” Sukuna’s expression hardened. “That’s not what I said.”

“It is what you said.”

“You’re twisting it.” Your laugh came out thin and broken. “No. I heard you perfectly.” Shoko stepped closer. “Maybe you two should—”

“No,” Sukuna said without looking at her.

Utahime’s voice was sharper. “Don’t talk to her like that.” Sukuna ignored her too, eyes locked on you now.

You could feel tears beginning to sting behind your eyes, and that only made you angrier because you hated crying in front of people, hated feeling small, hated how badly you still wanted him to fix this. “You didn’t even ask me what I thought,” you whispered. “Because it’s my career.”

“And I’m your girlfriend.” He threw one hand out, the folder bending slightly in his grip. “So what, I’m supposed to say no to a professional contract because you got your feelings hurt?”

The sentence slapped harder than if he had raised his voice.

Your mouth parted.

Shoko muttered, “Jesus Christ.” Utahime looked ready to kill him.

You stared at Sukuna like you no longer recognized him.

Then, quietly, you said, “Maybe we should break up then.”

For the first time, his face changed.

Not softer.

Just startled that you had said it. “What?” You lifted your chin even though your lip trembled. “If I’m in your way, then maybe we should just break up.” You tried to laugh, but it came out shaky. “Since my teacher salary doesn’t fit with your life.” Sukuna scoffed, angry now in that way he got when something made him feel cornered. “This is ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous?” Your voice rose before you could stop it. “You’re the one acting like I’m some burden you’d outgrow.”

“You are being ridiculous.”

“And you’re being cruel.”

“I’m being honest.”

“No,” you said, tears finally spilling hot and humiliating down your cheeks. “You’re being mean.”

That hit something in him.

For a brief second you saw it—some flicker of regret, maybe, or the memory of who he had once been with you.

But then his pride surged up faster. “Fine,” he snapped. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe we should break up. Clearly we want different things.” The words landed with horrifying finality.

The beach seemed to tilt under your feet.

Shoko inhaled sharply. “Sukuna—”

“Stop,” he said.

Utahime stepped forward, furious. “No, you stop. You don’t get to—” But you were already backing away.

Not dramatically.

Not loudly.

Just one step, then another, your whole body gone cold despite the heat of the sun.

You nodded once, because speaking felt impossible.

Your throat was too tight. Your chest hurt too badly. If you opened your mouth, you thought you might make some wounded little sound you’d never recover from.

So you turned and walked.

You heard Shoko call your name.

Heard Utahime curse behind you.

Heard, maybe, Sukuna say something, though the blood rushing in your ears swallowed it whole.

You didn’t look back.

The sand burned under your feet as you crossed the beach. By the time you hit the boardwalk, your vision was blurred. You wiped angrily at your face, but more tears kept coming. People passed you in beach clothes and sunglasses, smiling, sunlit, unaware that your entire future had just cracked open in broad daylight.

The walk back to the hotel felt endless.

You fumbled with the keycard twice before getting the room open. The air-conditioning hit your wet skin and made you shiver.

For a second, you just stood there.

The room still looked like a room shared by two people in love.

His duffel bag near the dresser.

Your book on the nightstand.

His hoodie draped over the chair from the night before.

The sight of it made a sob rip out of you so suddenly you had to cover your mouth.

You crossed the room on shaking legs and grabbed your bag from the corner. Your hands were clumsy as you stuffed clothes into it, not caring what was folded, what got wrinkled, what belonged where. Your swimsuit, your sandals, your charger, your makeup pouch—everything went in with desperate, uneven movements.

You kept hearing it.

I can’t give up my career to move in with you and live on your teacher salary.

Maybe we should break up.

Clearly we want different things.

By the time you zipped the bag, your hands were trembling so hard you had to stop and press both palms to the edge of the dresser.

You looked up into the mirror.

Your eyes were red. Your cheeks were wet. You looked small in a way you hated.

You whispered, brokenly, “Okay.” You didn’t even know who you were saying it to.

Maybe to him.

Maybe to yourself.

Maybe to the room, to the future that wasn’t happening now, to the girl who had sat at lunch smiling because she thought she was safe inside something solid.

You grabbed your bag and walked out.

The hallway was cool and quiet, the patterned hotel carpet swallowing the sound of your steps. By the time you reached your car and drove to Shoko and Utahime’s hotel, your breath had gone ragged again. You knocked once, then again.

The door opened almost immediately.

Shoko stood there barefoot, hair windblown from the beach, her face changing the second she saw you. “Oh, baby.” That was all it took.

Your bag slipped from your hand and hit the floor with a dull thud. You pressed your palm over your mouth and bent forward as the sobs finally came in full, ugly and uncontrollable.

Shoko pulled you in at once.

Utahime was right behind her, guiding you farther into the room, hands gentle on your shoulders. “It’s okay,” Utahime said softly, even though all three of you knew it wasn’t. “Come here. Come sit down, we tried calling but you didn’t answer.” You could barely breathe through the crying.

Shoko shut the door behind you and rubbed your back while you shook, while your tears soaked into her shoulder, while the whole bright weekend trip dissolved into something jagged and aching.

And somewhere beyond the walls of that hotel, the ocean kept rolling in and out, indifferent and beautiful, while your heart broke in a room that smelled like sunscreen and clean sheets and the end of something you had once believed would last.

———

Shoko’s hotel room was dim by the time the three of you settled into it properly.

The curtains were half-drawn against the evening light, leaving the room washed in that muted gold-blue haze that came right before night. The television played some mindless variety show none of you were really watching yet, the volume low enough to become background noise. There were takeout containers spread over the little table by the bed, half-open bags of chips, canned drinks sweating on coasters, and a box of tissues that had already been dragged to your side like a grim little offering.

You were curled up in the middle of one of the beds in one of Shoko’s oversized T-shirts and soft shorts, knees tucked up, hair messy, eyes swollen and pink from crying so hard your head hurt.

And you were furious.

“Selfish,” you said thickly, voice hoarse from tears. “He’s selfish and self-centered and such an ass.” Utahime, cross-legged at the end of the other bed, nodded with immediate righteous conviction. “Yes.” Shoko, sitting beside you with a paper bowl of fries in her lap, pointed one fry at you like a tiny golden weapon. “He is absolutely an ass.”

“The worst,” you muttered. “The worst,” Utahime echoed.

You sniffled and angrily wiped your face again. “He acts like everything has to happen his way. Like the whole world just bends around him because he’s good at something and everyone tells him he’s special.” Shoko hummed. “That does sound like Sukuna.”

“It is Sukuna,” Utahime said dryly.

You hugged one of the hotel pillows to your chest and glared at the dark TV screen reflection instead of the room itself. “He didn’t even ask me,” you whispered, your anger fraying at the edges again into hurt. “Not even for one second. He just said yes. Right there. Like I wasn’t even part of his life enough to think about.”

Neither girl interrupted.

That was the mercy of them.

They let you rage.

They let you say ugly things through your tears because they knew hurt had teeth, and sometimes it needed to bite before it quieted down. “He’s so arrogant,” you went on. “He’s so—so smug all the time, and stubborn, and mean when he gets mad, and he always thinks he’s right. He always thinks he can just say whatever he wants and then look at me like I’m supposed to understand him anyway.”

Utahime’s expression tightened. “The teacher salary thing was vile.” You made a broken little sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “I know.” Shoko set the fries down on the comforter and reached for your hand, squeezing it once. “That was beneath the belt.” Your mouth trembled. “I hate him,” you said, but it came out weak.

Shoko tilted her head. “No, you don’t.” Fresh tears pooled instantly. You stared down at the pillow in your lap. “No,” you whispered. “I don’t.” The room softened around that confession.

The anger was still there, but now it was thinner, lit from behind by grief.

Your throat worked as you tried to speak. “I love him so much.” Utahime’s face fell, her earlier anger gentling into sadness. “We know.” You shook your head. “No, I mean…” You swallowed hard, voice catching. “I really love him. And I know he can be awful and cocky and impossible, and right now I want to strangle him, but I—I love him.” Shoko rubbed circles against the back of your hand.

You stared at nothing and kept going, because once you started, it all came pouring out. “A week ago,” you said shakily, “we talked about after graduation.” Shoko and Utahime both looked at you.

You sniffled. “We were in bed, and it was late, and he was all sleepy and grumpy because I was still reading with the lamp on.” A tiny, pained smile touched your mouth before disappearing. “And I asked him if he was serious. About us. About moving in together after college.” Utahime leaned in slightly. “And?”

“He said yes.” Your eyes burned all over again. “He said he was serious. He said he was tired of leaving my room and tired of sleeping without me, and that once we graduated he wanted a place with me. He said he wanted my books everywhere and my stupid mugs in his kitchen and—” your voice cracked “—and that he’d get used to it.” Shoko closed her eyes briefly like the tenderness of it hurt her too.

You let out a watery laugh and wiped your face again. “He even argued with me about closet space.” Utahime’s expression pinched. “Oh no.” You nodded miserably. “He said I better not take up the whole closet and I told him I barely owned anything, and he said my sweaters reproduced when he wasn’t looking.”

That got a weak laugh out of Shoko.

But then you looked down at your hands and your voice went small. “And I asked him something.” The room stilled. “What?” Shoko asked softly.

You shook your head immediately.

Utahime studied you. “What kind of something?”

You swallowed.

Deep.

Personal.

Still tender even now, even with how angry and hurt you were.

You could still see it as clearly as if it had happened an hour ago instead of a week. The hotel room from back home. The dim bedside lamp. Sukuna lying on his back with one arm under his head, half-awake, looking at you while you sat cross-legged facing him. Your courage had been trembling in your throat when you asked it.

Not about moving in.

Not about the future in the practical sense.

About being left.

About promises.

About whether love was something he only knew how to hold when it was easy.

You had peeled your heart open in front of him in the quiet and asked him not to make you build a home in someone who would one day decide it was too much trouble to stay and Sukuna—your impossible, gruff, hard-edged Sukuna—had reached up, touched your cheek, and made you a promise in a voice so low and certain it had gone straight into your bones.

You couldn’t say it aloud now.

Couldn’t bear to.

So you just shook your head again. “I don’t want to say.” Shoko looked at you for a long second, then nodded once. “Okay.” Utahime did too. “You don’t have to.” You pressed your lips together and looked away, blinking hard.

The silence that followed was broken only by the murmur of the television and the distant hum of traffic outside. Shoko eventually handed you a drink. Utahime opened another carton of food. The three of you drifted into that strange heartbreak rhythm where crying became talking, and talking became sitting there with swollen eyes while life went on offensively normal around you.

You ate because they made you.

Not much.

A little rice. A fry. A piece of tempura you barely tasted.

At some point, Shoko changed the channel to something ridiculous on purpose, and Utahime muttered sarcastic commentary at the screen until it pulled a reluctant laugh from you. Your crying eased into softer sniffles. Your body loosened, tired from the sheer effort of being devastated.

But every few minutes your gaze kept drifting to your phone on the bedside table.

Face down.

Silent.

Heavy with possibility.

Utahime noticed first.

“No,” she said.

You looked at her innocently. “What?”

“Don’t.” Shoko followed your line of sight to the phone and groaned. “Absolutely not.” You hugged the pillow tighter. “I wasn’t going to do anything.” Both of them gave you a look.

You stared back for three seconds, then looked away. “Okay, maybe I thought about it.”

“Do not call him,” Utahime said firmly. “He should be the one calling you,” Shoko added.

You nodded quickly. “I know.”

“No drunk sad girl decisions,” Utahime went on. “I’m not drunk.”

“You are sad enough to count.” That made you huff a little laugh through your nose.

Shoko pointed at you. “Promise.” You hesitated only a second too long. “Promise,” Utahime repeated.

You nodded. “Okay. I promise.”

For a while, you meant it.

You really did.

You sat there with them, legs tucked under you now, your plate balanced on your thigh while some overly dramatic game show flashed colors across the room. Shoko stole bites from Utahime’s food. Utahime complained. The AC hummed softly overhead. Night pressed darker against the windows.

And still your phone sat there.

A tiny aching thing.

All your thoughts kept circling back to him.

