Sirenxiu

you were just humming in the kitchen, washing up the big ol’ pile of dishes in the sink. jason wanted to help, but you said no, really because he wasn't super great at it, but hey, you liked that he put in the effort.

your pyjamas were all soft and snug on your skin, thanks to jason throwing them in the dryer before you changed. but you had this sneaky feeling he picked out the tiniest ones on purpose.

the wooden scrubber in your hand was on its last legs, and that garlic parmesan from dinner wasn't helping much. you were scrapping extra hard, making sure there wasn't a crumb left behind.

you finished the dishes with a relieved sigh, drying up your hands on the towel by the sink before you dimmed the amber lights of the kitchen.

after, you grabbed a few matches from the little drawer near the fridge along with a stick of your favorite incense. your steps padded softly towards the dining table. the freshly mopped floors felt cool against your feet.

you set the little stick on the holder and lit it up, quickly blowing on it so the smoke could fill the apartment with its scent. taking a slow exhale, you paused to appreciate the quietness.

jason had left for patrol a little while ago, or so you thought, and you settled into that soft solitude that crept in when he wasn't around. it was nice not to have a two-hundred-pound guy taking up half the space. for the most part.

you decided to head to the living room to clean up the mess from the board games you two played earlier. you’d rather get it done sooner than later, knowing you wouldn't want to get up and clean after getting into bed.

then suddenly, his voice broke the quiet.

“did i do something wrong?”

“sweet baby jesus!” you gasped, hand flying to your chest, your breath heavy as you looked at him through wide eyes.

“what is wrong with you?" you asked, trying to calm your racing heart. he looked kind of intimidating, just a shadow in the corner, barely lit, but you recognized that little pout of his from a mile away. “what do you want, jace?”

“you didn’t say goodbye,” he said, stepping into the light, his frown small but there. he was just standing by the window where he usually went out for patrol, helmet held under his arm, just waiting there so still that it threw you off.

“what are you talking about? i said bye,” you replied, finally letting your hand drop from your chest and mussing your hair.

“nuh uh.”

you lifted your gaze to him, a frown tugging at your eyebrows. “oh yes huh,” you shot back.

“nuh uh.”

“yes huh!”

“nuh uh!” he exclaimed, raising his voice, his fingers clenching into a fist.

you raised an eyebrow, your hand resting on your hip. “is that an attitude i hear?” you asked, taking slow steps towards him. you noticed how his jaw was all tight and his eyes were full of uncertainty.

you watched him bite his lip, words struggling to form. his hands curled into fists, relaxed, then curled again until his helmet slipped from under his arm and clattered onto the floor.

“jason?”

he stared at the wall behind you before mumbling, “you didn’t kiss me goodbye.”

you blinked at him. “excuse me?” that seemed to flip a switch in him. he turned to you, looking worried.

“are you mad at me? what did i do?” he whispered, his hand reaching out to rest on your waist, his fingers curling around it perfectly.

you sighed, your hands momentarily covering your cheeks. you couldn't believe he was serious. “you think I’m mad... because i didn’t give you a goodbye kiss?” you asked slowly, wondering if he was just teasing.

he nodded, his bottom lip poking out a bit as he squeezed your waist for comfort. you rolled your eyes and smacked his hand away.

“you are mad!” he accused.

“am not!” you huffed, “you’re just being silly, and now you’ve lost patrol time!”

“okay, but what if i get hurt without my good luck kiss?” he countered, placing his hand back on your waist while snaking the other around you, completely capturing you against his muscles.

“you are ridiculous,” you muttered under your breath, looking up into his expectant yet pleading eyes. “if i kiss you, will you go?”

he nodded eagerly.

“ugh, fine, but only because i want you to leave,” you said, leaning in for a quick peck on his lips. but that plan went awry as he leaned in for another kiss... and another... and another.

“jason, goddammit, jason!” you said, struggling to squirm away from his grip. his stubble was scratching against your skin, and you could already see your skin breaking out the next morning.

he kept launching his little smooch attack until you felt like a total glob in his arms. your expression blank as his lips planted kisses everywhere, from your chin to your hairline.

after one last big smooch and a loud “mwah,” he finally released you, flashing a toothy grin while you shot him your best annoyed look.

“you leaving now?” you mumbled, glancing at him as he nodded, turning back to the window, gripping the edge, and wiggling a bit before jumping out.

you sighed at the absurdity of it all. “you forgot your helmet!” you said, crouching down to grab the red thing and tossing it out the window. “fucking loser,” you muttered.

“hey!” you heard him yell from outside, but you weren’t sure if he was offended about his helmet getting tossed or if it was because you called him a loser... which he was.

after a few seconds, you took a deep breath in and let it out. finally, he was gone.

you turned around and got back into your rhythm, bending down to pick up the dice and all the scattered uno cards left on the coffee table. you even found one tucked under the couch...where jason conveniently sat before he somehow won. suspicious.

you carefully stacked all the cards into a neat little deck, using one of your hair ties to keep them together before putting them on the bottom shelf and moving on to the dice, placing them inside a wine glass that decorated the tabletop.

with a grunt, you got back up and put your hands on your hips, glancing around the apartment. it was a bit messy, but good enough for you. plus, it was late, and your phone was probably getting paranoid about how long you’d been away from it.

you wandered into your shared bedroom and collapsed onto the bed that sat in the middle of the room.

his cologne still clung to the sheets from when he'd gotten dressed, and you couldn't help but wrap yourself up in a burrito while you dug for your phone beneath the pillows.

"five minutes," that's what you told yourself. just five minutes on social media before you went to sleep. but then five turned into ten, ten into thirty, and before you knew it, you heard the sound of jason climbing back through the bedroom window.

the sound of his kevlar suit echoed as he moved closer to the bed. you heard the soft hiss as he took off the helmet and felt the way the mattress sunk as he placed it near your feet.

you waited for him to climb in, one minute, two minutes... two and a half. until you turned around, looking at him over your shoulder

“dude, are you getting in?” you asked, eyeing him up and down to make sure he wasn’t hurt before you started to scold him. he looked fine, a few scratches here and there, but overall, he was okay. good.

he didn’t say anything, though, and you rolled your eyes. his gaze was locked on you, and he couldn’t help but notice how the blue light from your phone made your eyes shine and defined the slope of your nose.

“i’m not dealing with another one of your tantrums,” you muttered under your breath as you turned back to your mukbangs of the most beautiful desserts in LA.

another half a minute went by, and you grunted as you glanced back at him. you knew what he wanted, of course, but c’mon! he was getting way too spoiled lately. too bratty. you couldn’t just give in to everything.

“if i do it, will you stop staring at me? it’s kind of creepy,” you said as you struggled to untangle yourself from the blankets before sitting up to face him. he just nodded.

“ugh, fine,” you muttered, scooting over and starting to ruffle the sheets on his side of the bed. “c’mon, c'mere handsome,” you cooed, using that soft voice you usually reserved for stray cats in crime alley, but somehow he got to be the exception.

he immediately started yanking off his heavy boots, tossing them who knows where, and then leaped on top of you.

“for fuck’s sake, jason! how many times do i have to tell you—” you were cut off when his lips began to wander over yours and then down to your chin.

“i missed you over there,” he whispered, his hands wrapping around your waist as he rolled onto his back, pulling you with him.

“yeah, well, i didn’t,” you mumbled.

“oh yeah? then why are you all cuddled up in these blankets like that?” he shot back with that lazy grin, his face getting way too close to yours. you hated how much you loved those little dimples of his. “is it because i sprayed my cologne?”

“shut up.”

Pathetic frat-boy!Sukuna grilling everyone on campus—from RAs to terrified freshmen—until he finds out your major and what classes you like, typing every detail into the Notes app like a total stalker.

Pathetic frat-boy!Sukuna digging up your socials in one night, scouring your TikTok likes to see what kind of guys you’re into. When he finds a video of some guy who is his total opposite, he lets out a pathetic, guttural groan and buries his face in his pillow.

Pathetic frat-boy!Sukuna liking every single one of your posts, praying you’ll notice his pathetic efforts and follow him back. When you don't, he just ends up getting blackout drunk with Toji again.

Pathetic frat-boy!Sukuna trying a new approach by kissing up to your friends to get any scrap of info on you. He grumbles under his breath—mentally sulking like a kicked puppy—when you spot his desperate attempts and shoo him away. He drops his head and slinks off, feeling like a beaten dog.

Pathetic frat-boy!Sukuna refusing to give up, finally changing his entire class schedule just so he can sit next to you. Now, he gets to stare at you every single day.

Pathetic frat-boy!Sukuna haunting you twelve hours a day. He’s in the library, the dining hall, outside your dorm. He notices your eye twitching, the way you keep looking over your shoulder, growing more and more paranoid. But he can’t stop. He’s fucking obsessed.

