#mel writes

You're calling Shouta "Daddy."

Not even calling, really—you're crying. Big, fat tears which roll down the apple of your cheeks and strike clean through the blush settled on their peaks. The sight is distracting. Hitoshi isn't sure there's enough blood left in his brain to do anything but leer at how Aizawa's form swamps your own—your pretty hands scrabbling at the bicep tucked around your neck, your throat working around strangled, shallow gasps.

He's never seen you from this angle before, so when Aizawa snaps his hips into you, Hitoshi watches both your toes curl and your hips rise from the bed like a wave cresting with some strange out-of-body feeling. As though he’s an incorporeal being merely floating by the scene.

With Aizawa's weight settled atop you, pressing you flat to the bed, there isn't far for you to go.

Hitoshi swallows.

You cry again—a sweet, high-pitched noise of alarm—and Hitoshi's fingers tighten in his pants, twisting the fabric beneath fingers like a child as he’s drawn to soothe the noise through pure Pavlovian response. He has to remind himself that, for once, he isn't in charge of the scene.

Not tonight.

"Daddy."

A brush of lips on your sweaty nape. "What is it, sweet girl?"

Your expression screws up as though it's a slice of paper put to flame. "Please, I— I—"

Heat crawls up Hitoshi's spine at the panic lacing your voice. The lilting vowels and consonants so familiar to Hitoshi suddenly sound foreign. He doesn't recognise your headspace, and if the way you buck under Aizawa's hold like a spooked animal is any indication, neither do you.

Aizawa squeezes your waist with a big hand. "Words."

"Dad-dy," you repeat, a sob fracturing the word in two. "I—" You suck in a quick breath, exactly the way you do when you're trying to suppress more tears.

Hitoshi bites his tongue so hard he tastes blood. Are you okay? Aizawa doesn't appear worried, but he never does. While Hitoshi trusts his Sensei with his life, entrusting him with yours is a different ball game entirely. He finds his fingers itching to reach out and touch you.

"I can't." Shaking your head, you press your cheek into the comforter miserably, and Aizawa lays his cheek atop yours.

"Yes, you can."

"No—"

"You can," Aizawa repeats, nothing but confidence to be found in his tone. He slows his movements down, grinding deep and slow inside until you're able to gulp in a few big, shuddering breaths.

Hitoshi likes seeing you cry when you're feeling good.

This is… this is decidedly not that.

The pout twisting your lips is nothing short of overwhelmed. Wetness clumps your lashes. Splotches of red decorate your face. And yet, Hitoshi feels the arousal rush to meet him like a physical force, sweeping him under as though caught in a rip current and carried out to sea.

Why is he into this?

Why is he into his girlfriend crying because she's fighting subspace as another man fucks her? Not even another man—Aizawa. Sensei, pseudo-father figure, and friend all rolled into one mess of a relationship.

Surely this isn't right.

Then his gaze drifts up to Aizawa, and he realises… maybe it is. Because Aizawa is staring down at you with an expression nothing short of smug, the corner of his mouth quirked upwards into the most irritatingly attractive expression Hitoshi has seen in his life.

And isn't that another realisation…

Hitoshi trembles slightly as the ferocity of his arousal worsens.

He could jerk off. He knows he could. But he's never been great at keeping quiet, and if either of you acknowledges Hitoshi's involvement in this scene, even as an uninvolved third party, he might spontaneously combust in the most humiliating death of all time.

"Words," Aizawa murmurs, when you seem only an inch more lucid than before. Though he punctuates it with a particularly deep roll of his hips, the hand on your waist lifting you slightly to meet him, and you keen like you've been shot.

Because he's mean.

Meaner than Hitoshi thought he would be, anyway.

Yet, you don't seem to hate it. The opposite, really. You raise your hips further—it must feel good, the way his thick cock is splitting you open—and Aizawa switches attitudes abruptly, forcing your hips back down in a blink. Somehow, this makes you moan the loudest.

Hitoshi manhandles you in bed. He throws you around, slaps you when you ask, ties you up and fucks you until you're babbling so good so good 'toshiii. So perhaps it's truly the fact that he's never seen seen you from this perspective that's skewing his own, but he's sure you've never sounded quite so pathetic about it—as helplessly turned on as you do now. As though you're powerless under Aizawa’s touch and enjoying every second of it. The thought sends a fission of arousal lancing straight through Hitoshi's sanity and heat curls into the cavernous reach like a cat. Hitoshi slouches further in his chair, thighs spreading wide and hisses when his hard cock brushes the seam of his pants before wincing at the fact he’s made any noise at all.

You appear to search your brain for a few seconds before moaning another guileless, "Daddy."

"Hm?"

Aizawa is plastered over you from head to toe. You sigh when he presses his knees against the outsides of yours, forcing your legs tighter together. Hitoshi knows from experience you love the drag of a cock inside you like this—how it stretches you perfectly, strokes your pussy just right, the pressure high enough to have your head swimming.

You love how you're forced to take it when you're trapped under Hitoshi.

When you're trapped under Aizawa, too.

"What are you whinin' for, huh?"

"I'm not," you exhale shakily. "I'm not whining."

"Oh yeah?"

You shake your head petulantly.

"Not whining on my cock?" Aizawa slows to a stop and both men watch the way you bite back a noise of complaint, desperate not to prove his point. "Not scarin' poor Shinsou here?"

Hitoshi lurches at the reminder that this is happening. That he's merely sat and watched as Aizawa has fucked you silly. Your bleary gaze falls to Hitoshi, and he tries his best to look normal.

If the small quirk of your lips is anything to go by, he failed.

Your voice is small when you ask, "Y'scared, 'tosh?"

Hitoshi shakes his head, mutely.

Aizawa raises an eyebrow.

Hitoshi straightens slightly. "No, I'm—" He clears his throat. "No, baby."

"Liar," Aizawa accuses blandly, eyes slitting in amusement.

You bristle, the palms you have pressed to the comforter suddenly trying to push you upright; as though the possibility of Hitoshi not being into this isn't funny to you, as though you're being dragged from the space you were so close to with an abruptness that brings only strident. Aizawa stops the motion easily, his chest barring you from getting any further than a scant few inches from the bed. You let out an uneasy noise from the back of your throat.

"Hey, hey."

Your eyes are fixed on Hitoshi. "Let me up."

Hitoshi can't find the words to soothe you.

"Sweetheart—"

"No. Let me up."

Aizawa sighs—quiet and long-suffering—before releasing his bicep from around your neck, grabbing your chin in the same big hand and forcefully turning your head downwards. You bristle at the manhandling this time and try to rip your chin away. He doesn't budge, though, shaking your jaw once sharply.

"Look."

"Shouta," you growl, lowly.

"Does Shinsou really look scared to you?"

For a second, Hitoshi thinks you're going to fight the older man again. Instead, you hesitate and do as he says.

You look.

Your gaze drifts up from Hitoshi's feet. He fights to keep still under the worried heat of it. Only moments before you reach his crotch, Hitoshi realises exactly what Aizawa is playing at and blood rushes to his cheeks. He sits up quickly, flexes his fists on his legs. He can't cover his dick because you're his fucking girlfriend and you've seen it before and more importantly, it would only make him look super guilty.

Like incriminatingly so.

Your eyes land on his crotch.

Hitoshi wants to sink into the floor as he watches your body lock into a kind of stillness he's only ever seen in nature documentaries, right as a predator spots its prey. It's not a dynamic Hitoshi is used to with you and his eyes blow wide in surprise, dick twitching in his boxers. You notice. He knows you do.

Does Aizawa notice, too?

Fuck, he hopes not. This is humiliating enough as is. He knows once the two of you get back to your flat, he's never living this down.

He has no idea what his expression is right now, but it can't be anything good.

"Y'see?" Aizawa asks quietly, right by your ear.

You nod, still staring at Hitoshi's straining cock.

"He's scared because he's never seen you like this."

You swallow. Blink slowly.

"Never seen you fucked into silence."

Some emotion caught between shame and arousal washes over Hitoshi.

Is that true? Has he not been treating you right?

Experiencing a similar awakening of your own, you wriggle under Aizawa. He only braces his palms on the comforter, either side of your tits, and starts up a harsh rhythm again, fucking into you without remorse. You let out a startled moan, collapsing bonelessly into the sheets.

"Guess you needed a real daddy, hm?"

At that, you really do cry. An awful sound, tangled high in pleasure and embarrassment, which snakes across the room to settle on Hitoshi's shoulders like a curse. Aizawa fucks into you as though you're rabbits in heat, muscled limbs weighing your own down to the bed and Hitoshi feels like he's losing his mind a bit, so he can't imagine how you're feeling. Sole subject to his mentor's fierceness. Limbs pinned like a butterfly's wings.

Your eyes flutter. "Fuck-nghhh— yesyesyes!"

"Y'call Shinsou daddy, too?" Aizawa asks conversationally. "Let him treat you like this?

Gasping, your palm hits the comforter once, as though you need some sense of control in the face of Aizawa's onslaught.

Aizawa grins, thick thighs tensing with each thrust. "You shouldn't, you know. It goes to people's heads."

"Ohmygod."

"Feel good?"

"Yeah— yes."

"Good."

A moan lights up the air. Even Hitoshi smiles at that noise—Aizawa wasn't calling you good, but you've reacted as though he was all the same. He loves how you respond so freely to praise, instinct overriding any overthinking. There's something so… sweet about it.

About you, really.

Naturally, Aizawa recognises you for what you are immediately.

"You want me to tell you how good you're bein' for me?"

Expression flashing, you arch deeper into the bed, presenting yourself to him.

"How gorgeous you look right now."

A broken whine. More tears.

"How well you're takin' me."

Your thighs tremble violently, legs bending at the knee and kicking up into Aizawa. You don't seem like you're trying to escape. Not with how you're also biting your lip raw to stifle your moans. Out of nowhere, Aizawa changes the angle, shifting higher up your body to drill down into you and the reaction is instantaneous—like a forest fire to bone dry tinder. Even Hitoshi inhales at the slick noise of Aizawa's cock fucking your dripping pussy, the sight of your brain quieting right in front of him.

Aizawa chuckles, though it's tense, lined by the pleasure he's clearly trying hard to ignore for your benefit.

"You always this sweet for Shinsou?"

It's a pointless question.

You're drooling into the comforter, small fingers tangled in the sheets like you're holding on for dear life. You try to suck in a breath, but Aizawa fucks the answer out of you within a second. You never stood a chance.

Instead, Aizawa turns his head to Hitoshi.

He jolts at being remembered.

Jolts again at the molten arousal in his Sensei's eyes.

"Uhhh, she's usually…"

You let out a high whine, animalistic in quality. Both men glance at you for a second, at the way you're slipping through your own fingers with every thrust.

"…more… lucid," Hitoshi finishes lamely.

"Is that right?"

Hitoshi suppresses a shiver at his gravelly tone. He nods.

Aizawa's lips quirk up.

The new angle appears to be your undoing, because very quickly you're tumbling back into teary-territory—wet lines streaking down your face as you get flung towards your edge.

"Daddy," you sob.

"Daddy's here."

"Da—" you suck in a shuddering breath, "—ddyyy."

"I know, baby."

You must tighten around Aizawa because he releases a low, choked moan and you respond to the sound like a flower blooming in the sun—squeezing around him again, fingers twitching with the urge to touch when you can't do anything but take what Aizawa is giving you.

You hiccup. "I'm—"

"You close?"

"I'm close," you echo.