Was he angry still?

Was he regretting it?

Was he drunk already with his teammates, laughing too loud and acting like none of this touched him?

Or was he alone somewhere, silent and furious and hurt in his own way, the same way he always was when he didn’t know how to be anything but hard?

The not knowing hollowed you out.

Eventually, while Utahime was in the bathroom and Shoko was digging through the mini fridge for another drink, you reached for your phone.

Just to look, you told yourself.

Just to see.

Your thumb hovered over his name.

Sukuna.

Still saved that same way.

You stared.

Your chest tightened.

Then, before you could stop yourself—before reason or pride or your friends’ warnings could catch up—you pressed FaceTime.

The ringing started immediately.

Your heart dropped straight into your stomach. “Oh my God,” you whispered.

Shoko turned around with a canned drink in her hand. “What did you just do?” Your eyes widened with immediate regret. “I—” The call connected.

Sukuna’s face filled the screen.

The image shook for a second, badly angled, dimly lit. He looked like he had answered from somewhere half-collapsed into a bed or couch. His cheeks were faintly flushed. His pink buzzed hair was messy from hands dragged through it too many times. His eyes were heavy-lidded, not sleepy—drunk. You could hear loud male voices and laughter in the background, muffled by distance and bad acoustics, like he’d stepped away from some celebration.

He blinked at the screen, trying to focus.

Then his expression changed when he realized it was you. “You called me,” he said, voice low and rough.

The second you heard him, your throat closed.

The anger you had been nursing all evening cracked open under the weight of missing him.

Your lip trembled. “You’re drunk.” He gave a short exhale that might have been a laugh. “Yeah.” Shoko pressed both palms to her face in secondhand agony and flopped onto the chair across the room.

You held the phone in both hands because one wasn’t steady enough.

Sukuna shifted, and the camera jostled again before settling. He was definitely in a hotel room, shirt half-unbuttoned, one arm braced behind him. His mouth was set in that stubborn line you knew so well, but his eyes were softer than they had been on the beach.

You stared at him for one second too long, then your face crumpled all over again. “I love you,” you blurted.

Shoko let out a strangled noise from across the room.

Your tears started instantly, hot and stupid and impossible to stop now that the words were out. “I love you so much,” you said again, crying openly. “And I don’t want to break up. I don’t want to.” For a second the line was quiet except for your shaky breathing and the distant echo of his teammates somewhere outside the room.

Sukuna looked at you like the alcohol had burned through every shield he normally kept up. His jaw flexed. His gaze dropped for a moment, then came back to the screen. “I don’t want to break up either,” he said.

The words knocked the air out of you.

You blinked through tears. “You don’t?”

“No.” His voice was blunt, immediate, like the answer offended him by how obvious it was. “No.” You sniffled hard, trying to steady your breathing. “Then why did you say that?” He dragged a hand over his mouth and looked away for a beat, irritated with himself or the room or the whole night. “Because you said it first.” Your brows pinched. “I said maybe.”

“You still said it.”

“That’s not the same.”

“You were crying and mad and I was pissed off,” he muttered. “I said it because I was angry.” The confession sat raw between you. Across the room, Shoko was still silently losing her mind while Utahime came back from the bathroom, took one look at your face and the phone, and mouthed, Did she call him?

Shoko nodded grimly.

You wiped at your cheeks. “I’m still angry with you.”

“I know.”

“You were mean.” His face hardened faintly with something like shame under the drunken haze. “I know.”

“You hurt my feelings.” He was quiet, then said more softly, “I know.”

That made you cry harder for some reason.

Your voice shook. “I don’t want us to be over.” Sukuna’s stare sharpened on the screen, as if sheer force of will could pull you through it.

“Then come here.” You blinked. “What?”

“Come here,” he repeated, more firmly this time. “To my hotel.” Your heart stuttered.

He shifted upright now, running a hand over the back of his neck. “I can’t talk like this over the phone. Just come here.” You looked at him through wet lashes. “Right now?”

“Yes, right now.” His hotel was in another building, the one booked for the judo team—a separate property about ten minutes away by car. You knew that much because the team manager had been talking about transportation that morning over breakfast.

Utahime was already shaking her head from across the room.

Shoko mouthed, no, no, no.

But Sukuna was looking at you like the rest of the world had dropped away.

His voice came lower. “Come here.”

You should have listened to your friends.

You should have waited until morning.

You should have kept your pride, kept your distance, let him sit with what he had done.

Instead you nodded. “Okay,” you whispered.

Shoko made a distressed sound.

Sukuna’s shoulders dropped, just barely, with relief or exhaustion or both. “You’re coming?” You nodded again. “I’m on my way.” His gaze stayed fixed on you for one long beat. “Good.”

Neither of you seemed to know what to say after that.

Everything was still broken.

Nothing was resolved.

But the thread between you had gone taut again, alive and impossible to ignore.

Your voice came out tiny. “Don’t fall asleep.” His mouth twitched faintly. “Wasn’t planning to.”

Then the call ended.

The screen went black.

For a moment all you could see was your own blotchy reflection staring back at you.

You lowered the phone slowly, your pulse everywhere.

Shoko stood up so fast the chair legs scraped. “You cannot be serious.” Utahime crossed her arms. “Absolutely not.” You were already standing, wiping your face with the heel of your hand, breath still shaky but your body moving with the stubbornness of someone whose heart had already chosen before her brain could intervene.

“I have to go.”

“No,” Utahime said.

Shoko stared at you. “You just cried for like three hours.”

“I know.”

“He hurt you.”

“I know.”

“And now he’s drunk.”

“I know,” you said again, softer this time, grabbing for your bag and your room key with trembling fingers. “But I still have to go.” Utahime looked like she wanted to argue until sunrise. Shoko looked like she knew it wouldn’t matter.

Because this was the awful truth of love sometimes—how it could make a person brave and foolish in the very same breath.

You turned back to them at the door, eyes still swollen, voice fragile. “I’ll text you when I get there.” Shoko rubbed a hand down her face and sighed the sigh of a woman watching someone walk willingly into emotional disaster. “You better.” Utahime came forward anyway and fixed the strap of your bag where it had fallen crooked off your shoulder. Her expression was soft despite herself.

“If he says one more cruel thing,” she said quietly, “you leave.” You nodded.

Shoko stepped closer too and touched your arm. “And if you need us, call. I mean it.” Your eyes burned again. “Okay.” Then you left.

The door shut behind you with a soft click.

The hallway beyond was cool, carpeted, too quiet after the warmth of the room. Your footsteps sounded small as you walked toward the elevator, your heart thudding so hard it felt lodged in your throat.

And somewhere across town, in another hotel building lit dimly against the dark, Sukuna lay back against the bed after the call ended, the phone set beside him at last.

The room around him was quiet now, his teammates’ noise shut out behind a closed door or muffled somewhere farther off. He stared at the ceiling for a moment, one forearm over his eyes, the alcohol buzzing in his blood and your tearful voice still echoing in his ears.

I love you. I don’t want to break up.

His jaw tightened.

Then he dropped his arm, turned his head toward the door, and waited.

———

The ride over felt longer than ten minutes.

Every red light made your chest tighten. Every turn of the road seemed to stretch your nerves thinner. You sat in the back of the taxi with your bag clutched in your lap and your phone in your hand, staring at the city lights slipping by the window in blurred ribbons of gold and white.

Your eyes still burned from crying.

Your throat still ached and beneath all of that, under the hurt and the anger and the humiliation of how the afternoon had gone, there was still that same aching pull toward him. Stubborn. Deep. Miserable.

By the time the car stopped in front of the team hotel, your stomach was in knots.

You paid, stepped out into the warm night air, and stood there for a second looking up at the building. It was taller than your own hotel, brighter too, with glass doors and lit balconies and people moving in and out of the lobby. Somewhere inside it, Sukuna was waiting.

You swallowed hard and went in.

The elevator ride up was quiet except for the hum of the machinery and the frantic beat of your own heart. Your reflection in the mirrored wall looked tired, cheeks faintly flushed, eyes swollen but calmer than before. You smoothed your hands over your clothes, fixed your hair as best you could, then immediately felt foolish for caring.

When the elevator doors opened, the hallway beyond was hushed and carpeted, the overhead lights dim and warm.

You found his room number.

Stopped in front of it.

Then stood there for one long second, frozen.

This was the moment before a storm broke or passed. The moment before things got worse—or softened. The moment before you learned if his voice on the phone had meant what you needed it to mean.

You lifted your hand and knocked.

For a beat, nothing.

Then the lock clicked.

The door opened and there he was.

Sukuna stood in the doorway in a dark T-shirt and low-slung athletic pants, his pink buzzed hair slightly mussed, his expression sharper and more awake than he had looked on the call. He still looked like he’d been drinking—there was a looseness in the set of his shoulders, a flush high on his cheekbones—but his eyes were fixed fully on you now, clear in the way that mattered.

You didn’t get to say anything.

The second he saw you standing there, he reached for you.

One large hand caught your arm, the other your waist, and he pulled you into him so quickly you nearly stumbled with the force of it. Then his arms wrapped all the way around you, hard and tight and desperate enough to make your breath catch.

You made a small sound and clutched at the back of his shirt instinctively.

His chest was warm.

His body felt too familiar.

You had missed him so badly it was humiliating.

Sukuna lowered his face into your hair and held you closer, like he could press the whole awful day back out of you by sheer force.

For a few seconds, neither of you spoke.

You just stood there in the doorway clinging to each other, the hall behind you empty, the hotel room quiet around him.

Then his hand slid up your back and he muttered, voice rough near your temple, “Get in here.” He pulled you inside, kicked the door shut behind you, and gathered you into his arms again before you were even fully over the threshold.

This time you buried your face against his chest.

The tears came back instantly, though softer now, quieter. “I was so mad at you,” you whispered. “I know.”

“You were awful.”

“I know.”

“You hurt my feelings so bad.” His hold on you tightened. “I know.” The way he said it—without fighting, without deflecting, without snapping—made your throat ache.

You tilted your head back to look at him. His face was serious now, stripped of the swagger he usually wore like a second skin. He looked tired. Guilty. Still proud, because he was Sukuna and that would probably never leave him, but cracked open enough that you could see the living pulse of him under it. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he said.

Your brows pulled together. “It sounded like that.” He nodded once, jaw flexing. “I know it did.” A silence passed between you.

Then he dragged a hand down over his face and looked away for half a second before meeting your eyes again. “I was angry,” he said. “And I said something shitty.” You stared at him.

Sukuna was not a man who apologized easily. He was not graceful with regret. He did not always know how to set his pride down without acting like it was made of knives.

But right now he was trying. “I know that contract is a huge thing,” you said softly, the hurt still there under every word. “I know it matters. I know you worked hard for that.” He nodded. “But you made it sound like I didn’t.” His expression tightened immediately. “You do matter.” You swallowed. “Then why didn’t you even tell me? Why didn’t you even look at me first?” That seemed to hit him harder than the rest.

He was quiet for a moment.

Then, more honestly than elegantly, he said, “Because I wasn’t thinking.” You gave a tearful little laugh. “Clearly.” His mouth twitched, but only faintly. “I got caught up in it,” he admitted. “Coach was in my face, that professional coach was talking, everybody was acting like it was the biggest thing in the world, and I…” He exhaled, frustrated with himself. “I wasn’t thinking past it.” Your voice came out small. “Past me.” His eyes flashed. “No.” You held his gaze.

He stepped closer, one hand coming up to cup your jaw. His thumb brushed under your eye, gentle over skin still tender from crying. “Not past you,” he said, lower now. “I was being stupid. That’s not the same.” You wanted to stay angry longer.

A part of you knew you should have.

But you also knew the shape of him by now—how ambition and pride and impulse all sometimes tangled into the worst version of his mouth. How he could say something brutal in the heat of feeling cornered and regret it later in silence. How he had never learned softness as a first language, only ever as something he stumbled into with you. “That really hurt me,” you whispered again, because you needed him to understand.

His gaze didn’t leave yours. “I know.” His voice roughened. “I’m sorry.”

There it was.

Simple.

Blunt.

Sincere enough to make your eyes sting all over again.