Pathetic frat-boy!Sukuna sitting in his room at night, jerking off to your photos. His hand tightens around his cock to the rhythm of his ragged breathing, his lips silently forming your name, terrified to actually say it out loud.

Pathetic frat-boy!Sukuna overhauling his wardrobe to match the aesthetic of the guys you post on TikTok, desperate for a shred of your attention.

Pathetic frat-boy!Sukuna refusing to quit. At the next party, he approaches you again, fully expecting to get shut down. He cracks a stupid, nervous joke, and then—you smile. His heart skips a beat, and he breaks into an idiotic, lovesick grin.

Pathetic frat-boy!Sukuna feeling his jeans grow painfully tight when you casually take a drag of his cigarette, your lips brushing against his fingers.

Pathetic frat-boy!Sukuna blushing to the tips of his ears when you’re wasted and press into him for warmth by the bonfire. He’s too scared to even put an arm around you, so he just stands there, stiff as a board, inhaling the scent of your hair and praying this moment lasts forever.

Pathetic frat-boy!Sukuna trying to play the gentleman while walking you to your dorm. He keeps his hand on your waist, but his fingers are burning with the urge to slip lower, to the panties he’s dying to pull off. He holds back because you’re drunk, and he wants you to remember him as something more than just another horny prick.

Pathetic frat-boy!Sukuna falling asleep with a massive, dopey smile on his face after seeing that you finally followed him back on everything.

Pathetic frat-boy!Sukuna getting off to your simple text, "You were sweet," his cock throbbing in his hand as he texts back, "Did you like it?" When you send a drunk voice note whining about how much you love it when he acts like a pathetic simp for you, he cums so hard his body jerks off the bed.

Pathetic frat-boy!Sukuna stalking you across campus the next day. When you finally reach out and touch his shoulder, he craves nothing more than for you to never let go.

Pathetic frat-boy!Sukuna becoming your personal pack mule, carrying your books, waiting outside every single one of your classes to walk you home. You smile at him, and his entire world starts and ends with you.

Pathetic frat-boy!Sukuna barely holding it together when you send him spicy photos. His hand goes straight to his pants, but he forces himself to reply with something witty, even though his skin is crawling with the need to rip your clothes off and pin you to the wall.

Pathetic frat-boy!Sukuna sending you a video of him jerking off and whining for you when you ask for proof. When you reply with a photo of your dripping pussy, he drowns his phone screen in his own cum.

Pathetic frat-boy!Sukuna refusing to leave your side at the next frat party. His eyes are practically begging you to stay when you mention wanting to talk to your friends. (His bros roast him for it. He couldn't care less.)

Pathetic frat-boy!Sukuna feeling his heart soar when you lean into his ear and whisper that you want to fuck. His breath hitches and his hands shake with pure anticipation as he drags you to his room, already picturing you beneath him.

Pathetic frat-boy!Sukuna waiting for your permission, hovering over you, tugging at the hem of your shirt. He’s breathing hard, inhaling your scent, terrified of messing up. The second you nod, he’s tearing your clothes off.

Pathetic frat-boy!Sukuna worshipping your pussy, licking you with pure, feral reverence. His cock is so hard he’s ready to blow his load just from the sound of your first moan.

Pathetic frat-boy!Sukuna damn near coming the second he slides inside you. His eyes roll back, his hips moving on instinct. He hears your scream, and it drives him faster, deeper, his nails digging into your back.

Pathetic frat-boy!Sukuna begging you to let him go faster, his voice cracking as you scratch his back in time with his rough thrusts. He’s pounding into you so hard the bed frame is practically screaming against the wall.

Pathetic frat-boy!Sukuna bending you over, lips pressed against your ear as he whines about how long he’s wanted you, how he’s obsessed over you every single night. His voice trembles as he asks if he’s doing it right, if you like the way he’s fucking you, scared to death that you’ll tell him to stop.

Pathetic frat-boy!Sukuna letting out a quiet, wrecked moan when you squeeze his cock too tight, his hips bucking into your hands, desperate for release.

Pathetic frat-boy!Sukuna finishing with a loud, guttural groan, spilling himself deep inside you. He watches you, broken and satisfied, before collapsing on top of you, gasping for air.

Pathetic frat-boy!Sukuna holding you tight afterward, arms wrapped around you so you can’t leave. He pretends to be asleep, terrified that if he opens his eyes, you’ll have disappeared.

Pathetic frat-boy!Sukuna grinning like the biggest simp on earth when you kiss him in the morning, leaving your panties on his pillow with a promise that you’ll do it again. He grabs your hips, begging you not to go, his eyes shining with pure, unadulterated hope.

Pathetic frat-boy!Sukuna, who is obviously going to ask you on a date tomorrow and spend the entire time begging you to let him bury his face back between your thighs and lick your dripping pussy until you’re coming all over his face.

His face is a map of healed disasters—thin white lines cutting through his brows, the faint pucker near his jaw, the uneven texture along his cheekbone where skin never quite settled back into what it was meant to be. There was a time when even the thought of hair growing there felt impossible. He remembers the chemical sting, remembers laughter echoing too loud in a warehouse that smelled like rust and rot and something sweetly corrosive.

The Joker had called it “light acid.”

As if acid could ever be light.

As if anything about it had been.

After that, hair just… didn’t grow. Not where it should have. Not where other boys his age complained about patchy beards and uneven sideburns and the awkward in-between stage of becoming something older.

Jason never got that stage.

He went from boy to broken and skipped the mundane humiliations in between.

Until now.

At twenty-two, standing barefoot in front of the narrow bathroom mirror in his apartment in Gotham City, Jason Todd squints at his reflection and feels something dangerously close to disbelief.

There is hair there.

Not much. Not thick. But there. Real.

Dark stubble shadows his jaw, uneven and stubborn, catching the early gray light filtering in through the frosted window. He drags his thumb over it once, slow, like he expects it to come away empty.

It doesn’t.

The memory surfaces uninvited—your voice last night, half-breathless and laughing when you pulled him back just enough to complain that it was itchy, that it scratched when he was feasting on you like he hadn’t eaten in days. You’d swatted at his shoulder and told him to shave.

It hadn’t been an attempt to redirect your mouth onto him for once like he thought.

Not that time.

“Oh, god,” he mutters now, staring harder at the mirror.

He looks dreadful.

That’s the numb, dawning realization settling into him as he takes in the rest. The hollows beneath his eyes are darker than usual, bruised crescents that no amount of sleep seems to erase. His nose looks a little more crooked than he swears it did yesterday. His hair—thick, black, unruly—is sticking up at impossible angles like he lost a fight with his pillow and didn’t bother winning.

He leans closer.

At least his skin looks better.

That part softens something in him.

You had noticed it two nights ago when he complained, voice rough and embarrassed, about it feeling irritated again—too tight, too sensitive along the old scar tissue. You hadn’t teased him. You  just disappeared into the bathroom and came back with that stupidly expensive face cream you insist on buying, the one that smells faintly of lavender and something warm.

He grumbled the whole time.

You ignored him the whole time.

In the dark, your fingers had worked carefully over his face—gentle where the scars pull, slower along the places that still ache when the weather shifts. You’d murmured nonsense into the quiet, soft praise and softer affection, lips brushing his temple between instructions to stop fidgeting. He remembers the weight of you leaning over him, the warmth of your thighs against his hips, the way your thumbs smoothed over his brow like you were trying to iron out something deeper than irritated skin.

Jason had fallen asleep like that.

Just like that.

He doesn’t remember the moment it happened. Just remembers waking up tangled in you and the faint trace of lavender still clinging to him.

“I knew it was hair!”

Your voice slices cleanly through his thoughts.

He flinches slightly before catching himself, then groans under his breath as you pad into the bathroom behind him, bare feet silent against the hardwood.

You look like you crawled straight out of a dream.

Your hair is down and messy, falling around your shoulders in soft disarray, catching the light in uneven strands. You’re wearing one of his old shirts—swallowed by it—and a pair of his pajama pants that you bought him, the drawstring pulled tight and the hems cuffed four times so they don’t drag. The fabric hangs off you like you belong in it.

Like you belong here.

You slide your arms around his waist from behind without hesitation, pressing your front to his back, warmth seeping into him instantly. You get on your tip toes as your chin settles on his shoulder, cheek brushing the rough edge of his newly grown stubble as you peer at his reflection with open curiosity.

“Jason, baby…” you murmur, studying him in the mirror like he’s something precious and slightly ridiculous.

He snorts softly, but his hands come up automatically to rest over yours where they’re clasped against his stomach. His thumbs trace absent circles over your knuckles.

“You loooove it,” he says, stretching the word with heavy sarcasm, though there’s something almost hopeful beneath it.

You hum, pretending to consider it.