Aizawa fucks into you faster somehow, and you all but bow off the bed, trapped between sweaty sheets and his hulking body—your orgasm clearly biting at your heels.

Hitoshi would know.

"Ah, ah, ah, ah—"

Can read desperation in your climbing voice. Delirium in your glassy eyes. Mind-numbing pleasure in the severe quakes lining your entire body, as though you can't take much more, as though you'll meet your edge and be lost in its abyss.

"Please, daddy."

Aizawa doesn't say a word, dragging his palms up the bed until he's pressing his big hands over your forearms. You whine, the noise spun out endlessly with each wet schtick of Aizawa's cock slamming into your pussy until it's one continuous mewl, until it's barely anything more than mindless crying. Hitoshi's sanity is in tatters—his mind swimming in the knowledge that all it takes to get you like this is apparently Aizawa's low murmurs and his older cock. Your fingers spasm on the bed and Aizawa slides his hands up your arms, tangling his fingers over yours to press them into the bed harder.

You let out a choked sob. "Please, pleaseplease—"

Aizawa brushes his stubble over your shoulder, biting down lightly on your shoulder.

"Daddy's got you."

You gasp. "Don'tstopdon'tstop!"

Turning your head to the side, you search blearily for Aizawa's eyes. He tilts his own and meets your gaze. Hitoshi watches quietly as your own flick down to his Sensei's lips, as the idea of kissing him crawls into the forefront of your mind, exactly how it always does with him when you're close. When you want to cum with Hitoshi's mouth on yours.

Aizawa watches you carefully. You lean forward, a whine on your lips begging to be pressed against his. Hitoshi waits with bated breath for the moment you both connect. At the last second, you stop. Wide eyes flicker to Hitoshi's, a clear question in them and feeling for the first time tonight like he's back in control, even if for a brief blink, Hitoshi straightens and nods his chin.

"Go on."

You whimper in relief, wasting no time as you immediately turn to Aizawa and kiss him, wet lips parting to lick into his mouth, shame a long-forgotten concept with Aizawa bullying into you. Sensei's eyes don't close fully, but it's a near thing, and he returns your hungry kiss with just as much heat—tipping his head to deepen it with a groan from the back of his throat.

You sink into the kiss like someone coming home, all worries and anxieties and thoughts left at the door for tomorrow. All the matters is now, Aizawa on you, in you, coaxing you right where he wants.

Hitoshi's dick twitches again, and he slides his palms under his thighs.

You press a broken whine into Aizawa's mouth.

Aizawa swallows it easily before raising himself up slightly—cock still fucking your wet heat, fingers still tangled with yours—and breaking apart for a breath. Hitoshi watches a string of spit lengthen until it snaps, hitting your cheek to become indistinguishable from the tears spilling with each thrust. His Sensei pants an inch from your mouth. Then, he's lifting his head higher and waiting for yours to echo his movements.

Inevitably, you do. Your head tipping back to stare at him, cock-drunk.

Aizawa smiles, something small.

"Open your mouth," he murmurs.

There's no hesitation as your lips drop open obediently.

Hitoshi watches, shell-shocked for a reason he doesn't want to face, as Aizawa drops a glob of spit into your waiting mouth.

You light up, moaning louder than he's heard all night, and he finds out why a second later as you cum—body shaking through your orgasm. Face screwed up in surprise, thighs trembling fiercely. Aizawa fucks you through it in a way that can only be described as mean. Quick, fast thrusts that quickly have you gasping, choking air into your lungs, hands pushing up against where Aizawa has them pinned as you ride out the blinding pleasure.

Hitoshi's hips kick up into the air at your broken keens.

Maybe he can touch himself… it's not like either of you will notice right now. And he's so hard that if he doesn't do something soon, he'll have no blood left to drive you both home after this, and surely that can't be safe. Driving with a boner has got to be somewhat like driving while tired… right? Nodding to himself, he frees a hand from under his thigh to drop it down atop his cock. He hisses at the light pressure and grinds the heel of his palm along his hard length, biting his lip.

Your whines get louder as Aizawa fucks you right through your orgasm and into oversensitivity. Hitoshi can hear the wet squelch of your pussy sucking in Aizawa's cock despite your little pained whimpers.

"Shouta," you plead.

Aizawa snaps his hips into you cruelly.

You correct yourself without missing a beat. "Daddy."

"There you go."

Hitoshi shivers.

Then, abruptly, Aizawa slides out of you. Neither of you is expecting it, if yours and Hitoshi's twin inhales are anything to go by.

A whine gets punched out of your chest at the emptiness and when Aizawa lifts his weight from you, it seems the combined absence of everything him is enough to have a fresh bought of tears spilling down your face. You slump into the bed like a puppet with its strings cut and press your face into the comforter pitifully as your body trembles through the aftershocks. Hitoshi watches Aizawa crawl down your body and peer at your swollen cunt. He palms at the globes of your ass. You jolt, clearly not expecting the touch. It's this side of sweet—thumbs stroking at the crease where your ass meets your thighs, long fingers squeezing the flesh like a stressball.

Then, he tightens his grip.

Hitoshi has barely a moment to wonder what he's doing before Aizawa is using his hold to expose your cunt further and lift your hips from the bed slightly. You make a low noise of discontent at being manhandled so soon after cumming.

Even from where he's sat, Hitoshi can see the arousal slicking your folds and the creamy white dripping down to your clit. The longer Aizawa keeps you like this, the further it leaks over your swollen folds.

Luckily, his Sensei has never been a patient man.

The only warning you get is Aizawa gently blowing air on your clit before he's licking a lazy, wide stripe up your core as though mimicking a big cat preening their young.

You light up like a firework.

"No—" you gasp, "daddy, no!"

Aizawa swirls his tongue around your clit and sucks, humming airily. You jolt as though electrocuted. Hitoshi supposes it isn't that far off. Not with the way you immediately tense up, legs kicking out helplessly. Aizawa isn't even holding your down anymore, but you still can't move—boneless and held in place by your hips as easily as one would a child.

"Please, it's too much— I— ahhh-nghh—"

Aizawa fucks his tongue back into you and moans. His clear noise of pleasure only seems to make you panic further.

"No, nonono—"

Hitoshi finds himself leaning forward in his seat subconsciously, following your call like an ancient summons. Something so intrinsically written in his DNA, he can't ignore it.

He should say something, right?

Tell Sensei to stop.

For some reason, he opens his mouth and cannot find the words.

Hitoshi brushes an anxious hand back through his hair, sweeping it off his forehead, and shifts uncomfortably in his chair.

Aizawa's ruby eyes flicker over to him at the movement. Face still buried in your cunt, he leans back enough to bite out a sharp, "Sit."

The word lances through Hitoshi's dazed panic before he even registers it as a command. His spine locks immediately, and he presses it against the chair's back as though cornered by Aizawa’s voice. He hadn't been planning on getting up, despite his ruminations on interrupting, but he certainly isn't going to now. The command pools like liquid honey in his stomach as he silently wonders what the hell is wrong with him.

Aizawa licks at you, sliding his tongue inside again within a blink and forgetting about Hitoshi just as quickly. Meanwhile, he's still reeling from being chastised in this context.

Your cries, somehow, aren't the loudest thing in the room.

Because sure, he's been scolded by Aizawa countless times. Cuffed over the head and yanked back by the collar and levelled with looks that could topple villains. Yet here he is—inarguably aroused by his Sensei directing a slice of that dominance on him.

"Hurts," you whimper lowly.

"I know it does." Aizawa presses a kiss to your clit. "Doing so good, sweetheart."

You settle at once, though not without a quiet sniffle.

Hitoshi feels much like he's drifting out at sea with no hope of finding land. No life raft. No meager drift wood to cling to until he's saved.

He watches you sink deeper while he's drowning himself.

Aizawa leans back and trails a glob of spit onto your pussy.

You moan.

"Daddy," you turn your head, "'s' t'much."

Hitoshi stares unseeingly at your foggy expression, hears through layers of cotton the slurring of your words.

Sensei doesn't stop.

"You're okay," he murmurs into your cunt.

You keen at the vibrations, arms splaying wide, feet kicking out. Pretty face smushed in Aizawa's comforter as though you belong there. If anything, the slack leash on your composure only seems to spur Aizawa on more, who squeezes your ass in two big hands, lifting you higher to eat up into you like a starving man with his final meal. The temperature in the room is rising; Hitoshi can feel sweat beading along his collar despite barely moving; you are covered in a thin sheen of perspiration.

Aizawa almost purrs against you, and your spine arches so deeply it looks as though it should hurt. A drawn-out whine tipping into the first vestiges of pleasure once more.

"Daddyyy—"

You don't sound like you're complaining anymore.

By Aizawa's rumbling laugh into your cunt, it's clear he's realised the same.

Pleasure licks up Hitoshi's spine as he grinds his hand down against his cock, and he exhales a shaky sigh—thighs spreading, spine relaxing from its rigid posture into his chair’s soft back. His eyes flicker between Aizawa's wet face, buried in your cunt as though he's trying to carve a home for himself there, and the way you're gasping and writhing and crying into the comforter, like it's a tennis match.

Hitoshi's dick twitches under his hand when you try to squirm away—clearly panicking as the pleasure creeps back up on you in the face of Aizawa's relentlessness—only for his Sensei to tug you backwards as easily as breathing, straight onto his waiting mouth, two large hands spanning your hips and digging into the meat painfully.

You cry out, hips spasming.

Hitoshi watches through some kind of fog as Aizawa stops fucking his tongue into the mess you've made and drags it down to your clit instead, mouth closing around the sensitive bundle of nerves much like an airlock on a spaceship.

You know you can't escape. Hitoshi does too.

He's not even sure he could escape his Sensei.

But you seem much more confident to try, chest heaving and fingers clutching the comforter like you're holding on for dear life as your hips jolt up and down. Hitoshi's not even sure it's a conscious movement, but Aizawa follows you easily, abusing your clit and your sensitive cunt with his tongue and his mouth and the attractive scruff on his face.

You get no reprieve.

A loud slurp rings in the air, right as Aizawa sucks your clit into his mouth, and you almost yell, a shrill, strangled noise caught in the back of your throat begging to be heard. You turn your head to the side and search for Hitoshi's gaze. Hitoshi takes in your blown-out eyes and the glassy way you stare at him in supplication. His heart stutters in his chest.

"Daddy," you stretch out a hand towards him along the bed, breath hiccuping, "help."

At that, Aizawa stills. Hitoshi tenses a moment later. You don't even seem to realise you've said anything wrong. Fingers lifting to grab at Hitoshi as though pure will could summon him to your side. Sensei lifts himself from your cunt a few inches to utter carefully.

"'Daddy,' huh?"

Aizawa's tone bites at his ankles. The urge to run far away from the older man and drag you with him rises, flash flood-fast.

"Shinsou can't help you, sweetheart. Not tonight."

Your whimper cracks the air like a whip.

"You think he's going to come save you?" Aizawa asks, hands kneading your ass.

You gasp when he slides a thumb between the two globes, only to drag it up and down your swollen folds. He circles your clit once, twice, enough to hear a hitch in your breath, before he presses his thumb inside your cunt and hooks it. Your hips drop down to the bed without both his hands holding you up. His Sensei doesn't seem bothered, though, content to let you flump under his touch.

"He's sat there getting himself off, sweet girl."

Hitoshi's hand flies from his cock and to the safety of the chair seat embarrassingly fast. He had almost forgotten—had been grinding against his palm like a teenager and so wrapped up in the fantasy before him, despite still scarcely believing it to be real.