Your lips parted. “You are?” He almost rolled his eyes at the question, but the gesture had no real heat in it. “Don’t make me say it twice.” A watery laugh slipped out of you despite everything.

Sukuna’s mouth softened just barely at the sound.

Then he rested his forehead against yours.

“I don’t want to break up,” he said quietly.

The words went through you like warmth after cold rain. “I don’t either.” He closed his eyes for a second, exhaling through his nose. “Good.” You stood there like that, close and aching and finally speaking from the places that mattered instead of from the sharp edges of hurt.

Your fingers curled lightly into his shirt. “I still think you were selfish,” you mumbled. “I was.”

“And self-centered.”

“Probably.”

“And the worst.” His eyes opened again, dark and fixed on you. “That one’s rude.” You almost smiled. “You deserve it.”

“Maybe.” You let the silence settle for a moment before saying, more carefully now, “I don’t want to hold you back from something you love.” His brows drew together immediately. “You aren’t.”

“But if Korea is really what you want—”

“Stop,” he said.

You blinked. “What?”

“Stop deciding what I want without asking me,” he said, and there was something almost dry in it now, almost rueful. “Apparently we’re both shit at that.” That pulled a real laugh out of you, small but genuine.

He looked relieved to hear it.

Then his hand slid from your cheek to the back of your neck, warm and steady. “When we get back,” he said, “we’ll sit down and talk about it properly.” You searched his face. “Really?”

“Yeah. Really.” He held your gaze. “The Korea thing. The contract. Us. All of it.” Your shoulders loosened for what felt like the first time all day. “And we’ll figure out what’s better for us?” you asked, almost timidly.

Sukuna’s thumb brushed the nape of your neck once. “Yeah.”

Not just for him.

For us.

The distinction made your chest ache.

You nodded slowly. “Okay.” He leaned back just enough to look at you fully. “I mean it,” he said. “No more fighting about it like idiots in public.” Your lips twitched. “That was horrible.”

“You cried.”

“You made me cry.”

“You were already crying.”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.” You sighed softly, defeated by the truth of it. “No.” A quiet settled over the room after that, but this one was different from the earlier silence. Softer. Breathing. The kind of quiet that came after impact, when the earth stopped shaking and you were left touching the damage gently, realizing the structure had held after all.

Sukuna looked down at you like he was seeing you for the first time again.

There was still the faint smell of alcohol on him, mixed with soap and skin and something unmistakably his. His arms were still around you. Yours were still looped loosely around his waist. The room was warm, lit only by the lamp beside the bed and the wash of city light through the curtains. “You came,” he murmured.

You looked up at him. “You asked me to.”

“I know.” His gaze dropped to your mouth.

Your pulse fluttered.

There had always been something dangerous about the way Sukuna looked at you when his anger melted into want. Not dangerous in the sense of fear. Dangerous in the sense of being consumed. Of being seen too fully by someone who had already decided you were his favorite weakness.

You wet your lips. “I almost didn’t.” He lifted a brow. “Liar.” You gave his chest a weak little shove. “I was trying to have dignity.”

“That doesn’t sound like you.” You gasped softly. “That was mean.” He leaned down just a little, mouth almost brushing yours. “You still came.” Your breath caught. “Yeah,” you whispered. “Good.” Then he kissed you.

Not roughly.

Not with the frantic hunger you half expected.

Just warm and deep and careful at first, like he was checking that you were really here, that you were really letting him, that this fragile thing between you hadn’t shattered beyond repair after all.

You melted into it immediately.

Your fingers curled harder into his shirt as his mouth moved against yours, slow and familiar and devastating in the gentlest way. The hand at the back of your neck held you there with steady pressure while his other arm tightened around your waist, drawing you closer until there was no space left between your bodies.

When he pulled back, it was only far enough for your lips to part.

You were both breathing a little harder.

“Sukuna,” you whispered.

He kissed you again.

This time deeper.

More certain.

The kind of kiss that came after tears and apology and longing, after a day spent missing each other even while hating each other, after too many unsaid things finally got laid down where they belonged.

You rose onto your toes without thinking, and he made a low sound in his throat before one of his hands slid lower against your back, splaying wide there as he anchored you to him.

Your body softened completely.

All that hurt in you, all that grief and anger and humiliation, began to dissolve under the heat of his mouth and the firmness of his hold. Not erased. Not forgotten. Just momentarily overtaken by something equally real.

Relief.

Love.

Need.

You kissed him back with increasing desperation, as if making up for every hour you had spent apart convincing yourself this might really be over.

His mouth grew hungrier in response.

One of his hands came up to cradle your jaw again, tilting your face just how he liked, and the next kiss stole the breath from your lungs entirely. It was still tender, but no longer restrained. He kissed you like someone starved and finally fed, like he had been holding himself together since you left the beach and no longer saw any point in pretending otherwise.

You made a small sound into his mouth.

He swallowed it with obvious satisfaction. “That’s it,” he murmured against your lips, voice low and rough. “Come here.” You were already there.

But he meant closer.

Always closer.

His hands slid to your waist fully now and guided you backward a step, then another, until the backs of your legs bumped lightly against the edge of the bed. You laughed breathlessly into the next kiss, startled, and that only seemed to please him more.

His mouth found yours again, then the corner of it, then your cheek, then back to your lips as though he couldn’t decide where he wanted to taste you most.

One of your hands moved up into his hair by instinct, fingers brushing over the soft bristle of pink at the back of his head. Sukuna shuddered ever so slightly under your touch, and that tiny reaction sent a warm thrill through you. “There you are,” he muttered, half to himself.

Your face felt hot.

His forehead touched yours again only briefly, both of you breathing unsteadily now. “We’re okay,” you whispered, like you still needed to hear it aloud.

His gaze locked onto yours. “Yeah.” The word was gravel-soft.

Steady.

You believed him.

Then he kissed you again, and this time there was no real pretense left of keeping things calm.

The heat between you flared fast—familiar and immediate, sharpened by reconciliation and the leftover ache of almost losing each other. His hands grew more possessive where they held you. Your body leaned into him without hesitation. The kisses deepened, lengthened, turned dizzying.

Sukuna's hands slid down your sides slowly, deliberately, like he was remapping territory he'd been terrified of losing. His palms were warm through the thin fabric of your shirt, and when his thumbs brushed just under the hem, you felt your breath catch.

He pulled back just enough to look at you—really look at you—his eyes dark and intent in the low light. "Can I?" he asked, voice rough.

The question was simple. The weight behind it wasn't.

This wasn't just about permission. It was about trust. About whether you'd let him close again after he'd pushed you away. About whether reconciliation meant something real or if you were both just pretending the cracks weren't there.

You nodded, throat tight. "Yeah." His exhale was shaky.

Then his hands were lifting your shirt up and over your head, movements careful and unhurried. The fabric dropped somewhere to the side. The air felt cool against your skin for only a moment before his mouth found the curve of your collarbone, pressing kisses there that made your pulse jump. "Missed you," he muttered against your skin. "Missed this." Your fingers threaded back into his hair. "You had me the whole time. You just—"

"I know." His voice cracked slightly. "I know I did." He kissed lower, across your sternum, down the center of your ribs. Each press of his lips felt like an apology he didn't have the words for. You let your eyes fall closed, overwhelmed by the tenderness of it, by how much it hurt in the best way to be touched like this again.

When his hands moved to the waistband of your jeans, you lifted your hips without him having to ask. He pulled them down slowly, taking your underwear with them, and the vulnerability of it—being bare in front of him after everything—made your heart race. But then he looked up at you from where he'd knelt between your legs, and the expression on his face stole whatever nervousness you'd felt.

He looked reverent.

"You're so fucking beautiful," he said quietly, like the words were pulled out of him.

Your face burned. "Sukuna—"

"No, I mean it." His hands settled on your thighs, thumbs stroking gentle circles against your skin. "I don't say it enough. I should say it more." You didn't know what to say to that. Your chest felt too full.

So instead you reached down and touched his face, fingertips tracing the line of his jaw. He leaned into the touch, eyes closing briefly, and you realized with a sharp pang that he'd been just as scared as you had been. That he'd spent the last day and a half thinking he'd ruined this. Ruined you.

"I'm here," you whispered.

His eyes opened. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Something in his expression softened completely.

Then he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the inside of your thigh, high up, close enough to where you wanted him that your breath stuttered. But he didn't rush. He kissed his way across to your other thigh, mouth warm and deliberate, taking his time like he had all night to learn you again.

"Sukuna," you breathed, and it came out more desperate than you meant it to.

He smirked against your skin. "What?"

"Don't tease."

"I'm not teasing." He kissed higher. "I'm savoring." Your laugh came out shaky. "That's the same thing."

"It's really not." Then his mouth finally—finally—found where you needed him, and the first slow drag of his tongue made your whole body jolt. "Fuck," you gasped.

He hummed in satisfaction, the vibration of it sending a shiver up your spine. Then he did it again, slower this time, more deliberate, like he was cataloging exactly what made you react. His hands tightened on your thighs, holding you steady, keeping you open for him. It was overwhelming. Not just the physical sensation—though that was enough to make your head spin—but the intimacy of it. The way he was completely focused on you, the way his grip on your thighs felt possessive and grounding at once, the way every movement of his mouth felt like a promise he was determined to keep.

You'd had sex with him before. Many times. But this felt different.

This felt like he was trying to prove something. To you. To himself.

That he could choose you. That he was choosing you.

Your hand found his hair again, fingers curling into the short strands, and he made a low sound of approval that you felt more than heard. He shifted slightly, adjusting the angle, and then his tongue circled slowly, maddeningly, right where you were most sensitive.

"Oh my god," you choked out.

He didn't respond with words. He just kept going, steady and relentless and so achingly thorough that you felt your thighs start to tremble. His hands slid higher, thumbs stroking soothing patterns against your hips even as his mouth drove you steadily out of your mind.

You tried to stay quiet—aware suddenly that you were in a hotel, that there were walls and neighbors and teammates probably just down the hall—but when he sucked gently, your control shattered. A broken moan escaped before you could stop it.

Sukuna pulled back just enough to speak, his voice rough and satisfied. "There you go."

"Shut up," you managed, breathless. "Make me." But before you could even think of a response, his mouth was on you again, and this time he wasn't holding back. The rhythm he set was perfect—steady and building, pressure and release, his tongue working you with the kind of focused intensity that made your vision blur.

Your hips rolled up involuntarily, chasing the sensation, and he groaned against you like your desperation was doing something to him too. One of his hands left your hip, sliding down, and when his fingers joined his mouth—pressing inside you carefully, curling just right—you nearly came apart on the spot.” Sukuna—"

"I've got you," he murmured, the words muffled and reverent. "I've got you, baby." The endearment broke something open in your chest. He almost never called you that. Almost never let himself be soft enough for it. But here, now, with his mouth on you and his fingers inside you and his whole attention narrowed down to nothing but your pleasure—he said it like he meant it.

Like you were the only thing that mattered.

The tension in your body coiled tighter, heat pooling low in your belly, every nerve ending alight. You were close—so close—and he seemed to sense it, adjusting his rhythm slightly, adding just a little more pressure, his tongue moving in perfect synchronization with the slow thrust of his fingers. "Please," you gasped, not even sure what you were asking for.

But he knew.

He always knew.

His pace quickened just slightly, his mouth more insistent, and the combination of sensations—his tongue, his fingers, the possessive grip of his free hand on your thigh—sent you hurtling over the edge. Your orgasm hit like a wave, rolling through you in pulses that left you gasping and shaking. Your fingers tightened in his hair, holding him to you as your hips jerked involuntarily, and he worked you through it with a patience that felt almost worshipful. He didn't stop until you were trembling and oversensitive, until you had to tug gently at his hair to get him to ease off.

When he finally pulled back, his mouth was wet and his eyes were dark and he looked at you like you'd just given him something sacred.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. You were still catching your breath, body loose and warm and buzzing with aftershocks. He stayed kneeling between your legs, hands resting gently on your thighs now, just holding you.

Then he shifted up slightly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand in a gesture that should have been crude but somehow wasn't. His gaze never left your face. "You okay?" he asked quietly.