One of your hands slips free and moves up to his face, fingers squishing his cheek gently, testing the scratch of the stubble. Your nose wrinkles.

“Hmm,” you decide, lips twitching. “It's itchy. And the last thing I need is irritation down there.”

Jason exhales through his nose, long and slow, the sound vibrating faintly in his chest before it escapes him.

Mock-offended. Almost dignified about it.

“I don’t have a razor,” he says after another indulgent second of you squishing his cheeks like he’s something soft and manageable instead of what he usually is. His words come out slightly warped beneath your fingers. “And it’s a holiday… stores won’t be open.”

The apartment is quiet in that sacred, late-morning way—sunlight slipping through the blinds in thin golden blades that cut across tile and skin alike, dust motes suspended lazily in their glow as if even they have decided to rest. 

Somewhere outside, a car door slams. Distant chatter echoes up from the street. Gotham City hums in the background like a beast half-asleep, never fully docile, but quieter than usual.

“I use a men’s razor,” you mumble thoughtfully, as if you’re offering him a piece of gum instead of a shared blade. “Wanna use that? I can disinfect it.”

He stills.

It’s subtle—the way his shoulders lift and hold, the way his fingers pause against your wrist—but you feel it. You always feel it. There are certain silences in him that aren’t empty; they’re crowded. This is one of them.

“I…” he starts, and the word drags.

Jason Todd does not drag words. He fires them. He sharpens them. He uses them like tools or weapons, depending on the need. But now it comes out slower, almost shy, like something young and unsure has briefly surfaced beneath the hardened edges.

“I don’t know how to shave,” he admits finally, gaze dropping to the sink like it’s suddenly fascinating. “Even… before… uh. It didn’t really grow.”

He doesn’t elaborate.

He doesn’t have to.

The space after before is heavy, but you don’t reach for it. You don’t pry it open with sympathy or soften it with apology. You simply hum, soft and thoughtful, and unwind your arms from around him to open the mirror cabinet above the sink.

“Why now?” you murmur, mostly to yourself.

The hinge creaks faintly as it swings open, bottles clinking together like small glass wind chimes. You reach for the razor with easy certainty, as if you’ve already decided the answer to that question doesn’t matter nearly as much as what you’re going to do next.

Jason watches you through the mirror.

Why now?

It’s the same reason he’s gained weight—real weight, not the kind born of muscle and vigilance, but something warmer, something earned in kitchens and late-night takeout and meals he didn’t force himself to finish out of obligation. There’s a softness now at his lower belly, subtle but undeniable, a gentle curve where there used to be only rigid lines and constant tension. His shoulders still carry power, his arms still know violence, but his body no longer looks like it’s bracing for impact every second.

He thinks his body is learning how to be happy again.

Like an animal stepping cautiously out of a trap long after the jaws have opened.

Like soil finally allowed to grow something instead of just endure.

He doesn’t say that.

“Maybe it’s because you’re always slathering me in your fancy stuff,” he deflects instead, a quiet chuckle warming the edges of his voice as he flicks the toilet seat closed with his foot and lowers himself onto it. “It probably shocked my face back to life.”

You glance at him over your shoulder, amused, sunlight catching in the loose fall of your hair.

Jason sits there completely naked, utterly unguarded in a way that still feels new enough to be fragile.

The light doesn’t hide anything. It travels openly across him—over the scars that ladder his torso, the uneven patches of skin that never healed quite right, the pale lines and darker ones, the geography of damage that used to make him want to flinch away from mirrors entirely. There was a time he would have layered himself in clothing even alone, as if fabric could soften history.

But you didn’t run.

The first time you saw him like this, you hadn’t looked horrified or pitying. You’d looked curious. Careful. Your fingers had traced each scar like you were reading braille, mapping him not as something broken, but as something survived. You kissed him afterward the same way you always did—no hesitation, no recalibration.

If you didn’t run from that, he doubts you’ll run from stubble.

You step back toward him now, razor in hand, a small towel draped over your arm like you’re about to perform something sacred and slightly ridiculous. The scent of your soap lingers faintly, mixed with steam from the sink you’ve just run warm water into.

“C’mere,” you murmur. 

You nudge his knees apart gently and step between them, the casual intimacy of it making something low in his stomach tighten. Your warmth bleeds into him. He instinctively rests his hands at your hips, thumbs pressing lightly into the soft fabric pooled there.

“This feels like a trap,” Jason mutters, but his voice lacks conviction.

You smile down at him—slow, fond, almost reverent—and press your thumb to his jaw, tilting his face slightly so the light catches the uneven stubble.

“Relax,” you say softly. “I’ll take care of you.”

The words aren’t dramatic, and aren't grand. But they land in him like something holy.

He tilts his chin up, obedient in a way he never is with anyone else, trusting you with the vulnerable line of his throat. Your touch is deliberate but tender, as if you’re handling something both fragile and fierce.

You rinse the razor under warm water first, testing the temperature against your wrist the way you always do with anything that’s going to touch him. Steam curls faintly into the air, softening the sharp morning light and turning the bathroom into something gentler, almost hazy. When you open the shaving cream, the scent—clean, subtle, faintly medicinal—mixes with the lavender still clinging to his skin from the night before and fills his senses.

Jason smells like you. He thinks numbly.

“Hold still,” you murmur.

He huffs softly. “I am holding still.”

“You’re flexing.”

“I am not—”

“You are,” you insist, smiling a little as your fingers press into his jaw, encouraging him to unclench.

He forces his shoulders to drop.

Jason isn’t used to being handled like this. In training, contact is correction—forceful, precise, meant to overpower. In fights, it’s impact—bruising, brutal, survival measured in split seconds. Even affection, in most corners of his life, is clapped onto backs or ruffled through hair, rough-edged and fleeting.

But this?

This is his hot girlfriend taking care of him. 

You spread the shaving cream slowly, fingertips gliding over his jaw, working it into the uneven terrain of scar tissue and smoother skin alike. You’re meticulous about it, smoothing the foam into the curve beneath his cheekbone, along the sharp line of his jaw, over the stubborn patch just beneath his lower lip.

Your touch changes when you reach the scars.

Not hesitant. Not afraid.

Just attentive.

You adjust the pressure instinctively, tracing the raised line near his chin with your thumb before coating it gently. Jason watches your face instead of the mirror now. The focus there. The way your brows knit in concentration. The small crease that forms between them when you’re trying to get something exactly right.

“You don’t have to look at me like I’m hurt and you need to patch me up,” he mutters.

You glance up at him through your lashes. "I'm not. I'd prefer that right now. At least you sit still when I patch you up.”

He snorts quietly despite himself.

The razor touches his skin for the first time.

It’s a soft, almost inaudible scrape. A delicate drag that removes the shadow in a clean stripe, revealing pale skin beneath. You move slowly, rinsing the blade after each careful stroke, watching for any sign of discomfort.

Jason feels it more than he expected to.

Not pain—just awareness. The sensation of something being removed. Of change happening in real time. 

That sounds dramatic. He scolds himself in his own head. It's just hair. Hair he would have died to grow when he was seven and desperate to be tall enough to steal from the top shelf.

The warm water trickles down his neck in thin lines when you wipe away excess foam, your fingers following to catch it before it drips too far.

He swallows once when you tilt his head slightly to the side, exposing more of his throat.

“You trust me?” you ask lightly, but there’s something real beneath it.

He doesn’t hesitate this time.

“Yeah.”

The answer is simple. Immediate.

Your thumb rests just below his ear as you guide the razor along the sensitive stretch of skin near his jawline. The intimacy of it hums between you, quiet but undeniable. He can feel your breath ghosting across his cheek. 

His hands, which had been resting loosely at your waist, slide upward without thinking. One settles at your lower back, palm spreading there. The other drifts higher, fingers grazing the fabric at your ribs, tracing the outline of you through cotton.

You pause when you reach the faintly discolored patch near the corner of his jaw—the place where the skin never quite grew back the same.

“Does this one still feel tight?” you ask softly.

“Sometimes,” he admits.

You don’t comment on it. You just adjust the angle of the razor and move even slower, barely any pressure at all, your other hand steadying his face with gentle firmness.

Jason’s eyes close for a second.

He lets them.

There’s something almost reverent about the way you do this. Like you’re not just shaving him, but tending to him. Like this small, ordinary act is a way of saying: I see all of it. I’m not afraid of any of it.

When you finally finish one side, you lean back slightly to inspect your work, head tilting.

“Look at that,” you murmur. “Sexy jawline coming back.”

“Never left,” Jason says automatically with a shit eating grin.

You grin. “Sure, baby.”

You rinse the razor again, then shift to the other side, fingers brushing through the faint shadow still there. The bathroom is quiet except for the sound of running water and the soft rhythm of your breathing mingling with his.

He watches you again.