"Little pervert loves this."

Aizawa nods his chin at Shinsou like he's showing you, despite your face still being buried in the sheets as you whimper lowly at every brush of Aizawa's fingers over your clit, every twitch of his thumb inside you.

"Seeing you crying on my cock," he continues through a small grin. "My face."

At the reminder, Hitoshi's eyes flicker to Aizawa's mouth—glistening with your slick in the low light of his bedroom. He trails upwards and almost exits his own body when he sees his Sensei's dark gaze locked onto him.

How long has he been staring?

Aizawa's next words are directed at you; Hitoshi knows they are, but the way his Sensei doesn't glance away has him twitching in his slacks. "You're stuck with me tonight."

Hitoshi feels a wave of fire consume his thoughts for a rational second.

"Jesus."

The first word Hitoshi has uttered tonight, and great… he sounds like a fucking idiot.

A bleary set of curious eyes flickers over to him. He can feel the blush staining his face and fights to keep a straight face despite the way he can feel precum leaking from his tip and wetting his boxers.

There's a suspended moment of quiet and then a gentle slap echoes in the room.

"Ohhh…" You bow from the bed immediately, back curling up like a cat's.

It takes Hitoshi a second to figure out what happened, but he catches on just in time to see Aizawa's fingers—his thumb still hooked inside you—lifting from your pussy and landing in another wet smack.

"Hh—nghh—"

His fingers smooth over your clit in apology. Three more slaps in quick succession—each wet plap further stuttering the gasp you try to inhale.

You hide your face back in the sheets and release a muffled whine. "Da—a-ddyyy."

Hitoshi swallows. You don't sound like you anymore, voice high and ready and plaintive in a way he so rarely hears—if ever. A part of him wants to panic. But he knows Aizawa has got you. Can read it in the confident tilt of his body, the assured look on his face. If Hitoshi had to guess, he had this scene planned down to the minutiae from the moment you brought it up.

You're only playing right into his hands.

"More?"

You shake your head into the bed and press a dull, pathetic whine there. Aizawa delivers another slick slap to your clit, and you shiver, hips jerking once instinctively.

"Can't think, huh?"

You shake your head again.

"That's alright," Aizawa murmurs kindly, pressing a small kiss to the back of your thigh—right on the crease where it meets your ass. "Daddy can think for you."

Hitoshi watches as those words fall over you like a weighted blanket, the only thing tethering you to this world, he's sure. For your expression loses all its indignant colour at once, smoothing out into a calm ocean. It's almost disquieting. Hitoshi knows you carry too much, knows you struggle to leave it at the door—knows what you really need is someone to force you to drop it. He didn't expect Aizawa to catch on this quickly. As though he's had years to learn you inside and out the way Hitoshi has, and not a matter of an hour, if that.

The corner of Aizawa's lips quirk up, though this time it's less mean and more pleased. Hitoshi swallows at the way you're spread out like a waiting sacrifice. Without hesitation, Aizawa dips back down and licks into you once more, tongue flicking inside you alongside his thumb. Your gasp is muted. All your subsequent sounds too. As though they're being forcefully filtered before they can be heard, and all that's meeting the air is you at your core, peeled back and bare and so raw, Hitoshi could cry.

He doesn't.

But it's a near thing. Especially when you close your eyes and start to bask in the attention Aizawa is lavishing on you, hips drawing back and forth to meet his mouth.

His Sensei hums happily into you.

You whimper in response, as though there's nothing better to you than hearing your partner pleased, than the knowledge that you're doing something right, doing good.

Hitoshi bites his lip. Between one blink and the next, his hand finds its way back to his cock—grasping the shape of himself through his pants and stroking it firmly. His hips jump up from the chair at the first wholehearted touch.

He wants more.

Wants to get his cock out and stroke himself until he's cumming all over the smart shirt he put on earlier this evening when he was still a bundle of nerves at the prospect of Aizawa fucking his girlfriend. But he forces himself to be happy with the heavy petting, instead. Anymore, and it would mean admitting quite how much it's turning him on to see his beloved Sensei turn you into a sobbing mess.

In his eagerness to consume you, Aizawa is near unhinging his jaw—tongue licking wide stripes up your pussy, dipping inside you, curling around your clit. You tremble beneath it all, body melting into the sheets and hands twitching absently at each touch. You seem overwhelmed. Like your edge is approaching closer than you thought it would. Your hips rock back onto Aizawa's face more insistently, and he matches you easily, doubling down his efforts until you're releasing a litany of sweet, short whines consecutively—toes curling and shins kicking upwards at the knee.

Hitoshi can smell the sweat in the air—see the beads of perspiration catching the light along the dips and curves of your body. Aching to taste, his jaw unsticks itself from the iron grip it's been held in, and a small sound of arousal meets the air. Hitoshi winces immediately, but neither of you notices, not when you're a breath away from cumming, nor when Aizawa is clutching you like a meal—all big predator hands and tongue.

"Closecloseclose, 'm close, daddy-nghhh, daddy—"

Aizawa hums into your cunt, pulling out his thumb, petting one hand down your thigh and tightening his fingers there, using his hold to splay you open further. Your hands jerk out. One stretched wide and clutching the bedspread. Another flinging back in an effort to find Aizawa's.

"Daddy," you plead.

Sensei glances over the swell of your ass and sees the request for what it is—touch, connection. A rock in an open ocean threatening to swallow you whole. He reaches for you easily with his other hand, as though the action of grounding you is as familiar to him as breathing. As natural as the tides and the wind and the way a predator plays with its food.

Tangling your fingers together, Aizawa lowers them to the bed and squeezes. Hitoshi's breathing has long since surpassed shaky. He thinks he might actually be dying. Lungs expanding and contracting in short, heaving spurts that bring nothing but madness to poison his mind.

You sob, the sound lined with comfort—you know you're safe.

Daddy's got you.

Daddy's making you feel so good.

Daddy's in charge. You don't need to think.

Hitoshi swallows back a groan, head tipping back slightly as the pleasure surges—as you clutch Aizawa's hand so tightly the colour bleeds into white.

When you cum, there's a strangely silent air about it for someone usually so loud.

Your mouth opens around a moan that he never hears, another gasp cut off at its head. Your eyes open and then widen. Every muscle in your body locks tight—thighs tightening around Aizawa's head, toes and fingers curling. It's the hottest thing Hitoshi's ever seen.

But Aizawa doesn't let up.

Doesn't seem phased by the death grip, nor the way you're trying to strangle him.

He licks you through it, slurping on your clit and flicking his tongue cruelly. You shake and shake and shake. Trembling like a leaf barely clinging to its tree in the heart of a storm. Eventually, you find your voice again. A light, throaty keen tumbling from your lips.

Aizawa doesn't stop.

Your keen turns into a whimper, blown-out like spun sugar.

Aizawa doesn't stop.

More tears fall down your face. Body tensing and relaxing rhythmically, as though you wish to escape, to crawl away from Aizawa, but that endless well of your energy is finally dried up.

A broken sob. Helpless.

Aizawa doesn't stop.

Hitoshi's so close. Boxers soaked through, hard cock pulsing under his hand. Every noise you make has his dick twitching like a reflexive action—like you're both one and the same, one mind in two bodies.

"Da-ah-ddy," you sob, hiccuping over the word. "T'mucht'mucht'much."

You try to lift the hand tangled with his to push at his face, but Aizawa shuts that down quickly, chuckling into your cunt when you let out a panicked whine, too limp to do anything but take what he's giving you.

Aizawa doesn't say anything, keeps his mouth close to your pussy. Eats away at you like oxygen corroding metal—stripping back layer after layer until there's nothing left, until you're twitching like a dying animal, until you're crying out and cumming on his face again. Cunt fluttering on Aizawa's mouth, arousal dripping down the stubble on his chin—the insides of your thighs rubbed pink and raw.

You have nothing left to give after this one. Hitoshi can see it as clear as day.

You're gone.

The cries he hears aren't your own, nor is the way your body shakes through your third orgasm helplessly.

Aizawa doesn't stop.

Hitoshi feels his stomach swoop.

Your hips spasm madly and he uses his hold on your thigh to push you wider, to push you down into the bed and scrape his teeth gently over your clit just to hear you sob.

"Da-ah—"

You try. You really do.

"Da-ddy-ple-ah-seee-uhhh-nghhh—"

Your cries fall on deaf ears, though. And Hitoshi can do nothing about it. Can't help you. Can't soothe you. Can't do anything but watch you fall apart and hope that his Sensei knows how to pick up the pieces after the scene ends.

"Please-ah-ahh-ngh-plea—" you hiccup wetly. "—please."

Hitoshi doesn't even know what you're begging for. If you want Aizawa to stop or keep going until there are truly no thoughts left in your brain. If you're begging for the sake of begging or begging because you really will rupture at the seams, if all your insides will tumble onto the bed in a vulnerable, undignified heap of entrails that Hitoshi honestly doesn't think he's equipped to handle.

Aizawa slurps at your cunt. All it takes is him fucking his tongue inside you, chin brushing your clit roughly, and you're coming again with a sharp, startled cry.

"Daddy!"

Hitoshi's toes curl, thighs tense. He takes one look at the blissed out expression on your face and cums too, thick spurts of release wetting his already damp boxers. Warmth drips down to his balls. He kicks up into his touch with a hiss and notes the way Aizawa's gaze flickers over to him for just a moment before he's focusing back on you, sucking your clit into his mouth as you tumble within moments back into overstimulation. The pleasant wave of your orgasm is barely a wave at all—as though you dipped a toe in the water only to be submerged entirely a beat later, yanked so deep you can't breathe.

You honestly look like you're about to pass out.

"Haaa-ngh-ahhh, st-stop n'moren'morepleaseda-ah-ddy."

Now, you’re desperate enough to try to crawl up the bed, body heavy with delirium, and you try to get your knees under you to move. It doesn't work. As soon as your hips raise up a scant few inches, they drop back to the bed with another brush of Aizawa's tongue. As though that's all it takes to render you utterly useless.

You get an elbow under you—another suck on your clit—and collapse face-first into the sheets.

"Daddydaddyda-ah-ddy," you chant listlessly, as effective as words being carried away by the wind. "I c'n't— can't— nonono, n'moreplease— ple-hah-please. Please!"

Aizawa hums against you and your gasp melds with a low, wounded whine—more pain than pleasure, but Hitoshi can't help the way his spent dick twitches anyway. He's sick in the head like that. Enjoys seeing you writhe and cry. He's never seen you quite this fucked out before, though.

"St-sto-ah-stop," you whine. "Pleasedaddyplease, stop."

Hitoshi wonders where the line is for his Sensei. What would it take to get him to actually stop? Is there a number of orgasms he's going for? Or is he reading your body and listening to your little whimpers the same way animals sense air pressure changes? Hitoshi would've hesitated when you were trying to crawl away from him at least. Aizawa didn't even seem phased. In fact, he's still eating you out like there's nowhere he'd rather be. Perfectly settled on his stomach, lapping at the wet mess of arousal dripping from your core, with one big hand keeping your pussy on his face and the other pressing your weak hand to the bed.

"N'moren'more I c'n't— daaaddyyyy!"

Aizawa laughs again, a soft puff of breath that only serves to make you arch your back, thighs tightening and spasming through a weird, panicked stretch as you relax them right after. You let out a choked sob and press your face into the blankets. You've been crying for so long that your entire face is wet, and Hitoshi stares at the sight in some kind of daze.