You nodded, not trusting your voice yet.

He studied you for another beat, and you watched something complicated move across his expression—relief and tenderness and a kind of raw vulnerability that he almost never let show.

"I love you," he said suddenly, the words rough and unpolished. "I know I don't say it enough. I know I'm shit at this. But I do. I love you."

Your throat tightened. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes again, but this time they didn't feel like grief. "I love you too," you whispered.

His jaw worked like he was trying to keep his composure. Then he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to your hip bone, soft and lingering, before resting his forehead there briefly.

When he finally looked up at you again, he didn't say anything.

He just looked.

Really looked.

Sukuna stayed there for a long moment, still kneeling between your legs, his forehead bowed briefly against your hip, his hands warm and steady on your skin.

When he finally moved, it was slow, almost reluctant, like he didn’t want to break whatever fragile, sacred thing had settled over the room.

He rose, leaning in to kiss your stomach once more before pulling the blanket up over you with a tenderness that would have embarrassed him if he’d been thinking about it. The lamp beside the bed cast everything in soft amber—the rumpled sheets, your flushed skin, the quiet shine in your eyes, the city lights breathing faintly through the curtains.

You looked beautiful.

Too beautiful.

The kind of beautiful that made something primal in him go still.

Sukuna reached for his phone off the nightstand and checked the time, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. His voice came out low, roughened by everything that had just passed between you.

“You ready for bed?”

He turned back toward you and you weren’t there.

The bed was empty.

The sheets were still disturbed, the blanket folded back where your body should have been, your shirt half-fallen to the floor beside the mattress, but you— You were gone.

Sukuna froze.

For half a second, maybe less, his mind simply refused to understand what his eyes were seeing.

Then he sat up so fast the mattress jolted beneath him. 

“Y/n?”

Nothing.

His heart kicked once, hard enough to hurt.

He scanned the room, sudden adrenaline turning everything knife-sharp. Bathroom door cracked open. Curtains still. Lamp still on. Your purse by the dresser. No sound of water. No footsteps. No soft voice answering him.

He stood immediately.

“Y/n.”

Louder now.

Still nothing.

Confusion curdled into something uglier. Something cold.

Sukuna crossed the room in three long strides and shoved open the bathroom door.

Empty.

His breathing quickened.

What the fuck?

He turned in place, pulse pounding high in his throat now, looking at the room like it might answer him if he stared hard enough.

Then he noticed the other door.

The back room door.

He was sure—absolutely sure—that door had led to nothing but some adjoining suite space, maybe a locked service room. He hadn’t even paid attention to it when he came in. But now it stood slightly ajar, a thin blade of white light spilling across the carpet.

His stomach dropped.

“Y/n?”

No answer.

He went to it fast, threw it open—and the world changed.

Not gradually.

Not like a dream easing into itself.

One blink, one breath, and the warm hotel room was gone.

In front of him stretched a hospital corridor washed in flat fluorescent light.

Harsh white tile. Pale walls. The stale, sterile smell of antiseptic and something colder beneath it. Doors lining the hallway. Empty chairs bolted to the wall. A reception desk with no receptionist. No nurses. No doctors. No beeping monitors. No voices overhead. No footsteps.

Nothing.

Only that terrible, clinical brightness.

The door slammed shut behind him.

Sukuna spun at the sound, hand already reaching back for the handle—but where the hotel room should have been, there was only the same blank corridor behind him.

No room.

No bed.

No lamp.

No trace of where he’d just been.

His breath came faster.

“What the fuck—” The words vanished into the emptiness.

He turned again, jaw tight, shoulders going rigid, panic rising so fast it made him angry before it made him afraid. “Y/n!” His voice tore down the corridor and came back wrong, swallowed and flattened by the sterile walls.

No answer.

He started walking.

Then faster.

Then almost running, opening doors, shoving into empty rooms with cold beds and curtains half-drawn and equipment standing silent in the corners like dead things. Every room empty. Every hallway the same. Every light too bright. “Y/n!”

His chest was heaving now.

He never panted.

He never lost control of his breathing.

But now it came ragged and sharp through his teeth, each inhale more desperate than the last. “Y/n, answer me!”

Nothing.

Then— A door farther down the hall stood open.

Sukuna stopped so suddenly his shoes squeaked against the tile.

Inside the room, framed by that awful fluorescent light, you stood in a hospital gown.

Bare feet.

Hair soft around your face.

Smiling gently.

You lifted your hand and gave him the smallest wave.

For one terrible, impossible instant, you looked almost holy.

Almost angelic.

Like something beautiful pulled out of grief and given shape.

But there was a gash on your face.

It cut through the softness of you with brutal, horrifying reality—dark and raw against your skin, blood dried at the edge of it, marring your temple and cheek.

Sukuna’s entire body went cold.

He rushed forward so fast it was nearly a stumble. “What the fuck is this?” he said, voice already breaking at the edges. “What is this?” He reached you, hands hovering, afraid to touch and unable not to. “We were just in bed. We were just—” His eyes caught on the wound again and his face twisted. “What happened to your face?”

Your smile didn’t fade.

It only turned sadder.

You reached out and took his hand.

Your fingers were cool.

Not corpse-cold.

Just cool enough to make something primal in him understand before his mind would let itself. “Come take a walk with me,” you said softly.

Sukuna stared at you.

At your hand around his.

At the hospital gown.

At the quiet, endless hallway beyond the room.

His throat bobbed.

He should have refused.

Should have demanded answers. Should have torn the whole place apart until reality behaved itself again.

Instead, like a man already stepping off the edge of something he could not stop, he followed you. You led him out into the corridor, hand in hand, the fluorescent lights humming faintly above. He looked at you over and over as you walked beside him, as if doing it enough times would make you normal again.

It didn’t.

Your steps were soundless.

Your face was too calm and there was blood on your skin.

Sukuna’s voice came out hoarse. “Tell me what’s going on.” You looked ahead as you walked. “Right after we got off the phone,” you said quietly, “I got in the car to come see you.” His fingers tightened painfully around yours. “Yeah.” You continued like he hadn’t spoken, your voice so soft it made every word worse.

“I was driving to your hotel. I was crying a little still.” A tiny, broken smile touched your mouth. “I kept telling myself that once I saw you, everything would calm down. That we’d talk and make up and figure it out.”

Sukuna stopped walking.

You kept going for one more step before gently pulling him forward again. “No,” he said louder, breathing hard. “No, stop. Don’t say that.” You turned your face toward him then.

There was such unbearable sweetness in your expression it nearly killed him on its own. “Someone spiraled while they were driving,” you said. “They were drunk.” Sukuna stared. “They hit my car.”

His face emptied.

Actually emptied.

As though every human thing in him had been scraped clean in one instant, leaving behind only blank horror.

You squeezed his hand. “I died,” you said.

The words echoed.

Not in the corridor.

Inside him.

They went through bone. Through memory. Through the last hour, the last day, the whole shape of his life.

I died.

Sukuna made a sound then.

A low, broken sound that didn’t belong to him, didn’t sound like him, didn’t even sound human at first. He yanked his hand free from yours and staggered back a step, shaking his head immediately and violently, like he could reject the sentence by sheer force.

“No.” His voice cracked down the middle. “No.” You stood there in the hospital corridor, face wounded and gentle and unbearably still.

He looked at you like looking itself hurt. “No,” he said again, louder now, almost angry. “No. You came here. You called me. You came here.” You swallowed. “I’m coming to you from somewhere else,” you whispered.

His knees nearly gave.

He caught himself against the wall with one hand, head bowed, chest heaving so hard it looked like it might split him open. “No,” he repeated, but now the word was smaller. Helpless. A child’s word. A prayer. A refusal already drowning.

You stepped closer.

“Sukuna.”

He looked up.

His eyes were bloodshot now, wet in a way that would have humiliated him if there had still been any room left in him for pride. “I came to forgive you,” you said.

That broke him.

Not all at once.

Not cleanly.

It cracked him straight through the center.

A choked sound tore out of him as he stared at you, hand still braced against the wall like the world would throw him down if he let go.

“No, don’t—”

“I came to tell you myself,” you said, voice trembling now too. “So you wouldn’t hear it from someone else first. So you would know I’m gone, and not think I just… left.” He was crying now.

Not dignified tears. Not silent grief.

Actual sobs catching in his throat as if his body had no idea how to survive this much pain and was trying anyway.

You moved in front of him, close enough that he could see every detail of your face—the gash, the softness of your eyes, the love in them that had not changed even here, even now. “I love you,” you said.

Sukuna’s whole mouth trembled. “I love you so much.” His face twisted as another sob punched through him, raw and ugly and helpless.

Then, suddenly, the hospital was gone.

He was back in bed.

Back in that other night.

The one from a week ago.

The one you had mentioned through tears in Shoko’s room.

The room was quiet and warm, painted gold by the bedside lamp’s amber glow. You sat cross-legged near his hip in one of his shirts, your hair loose, your face nervous and earnest. A book lay open and forgotten beside you. Sukuna was sprawled on his back, one arm behind his head, looking at you with that half-sleepy, half-amused expression he only ever wore in private.

His chest felt tight even now inside the memory.

You had been speaking softly. “Can I ask you something?”

He’d looked at you. “You’re already asking.” You’d frowned at him. “Be serious.”

“I am serious.”

“No, you’re annoying.” That had made the corner of his mouth twitch.

Then he’d seen it—the real vulnerability under your shyness. The way your fingers twisted in the hem of his shirt. The way you were trying so hard to say something without sounding foolish.

His voice had gentled. “What?” You’d swallowed and looked down at your lap before meeting his eyes again. “If one day…” you started, then stopped.

He waited.

You tried again, quieter this time.

“If one day things get hard… or life changes… or we end up somewhere strange, or far away, or not where we planned…” Your voice trembled a little. “Will you still love me no matter what?” The hotel room now—the hospital now—the present now—collapsed inward around that question.

Sukuna remembered exactly how he had looked at you then.

Exactly how serious he had become.

Exactly how your heart had been in your face, open and frightened and trusting him with something deeper than a simple question.

And he remembered his answer.

In the memory, he turned onto his side and reached for your hand. “No matter what city we ever settle in,” he had said, voice low and certain, “no city will ever be big enough as my love for you.” Your breath had caught.

He had gone on, eyes fixed on yours. “I’ll love you for the rest of my life.” You had stared at him like he had just handed you some piece of the sky.

Then the memory shattered.

The hospital came back.

The fluorescent lights.

The empty corridor.

You in the gown.

The blood on your face.

The ache of your absence already beginning before you were even fully gone.

You stood in front of him and asked, so softly it was almost unbearable, “Will you keep your promise now? Even though I’m gone?” Sukuna let out a sob so violent it bent him in half.

He covered his mouth with one shaking hand and nodded because he could not speak around the pain clawing up his throat. Then he forced the words out anyway, wrecked and broken and gasping through them.

“I will.”

Another nod.

More desperate.

“I will.”

His voice collapsed completely after that.

You smiled at him through tears of your own now.

Not radiant.

Not painless.

Just full of love.

The kind of love that hurt worse at the end because it had been real enough to survive into this place.

Sukuna reached for you— and woke up.

He came up out of sleep like he’d been dragged from underwater.

Groggy.

Disoriented.

His whole body slick with sweat.

The hotel room was dark except for the bedside lamp still burning low and thin strips of city light pushing through the curtains. His chest was heaving. His face was wet. For a few hideous seconds he couldn’t tell what was dream, what was memory, what was real.

Then his eyes landed on the empty place beside him.

Cold sheets.

No you.

The room tilted.

Sukuna lunged for his phone.

His hands shook so badly he nearly dropped it.

The screen lit up.

Fifty-six missed calls.

Shoko.

Utahime.

Again.

Again.

Again.

His stomach dropped so violently he thought he might vomit. “No,” he said instantly, the word raw and breathless. “No.” He hit call on Shoko’s name.

It rang once.

She answered immediately.

The first thing he heard was crying.

Not yours.

Shoko.

Sobbing so hard she could barely breathe.

Sukuna gripped the phone so tightly it creaked in his hand. “What happened?” His voice was already wrong.

Already breaking.