The way your hair falls forward over your shoulder and nearly brushes his chest before you tuck it back absentmindedly. The way you don’t seem to notice how intimate this is—how your hands cradle his face like something precious.

When you’re done, you wipe the last traces of foam away with the warm towel, pressing it gently along his jaw, then down his throat.

“There,” you whisper.

You smooth your palm over his cheek, testing it. Your thumb lingers at the corner of his mouth.

“Much better.”

Jason turns his face slightly into your hand.

The movement is instinctive. Almost feline.

He looks at himself in the mirror again.

The stubble is gone. The scars remain. The crooked nose. The tired eyes.

But there’s something different in the way he’s sitting. Less guarded. Less braced. Like he isn’t waiting for the mirror to betray him.

He slides both arms fully around your waist now and pulls you closer until your hips press flush against his chest. He rests his forehead against your sternum, exhaling slowly, breathing you in.

“You’re gonna make me soft,” he mutters against your skin.

Your fingers comb gently through his messy hair, nails scratching lightly at his scalp.

“Thats the goal,” you say.

And for once, the idea doesn’t sound like a threat.

jason peter todd tag-list : @justamarsbar, @peridotnature854, @nayy-a, @that-willowtree, @kekeanna266, @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger, @theonlysakura, @givemefinganame, @theonlyshowgirl, @melllzz, @strawbrysapphic, @nightlights-and-twiklingstars, @tasia13, @foivetimesacharm, @noble-17, @celestialend,@superuddertrash-blog, @revesephemeres, @redhooduwu, @themessedupsonata

Im gonna be honest I had a shit day and this felt like the only was I could talk to someone lmao don't got any other method, don't take this as me coming back frfr cus people are mean here too

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And so this friendly back and forth continued for a few weeks, until you found yourself settled into a steady rhythm. Everyday you’d lift a greeting hand when you’d pull into the driveway in the afternoon following school pickup and a quick trip to the supermarket. He’d wander over to the fence line and offer to bring the grocery bags inside for you with some playful quip about how ‘pretty ladies shouldn’t need to do any heavy lifting’ that always earned a giggle from the girls.

You’d counter with an offer of tea and freshly baked cookies, to which he’d dutifully decline, very much as expected. It was all very civil, ordinary, comfortable in its normalcy, with just the tiniest hint of flirtation simmering beneath the surface. You noticed it in the small things - the way his eyes followed you when you rolled the bins out into the street in the early morning. Makeup free, clothed only in your pajamas, still blinking sleep away with your hair pinned up in a wad of crazed rollers. Or the way you’d pause for a few extra seconds to admire the sight of his back muscles straining beneath a sweat soaked t-shirt as he tugged rogue weeds loose from the dirt in his front garden.

He must have had a sixth sense, because every time you let your eyes wander for even a second, in the next blink he’d have turned his head to meet your gaze with a knowing smirk dancing on his scarred lips, right before he’d eye your own yard and offer to clear out your weeds too.

That was until one particular Friday afternoon when you didn’t smile at him. You didn’t wave, or even bother to spare a glance in the direction of his house when you slipped out from behind the wheel and stomped your way around to the backseat to unbuckle the girls.

The sharp click of his tongue caught your attention as you not so graciously slammed the car door closed, and through the intensity of your focus you felt your face flush hot at the sound. With the girls unclasped and happily skipping to the front door chattering between themselves, you finally turned around and lifted an apologetic hand.

“Afternoon!” You chirped, though even to your own ears the tone sounded forced, strained. “I’m sorry - I didn’t mean to ignore you - busy day.”

You found that instead of being perched on his porch rocking lazily in a wicker chair or working away in his garage as he was most afternoons, he was instead stood just past the footpath a little closer to your yard, hands gloved and dirt caking his boots up to his knees. He lifted his head and wiped his hands over his jean clad thighs. You swallowed, watched a few dry dirt clumps flutter to the grass below.

“Doing some more gardening?” You smiled, softened a little with the familiarity, the ease of conversation with no expectation behind it. “It’s the perfect weather for it.”

For the weight of your own gloomy mood, the rest of the world seemed chipper as ever. The sun was warm, dappling your front yard with little petals of light between the tree leaves, and the wind was refreshingly crisp when it caught in your hair, swirling it skyward before you raised a hand to tuck the stray stands behind your ear. Toji was obviously feeling the heat of the afternoon - with the way his inky hair was sticking slick to his forehead in places, and you could see a bead of sweat dipping beneath the collar of his loosely buttoned shirt, crawling over the curve of a plump pec.

“Hm.” He hummed in reply, interrupting your train of thought as you followed the path the droplet was forging beneath the thin fabric with your eyes, “so what’s botherin’ you then?”

At his voice your eyes shot back up to meet his, and you offered a sheepish sort of smile in reply.

“I’m that obvious huh?”

He shrugged a little, breaking your eye contact - head lowered as he began to tug the muddied gloves from his hands, thick fingers flexing when they hit the comparatively cool air.

“You’re no award winning actress, that’s for sure.”

“Just been one of those days.” You sighed, feeling more and more exhausted with each word, as if each syllable were a brick tied to your ankles, weighing you down. “The girls are staying at their dads this weekend, and I’ve been so busy that I completely forgot to prepare their changes of clothes, and of course the washing machine stopped working last night and I…”

You trailed off, foregoing the hundreds of other minute irritations in favor of sucking your lower lip between your teeth. Blinking frantically, you instead looked sharply at the ground, hot tears of frustration beginning to well at your lash line. Brows knitted, you studied the grass peeking between the strips of concrete beneath your sandals intently, until you were absolutely sure you weren’t actually going to start crying.

“Well that’s easy then,” came Toji’s smooth reply after a few long moments. You were suddenly grateful for his tact, allowing you a few quiet minutes to compose yourself before expecting an answer.

“Easy?” You mouthed, a little wide-eyed as you gazed over at him quizzically, “what do you mean?”

“I’ll come fix the washing machine,” he said simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“Uh, are you sure?” You questioned, a little uncertain, “it looked really broken, like ‘water soaking the whole laundry room floor’ broken.”

He looked entirely unperturbed when he finally got both hands free, and he cleared his throat as he tossed the mud clad gloves to the ground beside a collection of similarly dirtied tools.

“Door gasket, I’d bet money on it,” he replied smoothly, with a sort of calm confidence that had your shoulders relaxing an inch already, “I’ve got a spare in my shed. I’ll have it swapped in a flash, ten minutes tops.”

You said nothing for a few moments, pondering his offer. You considered another night spent fiddling with the door hinge. Flipping through the owners manual like it held the secrets to the universe, only to have your efforts result in a few firm kicks to the metal contraption and another day wearing old bikini bottoms as underwear. You pictured yourself sweating over the basin, handwashing the girls school clothes in a flurry of detergent and steam. You tired a little more at the mere thought.

“Alright then,” you finally nodded, beaming up at him with a relieved sigh, “thankyou very much, Fushiguro.”

“See? Easy,” he smiled in reply, “and for the last time, call me Toji, yeah?”

You couldn’t help but feel a shift in the energy when he finally stepped over the threshold and into your home, looking starkly out of place in the mellow sanctity of your front hallway. Harsh lines and dark contours in a sea of softness. Muted tones and family photos, kids finger paintings tacked to the fridge and little craft projects littering any flat surface.

“I’m sorry I don’t think I have any slippers in your size…” You murmured as you leaned down to unclasp the shiny little buckles of your sandals, toeing them off at the door in favor of a pair of plain house-slippers.

He nodded without reply and cleared his throat, head held high and eyes averted when you finally straightened back up. He wiggled his toes where they were pressed bare against the wood slats.

“It’s no problem.”

You bit your cheek against the urge to smile, and instead dipped your head and turned to begin walking down the hallway.

“It’s this way,” you called over your shoulder, hooking a finger in the air, “please follow me.”

If you’d felt unsure about having your neighbor in your entrance way, the feeling was tenfold with the sight of him craning his head as he stepped into the laundry room. As he straightened up, you watched his eyes catalog the space ever so subtly. It felt oddly intimate, and you felt a warmth begin to creep up your throat.

You toyed with the collar of your dress as he set the toolbox down, eyes lowered as he unclasped the closure and began emptying it of the needed equipment. You watched the motion of his hands pause for a fraction of a section, head tilted as he subtly eyed the basket of clothes tucked on the bench beside him. You followed his line of sight, and to your utter horror found a slip of black lace sitting blatantly at the top of the mountainous pile.

With embarrassment licking hotly up your nape, you stepped forward and quickly snatched the basket, tucking it to your hip with a quiet cough.

“My apologies,” you squeaked, angling your body to shield any more of your potential delicates from view, “Let me get that out of your way.”

“Sure,” came his smooth reply, seeming entirely unperturbed despite your sudden closeness. So much so that you wondered if you were overreacting, and he hadn’t noticed anything at all.