Aizawa is tongue-fucking you again. Your chest is still heaving—not even recovered from your last orgasm, or the one before that—and Hitoshi might actually die. He can feel his dick hardening again in his ruined boxers, and the feeling is simultaneously uncomfortable and so hot that he bites his bottom lip until he feels it split. Until there's an iron tang along his tongue. Until he wishes he were the one with his face buried between your legs instead. Until he wishes he were the one beneath—

"Daddydaddydaddy—" you jerk the hand under his again, desperate for something, anything, but Aizawa merely squeezes his own, "—nghhh stopstop, plea-uhhhhhhh—"

Between one breath and the next, you're tipping over into another orgasm, but this time it isn't pretty. You let out a loud, cracked cry—so pitiful that Hitoshi winces in sympathy immediately—and immediately dissolve into shuddering tears, riding out the orgasm through wet, gasping breaths. Hitoshi isn't even sure if it feels good this time. There's been no real break between orgasms, and Sensei has been torturing you nonstop.

Though Aizawa does lap at you more gently this time, tongue licking wide, flat stripes up your pussy. When your whine overflows into anguish, Aizawa finally slows to a stop. Apparently, stopping doesn’t mean not touching you at all. He gives you a brief reprieve, letting you suck in one stuttering breath, another, lets you open your eyes—Hitoshi didn't even realise they'd closed, gaze caught on Aizawa’s vigour—then, he leans forward and presses a soft kiss on your clit: a brush of lips, a quiet, wet smacking sound as he parts, like how Hitoshi kisses the forehead of his cat.

Hitoshi startles at the wall of heat that realisation brings.

You whimper, entire body twitching like a live wire.

A kiss.

Another.

Hitoshi inhales something shaky. More tears stream down your face.

You both know he's winding down the scene now—that you're okay, that you're good, that you got through it. But you're still reacting to every kiss like it's a brand. As though each one could be the promise of more trials and tribulations you won't survive.

Aizawa tilts his head up and kisses your entrance. Places a chaste kiss on either side of your pussy. One on your perineum. Another on the crease of your ass. He loosens his fingers around yours and brushes his thumb over the back of your hand kindly.

"Did so well," he murmurs into your thigh, pressing a kiss there. "So well, sweet girl."

Your sob of relief splinters in two as you recognise the words for what they are—you're done.

Aizawa sits up after placing one final kiss on the globe of your asscheek, and you immediately slump deadweight onto the bed without his hand propping your hip up. You're a mess. Flushed and sweaty and teary-eyed. Trembles wrack your body with every shaky breath you inhale as you try to get oxygen back in your lungs—as you try to slow down the borderline-hyperventilating you've been doing.

Unfortunately, Hitoshi is immediately distracted by Aizawa's cock. Red and weepy, slapping against his stomach when Aizawa shifts his legs under to sit between your spread ones. He rolls his shoulders before brushing big palms up and down your legs soothingly, content to quietly watch for now as you regulate your breathing. Hitoshi watches the exchange with a strange pain in his heart, as though someone has reached through his chest and squeezed it in their fist.

"There y'go," Aizawa says, a palm massaging the meat of your thigh.

You whine lowly, but it's more for the sake of making noise than anything else. This is particularly apparent when you make no move to do anything after—lying like a corpse as though Aizawa literally ate your soul out through your pussy. Leaning down to brush the hair matted to your nape, Aizawa's mouth tips up into a small, satisfied smile. It's fond, too—Hitoshi realises with a start. Undeniably sweet and soft and… affectionate, where he stares down at your spent, quivering form.

Hitoshi feels like he's going to throw up. His dick is also half-hard again.

Predictably, this moment of panic is precisely when Sensei decides to turn towards him.

Aizawa gives him a once-over before quirking a brow.

"You okay?" he asks quietly, as though preserving the peace of your afterglow.

Hitoshi nods. Swallows once against the sand in his throat. Brushes an antsy hand back through his hair to try to burn some of the weird energy simmering low in his gut. He isn't okay, not really, but he can't say as such to the older man.

Aizawa doesn't chastise, but Hitoshi can tell he wants to.

"I'm okay," he corrects, putting his thoughts into words—stomach swooping when he registers the rough notes to his voice, coarse from disuse.

Narrowing his eyes, Aizawa gives him a short nod.

Then, "Go shower. I'll clean her up."

Hitoshi winces. Shouldn't he be the one looking after them both? After all, he wasn't even technically involved in the scene.

"No, it's— it's okay. I'll, uh," he moves to stand, "I'll get you both a wet flannel."

"Shinsou."

Hitoshi's spine locks again embarrassingly fast, despite being only halfway out of his seat. Jesus. He really hopes his Sensei doesn't notice how weird he's being. A bit of weird after his girlfriend just got fucked is fine, but if he realises why he's acting weird…

Hitoshi will die.

He tilts his head, trying to seem nonchalant. "Hm?"

Aizawa only trails his eyes down to Hitoshi's crotch. He's confused for all of a heartbeat before he follows his Sensei's gaze to where there's an absurdly obvious cum stain on his trousers. He tenses his jaw. That's humiliating, Hitoshi thinks to himself dryly. What am I, a teenager?

But then again, this is less humiliating than the alternative: jerking off and having his spent dick in his hand and cum all over his nice shirt, had he not thought better of it.

Thank god he did cum in his pants, all things considered.

Aizawa smirks, the corner of his eyes crinkling in amusement. "Go shower," he repeats. "I've got her, don't worry."

Hitoshi glances down at you and—oh. You're asleep.

Upset expression smoothed out into peacefulness. Face still wet and flushed. Hands still half-clutching the sheets like you're not quite convinced you're safe just yet. He looks back up at Aizawa, but his gaze gets caught on the way.

"But you're still..." he gestures helplessly to Aizawa's hard cock, hanging between his legs.

How the hell do you tell your mentor they're still hard?

How the hell do you say it's okay if you need to go and deal with that?

"I'm okay," Aizawa chuckles. Hitoshi feels his skin break out into gooseflesh "Why don't you both stay the night? I'll get you some clean clothes. Cook you dinner.

Hitoshi bites his lip uncertainly.

"Saves you driving home…" Aizawa adds.

Hitoshi can't find his words. Aizawa seems to notice.

"That was heavier than I was anticipating," he offers lowly, eyes turning kind.

So his Sensei didn't have it all planned out then. Weirdly, Hitoshi feels some relief at that.

"It was," Hitoshi agrees a bit uselessly, still lost as to the turn tonight's taken—the realisations he's been forced to reckon with.

Aizawa nods. "So stay."

He says it like it's simple.

Maybe it is.

Hitoshi stares at his fucked out girlfriend strewn across Aizawa's bed. At his Sensei, hovering over her like a sentinel.

Yeah, Hitoshi thinks to himself quietly, tipping his chin up to meet Aizawa's wine-pool eyes. Maybe it is.

"Alright, we'll stay."

‹‹ MASTERLIST ・ PART II

To be fair, most jujutsu sorcerers have loud thoughts to match their loud personalities. You particularly remember when you first met Todo and you were on the receiving end of a mental barrage of images of some idol that you faintly recalled having seen in passing before and big ass after big ass. So you’ve long made your peace with the fact that loud thoughts come with the territory.

But when you first met Yuuji during your first year at Jujutsu High, it felt like you could hear everything he was thinking — even without accounting for the curse caged inside of him. It would get so bad that you ended your days during those first weeks of knowing him feeling dizzy. 

While Nobara has always been quick to project whatever irritation, excitement, or disgust she feels, her emotional flashes are quick to come but equally as quick to fade. Megumi’s unhealthy instinct to suppress everything he thinks and feels has always made him one of your favorite people to spend time with.

It’s Yuuji who thinks loudly and feels loudly around the clock. Before you learned how to filter out and block every stray thought you heard, it felt like you were constantly aware of Yuuji's status whenever he was within a few hundred meters. 

You knew when he was hungry, when he was enjoying something, when he was annoyed, when he was happy, when he was excited, when he was sad, when he thought something was funny, when he had to go to the bathroom, when he didn’t understand something, when he thought a girl was hot, when he was angry, when he was in pain, when he was winning at pachinko, when he was tired. 

But after so many years of training, and so many years of being his friend, his thoughts and emotions are still just as loud, but you only ever hear one if you need to in the midst of a fight — or if it’s strong enough. 

And for the past few months, his thoughts have been so strong that it feels like you’re 15 all over again. It’s not all his thoughts that are strong enough to reach you against your will, just…certain ones. 

The first time it happens, it’s so sudden that you feel like you’ve been hit over the head.

People assume that with your technique, you can hear every word going through someone’s mind. And while sometimes you do, people think both verbally and visually.

So, you’re not surprised when an image suddenly flashes in your head. After all, it’s a phenomenon that you’re more than used to. You are, however, surprised at the image. 

Because as you’re waiting in line at a bakery to order, leaning in slightly to look at the display case of pastries, you’re suddenly assaulted with the mental picture of yourself from behind, particularly the way your dress has slightly ridden up the backs of your thighs. It’s not high enough to be obscene, only enough to hint.

And to accompany the image is a deep desire — for you to bend over further, for your dress to ride up even higher, to know what’s beneath and for it to be a thong. 

You cut off the connection before you can see anymore and shoot back up to stand perfectly straight, your eyes as wide as saucers. Your heart is racing in your chest and you have to fight the urge to bury your face in your hands to hide your burning cheeks.

“Did you figure out what you want?” Yuuji’s curious voice is suddenly in your ear as he leans in over your shoulder to look at the pastry selection himself. “That ham and cheese one looks so good.”

He sounds so…unaffected, like he wasn’t just fantasizing about what your underwear looks like. You glance at him from the corner of your eye and none of it is on his face. 

“Th-the pistachio one,” you mumble, distractedly pointing at the croissant in the corner of the display case.

“Oh, you’ll have to let me try a bite!” he grins, moving in even closer to look at what else the bakery has to offer, entirely oblivious to the mental breakdown he’s caused. 

And that’s how it starts. 

You’ll be out with Yuuji and you’ll get a flash of him wondering how soft your lips are when you apply some chapstick, or of him appreciating how your neckline dips just low enough for him to see the edge of your bra when he looks down at you. 

It’s not every time you’re together, but it starts to happen often enough that you begin to prepare yourself whenever you know that you’re going to see him, just in case. And it does work. You accept that your friend seems to be attracted to you and assume that this new crush will probably go away. You’re able to shut out the thoughts as quickly as they come. 

But then they get louder — and filthier. You’re no longer seeing things that could barely be considered PG-13. 

You’re seeing your face coated in white streaks of Yuuji’s cum, your mouth open and your tongue sticking out to catch every last drop as he fists his cock. You’re seeing your ass in the air as he eats you out from behind, your own imagined whimpers and moans ringing in your ears as you grind back into his face. You’re seeing yourself from above, his hands on the backs of your knees pressing them towards your chest as your ankles dangle by his ears while you beg him to go “harder, Yuuji!” You’re seeing him yanking you into an alley to bend you over and fuck you against the concrete wall.

It’s only made worse by how casual he acts when you’re finally able to recover from whatever obscene display has been forced upon you and you can dare to look at him. He’s never flustered or lost in some fantasy. He’s never distracted. You never catch him staring at your tits or ass. You’ve never even been able to catch him with a tent in his pants. 

He behaves as if everything is normal, like he’s just your friend that you’ve known since high school. A friend who doesn’t fantasize when you’re laughing together over hotpot about spitting in your mouth or when you finally have a chance to go see Human Earthworm 6 about you swallowing his cock in a crowded theater. 