On the other end, he could hear chaos—voices, echoing footsteps, a loudspeaker somewhere in the distance, Utahime crying too, someone saying something urgent he couldn’t make out.

Then Shoko tried to speak and choked on it.

“Sukuna—”

“What happened?” he shouted this time, panic ripping straight through the word.

Shoko sobbed harder. “We’re at the hospital,” she cried. “We’re at the hospital—” His entire body went ice cold. “Where is she?” There was a silence that lasted half a second and ruined the rest of his life.

Then Shoko broke.

“She died,” she sobbed. “She got into an accident and she’s dead—” Sukuna stopped breathing.

Not metaphorically.

Literally.

His lungs forgot.

The room around him vanished into a high, terrible ringing.

He sat there on the edge of the hotel bed with the phone pressed to his ear and his other hand locked so tight around the sheets his knuckles blanched white, and for one impossible second the universe seemed to pause as if even it could not bear to move after that sentence.

She died.

The fluorescent lights from the dream flashed through him.

Your face in the hospital gown.

Your hand in his.

Will you keep your promise now? Even though I’m gone?

A sound left him then.

Not a word.

Not your name.

Just a shattered, animal sound from somewhere so deep inside his chest it seemed to tear him open on its way out and on the other end of the phone, Shoko kept crying while the truth settled in, brutal and final as impact— and Sukuna understood that you had come to him just long enough to say goodbye.

Oh.

You’re jerking your head up to meet his eyes, clearing not expecting of the man you knew not to be a social butterfly. And he’s looking away from you just as quickly—“I-I mean-” There was the socially awkward mess you’d forcefully introduced yourself to tonight. “Forget I said anything- there must have been a miscalculation on my part, I didn’t…”

Though you can’t help but notice that Toji’s ears were…bright red. Redder than even his flannel jacket. 

Oh. 

You knew he wasn’t the type to flirt around.

You knew he wasn’t the type to even get approached- though not for a lack of anything, Toji Fushiguro was hot. To say the least.

Shaggy black bangs that covered part of his glasses. Large hands made to carry numerous books (and perhaps something else…should you let your mind wander).

He towered above most of the campus, with shoulders for daaaaays—no matter how much he hunched them, Toji couldn’t hide just how sculpted they were. And not to mention, the way his biceps would flex any time he raised his hand to answer a question (which was…for every question) made it such a treat to sit behind him during Professor Yaga’s lectures. Beauty and brains?

Somehow, it seems that half the campus had decided that that was a deadly combination, and they could only admire from so close before they suffered from heart palpitations. And the other half had decided that perhaps such a combination really was fatal- and were much too intimidated to try and talk to the man.

And so he waded through the throngs of people, unknowing or perhaps uncaring of their silent admiration. 

Not that his quietly intense demeanor gave off many welcoming vibes, either way.

Toji Fushiguro had one love, and one love only: his books.

Ultimately, it meant that the three seats upon the left and right of Toji were consistently empty for whichever class he sat in.

And you felt for him - you really did. So you tried to sit next to him in whichever classes you shared, though you were yet to have the man make any attempts at friendship. 

And neither had you.

So you’d been content.

Until tonight, that is.

When you’re finding yourself dragging this tall, buff nerd into the frathouse bathroom - it was your luck that there wasn’t a line. Because you don’t think either one of you could wait. Pushing him inside-

Right before the door slams shut and you’re finding the roles fucking reversed.

And you’re finding yourself manhandled in the direction of the sink - front shoved against the porcelain surface, Toji’s weight pinning you down from behind. Panting. Ravenous. He steadies himself with a hand on your hips. 

His other hand reaching in front of you and stuffin’ into your panties. His raging erection pressing against your ass cheeks.

Toji’s calloused finger swipe up your glossy slit and he moans- “A-are you this fuckin’ wet for me—?” Voice breathy as though he couldn’t believe it himself.

And you can only nod. “Who else would it be for, Toji?”

“Well…” He doesn’t answer - he can’t. Because at that very moment, Toji Fushiguro is given the privilege to feel just how sinfully your cunt can clench ‘round his thick fingertips—and his brain goes into overdrive wondering just how cutely you’d squeeze his aching cock.

Before long, he’s hooking a hand underneath your left knee and guiding it up onto the sink. Letting you perch there- “Now—easy f’me, girl.” Toji’s rasps ruffle the sequins on your dress- one that you’re finding hitched up from your lower half. In fact—he’s baring you all the way until your panties. Moving them aside with a finger just the barest inch-

Enough for the bespectacled man to catch side of your glistening wet pussy and groan-

“Neither of us are making it out of this alive.”

And it doesn’t take long before you’re feeling Toji’s long, luuuscious shaft start to sandwich between your pussylips. Honed tip. Bawling divot. They were just so puckered and sensitive- even the barest lines of his veins leaving you gasping. “Fuck-”

“Easy there-” That familiar tone of his echoes, sounding even more out-of-breath inside this bathroom. Toji hooks his chin into the crook of your neck, “Easy—” His swollen, reddened tip starts circling your entrance- and your head spins at how he probes into you. “Easy there- now- breathe-”

“What do you…oh, fuck.” Mewls shattering in your throat- you feel the sheer streeeeetch of Toji’s incredible length.

Just so thick. Just so heated.

You knew that it was always the quiet ones…but fuck.

It felt as though he was melting your walls around him - feeling every throb he was letting out at the top of your head. Your teeth were on edge, and your body was torn between wanting to take him even deeper and bouncing away into safety. For your mere sanity—could he even fit?

“O-of course, I can.” Toji’s guttural answer comes - and it’s only then that you’re truly realizing that you’d said that out loud. Fuck- had you been so dumbified by his mere size? That you were now babbling away as Toji sunk inside—

And he’s ruthless in his swipes- hard, technical. “It’s gonna fit.” It felt as though Toji Fushiguro had already studied every single inch of you, and he was now hurtlin’ away his rock-hard tip straight into where you needed him the most. “It will fit.”

He sounded so sure of himself - as easy as passing every finals exam with flying colors.

Toji pushes his glasses up his nosebridge and angles his cock even more viciously. He rubs that bawling divot of his against the roof of your cunt- messing around some of those tender sweet spots that you’d always kept hidden. And then glide-glide-gliiiiding down to purposefully massaging every nook n’ cranny of your walls against those prominent veins of his-

“Fuck—” In absolutely no time- he’s managed to locate your pulsing g-spot. As though drawn in by a magnet, Toji’s then following the shivers of your body to target that exact spot. Ramming and ramming his heavy cockhead between your pussylips. “H-how are you even-”

“Hmmm?” Nearly purring, Toji grazes his cheek down the column of your throat. “Speak up, doll.”

“How-”

“Actually…” You could hear the smile in his tone. “-raise your hand to speak.”

You gape. And that rebellious streak within you makes you open your mouth with a protest- but soon enough Toji’s darting his tip away from your g-spot to start thumpin’ at your cervix.

Lengthy glides that end up swabbing your sweetest spots, before thrashing straight to your womb.

It was as if he was teaching you exactly what you’d be missing if it weren’t for him and fuck- if that wasn’t a compelling argument…

Belatedly, you raise your hand. “How are you even this good, Toji?”

And that makes him raise a dark brow- “This good?” He asks - mostly to himself - and the utter botched breath in his tone makes shivers sprint down your spine. Toji watches his plump tip disappear in and out of your cunt a few times- before suddenly he’s letting out a startled laugh. “This good?”

Before you can do anything about it, Toji lifts his hand off of your waist and ends up smushing your cheeks together. There was nothing gentle about it - Toji was mean. Toji was trying to leave marks.

So that everyone who sees the two of you walk out of the bathroom together can look at your pretty face and know that that was him. That pretty set of lips- both ones.

He’s holding your face up to the sink mirror, his eyes meeting yours through the reflective surface. You’re realizing with a jolt that Toji’s eyes were the most intense shade of emerald green - and they were currently narrowing down at you—“Who’s fucking you right now, girl?”

“Wh-what?” You’re managing to sputter out.

His grip slightly tightens- and his cock starts hitting you twofold. “See it?” Those handsome features of his are just irresistible, making it so difficult for you to tear your eyes away from him. “Feel it?” And his other hand loosens from your clit to glide down your tummy - where you felt utterly bloated with all his bulging, massive inches. Throbbing. “Feel it?”

And you can only nod and nod-

“Who’s fucking you right now, girl?”

“Y-you—”

And in that very moment, his fat cock bottoms out with a lecherous slurp!

“That’s what I thought.” Toji sounds so content with himself- slightly slurring at the ends of his sentence. “And what’s my name?”

“Toji-” You’re gasping out. Your cries were echoing so loud inside the bathroom that you’re sure some of the bystanders outside were hearing - but you didn’t care. Not when Toji was reeling his sloppy hips back and stutterin’ a few direct hits to your bruised g-spot—“Toji Fushiguro—!”

“And who said a nerd can’t fuck?”

He snickers to himself.

Right before he’s starting to fuck into you like a damn animal- spotting every ounce of space inside you with his dribbling pre. The length of his cock was nearly a blur between your legs, and Toji was just drunk on the thought of having you. 

On the thought of wanting to have you for so long now-

“I studied, y’know?” Toji whispers against the shell of your ear, words clammy. “I studied every inch of the human anatomy-” He presses a kiss—then a bite. “I studied eeeeevery nook and cranny-” Swirlin’ his rude cockhead around just in time, “Every nerve in the clitorourethrovaginal complex and every crevice-”

“F-fuuuuck-”

“Every statistic for the Gräfenberg spot, and every spot where it couldn’t be-” He pinches your clit. He’s thrashin’ his hips against yours so hard that it sends your heels flying off of the cool tile. “Every stretch of your rugae and every little clench-”

As if on cue, you’re clenching around him. Embracing him with your puckered pussylips until Toji himself sees white- “Toji, it feels so-”

“Good.” He’s furiously pushing his glasses up, not daring to miss a single second or squeeze of your cunt. “Because I know this pussy in and out—” The nerdy man lands a few more sloppy strokes, and he has to bite down on his lower lip to hold back a whimper. Locking eyes with you through the mirror- “And who’s fucking you?”

“You, Toji—” Your eyes scrunch shut as you’re crashing into a sudden high- taking your entire body by surprise. Those white-hot bolts of pleasure start up where he was plunging into you, before building up through the rest of your body.

Your toes curl. You’re seeing white.

So strong that it leaves you nearly numb.

Nearly stupid- unable to do anything but grip onto the sink and bounce your hips back down. Right as Toji was fucking you through peak after peak- “Toji—fuck, Toji-”

And your ears are still ringing by the time the bathroom door clicks open.

Too late, you’re sloppily swivelling around to face the faux-blond man standing at the doorway. Not that you had anything against people that dyed their hair - but you did have something against Naoya Zenin.

Your jaw drops, “You-”

His furious eyes dart between you and Toji. “You two-”

“Take a hike, fucker.” Toji’s gruff tone echoes from behind, and you’re noticing that he doesn’t slow down for a single second as he talks to Naoya. In fact, the bespectacled man plants a sudden spank on the side of your ass and speeds up—“You’ll see enough of her soon at family functions- as my girlfriend, of course.”

Fuming, Naoya doesn’t speak a word before the door slams shut.

And it takes the tremble inside the bathroom for you to speak- “Wait…family functions? Do you know him or something?”

And Toji looks at you squarely. “We’re related.”

Oh.

“And don’t think that I was b-bluffing about the girlfriend part.”

Oh.

He stutters at that?

.

.

.

After a considerable few years of teaching, Masamichi Yaga has learned not to be surprised. 

It was inevitable, of course—the same old campus, the same old syllables, the same old faces that inevitably get replaced by those rather similar. All bored and slightly hungover.

Though that’s not to say that Yaga doesn’t love teaching or his students - in fact, he can empathize with those that aren’t exactly the keenest on learning Veterinary Science at 8AM. He empathizes - really - and he does his best to keep the process as pain-free as possible until they’ve earned their credits for the semester. 

And then again, that’s also not to say that there aren’t a few students who always…stand out. Not in terms of looks or aesthetic, but rather in the work they do.