Still, you discarded the basket to an unused corner of the room out of sight nonetheless, and then began mindlessly tidying while Toji busied himself unscrewing the washing machine door.

As promised, no more than ten minutes later he was lifting himself to his feet with a low groan, nodding as he tucked a wrench back into the toolbox.

“What did I say?” He mused a little proudly, dusting his hands, “fixed in a flash.”

You turned your head away from where you had been color coding detergent boxes to gaze at the laundry machine, lips parted a little in awe.

“Wow, that was fast!” You chirped as your eyes wandered away from the shiny new hinge, trying to ignore the way the veins in his forearms popped from exertion, trailing in looping rivers down to his scarred knuckles. “Still, it must have been hard work. Why don’t you stay for a cup of tea?”

His lips parted instantly, and you raised a hand before he could utter a word in reply.

“And don’t decline like you usually do,” you teased, raising a lone brow at him, lips spread into a smile, “please, it’s the least I can do.”

He hesitated, looking as torn and mildly uncomfortable as you’d ever seen him. But when his eyes met your serious gaze he sighed and nodded in resolute defeat.

“Alright. I’ll only stay a minute.”

Not fifteen minutes later you were lowering a delicate tea set onto the coffee table in the center of your living room.

Two teacups and matching saucers printed in a blushed pink floral pattern clinked lightly as you shuffled utensils, slotting a sugar bowl and a milk jug in a delicate matching pattern onto the tabletop alongside a plate of cookies and delicately sliced lemons.

Satisfied with the spread, you straightened up. Both hands folded neatly over your front as you turned to fix the man who stood like a statue at the mouth of the room with a heartfelt smile.

“Please have a seat,” you invited with a gentle wave of your hand, motioning to the empty lounge while you took a few steps back toward the kitchen, “You don’t mind if I get some prep for the kids done while we drink?”

“Sure, It’s your house doll,” Toji nodded as he moved, easing himself onto the far end of the couch looking mildly uncomfortable, though he tried to hide it, “go right ahead.”

Turning your back, you tugged open the fridge and plucked a bag free from the lower drawer, sniffing at the earthy scent of the fresh vegetables tucked within. You busied yourself preparing them - scrubbing the dirt loose in the sink before you plucked a knife from the block and set the bundle atop a clean cutting board.

“I hope the tea is to your liking, Fushiguro-san.”

You spoke over the island as you worked, benefits of an open plan house meant you could chat while your guests relaxed, not that you entertained much these days.

When you peered over you found him gazing suspiciously at the contents of the cup before he took a slow sip, breath curling in steaming tendrils as he exhaled. You watched the shape of his shoulder slump a little with the breath, and he gazed at the teacup with a newfound appreciation as he lowered it back down to the saucer.

“It’s great,” he replied.

You smiled. “Excellent.”

You found yourself humming a little as you worked - dutifully slicing the vegetables into a range of shapes. Carrots became rows of soldiers, cucumbers sweet little hearts.

“So tell me Fushiguro-san,” you continued after a few minutes filled only by the sound of your steady chopping and his slow sips of tea, “how did you come to be so good with your hands?”

“I’ve taken a lot of odd jobs in my time,” came his voice from the lounge, “picked up a little something from all of ‘em.”

You made an appreciative sound, plucking another carrot free from the bag.

“Should teach me sometime,” you mused as you began to dice again, mind filling with pictures of your neighbor at work, that muscled form sweat soaked and strained, all filtered in a soft dreamy light, “I’m sure there’s a lot to lear- ouch!” 

You cut the sentence off with a hiss, blade clattering to the countertop. Your hands screwed tightly together at the sudden burst of stinging pain, severing the flow of blood to the finger you’d just sliced through.

Before you could blink Toji had shot to his feet, teacup abandoned to its little saucer, and by your next shuddered breath he was close, closer than you think you’d ever been to him. Big hands dwarfed your trembling ones, and he eased your finger out from when you were cradling it, eyes narrowed in assessment.

You watched his face, the twitch of his dark brows, and realized peering up at him then that you’d never noticed how green his eyes were, like little chips of jade as he peered down at your wound in scrutiny.

“Just a surface wound,” he diagnosed, voice light with relief and a touch of humor, “I think you’ll live.”

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, finding it difficult to conjure your voice with the way your pulse was racing, “I must have gotten distracted.”

“Stop apologizing so much,” he rumbled, eyes still down turned in scrutiny.

His hand slid, thumb teasing along your palm until his fingers closed around your wrist. You watched, a little dumbly, your lips pursed into a soft little ‘o’, as he lifted your bloody finger to his mouth.

You made an undignified sound high in your throat when the pad of your finger hit his tongue, doubly so for the tender sting of your cut against the wet heat of his mouth. You realized with a jolt of warmth that he was watching you, lips curled into a sly smile around the intrusion of your finger.

As quickly as it had occurred, he had slipped your finger from his mouth, instead thumbing at your palm like he were reading the lines etched there.

“No need to waste a plaster,” he murmured, eyes not leaving yours, “Y’know saliva has mild healing properties?”

You shook your head dumbly, still a little awestruck.

“No, I didn’t know that,” you breathed.

“You were right then, lots to learn, huh?” He smiled, an easy toothy smile that had the beginnings of butterflies thumping in your stomach. Your eyes flitted down to watch his lips part, ears pricked to hear his reply only for his mouth to settle into a smooth line. You blinked, and his expression had hardened, eyes turned back to stone, sharp and smooth as he peered over your head at something beyond your vision.

You craned your head to see why had him so prickled, and found a familiar face gazing back at you from the entryway.

Swallowing thickly, you took a few soft steps backward and tugged your arm free in favor of hugging yourself, mouth settled into a smooth line as you addressed your ex-husband.

“Geto,” You greeted. The lone word left you a little breathlessly, tone thick with familiarity, and yet still a little wrong - like a harp with a single string out of tune. You straightened, spine tugged up straight as an arrow, hands busied brushing nonexistent lint from your apron. “I’m sorry, I must have lost track of the time.”

You could feel Toji’s gaze burning a hole in the back of your skull, hotter still when he heard the sound of an apology begin to form on your tongue, a sound that was beginning to become familiar.

You were really standing here in your own home apologizing to this deadbeat?

“I’ll just get the girls,” You cleared your throat and took a few steps toward the kitchen window, chin lifted to call out through the screen. “Mimiko, Nanako - it’s time to go. Go and get your bags please!”

Left momentarily alone, Toji was the first to break the silence.

“Didn’t hear you knock,” he said smoothly, gazing down his nose at the man across the room. He looked relatively casual, unbothered. Though if you’d been close enough you could have caught the way the muscle in his thick jaw twinged beneath the press of his teeth.

Your ex-husband flashed a polite yet flat smile, hand lifted to flash a set of glittering keys, which he jangled lightly for effect.

“Let myself in.” He replied, eyes roaming in mild interest, the way you might peer down at a particularly interesting looking bug, “I don’t think I know you.”

“I’m the neighbor,” Toji answered, “just came over to help with some repairs.”

Geto’s eyes narrowed as they roamed the scene, though his tight smile didn’t fade, not even when his gaze settling on the tea set laid over the table.

“Repairs, huh…”

The air was thick when you turned back around. It was like the setup to some awful joke. You, your control freak ex husband, and your blisteringly hot neighbor walk into your living room…

You could feel a headache brewing, sharp and pounding, poking like an ice pick in the cavernous space behind your eyes. You’d wanted nothing more than to kiss your kids goodbye then trudge yourself to bed to sleep the weekend away, and maybe put on a fresh load of laundry. Now instead you found yourself stood in the middle of some sort of silent standoff between two emotionally constipated men.

Thankfully just as the start of some polite small talk was beginning to form on your tongue, the door to the back yard slid open and your two daughters burst through. They moved like a whirlwind through the doorway, tugging the screen closed behind them. Each had a backpack strung over either shoulder, their movement accented with the melodic jingle of little plastic key chains. You could hear them bickering, quiet biting comments that were becoming more and more sharp, quickly brewing into an argument.

With a sharp lungful of air exhaled swiftly through your nose, you forced a tight smile and strutted past the two men into the hall, easing into a squat so you were eye level with the twins.

“What’s the matter?” you asked, both hands raised to pet at either girls head, thumb smoothing down hairs messed from running around the yard, “aren’t you both excited to spend some time with daddy?”

Both girls nodded furiously, though their lips were warped into matching award-winning pouts.

“Yeah,” Nanako was the first to speak, “but you said I could hold bumblebee in the car.” She whined, pointing accusingly at the transformer clutched in Mimiko’s hands. It was hard to keep your composure, with the way her little bottom lip was beginning to tremble.

“Mimiko,” you began, voice soft as you addressed the other girl, “we did talk about this, you remember? Why don’t you take your new doll instead?”