Your other friends seem to have noticed that something is off. Megumi has asked on more than one occasion if you’re coming down with something when he sees how you’ll suddenly start breaking out into a sweat. Nobara is more perceptive, immediately jumping to the conclusion that there must be a new man in your life with how flustered you’ve been lately.

There’s a sudden, sharp pang of someone else’s dismay you feel when she makes her deduction in front of your friends. 

But what you don’t know how to tell her is that this new man is Yuuji, and the reason you’re so flustered is because every time you see him, he’s been unknowingly projecting graphic pornography featuring both of you directly into your mind. And even worse, you don’t know how to tell her that you’ve started to look forward to it. 

At first, you thought the reason why you would get so wet was because Yuuji doesn’t just share what’s running through his mind, but also what he’s feeling. Your arousal is really just his arousal. 

But that doesn’t explain why you’ve found your eyes lingering over his broad shoulders when his back is to you or appreciating the sight of him shirtless and sweaty after training together or wondering what it would feel like to have two of his thick fingers buried knuckle deep in your slick cunt. 

And you’ve started to realize that he doesn’t even need to be around for you to end up yourself lost in a fantasy of your own making. 

You’ll be scrolling through your phone and your mind will drift to how it would feel to look down and see Yuuji beneath you as you ride him, your palms pushing down against his bare chest for leverage with every rock of your hips. You’ll be sitting on the couch and wish that Yuuji were with you so you could climb into his lap and desperately grind against him until you both come in your pants as you let out needy little whimpers against his lips. 

You’ll be in bed late at night with your hand buried between your legs, your fingers sliding in and out of your dripping pussy while you grind the heel of your palm against your clit, and mourn the absence of his cock. 

After months of this ongoing torture, your sanity is about to snap. It feels like every time you’re together, if it’s not his fantasies that you’re seeing, it’s your own.

But then you notice a change. Because where you’ve started to feel less flustered every time one of these images is playing in your mind — so desensitized to them by this point that they leave you turned on more than anything else — he appears to be growing more flustered in your presence. 

There are times when he can’t quite meet your eyes. You’ll look over at him and see that his cheeks are suddenly as pink as his hair. There’s one time where he starts to choke on the soda he’s in the middle of drinking for no apparent reason. You finally start to catch him staring longingly at your ass. 

You begin to wonder if he’s close to reaching his breaking point. 

It’s what you find yourself contemplating one night as you and Yuuji get caught in the rush hour crowd on the subway. He’s strong enough and thoughtful enough to have pushed a path through when you boarded, so that you can lean back against the set of doors on the opposite side. He rests his forearm above your head on the window, using his body to shield you from the rest of the crowd. 

It’s an awkward situation for two friends to be in. For as much room as he tries to leave between you, people continue to get on at each station, and eventually, there’s no space left — you can feel every firm inch of him pressed against you.

He seems to be more conscious of it than you, his eyes directed nervously up at the ceiling. You’re just relieved that it’s him invading your space and not some creep who’s ready to take advantage of the close quarters. 

Thankfully, most of the station platforms are on the same side as where you entered the train, so neither of you have to worry about moving or the doors you’re both leaning against opening. With Yuuji seemingly feeling too shy to talk while you’re in such an intimate position, your mind begins to wander.

What if you turn around? Yuuji would feel every one of your curves as you reposition yourself so that your tits were pressed against the window and your ass slots perfectly against his crotch. You could take his free hand in yours and slip it under your skirt and between your thighs so that he could feel the wet spot in your underwear.

Actually, in this fantasy, you’re wearing no underwear. God, the groan he’ll let out when you slide his fingers up your legs, only to find that there’s no barrier between his touch and your soaked pussy. 

His cock would be so hard against your ass as you give a slow grind into it, able to feel every solid inch even through the fabric of your skirt and his pants. But you can’t waste any time — the doors supporting you both could open at any of the next stops. 

So, while you flip up your skirt, he rushes to shove his pants and boxer briefs just far enough so he can pull out his cock with one hand. And that one hand is then quickly slapped over your mouth to muffle your cry when he slides his cock into your sopping cunt in one smooth stroke. 

He takes you so roughly that you can’t tell if it’s the train that’s so jerky or the punishing rhythm he sets, desperate to get you both off before someone either catches you in the middle of your illicit act or you enter a station where the platform is on your side of the car. 

It’s just as you slide your hand down between your legs to furiously rub at your clit that the fantasy comes to a screeching halt with all the force of someone hitting the emergency brake on the train. Because you’re suddenly incredibly aware of something hard between you. 

You look down, but it’s pointless with how close Yuuji is — pointless because you can’t see beyond his chest and yours, and pointless because what else could it be other than his cock? You then look up at him with hooded eyes to see how red his face is.

He looks pained, his features scrunched together, his bottom lip caught between his teeth, and a bead of sweat running down his neck that you want nothing more than to catch with your tongue. You tilt your head to the side curiously, wondering why he’s so distressed. Obviously, he’s feeling embarrassed, you don’t need to be able to read his mind to know that. But this seems to be something beyond simple embarrassment. 

Feeling your gaze on him, he eventually opens his eyes and gathers the courage to look down at you. Your breath catches in your throat when you see how wide his pupils are, his warm brown irises merely a thin ring around them, and how you can see a mixture of deep hunger, desperation, and pleading. 

“I’m begging you,” he says. His voice is barely loud enough to be heard over the sound of the train as it continues to run along its track, but it’s impossible to miss the rasp to it. “You have got to stop doing that. You’re killing me.”

Your forehead wrinkles as you frown in confusion, trying to understand what he’s talking about. But then he lifts his free hand, the one you had just been fantasizing about having between your legs, and taps his index finger meaningfully against his temple, and you gasp so loudly that you know other passengers have turned to see what’s happening. 

Because over the months where Yuuji has been projecting his thoughts, unaware that they’ve been loud enough that you can’t help but hear them, it never occurred to you that a longer-lasting connection was slowly forming with every image, every word, every emotion. Your mind became so open to receiving what he was unknowingly sharing that you hadn’t realized that you were slipping into his mind the way you used to do with others when you were younger and still learning the basics of your technique. 

And what you grew to understand as you developed it was that if you don’t form a barrier to protect what’s in your mind, then the connection becomes reciprocal and your target can see everything that you’re thinking, too. 

Which means that for the last few months, it’s not only him who’s been projecting graphic pornography featuring both of you directly into your mind, but also you who’s been projecting graphic pornography featuring both of you directly into his mind. 

All you can do is stare up at him, your mouth opening and closing as you struggle to find the words. Unfortunately, while you’ve lost your ability to speak, your mind refuses to quiet and all you can think of is how you want him to stick his fingers in your mouth.

You’ve been an Avenger for a few months now, having joined the team after they’d been sent to investigate an environmental disturbance in a quiet California town. You had just developed your powers after becoming an unwilling test subject for your father’s experiments and had little to no control over your ability to manipulate the flora around you. The city had been turned into your own arboretum overrun with a multitude of different plants, some more dangerous than others, and it was only with their help had you been able to clean up the mess.

Your first months training had been spent solely focusing on controlling your powers, managing your emotions to prevent plants from popping up in places they didn’t belong, but this was easier said than done. Your abilities still had the tendency to activate even when you didn’t want them to, but you were doing much better now with practice. Your regime had slowly begun to include more practical elements like hand-to-hand combat, stealth, and weaponry. That’s how you ended up alone in the shooting range with Bucky who had been more than happy to help you learn.

“Now when you’re ready, pull the trigger,” his encouraging voice sounds in your ear.

You clicked with Bucky almost immediately after joining the team. As a victim of scientific experimentation himself, he understood the trepidation you held towards your abilities and the loss of autonomy you were experiencing. He was a calming presence that provided you with comfort every time you felt like your body was turning against you, and it wasn’t long before he decided to take you under his wing. You’d become fast friends in no time, and it was a rare occurrence at the tower to see one of you without the other.

Calming your nerves, you let out a slow exhale before pulling the trigger. You watch anxiously as the bullet flies out of the barrel and hits your target dead on.

“Right on the mark!” Bucky compliments proudly before removing himself from you. You find yourself already missing the closeness, but you play it cool by flashing him a bashful smile. Your joy has already begun to present itself as tiny daisies bloom at your feet, but the super soldier doesn’t seem to mind in the slightest. “See, wasn’t so bad, was it?”

“I just got lucky,” you admit with a sheepish shrug. Bucky laughs before giving you an encouraging pat on the back.

“You just need some practice. I’m sure you’ll be able to start shooting at moving targets in no time.”

“She’s a natural, isn’t she?” A third voice chimes. You turn your heads to find Natasha standing in the doorway, a knowing smile on her face as she greets you two with a nod before settling her gaze on Bucky. “Steve’s asking for you. Wants to talk strategy for the mission you two were assigned.”

“Right,” Bucky sighs before turning to you. “I’m going to be gone for a few days. Will you be alright without me?”

“I’ll manage,” you joke with a halfhearted smile that Bucky is quick to match. Your heart nearly jumps out of your chest from the way his blue eyes stare down at you, and you hope neither he nor Natasha can pick up on your nerves.

“Don’t worry, Barnes,” Natasha quips as she comes to wrap an arm around your frame, “she’ll be in good hands while you’re gone.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” he affirms with a nod, bidding you both a goodbye before making his way to Steve.

You’d been holding back your powers for as long as you could in Bucky’s presence, so once the man is gone you let out a sigh of relief and finally release the tension within you. Red carnations bloom in a circle around you before quickly wilting once you will them away with a wave of your hand. You wish your abilities weren’t so intertwined with your thoughts, and you wish you weren’t so infatuated with your teammate.

“Rough day of training?” Natasha prompts with a raised brow.

“Just overwhelmed, I guess,” you offer with a weak shrug before gesturing to your surroundings, “and a bit intimidated by all of this.”

“You’ll get the hang of it,” she assures you with a faint smile. “It just takes time.”

You settle into a comfortable silence as you begin to clean up the mess left behind from your training session. Natasha simply watches on in silence, but you can tell by the look on her face that she’s heavily contemplating her next words.

“So you and Barnes?” She finally prompts, acting as inconspicuously as possible. You stiffen slightly at the question but immediately regain your composure as you unload your gun.

“What about me and Barnes?” You retort as nonchalantly as possible, though the mere mention of the man has your heart skipping a beat.

“You guys have gotten awfully close these last few months.”

“He’s a good friend,” you retort defensively, but it’s clear that Natasha isn’t buying your story. Her gaze suddenly becomes fixated on your head, and you watch with uncertainty as she reaches forward and lightly plucks something out of your hair. You blanch at the sight of the rosebud in her hand and try to avoid her knowing stare.

“You like him, don’t you?” She says with a coy smile.

“God, please don’t tell anyone,” you beg her in earnest while snatching the flower away, eyes full of panic and desperation. You thought you were doing well at hiding your little crush on Bucky, but you should have known better than to think an amateur like you could fool a top agent like Natasha.

“My lips are sealed, but even if I wanted to tell I think these flowers would end up blowing your cover before I could.”

“I can’t help it!” You exclaim in exasperation. “Wanda has been helping me learn to control my thoughts, but it’s like that all goes out the window whenever I’m with him.”

“Have you ever considered telling him?” She asks with a raised brow as if it’s the most obvious solution.

“Are you crazy? I think I’d rather die.”

“Don’t be so dramatic,” she scoffs with an amused roll of her eyes. “What’s the harm in playing the field?”