In the questions they answer- and the questions they ask.

In the hours they put in.

In the textbooks they keep as close as their hearts.

And who better to illustrate this point than Toji Fushiguro? Though it was such a shame that he wasn’t the social types - these stand-out students often didn’t tend to be - in fact, there was only ever one student that dared sit next to him—ah! There you were.

Yaga admits he takes no small pleasure in watching this small interaction everyday.

Namely how Toji would duck his head and pretend he didn’t see you- except…except today, Toji wasn’t ducking his head at all. Not at all.

Instead, the black-haired man looks straight at you and whispers something in your ear.

Something that…that - judging by the gaping expression on your face, and the smug one on his - was a sentence not meant for Yaga’s ears. Something dirty.

And oh goodness…

He doesn’t know what happened since last class, but if he has to watch the two of you flirt everyday from hereon after then…

He might just have to request a course change.

♡ NANAMI KENTO - Lesson #1

“So like—” It doesn’t surprise Nanami Kento - TA to Professor Yaga’s History class, the star student in the entire department, the man infamous for having even his dorm walls covered in academic accolades and awards - when you lean over his desk.

Palms planted almost on his side. The neckline of your loose satin blouse dipping.

Dipping.

Enough to give him a gooood look at what was underneath- he catches just the slightest glimpse of baby pink before he has enough sense to look away. Lingerie? You’d worn fucking lingerie to come get tutored by him?

But alright—say that was understandable. Say that Nanami has enough experience as a TA by now to know that certain students might attempt to gain favors through…non-academic means. 

Perhaps one could chalk that up to human sensibilities (or lack thereof) - Nanami Kento was never that type of man. In fact, most of the department would harp on ballads about what a romantic the blond-haired TA is- much to his obliviousness.

However, what actually stuns him is the way you’re tucking a finger into your blouse’s neckline- and how you have the audacity to actually tug down on it.

You’re humming, “What do I have to do to get an A in this class?”

Nanami balks. Mouth opening and closing soundlessly.

He knows your type- more accurately, he knows you. He knows you’re the type of student surrounded by others, always invited to the most exclusive parties, always with a phone blowing up, always at the center of attention—always in his line of sight. Though that’s because he knows you’re not above cheating to pass this class…of course. That’s the only reason.

Short skirt. Seemingly getting shorter everyday- sat front and center whenever he assisted with class.

Legs slightly ajar.

It made him lose track of his thoughts whenever he happened to glance your way. Happened to. 

To Nanami Kento, history is what he lives and breathes- but to you, he knows it’s nothing but a credit you need to get your degree. And though he wouldn’t necessarily fault anyone for that, he can’t deny that it’d sent a thrill up his spine once you’d cornered him yesterday asking for tutoring.

He’d said yes faster than he would’ve liked.

And thus, here he was.

Nanami Kento tries to keep his composure by reminding himself of your absolutely abysmal naming of Japanese shoguns from the 14th century, but just when he thinks he’s getting a grip on himself—

He darts a look down your blouse and his voice cracks.

You smile as though you’ve got him already - you’ve seen the way he looks at you during lectures.

“I-I think that would be highly inappropriate-” Pushing his gold-rimmed glasses up frantically.

To which you’re only leaning closer- “Oh? What would be inappropriate? I was asking about what extra assignments I could take to make up for my last test score…” 

You cock your head in the picture of perfect innocence.

But he knows your games- he fucking knows it. And almost as much as his ears were burning, his cock does the same between his legs, too. “Perhaps re-taking that test- and the last five.” Nanami grits out. “And perhaps a long reading list—”

“You say that as if you’re disappointed.” Smiling - a snare.

“You say that as if you didn’t plan to re-take any tests at all.” Nanami counters. Somehow, his perfectly slicked-back hair was mussed up - he doesn’t know how, but he always did seem to lose his cool when it came to you. Every part of him.

“What can I say?” You’re shrugging, “I love a hot fuckin’ nerd.”

Nanami gulps. Tightening his tie- before he thinks better of it and all but rips it off of his neck.

Perfectly pressed pants. Perfectly buttoned-up shirt. Sleeves sometimes pushed up to his elbows. Golden cufflinks. Tie. 

Everyone who has seen Nanami Kento striding about campus, has commented on his formal clothes in one way or the other - but mostly about how there was not a single crease in them, not even at the end of the day. And it really was true. You’re feeling them pressed up against your front right now—

With Nanami taking only a few split-seconds to tug you from the other side of the table - easily, as you were all but on top of it by now. He’s grabbing ahold of your wrist and easily manhandling you to his side.

Splaying you back out on the table. Back against the cool surface.

His muscular core weighing you down- and fuck, your mouth waters as you feel all the chiselled abs he was hiding away beneath his button-ups.

The calm, collected nerd had somehow snapped-

Nanami’s intense brown eyes peek up at you as he nears- and you can only nod.

It’s the only confirmation you need before that infamously handsome tie of his ends up ‘round your wrists—tied together. You’re delighting at just how rough he was being with you thereafter- flipping up your slutty skirt, barely pushing aside your panties.

Nanami’s all the way through taking out his heated, ravaging cock - so thick - and tappin’ his blushin’ red tip between your pussylips—before he takes a look at your heaving just and gapes.

“Oh.”

And before you know it, your blouse is being ripped straight down- buttons flying to the floor.

“Sh-shit-” You’re gasping at the shockwave of cool air that greets you. Your body arches up into his touch as Nanami leans down and draaaags his face across your tits, lapping his tongue all over the swell of your breasts and smelling you. So sweet. “Shit- just fuck me already, Kento-”

And the first thing you’re registering is the sound—thwack!

Before you’re registering the actual understanding that Nanami Gentleman Kento had just rovered his right hand down and spanked your puckered pussylips.

Hard. 

You’re so sensitive that the action sends you seeing stars, and you buck up into his touch-

Thwack!

“The first lesson we’re going to learn tonight-” He twiddles his thumb between your folds, smearin’ them open and taking a nice look at your cute hole. Wet. No matter how much self control the man might have, he can’t stop himself from leaning down and spitting—

A gentle wad of spit that falls vertically between your legs.

The TA hums at the splatter, running his thumb purposefully down your clit. “-patience.”

You begin to whine. “Now that’s just unfair-”

Thwack!

He looks up at you with heavy, half-lidded eyes. “What was that, darling?”

“N-nothing…” You’re forced to admit. And it takes every shred of willpower in you to stop from humping up into his touch so needily—and Nanami doesn’t utter a word as you take control over yourself. He merely leans back and enjoys the show.

Let you be the one to dictate how far he teaches tonight. He’s a patient man.

“Good.” Nanami announces once you’re finally stock-still, having contained your desperation. It was cute how you think you could mask those tiny squirms of your hips, but he lets it go as your first lesson…“Second lesson-”

You’re shivering at the thought.

And he spits between your pussylips once more.

“If you aren’t wet enough to fucking drench me- then I fear you won’t get me, my love.”

“P-please—” And you really were wet enough to drench him- you’re perking your hips up slightly so that he can see. Leaving a sheen of gleaming sap down the front of Nanami’s crotch, “I am I am-”

“Then…” His lips quirk up meanly. He’s sandwiching his ruddied cockhead between your pussylips and fucking- just between your pussylips. “Show your working.”

Show your working?

Show your working?!

It seems you have no choice but to spreeeead apart your legs even further- letting your gooey cunt gush out a few sploshes of slick. Nanami cocks his head down and takes you in, “Hm…good, good.”

And you’ve never felt more shy in your life. “A-and the third lesson, Kento?”

He fits his pointed cockhead between your ready folds.

“Good girls take it all.” 

Did that mean—

Soon enough, you’re throwing your head back- voicebox shattering with a spiel of moans. Mewls. Whines. Any and every noise that possibly couldn’t describe the sheer raw sensation of Nanami’s hot, giiiirthy cock entering your cunt.

He was stretching you out so wide.

Wider than you ever thought possible.

He’s placing a hand down on your front and press-press-preeeeessing down on your stomach as his cock sinks in- fat cockhead opening up your channel. Fucking you like an utter madman. It didn’t matter how composed his reputation stated him to be- because right now Nanami had his blond bangs falling across his forehead, his jaw clenched at the sensations, and his glasses nearly slipping off his face as he tuuuugs you down his cock.

His reddened divot weeping into even the tiniest of nooks and crannies inside you, his cock so large that it could almost be felt from the outside—

“Feel me right in there?” Nanami’s deep baritone echoes out into the room, echoing against all four corners. Five thick fingers of his splay out across your core- “Right there-”

You shiver as he locates the exact spot where he was easing in - another few inches pushed inside. His swollen tip was swirling about your insides and push-push-puuuushing inside, past those restraints and that tight muscle of your hole. “Yes.”

“Feel me openin’ that pussy of yours up?” He grumbles out in a gravelly tone. And it makes the hair on your body stand at attention to realize that this was him speaking like this. This was him pushing his glasses further up his perspired nose, this was him pounding his heated cock into you in short, jerky thrusts. “Feel me teaching her the shape of my hah- cock? Feel me teaching her to take me—”

“Y-yes—” To be quite honest, it felt as though you could feel him in your very throat. “But are you really…”

“Hm?”

And you’re trailing off simply because you’re so awestruck - Nanami’s cock was looooong and bloated. Decorated in a few veins down his sides—they were red and irritated. Thick. Throbbing so much that you swear you could count them from where you were spread apart on his table-

His cock is enough to render you so honest. “Are you sure it even can fit in?” 

And that makes Nanami pause.

“Can it fit?” He breathes out - his voice taking on an airy tone that you’ve never heard before. It’s startling enough to make you look right into his eyes, and the inkling of something…dark in them is enough for you to jolt. “Can it fit?” 

And before you can repeat - before you can even ask him what’s wrong…Nanami reaches up to grab the tied restraints around your wrists.

And don’t mistake him- he isn’t about to set you free.

He’s using that tie as leverage to haul your body down—“You’re asking if it can fit?” Your blond-haired TA grunts out hoarsely, breaths coming out ragged. He hisses when you clench your sopping wet walls around him- “Good girls take it all.”

“Y-yes, fuck-”

“And you’re my good girl, right?” Staring passionately into your eyes whilst he hits every hidden spot inside you in long, lecherous strikes.

His sheer expression - the way you had the Nanami Kento - so ruffled is so compelling that you can’t help but nod your head. “Of course.” And your legs are tightening evermore against his toned waist, interrupted only by Nanami himself.

He uses one hand to throw both of your legs over his shoulders- one each. And before you know it, the big, buff nerd is bending down to fold you in half.

His fat cock reaching the end of your pussy.

“Fourth lesson-” And you’re barely even hearing it above the constant thrashes and thuds at your cervix, the stars you’re seeing. “-repeat all those back to me…”

And just then, the round edge of his tip was grazing right across your g-spot.

“-or you don’t get to cum.”

.

.

.

“How odd…” Professor Yaga’s bushy brows furrow above his shades - it might not be quite professional for a professor to wear such a thing to campus, but to be fair, students showed up in their pajamas half the time. Besides, they helped mask his expressions rather well.

Like right now.

Though Nanami Kento - his ever-loyal TA - could sense that what was upon Professor Yaga’s face was nothing but pure, unabashed surprise. He says your name—“I don’t remember her getting A++’s a single time this semester- and now you’re telling me it’s all that she’s been getting?” The professor squints at his screen, in the middle of doing his customary check-ins before a lecture.

Nanami coughs, “I-I’ve been tutoring her lately…”

Professor Yaga looks to Nanami in surprise - he knew that his blond-haired student would much rather hug a porcupine than a person. Let alone spend his precious hours tutoring one. “Is…is that so?”

Nanami nods silently.

The older man clears his throat - if there was anyone capable enough to bring your History grades up to such an extent, then it could only be Nanami Kento. At this rate, you might be giving his star student a run for his money- “And how has that been?”

“Well it’s been quite- ah, illuminating, sir.”

Professor Yaga raises a brow in question- but before he can ask anything further—the students start trickling in.

Class has started.

To everyone including Professor Yaga, Nanami Kento- and you. 