With a few more words that began to edge on stern by the end, and just a little more whining, both girls were soon skipping out of the front door toward your ex husbands car - a sleek black coupe he certainly hadn’t owned during your seven years of marriage - each with a toy clutched proudly in their little hands.

You lingered by the doorway like an unfulfilled spirit, lips still tingling from where you’d pressed them to either girls foreheads in farewell. You traced your mouth, feeling the skin there soft like a petal against your fingertips. You always found it hard to say goodbye, even for such a small span of time as a single weekend.

Geto paused beside you in the doorway for a moment, watching the two girls climb into the backseat, before he turned around to face you once again.

Toji watched the scene play out from the living room. He watched your ex-husband’s eyes rake greedily over your body, at your arms wrapped around your stomach, curled in on itself. He watched the way the man’s lips spread into that same serpentine smile he’d worn when he first entered your home, the way he took a few purposeful steps toward you - crowding your space before he leaned down to murmur something low in your ear. 

Toji couldn’t see your expression, but he did catch the way the curve of your shoulders tightened all the same, stance rigid even when Geto finally stepped back over the threshold and you swung the door closed with a somewhat desperate ‘click!’.

With the two of you alone, once again that heavy permeating silence settled over the space. So thick that you felt it in your throat when you swallowed, dry and sharp like you’d gone days without water. Again, Toji was the first to break it.

“He’s got a key?” He questioned, a little unexpectedly, “You don’t think that’s a little unsafe?”

You rubbed a hand across your brows, paused where you were still poised by the front door with your arms wrapped like a blanket around yourself and your eyes screwed tightly shut. 

“I don’t think I need advice from a stranger, but thankyou,” you bit, maybe a little harsher than necessary, “Next time I want critique, I’ll ask.”

A beat of silence passed, heavy in the air between you before Toji whistled lowly.

You sighed, feeling your energy leak out along with the exhalation. Toji watched you move then, tired steps across the room until you slipped back behind the countertop, eyes lowered and hands busily shifting the dirtied utensils to the sink.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that,” you murmured after another few beats of contemplative silence, looping lashings of dish soap over the dishes, over the knife still smeared with your blood. “It’s the stress talking. Please forgive me.”

Toji followed you into the kitchen. A few lazy strides and he was leaning back into the opposite counter, expression hidden behind your back.

“‘S’alright,” he mused, voice a little softer now, “just saying - if anything happens, you come straight to me, okay?”

Your chest felt tight, throat burning with a rising wave of emotion. You were grateful that you had your back to him, the angle shielding the way your eyes were starting to water.

“Thankyou,” you replied, pleased when your voice came out steady despite the slight wobbling of your lower lip.

Toji considered you for a moment in silence, thick forearms crossed casually over his chest.

“Gotta say though, you do look a little tense.”

That earned him a chuckle.

“Y’think?” You replied, half laughing, half exasperated.

“Yeah,“ he agreed, and you could hear the smile teasing at the edge of his voice, “must be hard, taking care of them on your own like this. You ever get any time for yourself?”

You snorted, unable to quite stop yourself from smiling along with him, though you kept your gaze fixed firmly on the dishes, on the way heaping clusters of soft bubbles were beginning to form beneath the spray.

“Hah, now that’s funny,” You replied, lashes fluttering as the steam filtered upward, sweet with the lightly citrusy scent of the dish soap.

“No?” He pushed, “you don’t do anything at all to relieve all that stress?”

With the nearness of his words you realized suddenly just how close he was, evidently having taken a few steps toward you while you were occupied with the white noise of the tap drumming against the sink.

Just as you had worked up the courage to turn back around, you felt it - the slow press of his hands as they came to rest gently over either of your shoulders. You froze mid turn of the tap, fingers wrapped tightly around the spigot, unable to quite stop the way your breath caught in your throat.

“You know I’m good with my hands,” he assured, voice a low rumble just as soothing and warm as his touch, “no pressure, you say the word and I’m gone.”

“You’ve already done so much, and I-“

“Shhh,” he hushed, and you could hear every syllable of his next sentence closely now with the water stilled, “allow yourself something nice, just this once.”

Each big palm felt warm as hot stones as they moved, beginning to draw slow circles into the tense points of your shoulders. His thumbs rolled simultaneously, firm circles converging at the notches of your spine. Your head dipped forward, and it took every inch of your withering self restraint not to let free the breathy moan already forming on your tongue.

“Is this pressure alright?” Came his voice from behind you, dropped low enough that you strained a little to hear it properly. 

Not trusting your own voice, you simply nodded your head in reply.

“Good.”

He continued thumbing at the tender knots in your back, hands big and warm and just calloused enough to feel rough whenever his fingers dipped innocently beneath the neckline of your blouse.

With his sudden closeness you could catch the scent of him, a subtle tinge of fresh sweat, though not unpleasant. Just a little earthy where he’d been digging up garden beds. You leaned into it, catching the remnants of something cool and masculine lingering beneath. It was oddly comforting, the sort of profile you hadn’t smelt in a long time.

”This is… this is nice… thankyou Fushiguro,” you managed, grateful that your voice remained relatively steady despite how clearly breathless you were.

”Just being a good neighbor, doll,” he replied smoothly.

You all but melted into the touch, fingers gripping the benchtop for dear life as you tried to maintain composure while receiving what was likely the most contact you’d experienced in months, maybe even years at this point. Certainly nobody had taken their time with you like this since your divorce, well before then if you considered the countless nights your marital bed lay figuratively and literally cold. 

Before you could take a nosedive into that looming rabbit hole of memory, a roaming thumb dug into a particularly tight knot and you gasped aloud. Mortified, you slapped a hand over your mouth.

“Sorry,“ you swallowed hard, lips brushing against your clasped fingers, “that spots a bit tight.”

He hummed lightly somewhere behind you.

“Yeah, you do feel a little tight, doll,” he chuckled, “don’t worry though, don’t gotta be quiet with me.”

His hands resumed their slow massage, and you squeezed your eyes closed against the sudden dizzying wave of desire rolling over you. It coiled like a writhing serpent, heated and sticky in your belly.

“Poor thing, you really don’t get any relief do you?” Toji continued, hands still rubbing dutifully over your swiftly softening shoulders. “So what’s your vice, huh sweetheart? There’s gotta be something. You drink? Smoke? Nah, don’t seem like the type.” 

Your fingers curled and flexed over the bench top, beginning to heat, clammy beneath the press of your fingers. Here he was helping you out of the goodness of his heart, and you and your filthy sex-denied mind could do nothing but dream about what those rough hands would feel like dipping just a little lower, how that graveled voice might sound hitched with pleasure. 

Toji hummed, a rogue finger slipping beneath the delicate strap biting into the skin of your shoulder.

“Maybe you just get off, is that it? Maybe I’m not the only man you invite over under the guise of innocent household repairs and tea, hm?”

You let out a sharp, shocked sound, and lifted your head with the intention to spin around and face the man accusing you of such debauchery, only to find yourself utterly frozen beneath the press of his palms.

“C’mon, don’t act so coy,” he cooed, the firmness of his hold keeping you facing forward, “I saw those panties. Those aren’t sweet little stay at home mom panties. Those are ‘bend me over the kitchen counter and spank me ‘till I cry’ panties.”

“Don’t be crude, there are no other men,” You stuttered in return, unable to quite hide the way your voice trembled, “I bought those for myself.”

“So you just take care of yourself then, huh? All on your own?” He hummed, the fingers of one hand teasing up to clasp over your nape. “You slide into bed after everyone’s asleep and tug open that beside drawer of yours, don’tcha?”

You could do nothing but shiver beneath his touch, beneath his words, curling hot and salacious over the shell of your ear. He took your shuddered breath as confirmation, and his grin only stretched wider at the revelation.

“Lemme guess - a little vibrator. Something small and quiet, discrete like.”

You couldn’t help the little whine that slipped free, the purr of his voice in your ear and the way his thumbs were still drawing circles into your tender muscle was enough to knock your knees.

“Yeah, it’s probably real cute. Just like you, huh?”

You felt the weight of him shift behind you, a thick wall of heat pressed suddenly to your back. He walked you a few steps forward until your belly hit the island bench. The cool marble cutting into your hips in stark contrast to the warmth of his hands as they slid downward and began to tease at the soft curve of your waist, toying with the apron knot tied there.

“Or maybe it’s the washing machine. Is that why you were so keen for me to fix it? Do you put a load on deep clean, hike that skirt up and press your cute little clit against the corner? Grind on it like some needy bitch in heat until you cum your brains out?”

“That’s obscene,” you gasped, face blazing.

“Obscene, huh?” He echoed, so quietly you strained to hear it, too consumed by the feeling of his lips brushing your neck, the delicate scratch of stubble there. “I’m starting to think you like ‘obscene’, doll.”