“I doubt there’s any part of him that sees me as more than the new teammate he has to babysit,” you denote woefully, clearly having already accepted defeat in your predicament. “Why risk making things horribly awkward for everyone?”

“It’ll only be horribly awkward if he actually rejects you,” Natasha reminds you thoughtfully, “and he won’t. But, Bucky also won’t make the first move either, so you have to.”

“Fat chance,” you murmur under your breath before turning to the armory to return your gun. You miss the look of determination that flashes across her features as she mulls over your conversation. It’s clear to her that your feelings for Bucky aren’t something that can just be swept under the rug, and she’s well aware of the fact that you won’t be able to muster up the courage to voice your feelings.

It seems it’ll be up to her to make the first move on your behalf.

~~~

“Y/n, just the person I wanted to see!” Tony’s voice calls, prompting you to halt in your tracks and remove your headphones. You’d just finished a workout session with Thor and were dying to let your aching muscles relax under a hot shower, but it seems your teammate had other plans.

“What is it?” You press gently while slowing your brisk pace so that Tony can walk alongside you in the hall. You watch with piqued interest as he pulls an envelope out of his pocket and hands it over to you.

“This, my dear, is an invitation to your very first charity gala,” he replies proudly. “I’ve already taken the liberty of RSVPing for you, so consider this as more of a formality than anything.”

“Charity gala?” You retort with a raised brow.

“Stark Industries throws one every year to raise money for good causes around the world, and it’s customary that every Avenger attends.”

“I don’t know,” you drawl nervously, already anxious at the thought of a huge party full of random strangers who know you as the girl that almost turned the state of California into an uninhabitable forest.

“You’re an Avenger now, sweetheart,” Tony reminds you thoughtfully, “and this will be a great way to introduce our newest member to the public and let them get to know you more. You wouldn’t say no to charity, would you?”

“No,” you sigh in defeat, clearly bested by Tony’s guilt tripping. You will yourself to open the envelope and take in the extravagant detailing on the card listing the time and date for the event. You’re not exactly the most extroverted person on the team, but you figure if you can fight world ending threats with no problem then you should be able to stomach one night of being paraded around like a show pony. “I guess I better find something to wear.”

“There’s the spirit,” Tony grins cheekily, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his wallet before producing his credit card. “You know what, since this is your first event why don’t you take my card and buy something new. Sky’s the limit.”

You look at him stunned before hesitantly pocketing the card and thanking the man for his generosity. You never imagined that one day you’d be able to have access to Tony Stark’s credit card, but then again, you also never imagined you’d be living under the same roof as Captain America and Black Widow.

After your conversation with Tony, you finally make your way back to your own room and step into the shower to freshen up. You spend most of it anxiously mulling over the upcoming gala and worrying about how you’re going to present yourself. You hate being perceived by strangers, but you suppose that’s what happens when you become a public figure.

Once you make yourself presentable again, you roam the tower in search of Wanda to seek out some guidance for your attire. You make your way through the hallways hoping to run into her after finding her bedroom empty, but you instead stumble upon a hushed conversation taking place in the kitchen. You falter slightly at the sound of Natasha’s voice, and though you can’t make out what she says you’re curious to know what she could be speaking so secretively about. Not wanting to eavesdrop, you make your presence known by rounding the corner only to be met with the startled faces of Nat and Bucky.

“Bucky?” You retort in surprise, stomach already twisting with nerveous knots the moment you meet his eyes. “I didn’t know you were back.”

“Just got back an hour ago,” he explains with a tired smile, but you don’t miss the way he subtly shoots a glance at Natasha before returning his gaze to you. The two look suspicious, almost as if you’d caught them in the middle of something you weren’t mean to be privy of, and though you tried to ignore it you felt unnerved. You didn’t think your teammates capable of keeping secrets from you, especially not Bucky or Natasha, but it seemed apparent that they knew something you didn’t and intended to keep it that way.

“I’m glad you made it back safe,” you offer with a timid smile, swallowing down your nerves to keep your powers at bay. You can feel the itchiness on your palms resulting from a flower attempting to bloom and decide it’s best to make your exit as quickly as possible. “I, uh… I guess I’ll leave you two alone now.”

“You don’t have to go,” Bucky assures you with a frown, but you quickly shake your head and already begin making your exit before he can argue further.

“I have to find Wanda,” you answer almost breathlessly. You quicken your pace before either of them can stop you, your heart pounding in your chest and thorn covered vines trailing in your wake at the sudden emotional discomfort you’re experiencing.

You can’t help but to think you’d accidentally walked in on an intimate moment between the two and perhaps discovered a secret bond they shared. Your stomach flipped violently at the thought. Surely Bucky and Natasha weren’t involved romantically, were they? You knew she could be harsh, but you don’t think she’d be cruel enough to fill your head with encouragement to pursue Bucky just to end up pursing him herself.

You give up on your plans to find Wanda and instead shut yourself into your room for the remainder of the evening to wallow in your ruminative overthinking. You’re left to your own devices for a good hour before a knock sounds at your bedroom door.

“Come in,” you call out quietly. You watch on in interest as your door slowly creeps open so Bucky can peek his head inside.

“You got a minute?” He asks with a bashful smile that makes it impossible to deny him. You give him a small nod and watch as the man makes his way into your room before timidly seating himself on the edge of your bed. “I wanted to talk to you earlier but you sort of just bolted out of there.”

“Sorry,” you reply with a meek smile, eyes glancing away towards the floor. “I was feeling a little overwhelmed about Tony’s charity gala. Plus, it looked like you and Natasha were having a pretty intense conversation…”

“Right, that,” Bucky says with a sigh.

You muster up the courage to peek over at him and ask, “Are you two…?”

“What? No, of course not,” he quickly interjects, and despite the subtle guilt that arises within you, you feel relieved to hear him say this. “I know it might have looked suspect, but I was actually talking to her about you.”

“Me?” You repeat in surprise, shifting closer to the soldier and hanging onto his every word. A fond smile washes over him as he sets his eyes upon you and carefully reaches for your hand.

“I wanted to know if I’d have a shot at being your date to Tony’s charity gala,” Bucky admits with a charming grin. Your heart nearly leaps out of your chest, and you can’t help the sudden triggering of your powers as bushes of roses plant themselves around your bed. Your face heats with embarrassment at the display, but the giddy smile on your face says otherwise as you look to Bucky with wide eyes.

“You want to be my date?” You repeat in disbelief, nearly swooning when Bucky carefully picks a rose from beside him and hands it to you.

“I’d be honored if you’ll have me,” he utters sincerely, voice gentle and eyes full of admiration as he gazes upon your flushed face.

“Of course I’ll have you!” You exclaim, all inhibitions thrown out the window as you fling yourself into his arms and tightly embrace the super soldier. He lets out a soft laugh before gently wrapping his arms around your figure and encasing you against him. You never would have dreamed that Bucky would be hugging you so tightly in your room, that you’d ever be going to a charity gala as his date, or that he’d ever return your affections so sweetly as he was now. You’re overjoyed, a multitude of colorful flowers blooming around you much to Bucky’s amusement.

You suddenly find that you’re not so nervous now about Tony’s party.

~~~

“Hold still,” Wanda scolds lightly as she carefully swipes the makeup brush across your eyelids.

“I can’t help it, it tickles!” You retort defensively only for the witch to roll her eyes in amusement.

The night of the gala had finally arrived, and you were grateful for the fact that Wanda had been more than thrilled to handle your makeup for you. You worried your nerves would prevent you from creating a flawless look, and you entrusted her steady hands much more than your own trembling ones. You had purchased the perfect dress and jewelry to match, and all you were missing was a pair of heels to go along with it.

“I found them,” Natasha’s voice announces as she enters the room with the shoes she’d offered to lend you. “These should fit perfect for you.”

“You’re a lifesaver,” you gush in earnest, earning a pleased smile from her in response.

“Barnes is going to lose his mind when he sees you tonight,” she compliments with a wink.

“I had a feeling about you two,” Wanda adds teasingly as she puts the finishing touches on your makeup. “I’ve caught him thinking about you when you’re not around. He’s smitten.”

You smile bashfully at the floor in response to their comments and nervously rub your arm as you think about Bucky. You’ve been waiting for this night for weeks, and now that it’s here you couldn’t be more excited. You were finally going to spend a romantic evening with the man you’d harbored feelings for since joining the team, and you had high hopes that the night would end with your friendship becoming something more.

After Wanda finishes your makeup and Natasha helps you learn how to balance in the heels, you make your way downstairs where Bucky waits patiently in his best suit and tie. His eyes brighten when they land on you, and you let out an embarrassed laugh when he releases a long whistle at the sight of you.

“You look absolutely gorgeous,” he compliments in earnest before taking your hand in his own and prompting you to twirl. “Come on, give me a little spin.”

You do as requested and giggle in delight at the attention you’re receiving. You always thought yourself to be fairly pretty, but Bucky makes you feel like you’re the most gorgeous woman on the planet. His eyes rake over your figure and admire every detail of your ensemble while still managing to be respectful of your person. You never thought the man who always appeared so solemn and reserved on the outside could be so romantically sweet.

“You don’t think it’s too much?” You ask meekly, somewhat apprehensive about your look. This isn’t how you’d typically style yourself, and though you enjoy the glamour and excitement that come with attending the gala you’re worried about how the public will perceive your image as the newest Avenger.

“I think you look perfect,” Bucky assures you before opening your door and helping you into the car. The drive is filled with quiet conversation as he informs you on what to expect at a Stark party and how to expertly avoid nosy reporters. You’re absolutely enamored by the Winter Soldier, and you don’t think you’ve ever felt as secure as you do now alongside Bucky.

Just as Bucky had warned you, a gaggle of journalists surround your car as you arrive at the party. You feel the nerves beginning to overtake you, but Bucky’s gentle touch against your arm brings you back down to earth as he assures you he’s got your back. He helps you out of the car and allows you to take his arm before guiding you up the stairs into the building. You’re blinded by the flash of cameras and overwhelmed by the multitude of voices that try to get your attention, something Bucky can sense by the way your grip on his arm tightens.

“Don’t worry,” he assures you, leaning in close enough for you to feel his breath fan against your ear as he whispers, “I’ve got you.”

You feel your heart nearly burst from the gentleness of the words and the way he lovingly gaze down at you. Everything around you seems to melt away when your eyes meet his own blue ones, and all your mind can comprehend is Bucky- the smell of his cologne, the way the corners of his eyes crinkle with his smile, the softness of his touch. You’re completely enamored, and you hope he feels as strongly as you do.

Despite your initial apprehension towards the charity gala, the night almost seems to go seamlessly for you and the Avengers. Tony is able to secure generous donations from his richest guests, your teammates are able to relax for a rare night of festivities, and since gaining your powers you’re finally able to feel comfortable in your own skin.

Halfway through the party you end up on the dance floor with Bucky, your head resting against his shoulder as he holds you close and gently sways you in time to the slow song being played by the band. Despite the excitement you feel, you’ve been able to keep your powers at bay the entire night.

“You having a good time?” Bucky asks after twirling you on the dance floor. You smile as he immediately pulls you back into his arms, finding solace in him as you drape your arms around his neck.

“It’s not as scary as I thought it would be,” you admit with a sheepish smile. “I was afraid I’d mess it all up, but Tony says the journalists loved me.”

“Why wouldn’t they?” Bucky says adamantly. “You’re sweet and funny and so strong.”

“You really mean that?”