Winking blatantly at his TA as you waltz up to your chair, skirt shorter than ever, hips swaying…

The professor just barely manages to catch the way Nanami’s eyes…follow you.

And it dawns upon him.

The slight wobble in your saunter.

The strange bruises peeking out above Nanami’s collar.

The traitorous blush upon his face.

Professor Yaga has never searched up course change forms faster.

♡ GETO SUGURU - “Shut up.”

“Make me.”

And that…is precisely what makes you pause.

It’s what makes you s-sputter. It’s what makes you shoot a glare at perhaps the most infuriating man you’ve ever had the misfortune of meeting- and that’s saying a lot. 

Though, he always did manage to surprise you—ever since Professor Yaga’s Philosophy Class 101, you’d been haunted by the thorn that was Geto Suguru.

You recall that first meeting like it was yesterday.

The nervous shuffling of seats. Professor Yaga was notorious for hand-picking only the best of the best for his classes, and you remember the glee that’d shot up your spine at the email of confirmation. You’d been picked. Similarly, adrenaline wafted off the other students in waves around you, burning its sour aftertaste into the atmosphere. Though at that moment, nothing had been sweeter.

Especially once the professor had finally - finally - asked a broad question about the theory of knowledge—

And your hand had shot up.

Right along with the boy’s beside you.

Long black hair. Longer limbs.

Draped across the chair so carelessly, his grey turtleneck hugged him in a way that made your eyes dart away.

Gold-rimmed glasses.

He had the most feline smirk across his face as his eyes met yours- smug. He raised his hand higher. 

And from that day onwards, you knew that Geto Suguru was your sworn enemy.

Rival, more like.

Throughout the semester, you’d answer one of Professor Yaga’s questions, and Geto would be sure to disagree. You’d top the grades in class, and Geto would break your streak on the next one. You’d try not to bash his head in, and Geto would only urge you to more.

He infuriated you. If not by whatever sharp quip comes to his tongue - seemingly always in competition with yours - then by whatever sly wink or smirk he’d throw your way. He was shameless. 

And you were sure Professor Yaga wasn’t paid enough for this.

So being paired together for the biggest project of the semester certainly hadn’t been on your radar. No matter how much predictivism you’d been taught.

And it was by sheer miracle that you two hadn’t strangled each other already-

“M-make you?” You ask. Geto adjusts his glasses and leans back in his chair, arms crossing.

“Make me.” He repeats, and you’re sure by now that you weren’t mishearing things. “You’ve spent this whole semester running that mouth- I’m starting to wonder whether that’s all it does.”

The slight arch of his brow makes you bristle. “You fucker-”

“No need to lower yourself to insults, gorgeous, I’m just stating the facts. Diogenes always did seek an honest man.” He hums, all faux innocence. “Philosophy isn’t just about theorizing, it’s about application. Besides…” Geto shrugs those broad shoulders of his, snug in yet another too-expensive turtleneck. Cashmere, you bet. He looks straight at you as he speaks—“-there’s nothing little about me, either.”

And then you pause.

And then you’re standing in the middle of Geto Suguru’s bedroom- because of course the bastard had suggested his dorm room for your project meeting.

“Prove it then.”

His pink lips part. “What?”

“Prove it.” You repeat. “Philosophy isn’t just about theorizing, it’s about application.”

“Maybe I will. Socrates said to be is to do.”

“Maybe you should.”

“Maybe I—” And of course, you have to be the one to make the first move. You have to be the one to drag Geto Suguru in by his stupid turtleneck, pressing your lips to his. Stupidly sweet.

He’s lapping at you like a man in the depths of hunger, licking his tongue between your gloss-covered lips and moaning- “Fuck.” He rasps out through honed canines. “Fuck.” Dragging himself off of the floor where your poster boards were spread out-

“Sit.” And without a single warning, you’re pressing the heel of your foot between Geto’s meaty thighs. You’re locating where his rock-hard cock is and puuuuuush-

“N-ngh…” He shivers. He blushes at the broken noise that escapes him. “Tha’s all you got?”

You raise a brow and crush his thickening length harder. 

Geto bucks- but he pulls himself together. “Still all you got?”

And so you’re narrowing your eyes n’ grabbing onto him- tearing through Geto Suguru’s stupid, pretentious layers like you’ve always wanted to.

Tugging off his neat pants. Pulling on his tight Aristotle-patterned boxers.

Spitting straight between his lips once he opens his mouth-

And Geto’s bulbous red tip twitches at the sensation of your wet dollop of saliva. He nods with a blush as you’re lowering your naked cunt down on him—“Yes.” Breathing out. Feeling a little dizzy at the sudden warmth of your swollen pussylips, swallowing him up- “Yes- fuuuuck-”

Before he knows it, your hand is around him. “Shut up.” 

“Fuck, that’s makin’ me even harder-” As if to prove his point, his flared tip throbs inside of you.

“I said shut up.” Those pretty fingers of yours claim his pale neck- digging the curves of your nails into his skin. It makes him gulp. “If someone walks in or if the dorm RA catches us, then my reputation will be affected-”

“You mean my reputation- fuh-fuck.” He can barely even get the sentence out before you’re tightening your grip. Perkin’ your pretty hips up juuuust a little before gulping down his thick length.

Inch after inch.

Fat and pulsing inside of you with need.

He was so veiny that each tiny slip n’ slide caressed Geto’s prominent veins against your sweet insides. And he’s throwing his head back at the sensation as though he’s seeing the pearly gates themselves.

Letting out such a guttural groan- “Oh fuck.” Choked-up at the back of his throat. Those milky thighs of his shake as he reaches them upwards to chase your wettened cunt, bashin’ in the roundness of his cockhead. “Oh fuck, fuck, fuuuck-”

“What was that about running one’s mouth?” You scoff. “Seems like you’re all talk- what? Can’t even handle a little pussy?”

“Maybe I just can’t handle your pussy.” He bites back. With yet another soft sound leaving him once your fingers dig against his throat.

“I doubt you’ve ever seen a real pussy in your life.” And when he opens his mouth, you’re quick to interrupt. “Don’t lie.”

Geto’s mouth shuts again. Having you be so stern with him like this…fuck. It makes some strangely carnal part of himself that he didn’t even know he had awakened- and the black-haired man merely ruts up into you a few times. A line of drool dragging down the side of his lips the more n’ more he’s feeling your soft clenches. Just one hard cleeeench.

He was gone for.

His cadence grows stuttered. His glasses slip down his face. And he finally nods in admittance—a virgin. And, listen, you didn’t have anything against virgins- but the fact that he could talk so big and yet get driven so wild by a mere drag of your sloppy walls down his cock- and still not admit to it?

“Pathetic.”

The dribblin’ and irritated crown of his shaft grows even bigger inside of you. Geto’s head plummets forwards, and he’s whispering something inaudible.

“What was that?” You raise a brow- an expression that he raises his eyes to meet and jolts. As if electrocuted. 

“I-I said I didn’t hear you.” He counters. Bucking into you like an animal. “Pythagoras said-”

And you don’t hesitate to emphasize every single syllable. “Pa-the-tic.” 

“What was that?” 

“I said you’re path—oh.”

Rutting into you even harder—fuck. It didn’t even matter that his massive, inexperienced cock wasn’t fitting all the way- because Geto was digging his rounded crown around your most delicate insides.

He somehow locates your g-spot in a few swipes, brows furrowed as though he’d memorized this particular spot through years of reading (he has, all for this very moment…) 

Such a delicious curve that you feel in your very throat, tastebuds sizzlin’ with a lacquer of saliva the moment his cockhead strikes your sweet spot. Your favorite. And more than your low profanities, the way you’re tilting your head down and glaring at him makes Geto Suguru splosh out in more lewd slick. “Watch it, Suguru.”

“Mmm—” He shivers. Hands coming up ‘round your back and tugging you further against his toned front- you never realized that the nerd you sat next to was so ripped. “S-say that again.”

And you swear now you’re beginning to grow a little concerned- he surely couldn’t be that pussydrunk, could he? “I said watch it-”

“No-” Geto cuts you off. “In that tone.”

That tone? And it dawns upon you slow and sensual—like the toyin’ rubs that he was granting on your g-spot now. Though you were the one most in control, letting his swollen cock stir up your insides at a thorough pace - now all the way from the tufts of black at his base to his puckered, drooling tip. “Suguru…” And your hand locks around his neck even tighter- and just as you’d suspected, he’s drenchin’ out even more syrupy sap that leaks out of your hole. Gets fucked back in. “You fucking like being degraded, don’t you?”

A blush rises to his face. His glare targets you even through his foggy glasses, “Th-that’s prepost-”

“You like me yelling at you.” And this time, it’s not a question. You already know—and you’re grinding your hips down onto his toned v-line at a frenzied pace, wrenching those words away from his husky throat before they can even formulate. “You like me calling you pathetic.” This time reaching up and tugging on a stray lock of his hair- “You like me fucking you like a little bitch.”

And his rude, reddened cock - ever the culprit - fills out your insides so much it’s as if you were fit to burst. He empties out his wadded webs inside you- 

“Isn’t that true?” You coo down at him. Poor Geto Suguru, spit-glossed lips and quivering at the feeling of your pussy- “You’ve always wanted to be fucked by me like this, huh?”

And he nods.

He fucking nods.

Eyes glazed. Brows furrowed.

Hips shivering every time they rammed into yours.

And that’s right before one of his tremblin’ hands reaches up to grab your own dominant set - lifting them off of his sweaty scalp. For a second there, you think that perhaps Geto is particularly cagey over his pretty hair- but then he’s opening up your palm and smacking the side of his even prettier face with your hand.

Not hard enough to harm. Not soft enough to not leave a print of your digits across his blushing cheeks.

You’re surging up with questions when-

“Ahhh…” He exhales, eyes fluttering shut at the sting. Once Geto opens them again, you’re noticing that they look clearer than ever now. “That’s better.” He pushes up his drifted glasses.

Rapidly and ravenously, he’s back in control with his sloppy cadence. Globular edge of his cockhead swervin’ apart your folds to tickle your g-spot—then reaching all the way towards the back of your womb-

Again and again.

“D-don’t think m’never gonna catch up, gorgeous.” Geto gnaws down on his lower lip as if to hold back a moan. “I’ve been wanting to fuck you since the start of semester- you didn’t think m’just gonna let you win, huh? Plato said that the first and greatest victory is to conquer yourself.”

“Don’t act like you weren’t just—oh.” You’re out of breath from his sheer thrashes, the ridges of his veins massaging spots you didn’t even know you had. “-weren’t just putty in my hands.”

“Ah- and about hands…” Like he’d just remembered- like he’d been so gone on the feeling of your sopping wet walls that he didn’t even realize what had just transpired, Geto shoots a look down at your hand. Still in his grip. Still prickling with the slap from earlier.

He bites his lip and blushes.

“Slap me again.”

You fucking knew it.

.

.

.

The next time you’re attending Professor Yaga’s class, you have a lot of explaining to do - first of all about why you’d sent him an urgent email in the middle of the night, requesting an extension for the project.

And second of all, why you and Geto Suguru walked into the next class holding hands.

“So that’s what happened.” He doesn’t even need to hear your excuses to know. From here he can already see the bite marks on your neck, the limp in your walk, the way that Geto looked much too happy with himself.

The older man pushes up his shades and sighs-

“Professor-”

“I really don’t get paid enough for this.”

♡ CHOSO KAMO - XXXreads.

“I r-really can’t thank you enough for helping me.” Choso’s sweet, sweet voice flutters out at you—almost inaudible past the mountain of books in his hands. They were as tall as him when set down on the floor, and being held up they nearly grazed the arch of the doorway. “Really. I didn’t know how many trips I’d have to take otherwise.”

You giggle, “Don’t worry about it, Choso.”

“No but- really.” And somehow - perhaps through years of practice, perhaps because of those muscles you always suspected he hid underneath soft fluffy sweaters - Choso’s letting go of his towering pile to push his glasses up. “N-no one really offered…no one talks to me anyways but-” 

He looks at you in slight panic, as though fearful he’s scared you off.

“But really, thank you.”