You felt his lips part then, breath warm and sticky against your skin before he pressed a slow open mouthed kiss just below your earlobe.

“Oh…” you sighed, the sound highpitched and a little breathless. “Hah-… Fushiguro…”

Before you could quite fathom, kisses had turned to gentle suckling, his tongue laving hotly over your delicate skin until you were sure there was a spattering of dark slippery marks there.

“Didn’t I tell you to call me Toji?” He murmured into your skin between kisses, teeth grazing the spot he’d been suckling, sharp and dangerous against your throat.

“-ah… Toji…” you moaned.

He all but purred in response, a satisfied rumble that you felt against your back.

“Yeah, that’s it. Keep sayin’ my name, just like that.”

His hands roamed freely now, slipping from your waist to tug at the string knotted at your tailbone, working his fingers between the loops until it slipped free and sent your apron cascading down your shoulders, pooling between your slippers.

“Look at you, playing sweet little housewife,” he murmured into your hair, the delicate sensation sending a flurry of goosebumps prickling down your neck. “But your nobody’s wife anymore, are you doll?”

You couldn’t help the honest to god whimper that left you at his words, the icy cut of truth. Tenfold when you felt his hands slide up your belly and come to rest over either breast, where he began to massage the tender flesh in greedy heaping fistfuls.

“How long’s it been since someone touched you like this?” He murmured, running a fingernail over and then pinching gently at either sensitive nipple through the fabric, just to feel the way you jerked against him.

“T-too long.” You managed between a sucking gasp, hands gripping the edge of the counter so tight that your knuckles ached with the effort.

His hands slipped lower, groping shamelessly at your ass, your thighs - at the slip of plump fat peeking out below your modest skirt.

“C’mon, spread ‘em for me.” He prompted, toeing at the inside of your bare ankle.

On wobbling legs you shimmied your feet apart, and simultaneously a big hand came to rest on your lower back, rubbing soothingly up the line of your spine before he pressed down at the crux.

“Arch it now, c‘mon, you still remember how don’tcha doll?”

Swallowing hard, you leaned forward, following the pressure of his palm until your chest hit the countertop and your hips lifted into a sinful arch. The sensation was palpable - the marble smooth and cool against your skin through your blouse, tickling where his fingers had pinched your nipples to sensitive little peaks.

With a pleased sound, his hand shifted, slipping down to instead tug at the hemline of your skirt, hiked a little higher now thanks to your vulnerable position. He slid the fabric up slowly, revealing more and more of your silky skin, the air pebbling it to goosebumps before finally he hit the curve of your ass, and he paused.

“Well well, what do we have here?”

A snort sounded from behind you, and you buried your head in the crook of your arms with the realisation of what he was surely seeing.

“Oh my god,” you whined frantically, shaking your head, face beginning to heat, “just hurry up and take them off!”

Instead of doing as you asked, he looped a thick finger beneath the tie of your cheetah print bikini bottoms, and tugged back far enough that when he released it the elastic snapped against the skin of your hip. You jerked forward at the nip of pain, frowning backward at him from over the curve of your shoulder.

“Nah, need a good look at these first,” he chuckled, flourishing the taunt with a low whistle that had your blood pumping ever hotter. “Scandalous, sweetheart. You wear these to the local pool?”

“Of course not!” You exclaimed furiously, stuttering a little as he began to grope greedy handfuls of your bare ass, “can you-hn!- imagine what the other moms would say?”

“Mhmmm, oh yeah,” he purred, admiring the way the patterned material bunched beneath his grasp, “can just hear the jealous hags now.”

He ran a thumb ever so softly down the centre of your cheeks, tracing where the fabric dipped into what had become a rather cheeky g-string. The bikini had fit modesty at some point in your life, though those years were long behind you now - body filled out and softened now with the passage of time and the demands of motherhood.

“Y’know they talk big, talk mean, because deep down they’re jealous.”

“Jealous?” You mouthed, peeking over your shoulder with lifted brows.

He tugged one looped tie of the waistband free, drinking in the sight of your newly bare skin as the fabric slid down with half-lidded and hungry eyes.

“Mhm, ‘cause you’re the hottest woman in the whole damn town,” he hummed, “and whaddya think they’re gonna say when they find out what we’re doing right now, huh?”

He finally worked the last knot of the bikini bottoms loose, letting the sinful cheetah print slide down your thighs and land in a crumpled heap at your feet beside your apron. You buried your face into the countertop, breaths coming heavy now with the cool air kissing your now utterly bare lower half.

“The perfect little devoted mother letting a man like me bend her over her kitchen counter…”

His fingers replaced the delicate brush of his thumb and slipped down between your spread legs, teasing over your bare slit. You choked out an incoherent plea, for what exactly you weren’t sure, though any thought slipped away entirely when his fingertips found your clit and you all but collapsed into the bench at the contact, soft belly and forehead pressed hard against the marble. 

“Oh, Toji…” you groaned into the countertop, lips grazing the cool surface, humid now with your panting breath. 

You were suddenly thankful that he hadn’t turned you over, hadn’t guided you into the bedroom with peppered kisses and plush sheets. You didn’t need gentle right now. Didn’t need soft sweet missionary while holding hands - you needed the bite of teeth and the graze of nails, calloused hands gripping tight until you bruised. You needed hard and rough and wrong, and thankfully Toji Fushiguro was all of those things. 

“That stupid bastard doesn’t know what he’s missin’…” Toji growled, fingers beginning to rub tight little circles into you, “leaving you all alone ‘n empty like this, its just not right.”

You couldn’t answer, mind utterly empty aside from the feeling of his rough fingers grazing over your long neglected clit, the way you could feel yourself flutter when he dipped inside just an inch to slick his fingers with you before he was smearing it back over your twitching nub.

“‘S’okay, I’m here now, isn’t that right sweetheart?”

With his spare hand he tugged one of your legs up until you got the hint and lowered your knee to the countertop. His thumb hooked beneath your leg, pressing down to spread you ever wider.

He whistled, gazing greedily down at the sight of you spread so easily below him. Eyes drinking in the stretch marks striping over your waist, scars silvery in the cool light, the spattering of little dimples worn into the fat of your thighs and your ass. His other hand continued to work dutifully between your thighs, each rub beginning to sound sticky with the effort.

“Look at you, look so perfect like this,” He lifted a thumb, pressing the digit to your puckered rim.

You moaned something unintelligible, rocking back onto his hand, forcing his fingers to slip up through your folds - now painted in the sticky mess of your arousal. He chuckled behind you, watching the way you were all but grinding yourself on his fingers.

With a suddenness that made you whine he tugged his hand free, and the delicious pleasure of his touch was gone along with the simmering heat creeping to a boil in your belly.

“Don’t have any condoms, sweetheart,” he murmured regretfully like he had any intention at all to stop. 

“Doesn’t matter, promise I’m clean,” you pleaded, wiggling your hips like you could glean just a lick of friction from the motion, though the only thing it earned you was the mild slide of the countertop beneath, “please Toji, need to feel you, all of you.”

Toji groaned behind you, and a hand came to rest over your ass, pinching lightly before he applied a light slap just to watch the motion ripple over your plump skin.

“Fuck, doll,” he breathed, “you’re making it real hard for me t’ make good choices right now,”

Then came the metallic hum of a zipper being tugged slowly downward. If nothing else the sound was a trigger, stoking the pulsing throb between your thighs, so incessant now that it was beginning to ache.

Before you could offer any further words of encouragement, you felt it - a thick heat pressed against your rear. Toji, slotting his hips against yours. With a thrilled little zip of adrenaline you realized he wasn’t going to bother with working you open slowly, he wasn’t going to sweetly and tenderly stretch you with each of his fingers like a real lover might. What you felt now slipping through your slick folds was him, all of him - plain and simple and raw.

“Take a deep breath, sweetheart,” he murmured, breath hot against your skin.

You could barely hear the words for the sound of your own pulse hammering in your ears. Acquiescing, you parted your lips and sucked in a long lungful of air.

Toji waited until he heard your breath begin to fray at the edges - air drawn into the very corners of your lungs - before he nudged forward and knocked it clean out of you.

You choked on the next breath, struck by a searing sting as he pushed inside. Inch after inch after thick inch stretched you wider than you’d been in years. It was stunning, the culmination of sensation - the solid press of his broad form against your back, the weight of him sinking inside. Hot and tight and utterly consuming, a cocktail of feelings you’d long since forgotten.

“Oh god, Toji…” you whined, the sound pitched high and breathy, squirming against the marble, though his presence left very little space to move.

“Sh, that’s it, just a little more,” he shushed, though there was nothing soothing about the harsh press of his hips, “Shhh… nearly there, just let me…”

And with a final firm nudge, you were full.

“There you go, mmm-… that’s it sweetheart, good girl.”