“Course I do,” he assures you with a charming wink. You let out a quiet laugh and bashfully look away only for Bucky to gently grab your chin and redirect your gaze back to his own. “You’re the prettiest girl in this entire room, and I’m the luckiest guy to get to have you on my arm tonight.”

You swallow nervously as you meet his intense stare, unused to having him look upon you in such a way. Bucky had always been sweet on you, but you assumed his kindness was a result of platonic affection and understanding for the new girl on the team. You were vulnerable and alone when you first joined the Avengers, and you assumed the extra care he gave you was merely him trying to smoothen your transition into the life of a hero. But now, with eyes boring into your soul while his metal hand gently presses against the small of your back to bring you closer to him, it seems as if your hopes for his affection are finally coming true.

“Bucky?” You murmur softly, stomach twisting itself into nervous knots.

“Yeah, doll?”

“I’ve been wanting to tell you that I… well, I-“

“Mind if I cut in?” A voice interrupts, startling you both out of the moment as you turn to meet Natasha’s expectant gaze. She looks between you both with a raised before asking, “Did I interrupt something?”

“No, not at all,” you quickly interject before Bucky can answer. You look to the man with an apologetic smile in search of approval. “I’ll find you after this dance, okay?”

“Sure,” he relents with an understanding nod, “I’ll get us some drinks in the meantime.”

You watch his figure disappear into the crowd before allowing Natasha to pull you in for a dance. You shamelessly let her take the lead as she guides your steps to match with hers, and she wears a knowing smirk on her face as she looks to you. “I didn’t mean to interrupt the moment, but I wanted to see how things were going.”

“I’m kind of glad you did,” you offer with a despondent sigh. “I almost told him how I feel.”

“What? That’s great!” Natasha retorts, confusion clearly etched on her features. “I feel like you should be more upset with me than you are right now.”

“I’m just afraid of the possibility that I could be reading it all wrong. I mean, I know he asked me to be his date, but what if this is just a one-night only type of deal? Steve said Bucky was a charmer back in his day, so maybe he’s just trying to be nice and show me a good time.”

“Wow,” the redhead breathes out with a shake of her head. “You really are dense.”

“Natasha!” You exclaim in offense only to receive an eye roll in response.

“If you can’t see how completely enamored that man is with you then I can’t help you,” she states bluntly. In a gentler tone now, Natasha gives your hip an encouraging squeeze before continuing, “I have never seen you as sure or confident in yourself as you’ve been tonight, so don’t be so quick to revert back to doubting your worth. You deserve to get what you want.”

Despite the initial harshness of her words, you know that Natasha is right. You’ve worked hard these last few months to earn your spot on the team, to prove your capabilities, and to force yourself out of your protective shell. Gaining your powers and overrunning an entire city with plants had been terrifying but you’d gotten through it, so there was no reason to believe you couldn’t handle putting yourself out there and sharing with Bucky the feelings you’d been harboring for him. His actions tonight were clear indicators that the possibility of him viewing you in more than a platonic lens was real, and if a woman like Natasha who’d been trained to easily read others could clearly see his interest in you, then you shouldn’t have any ounce of doubt left within you.

“You’re right,” you utter undauntedly with a firm nod of your head. “I should just get over my fears and tell him how I feel.”

“There’s the spirit,” Natasha retorts with a proud smirk. She releases you once your dance is over and sends you off with a wink, watching on proudly as you leave to search for Bucky. “Good luck!”

You manage to push your way through the crowded banquet halls towards the bar, but Bucky isn’t there. Your eyes anxiously scan the room for any sign of your date, and you’re barely able to catch sight of him stepping out onto the patio with Steve and Sam. You smile in relief before briskly making your way over to him. You’re not as nervous as you thought you’d be, and your body feels as if it’s vibrating with the exhilaration you feel at finally taking charge in your life for once. You don’t want to be the shy or timid Avenger your teammates know you as any longer; you want to be seen as someone who knows what she wants and is sure in her ability to achieve it, and you hope that after tonight you’ll be able to prove that.

The cool night air sends immediate shivers across your bare arms as you reach the doorway to the patio. The three men have their backs turned to you as they converse amongst one another away from the crowded party, enjoying a moment of peace free of reporters and fanatic guests. You know that you should make yourself known instead of eavesdropping, yet you can’t help but falter when you hear your name arise in the conversation.

“So you and y/n?” Steve prompts with a pleased smile. “You two looked like you were having a lot of fun out on the dance floor.”

“She’s great, isn’t she?” Bucky voices, admiration present in his tone. You feel your heart swell with bliss at hearing the way he talks so fondly of you when he thinks you’re not around, and it only makes you more sure of your decision to tell him how you feel.

“I like you two together,” his friend says with sincerity. “I think you’ve both helped each other come out of your shells.”

“Not to mention she makes you less grumpy,” Sam notes with a playful smirk. “I just can’t believe you managed to pull off getting her to agree to come as your date tonight. She’s gorgeous and clearly way out of your league.”

You muffle your quiet laugh with your hand and decide that now is probably a good time to reveal yourself to save Bucky from Sam’s teasing, but his next words have you stopped dead in your tracks.

“Well, it wasn’t really my idea,” he explains while uncomfortably running a hand through his hair. “Natasha put me up to it.”

You can practically feel your heart sinking in your chest as the words settle into your mind. Your lips part in quiet shock and your stomach tightens in disgust at the reality you’re met with.

“Natasha?” Steve retorts with a raised brow. Bucky nods.

“We made a deal that she’d take over my next field assignment for me if I got y/n to be my date to Tony’s party.”

You slowly shake your head in disbelief and begin to back away as the weight of his confession sinks down onto your mind. You thought that Bucky was finally beginning to see you the way you see him, that he meant it when he said how lucky he was to have you on his arm tonight, that you were finally crossing over from being platonic friends to something more.

But it had all been a lie.

Sam turns to set his glass on a nearby table only to freeze when he sees you standing there. He takes in your trembling figure and wide eyes and is quickly able to piece together the fact that you’d heard everything.

“Shit,” he curses under his breath, garnering the attention of both men as all three now turn to find you lingering in the doorway. Bucky’s face falls as he makes contact with your glossy eyes and trembling lips.

“Y/n,” he utters remorsefully, taking a step towards you only for you to step back.

“I can’t believe you,” you manage to get out in a quivering voice, holding back a sob before quickly turning and making your exit.

You’re overwhelmed by the music that now feels like it’s blaring in your ears and the suffocation that overtakes you as you push through the crowded hall. You feel like you can’t breathe, and all you want is to get out of this party as fast as possible so you can return to the tower.

“Y/n, wait!” Bucky’s voice calls after, garnering the attention of a few onlookers who pause their conversations to watch the super soldier chase after you. He finally catches up to you once you make it to the front room away from the party, gently grasping onto your hand to halt your frenzied escape. “Doll, let me explain-“

“Explain what?” You spit harshly despite the tears that fall down your cheeks. “That you lied to me? That you only brought me here because of some stupid bet?!”

“It’s not like that,” he insists only for you to yank your hand away with a frustrated groan.

“Really? Because that’s what it sounded like to me,” you utter in quiet disbelief. “I can’t believe I actually fell for it.”

“You weren’t supposed to hear that,” Bucky pleads gently before carefully reaching out for your arm. His words only infuriate you further, prompting thorns to sprout from your skin and protect you from his touch.

“Oh, right, because that makes it better,” you retort sarcastically. “I actually thought that you could like me the way I like you… I let you make me believe that I was the prettiest girl in the room and that you could actually want to be with me.”

Your shoulders tremble as you let out a quiet sob, and Bucky can only watch on in despair as he tries to remedy the situation he’d created. He never meant to hurt you, and he hated to see you cry as a result of his own actions.

“Y/n, come on,” he urges you softly, now using his metal hand to try and reach for you. “Let me fix this, let me explain everything and I promise-“

“You want to fix this?” You interrupt in a shaky voice, swallowing down another sob that threatens to fall before backing away from the man. “Then leave me alone. I want nothing to do with you.”

“Y/n…”

“Congratulations on winning your bet,” you utter despondently before slamming the doors shut behind you and leaving Bucky to ruminate in the mess he’d created.