And you feel your heart clench for the poor boy—it was true, after all. No one in class ever quite spoke to the nerdy Choso Kamo, always with his face close against the pages, always with his hand raised in the air.

He lived more in the world of books than he did with people.

Which was no surprise- not when the people in most of your lectures weren’t exactly the nicest. Despite it being university, it seems people still did pick on him for being a little…bookish. Tittering to themselves as he passed. Throwing scrunched up paper balls at his head. Speaking to him just for the laughs.

And that’s where you came in- there was absolutely nothing wrong with being bookish, or studious, or smart.

In fact, out of everyone in Professor Yaga’s English Lit lectures, you think that Choso was the best one there. The most…handsome, too. But that was neither here nor there!

And so you did your best to divert their attention, to prevent your classmates from taking out their slouched midterm grades and bad hangovers on the nerdy boy. Which included spotting his form (or at least the little you could make out of him) in the corridor, struggling to balance countless books, and stopping to help him.

And you’re nodding at the librarian as you enter- slipping in Choso’s multiple borrowed books through the book drop slot. Soon enough, you’re finding yourself free of all the weight of his books and Choso—holding onto merely one.

“What’s that one, Choso?” You ask in curiosity. 

His voice cracks. Holding the book against his chest, Choso’s handsome face tints red as he looks at you. “Th-this one? Nothing-”

And as you attempt to take a peek at it, he swerves away slightly. Hm… 

Pushing his glasses up his clammy face, “N-nothing at all. This is just one that I have to…to return personally.”

“Personally?” You squint. “Like put on the shelf yourself? I’ve never heard of that.”

“Yes—” With a final squeak, he’s darting into the depths of the library as though his feet were on fire. As though, perhaps, you yourself were fire - and he hunches away from you slightly when you’re following him. 

All the way past the science section.

“A-and thank you so much for your help- again. I wouldn’t want to bother you any longer.” He pants.

All the way past the literary fiction section.

“Really- I wouldn’t want to bother you. I promise you can leave.”

All the way into a darkened corner of the library that you don’t think you’ve ever been in before- where the tables were sparse and the students were even more sparse. In fact, there wasn’t a single soul in sight there.

“Please.”

And Choso ducks into a barren corner of an aisle.

One that you look up at—

And right there on the shelf marker atop the shelf. Right there in laminated plastic. Right there in printed script that could not be erased.

Erotica.

He’d borrowed an erotica book.

And judging by Choso’s familiarity with the section, this wasn’t the first time. Nor would it be the last.

In just a few seconds- you’re walking up to him. And knowing that he was cornered, Choso Kamo can do nothing but bow his head in shame when you reach out for the book—something by some author named Tony with a glitzy, glossy x-rated cover. You’re glancing at the brief summary on the back. 

You catch a few key words.

Nerd.

Bullied.

Class. 

The hot girl who’s the only one to treat him with kindess—and the one to take his virginity. 

.

.

.

“Fuck.” And Choso Kamo’s tone comes out hurried- it comes out harrowed. It comes out hushed—nothing but a low, trembling tone against the shell of your ears. It shakes, just like the rest of his half-naked body as he tucks his fat tip between your pussylips.

Pants pulled down just enough to free his raging erection. 

His plump, reddish crown swipes down your crevice and straight inside your hole. Jerking his hips sloppily back and forth a few times-

“Fuck fuck fuck fuck—” Choso’s voice cracks in your eardrums, entire body feverish as he glues himself to your behind. Your front against the ridged bookshelf, his toned body against yours. 

“Shhhhh, baby.”

He nods, “Shhhh.”

The towering man fucks you like an utter animal- hips pinned to yours and making the wooden furniture underneath creak. It’s as if he doesn’t even realize his own strength, his own girth - how could he? When he hasn’t had the experience to before…

And just the act of putting it in is enough to leave Choso a stuttering, strangled mess. A single tear tracks down his cheek, “Fuh-fuck, it feels even b-better than in the books, baby-”

“Thought about me a lot while reading, hm?” Turning your face around- you meet his flushed one with a grin.

“Well…”

You clench and his breath hitches- “Did you touch yourself to those thinking about me?”

It’s a tone that’s making him shiver - the tips of Choso’s ears burn bright red, and his lips wobble cutely. He nods—he fucking nods away drunkenly before he’s registering it. The look of glee on your face is enough to make the nerdy man choke. “D-don’t tease me, baby.” He quietly whispers out, hand dragging down the side of your upright body. He’s managing to slip his slender fingertips between your legs n’ massage those treacly pussylips of yours—just like his books had taught him. “Though you- I mean- the character in the books did, too.”

“Oh?” One of your brows raises interest. “And what else did this character do, baby?”

Choso whines, his flushed cockhead emptying out the most adorable lines of slick into your deepest depths. He pulls out a little just to watch those ribbons of sap cling onto your cunt- “F-fuck back into me…”

“Hm?”

“The character- I mean.” He gasps out. And a line of sweat glides down the side of his temple as he starts ruttin’ into you even harder, the round edge of his cock opening up spots you didn’t even know you had—Choso was fucking massive. “Would fuck back into me- the nerd.”

And so you’re gripping onto the firm wooden planks of the book shelf, using it as leverage to raise your hips. Up and down. Up and down. “Shit—” Your walls glide down his swollen cock, the patterns of his veins just so prominent. “And what else, baby?”

He’s whimpering at the sound of that pretty pet name on your tongue- so much so that Choso leans over to suck on your tongue. “And then- and then-”

“This is how you kiss, Cho…” You angle your head to kiss him back - so sloppy. Who’d have thought that the lovely, quiet nerd in your lectures was just so…

“And then she’d start t-to clench.” He admits, oglin’ down with big brown eyes at the glistening circle of your cunt. “I don’t really know what that means, baby, or what you have to do to cl—fuck.”

And you’re hearing the exact moment it hits him- the exact moment that the cute hug of your walls leaves him a broken man. Choso shudders upwards as though he’s just been jolted by electricity, and he probes his red, round tip against your spongy cervix- bottoming-out. Barely even starting to pull away from your sultry womb as he fucks inwards.

Held hostage by your cunt—he pants. He shakes. “And then-” Spittle dribbling down the sides of his lips, they twitch with delight. “Just like that—j-just like that…harder.”

And so you do. Fluttering your lashes, “Like this?”

“Harder.”

“Like this-”

“Hard-” Cutting his own words off, the nerdy man reaches his quiverin’ fingers from your slit—and before you know it, he’s pinching your puffy pussylips together. Tight. Ruthless. Making you see stars behind your shuttered lids at the sheer pressure- “Like this. And then in the end she’d beg-”

“Beg for what, Cho?” You ask.

“She’d beg…” The raw draaaags of his flared mushroom tip leave your knees weak. And Choso has to keep a hand constantly looped around your right thigh to keep you from collapsing. Perking your ass up against his ramming v-line, he utters—“You’d beg for my cum…”

Your mouth drops into a pretty circle. “Oh.”

And almost instantly, he seems to regret the filthy words spewing out of his mouth. “B-but that’s just a fantasy and-”

“Well…” This time, you’re the one interrupting him. And it’s done so with the realization that- hey, he was fucking you raw anyways. “Why don’t you go ahead then?”

And he doesn’t even need to hear that entire sentence- he doesn’t even need to hear the middle of it. He merely slaps a hand on top of your gaped maw - effectively shutting you up in such a mean way - and rams his slam-reddened hips against yours. Choso all but fucking collapses his muscular body against your back as he scours his tip into your deepest spot.

The circumference of his girth ending off at your womb.

Before you’re feeling the slow, sensual trickle of his cum filling you up from the inside. It starts off with a few shy dribbles- before soon, the bespectacled man has to gnaw his canines down on your neck to stop himself from making too much noise.

Chasing your hips as you don’t know whether to fuck back or lean against the library- shoving and smearin’ his leaky tip into every orifice. Every nook. Every cranny.

Your eyes roll to the back of your head at the feeling of his slick glaaaaaazing you from the inside, frothing out near your entrance. “Sh-shit there’s so much, Cho.” You murmur out. “You’ve never cum inside anything but your fist, huh? Shit- been savin’ this all up, hm?”

Biting back a groan as your words make his seed shoot just a few more spurts—“Yes.” To your absolute surprise. “Been saving it up for you, baby.”

And a shiver runs down your spine.

Both at Choso’s words-

And at the sudden knocking upon one of the bookshelves- almost as though someone was making their entrance known upon a front door.

Both of you whip your heads up in a panic - with Choso still not moving away from your cunt. All honeyed and driiiipping with his ivory sap. 

And the sight before you two makes the nerdy man wrap his arms around you possessively.

Because standing there—tall, tattooed, dark hair that reached his shoulders. A bright blue jersey with the infamous emblem of Delta Jujutsu Pi - it was none other than Chisato Kamo. 

His twin brother.

A man that shared the same face as the one fucking you, but just about none of his interests.

Well, none of his interests other than you that is…and perhaps that’s why in a few minutes the older brother of the two is being pushed aside so that Chisato can ram his rugged, red tip into you rudely. Scoffing at the way your pussy quivered and clenched around him—

“Cheh…shut up, girlie.” He plasters a palm over your mouth, just as Choso had done so earlier. “Honestly, are ya even my brother? Look at her poor hole- she isn’t fucked even half as good as she should’ve been-”

Choso pipes up from where he’d been banished away from your pussy. “If you just gave me her again-”

“To cum in two pumps again?”

“She said I could- she’s mine.”

“She’s mine.”

.

.

.

“I’m not even going to ask.” Professor Yaga rubs at his throbbing temples—it wasn’t anything out of the ordinary to see his star student, Choso Kamo, walk into the lecture hall with his head bowed low. Unspeaking even with him.

It wasn’t even anything out of the ordinary to see you clinging onto aforementioned Choso Kamo, talking his ear off about your day. And Choso would let you.

What was absolutely astounding was the way in which the aforementioned Choso Kamo’s younger brother - Chisato Kamo, member of Delta Jujutsu Pi, attended more ragers than study sessions, never attended this English Literature class a day in his entire life - was following behind…

Sauntering in as if he owned the place.

He throws an arm around you- and Choso immediately jerks up to smack it off of you.

He sees the two brothers glare at one another.

And Yaga decides that he definitely wasn’t paid enough to intervene with that…

He sighs and starts off attendance, and for the first time has the privilege of hearing. “Mister Chisato Kamo?”

“Here.”

♡ RYOMEN SUKUNA - 2-IN-1

“Isn’t she just…”

“Out of your league?”

“-gorgeous.”

Uraume can’t help but roll their eyes- well, mentally. They knew that their (unfortunate) best friend’s (unfortunate) resolve wasn’t nearly as strong to withstand such a thing, and so they have to settle for letting out a long sigh.

Bringing that red Solo cup to their lips, they hum. “Then why don’t you go there and talk to her-”

“Talk to her- ya must be fuckin’ joking.” Sukuna scoffs, staring down at his white-haired friend. Uraume had been attached to his side ever since their freshmen year rush for Jujutsu Delta Pi, and they’ve seen him through thick and thin. Through his wrestling lows and his professional contract. Through his best moments and…whatever this was.

His embarrassingly big crush on you. Ever since he’d seen you at one of his wrestling games, cheering him on- Uraume has heard far too much about you from him ever since.

He sighs at the sight of you dancing in the middle of the dance floor.

Before narrowing his eyes down at Uraume’s cup. “Seriously…has your fruity lil’ punch - and I know you don’t drink anything hard - been spiked with something? Talk to her- cheh, just imagine-”

“Ryomen Sukuna.” Cut off by the stern, supremely exhausted voice of his best friend. “If you don’t ask her to dance right now—” The smaller person looks up from their far shorter height, dead-set into Sukuna’s crimson eyes. “-then I’m telling the entire party about what a nerd you are.” A pause. “And showing them your Grimmjow figurine collection.”

“On it-”

And it was a dance- just a dance, right?

It’s not like Sukuna was going to ask you to marry him or- or to come up to his (geeky) bedroom or anything. It’s not like one dance would have him embarrassing himself. It’s not like one dance would have you finding out his true identity as a…nerd.

Right?

He was a Health Science major, for crying out loud!