To his credit, he allowed you a few moments grace just to acclimatize. You could feel him, every inch. Every pulsing vein decorating that thick shaft, every indulgent curve, the sticky head kissing so deep that a delicious little ache was beginning to bloom alongside the desirous pit of heat in your gut. 

“There you go,” he soothed, “just relax.”

You barely had the wherewithal to comprehend the cocktail of sensations before he was moving, rocking his hips in tight shallow little thrusts against your rear, kept nice and deep.

“Hm! Mhm! Hah.. ah!…” the sounds slipped free without thought, without care, knocked loose by each new buck of his hips.

“Fuck sweetheart, can see why you got so many kids,” Toji grunted, hand clenched into a fist over your skirt, scrunched into a bundle at your waist, “I’d never wanna pull outta this perfect fuckin’ pussy either.”

Your brain might have forgotten what it felt like to be fucked properly, but your body certainly hadn’t. Despite the lack of prep, despite the years you’d been left empty and neglected - your slick walls still sucked him in easily, pussy stretched and clenching desperately around his length like it was made just to take him.

“Oh god… there Toji, -hah-… hn… right there!” You cried, jostling limply back and forth with the force it.

Your bare toes curled where they were splayed limply to the side, slipper long since knocked free, abandoned along some stretch of tile. The other was beginning to come loose, slipping from your dangling foot with each thrust as you found yourself pushed further and further along the countertop.

“Right here?” He teased, hips angled until he hit a spot so tender that your eyes rolled into your skull and your lashes fluttered, “Yeah, feels good, huh mommy?”

You whined with a limp nod, slack jawed. The skin of your cheek slid over the smooth countertop, jammed forward with each firm thrust, the marble slick and wet with your pooling spit.

“Oh, you like that do ya'?”

His steady movements slowed to a torturous roll. Long aching thrusts pulled out until just the tip remained, before he slid back inside so deep that your legs were sent into a pleasured wobble.

“Wanna be a mommy again, ‘s that it? C’mon then mommy, show me just how bad you want it.”

You barely had the wherewithal to answer, certainly not enough to shatter the illusion by telling him your tubes were tied. So instead you simply ignored the trembling of your legs and pushed backward, hips rolling to meet each of his firm thrusts.

For maybe the first time since you'd met the man, you watched Toji stutter. For a few long moments he did nothing but watch you fuck yourself open on him through low-lidded eyes, using him shamelessly as he stood slack jawed, utterly lost in the rhythmic vision of himself disappearing inside only to slip back out glossy and coated with you.

It was only when you whined that he was tugged back to reality, his hand coming to grope at the fat of your ass, slamming you back down on his cock, again and again until you squealed.

“Shit, that’s it… knew you had it in you..." He was panting now, words beginning to slur a little at the edges as he lost himself in your silky heat.

You nodded your head mindlessly, squeaking out a sharp noise of surprise when his palm came down to slap the swell of your ass, hard. The sizzle of pain dipped lower instantly, dribbling into the pool of heat bubbling in your lower stomach.

You felt yourself clench with the residual sting of his handprint, and he groaned - leaning forward to drape his toned abdomen over the curve of your spine. You felt him nose at your nape, nipping lightly before his lips pressed flat and he began to suck a bruise into the fevered skin there. You writhed, smacking limply at the countertop either side of your head, fingers curled and nails scratching mindlessly into the glossy marble. 

“That sweet little housewife act, what a joke,” he huffed against your ear, “just about beggin’ me to bend you over, fuck you raw.”

He spoke the words into your skin like a promise, and you could feel his nose nudging at your nape, at the little hair curling there wet with sweat. His thrusts had softened somewhat, turned wide and sloppy at the edges as he instead ground himself into you. You simply squirmed against the weight of him, clenching and twitching helplessly around his cock.

“Ah- ah! Hah! ha- ah!” You panted, sweet little sizzles of pleasure zipping down your spine each time he rocked your forward and the motion forced your clit against the counter, rubbing in a slick glide over the marble, sticky where your collective arousal was beginning to pool. 

“Gonna give it t’ me aren’t you?” He pleaded, clearly just as gone as you were, “gonna let me cum inside, huh mommy? Gonna gimme another baby?”

Another? You didn’t have time to question him, didn’t have time to  think about anything at all, not with the way your belly was burning - a hot sizzling ache set to spill over with just one more thrust, just one more…

“Shit!” He cursed, and your own eyes rolled skyward.

With a final particularly vicious buck your vision went white as a snowbank, and suddenly you were cumming, hard. Harder than you think you’d cum in years. Shit, maybe decades.

You felt his forehead hit the space between your shoulder blades as he collapsed, muttered out a string of curses and low groans as he rutted himself into you, hips stuttering in a wild hump. You could feel him pulsing deep inside, throbbing in hard little kicks against your clenching walls as he filled you.

Your head was fuzzy with the heat of it, and your ears rung with the hot rush of your own pulse. The kitchen was silent aside from your collective panting, and your own breathy moans as you rode out the residual sparks of pleasure, twitching mindlessly around where he was still buried deep inside. 

He laid over you like a concrete slab for a few moments, body firm and hot, chest sticking to your back. Even through the fabric you could feel the heat of him, the delicate tap of his pulse against your shoulder blades.

With an almost pained grunt he lifted himself up and slipped from you, though his hands remained braced around your hips, a steady presence as you eased yourself back to your feet.

The cool tile kissed your bare soles for only a few seconds before you were lifting a hip to the counter and sliding atop it, grimacing only a little at the slick squelch of your collective spend soiling the marble.

You took a moment to indulge in the sight of him, and he gazed back at you with half-lidded eyes, looking messed and a little drunk in the afterglow. His hair hung in inky strands over his eyes, cheek bones flushed and tanned skin warmed to a rosy pink. Just the same as when he’d greet you after a long afternoon spent pulling weeds and planting fresh sprouts in his garden, all sun-kissed and sweat dappled, gorgeous.

“Could you pass me my purse, please?” You asked, nodding your head to the bag tucked on the counter behind him.

He lifted a brow at you but offered no words of argument, hand lowered to tuck himself back into his jeans and tug the zipper up as he turned to retrieve the bag. You drank in the sight greedily, the sinful curve of his muscled back, waist turned to nothing but a narrow slip with the severe angle. You managed to tear your eyes free just as he spun around to face you again, taking a few steps forward to slip the bag into your outstretched hands.

“Thankyou,” you praised as you tugged the clasp open, rummaging through the purse for a few moments before you pulled out a well-worn pack of cigarettes.

Plucking one loose, you slotted it between your plump bitten lips and abandoned the pack to the counter. When you lifted your head you found that Toji was grinning.

Tilting your head, you lifted an eyebrow, wiggling the stick between your lips expectantly. Toji chuckled, hand already stuffed into his back pocket to fish a lighter free. He shook his head, still smiling, and stepped forward. One hand clasped around the old Zippo, and the other cupped around your mouth in a motion that felt practised. With a metallic flicker your face was illuminated with a warm glow. His fingertips grazed your cheek, and you sucked in a slow mouthful, watching from beneath your lashes at the cherry sizzling to life.

Toji stepped backward and flicked the lighter closed, watching you lift a hand, delicate fingers closed around the stick. You pulled the cigarette free and exhaled, and with the swirl of smoke between your teeth came a low satisfied sound. Toji watched the tendrils of smoke cloud your face, then flitter skyward.

“Full of surprises, aren’t you doll?” He mused, jade eyes glinting as he stepped in close, one palm planted either side of you, caging you against the counter.

As he moved his finger hooked over the lip of one of your delicate teacups, which he tugged along until it came to rest beside your relaxed thigh. 

Your lips lifted to a smile, and you turned, twisting a little to tap the singed end of the cigarette into the cup, watching it dissolve into the remnants of tea still swirling at the bottom.

With your movement came a sticky squelch, and both of your eyes dropped instantly to the source of the sound. You spread your legs slightly, spare hand lowered to lift the hem of your skirt. Toji barely managed to swallow the sharp sound that threatened to escape him at the reveal of your bare cunt. Your swollen folds, the spatter of coiling hair smeared with your shared arousal, the sight of his spend beginning to leak out of you in hot milky dribbles.

You sighed, lower lip pushed into a pout as you watched the mess that was forming on the countertop between your legs. “I’m going to have to clean again.”

Without word Toji lowered himself to his knees, hands abandoning the counter to instead wrap around either of your thighs and tug you to the edge.

You took another drag and peered down at him through the curling tendrils of smoke. The sight of him kneeling beneath you - thick thighs lightly spread, eyes peering up at you from beneath dark lashes - was enough to send a fresh jolt of desire through your aching body.

You bit your lip, feeling your pussy twitch with interest, and from the look of his quickly tightening jeans you imagined that he wasn’t very far behind you.