It was never supposed to be like this.

~~~

You haven’t left your room since returning from the party last night.

Your evening of glamour and excitement had come crashing down after your argument, and once you got home you immediately rid yourself of all remnants of the charity gala. You initially had been filled with anger and rage, but all you felt now was an embarrassing sadness. Natasha had filled your head with fantasies and gotten your hopes up about Bucky only for you to end up humiliated. A rational part of you knew she must have meant well by bribing Bucky into taking you to the charity gala as his date, but you wished she never would have meddled in the first place.

You don’t think you can ever stand to be around him let alone even look at him after hearing him talk about your night as if it was something less tedious to be done in comparison to being sent out into the field. You thought you were worth more to him than a stupid bet to be made, but his words had clearly proven you wrong.

No one has attempted to enter your room since last night, though it’s not like they could even if they tried considering you’d barricaded your door with a wall of prickling vines and thorn bushes to block their path. You didn’t want to see or speak to anyone, even if you knew that eventually you’d have to face your teammates at some point.

As you try to pass the time by tending to the plants littered around the room, a knock at the door interrupts the peaceful atmosphere you’ve created. You’re honestly surprised someone had managed to pull it off considering the multitude of thorns should have stopped them from doing so, but you make no move to answer it.

“Y/n, it’s me,” Bucky’s voice sounds, prompting you to bristle with unease. The thorns on the outside grow larger, but this does not deter the super soldier who uses his metal arm to knock against them. “Please talk to me. You have no idea how much this is killing me.”

“I told you I want nothing to do with you,” you shout back wrathfully. “Leave me alone!”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t do that doll.”

“Why don’t you go make another deal with Natasha and bet you can get me to open the door,” you retort sarcastically much to Bucky’s dismay. The quiet and timid girl he’d been so used to was nowhere to be found now, and you weren’t about to let him win you over again with charming flatteries.

Bucky groans in frustration, moving to walk away only to halt in his steps and turn back towards your door. He’s determined to get through to you, and despite the cold shoulder you’re giving him he’s not going to give up until you hear him out.

“Fine, you don’t have to open the door,” he says calmly, hands raised in surrender as he ceases his pounding. "I’ll just talk to you from here.”

You roll your eyes at his statement and try to block out his voice as you water your plants, but you can’t help the part inside of you that desperately wants to know why he would ever stoop so low to use you as leverage in a bet. You adored him, but he’d broken your heart, and you felt you did deserve an answer even if you didn’t want to hear it. You don’t respond to his proclamation, but you also don’t interrupt him, and Bucky takes this as a sign to keep going.

“I know I screwed up, and I shouldn’t have agreed to making that deal, but you have to understand that I didn’t ask you out just to get out of a field assignment,” Bucky says earnestly, prompting you to pause your ministrations and set your watering can aside as you slowly make your way closer to the door. “I worded it all wrong when I was telling Steve and Sam, and you didn’t give me the chance to explain myself.”

“When I came home from my mission with Steve, Natasha cornered me in the kitchen to talk to me about Tony’s charity gala. I had no plans to attend whatsoever until she warned me that if I didn’t go, some other guy would get the chance to sweep you off your feet instead. And I realized… I realized I didn’t want that to happen.”

Your eyebrows raise slightly at his confession before furrowing in confusion. You recalled the night you’d stumbled upon him with Nat in the kitchen, and you remember he had explicitly told you they’d been discussing you. You hadn’t been able to hear anything said between the two, and you were now finally learning for the first time what they’d been so secretively conversing about.

“She said I didn’t have the guts to man up and ask you out,” he says quietly, features forlorn as he leans back against the wall. “She bet I’d be too scared to ever make the first move, and I wanted to prove her wrong. I didn’t make that deal because I thought it would be an easy way to get out of work or to humiliate you. I did it because I like you, and I would hate for Natasha to be right about me letting some other lucky guy win you over all because I was too scared to open my mouth and tell you how I feel.”

A heavy silence fills the hallway as Bucky stands with bated breath before your door and waits for any sort of response from the other side. A part of him fears that you hadn’t heard a word he’d said, or even worse, had heard everything and simply chose to ignore it. However, just when he feels like giving up and finally leaving you alone, the vines guarding your room slowly begin to rescind until there’s nothing left. The door slides open and reveals your hesitant figure standing on the other side. Neither of you speaks at first, too nervous to make the first move, but after a moment you finally work up the nerve to talk.

“You said you wanted to tell me how you feel,” you utter softly, taking a nervous swallow before continuing, “so tell me.”

Bucky can’t help but to smile after finally being able to see you again, and you watch in uncertainty as he takes a step towards you and carefully takes your hands in his.

“I’ve had feelings for you since the day you touched my metal arm and accidentally made daises bloom around it,” he voices with an affectionate grin. “You make me want to be a better man every time I’m around you, and I know that if you gave me the chance I’d do everything in my power to be the guy you deserve.”

You bite back the tears that begin to well at his confession, a smile playing upon your trembling lips as you listen to Bucky say the words you’ve only ever dreamed about hearing. You can see the sincerity swimming in his eyes and know that he isn’t lying to make you feel better. What he says is real, and he means it with every fiber of his being.

“I believe you,” you relent quietly, “and I’m sorry I didn’t give you the chance to apologize.”

“I’m the idiot who should be apologizing,” Bucky avows with a chuckle while giving your hands a gentle squeeze. “I shouldn’t have needed a bet to tell you how I feel. Will you still have me, doll? Even after how stupid I’ve been?”

You giggle quietly as you pull him closer and prompt him to wrap his strong arms around your figure. You peer up to meet his loving gaze while gently placing a hand on his cheek, heart thrumming rapidly in your chest when he immediately melts at the feel of your touch. “Of course I’ll have you.”

Bucky bites back a smile, holding you close as he leans down to meet your lips in a kiss. Your arms find their way around his neck while his hands press against your back to hold you tightly against him as if he never wants to let you go again. The doorway once covered in thorns now blooms with beautiful roses, signifying your reconciliation with the man you adore.

nanami… kento? 

you haven’t heard that name in months, much less seen the man himself in two years. the sound of his name reverberates in your ears, a familiar ache washing over you once more. 

“we actually tried to get in touch with him earlier while you were unconscious, but he didn’t pick up.” she continues, her tone cheerful, oblivious to the distraught expression on your face. “good news though, i just managed to contact him and he’s already on his way h—”

“wait, no!” you cut her off, your voice sharp with panic as you frantically wave your hands in front of you.

“oh…?” the nurse blinks at you, now startled by your sudden outburst, as you scramble to explain yourself.

“t–that won’t be necessary. i’ll uh– i’ll call someone else right now,” you say quickly, standing up to grab your phone from your bag. “he’s– he’s…”

my ex-boyfriend. 

“…he doesn’t live in tokyo anymore,” you finish, voice softening in panic-soaked whisper. “he definitely won’t be able to come.”

and he probably doesn’t even think about me anymore.

“thats odd,” her eyebrows lift. “it’s just… when we called him, he said he would be here soon, and he sounded quite worried, actually.” she eyes you with a gentle concern.

oh god, no. 

you sit down just as quickly as you stood up, clutching the sides of the bed frame like an anchor and feeling like you might be rapidly cycling through the five stages of grief. 

stage 1, denial: because there’s just no fucking way. nanami kento, who hated you so much he quit his job and disappeared to kyoto to get away, a whole train ride away from tokyo, is supposedly coming to pick you up? 

step 2, anger: why the hell did you let them call him? what were you thinking? why is he still listed as your emergency contact? which puppy did you kick? what god did you offend?

step 3, bargaining: maybe you can hobble out of here and call a taxi before he arrives. no wait, the nurse had said it wasn’t advisable with your condition. is hiding in the toilet or under the bed a feasible option instead? you can’t help but peer down the edge of the hospital bed. no, too much space underneath. he’d spot you instantly. fuck.

you’re about to progress to the next stage: existential crisis when someone clears his throat at the door. 

you know instantly who it is without having to look up.

you really don’t want to look up.

how many seconds is a reasonable time to spend staring at the ground below your feet?

taking measured breaths to steel yourself, you count to three before slowly raising your head to look at him.

you swallow hard upon doing so, your voice instantly dying in your throat. 

standing right in front of you, it's undeniable that he’s just as handsome as ever. the same chiselled jawline and hollowed cheekbones, the signature blue dress shirt, and the same calm, steady presence that used to make you feel so incredibly safe. his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, and you have to try really hard not to notice the way his biceps pull the fabric tight against his arms. 

and.. he still smells entirely familiar, the distinctive smell of the cologne you gifted him on your second anniversary being hard to miss. you wonder if he’s finished the bottle, or if he went out and repurchased the same one. you wonder if he thought of you while doing so, if he remembered the night you shared together the night you presented him with the gift. 

you wonder if he knows you still think of him – when you pass by his favourite bakery, when you cook a dish that used to be enjoyed together, or when it’s late at night, and the bed’s far too cold, and you find yourself missing the warmth of a certain ex-lover.

he was more than your ex-lover, though. he was your best friend, your home, and… you’d always thought he’d be your husband one day. 

you quickly shake off that thought before it cracks your heart right open again.

there’s a tired look in nanami’s eyes that mirrors your own, and his tie is slightly loosened – he must have rushed over.

there’s a brief moment of quiet. neither one of you speaks, the silence thick with unsaid things from the past that come rushing back in an instant for you. shared memories – the laughter, the promises, and the pain, that you’ve tried to block out with one too many drinks alone or with friends. 

he doesn’t ask if you’re okay. he doesn’t ask why your emergency contact list still has his name. he doesn’t ask anything.

“come on,” he says simply, not meeting your eyes. “let’s get you home.”

he can’t even look at me. 

so why did he even bother to come?

he just takes your bag from the side table, slings it over his shoulder, and holds the door open for you like it’s been no time at all.

thankfully, the car ride home is short and traffic is smooth, ensuring your suffering isn’t needlessly prolonged. after giving nanami your address, you simply opt to stare out the window, pretending to take great interest in the passing blur of trees and headlights. anything to avoid looking at him.

“thanks for coming,” you mumble, voice stiff and rigid. “i’m sorry about the inconvenience.”

he glances over at you. “that’s alright. i work nearby.” he’s straight-faced as he stares ahead, and the tone of his voice is imperceptible. you can’t get a read on his emotions at all, even if you tried.

you ignore the part where he just revealed that he’s back in tokyo. working. it shouldn’t hurt you that you didn’t know. he came to pick you up when he didn’t have to, when he didn’t want to, and that should be enough.

“still,” you say quietly, shifting in your seat. “thank you.” 

you know this man like the lines on your palms – every freckle, every sigh, every scar he never let anyone else touch. you know the exact way he takes his coffee and how he prefers to fold his shirts. you have his initials inked into your skin, for goodness' sake. he used to trace over them absentmindedly when he thought you were asleep.

and yet.

here you are.

he was the love of your life, and you’re reduced to exchanging cheap pleasantries like strangers. 

“it- it was an accident,” you attempt to clarify, sitting up straighter. “the nurse asked if i wanted to call my emergency contact, and i wasn’t thinking so i said yes, and she tells me she’s just called uh– you, and i must have forgotten to change my–” you cut yourself off, wincing when you realise you’ve started rambling.

“...thank you,” you say again stupidly, for lack of anything else to say to fill the space between you. “i… i appreciate it.”

it’s almost laughable how awkwardly you’re sitting, with your entire body turned away towards the window, like you’re trying to squeeze yourself towards the door and as far away as possible from the driver’s side. you might as well be trying to climb out of it.

“you’ve thanked me enough tonight,” he makes a sound that could seem like a bit of a laugh escaping him. you want to reach for it. to capture the precious sound with both hands and never let go. 

“so…” nanami asks, softer now. “do you feel alright?”

“y–yeah.” you mumble, looking down at your hands. “just the usual, you know. it’s really not a big deal.”

“the fainting spells?” his eyebrows raise and he glances at you as he takes a right turn. you’re close to home. “you still get them?”

you nod, surprised he remembers. “uh huh,” you reply absentmindedly. “it’s just work. i guess i’ve been overdoing it lately. but i’ve got the weekend off so… i’ll use that time to get some rest.”

“i was really worried when i got the call,” he says quietly. “you should take better care of yourself.”

you turn your head to look at him, caught off guard. but his eyes are still fixed on the road, focused and unreadable as he pulls up to your apartment complex. there’s not a flicker of emotion on his face – nothing at all to tell you what he’s really thinking. 

“yeah,” you mutter. “tha—” you quickly stop yourself. “i’ll keep that in mind.”

the engine clicks softly as he shifts into park, but neither of you move.

you stare out the windshield at the streetlights glowing against the pavement, casting long shadows that stretch like ghosts between you.

you bite your lip.

you should let him go. you know you should. thank him again, close the door behind you, and leave this buried in the past – right where he left you those two and a half years ago. 

but your thoughts are moving too fast, resisting another dreadful goodbye. this can’t be it. not after everything. the way his voice cracked slightly when he said he was worried – that was real, right? there’s still so much you want to say. there’s so much you never got to tell him.

so blame it on the hospital meds, or the adrenaline, or the fact that he still smells like that stupid cologne you bought him, but before you can talk yourself down, the words are already tumbling out of your mouth.

you don’t look at him when you say it. your fingers twist painfully in your lap, breath caught in your throat. 

“do you… want to come up for a bit?” 

a pause.

you’re beginning to wish you could take it back. to laugh and say nevermind, to play it off like it didn’t mean anything. you glance at him, mouth opening to offer some half-hearted apology, but he speaks before you do.

“yeah. okay.”

it takes a second for the words to register. then another to believe he really meant them. 

you nod once, then without looking at him again – because you can’t bear to see the look in his eyes – you reach for the door handle and hurriedly step out. 

a/n: nanami what r u thinking...

For once in your life, you were rooting for the bully. Although in this case, you gladly believed your ex boyfriend was the bully here and the other boy only defended himself—albeit more violently than maybe necessary, generally speaking.

“Anyone else?” the taller boy yelled, looking around the crowd of spectators, all of them suddenly quiet. Secretly fearing you might have been next, you quickly wiped the grin off your face.

Now you also recognized him. Finney Blake. The kid who had disappeared in middle school and had come back to be celebrated as the tough guy who had escaped a serial killer. The celebrations hadn't lasted very long, as in recent years, the only context in which those events were brought up among students was to make fun of him and express doubt that all of that had actually happened. Most likely, that was the reason for this fight as well.

Breathing heavily to come down from all this physical action, fire in his eyes and the muscles in his cheeks visibly contracting as he clenched his jaw, Finney almost looked attractive.

You didn’t really know him personally, yet you knew everything there was to know about him. He had been abducted by the Grabber four years ago, he had killed the Grabber and as he grew older, his coping mechanisms were violence and smoking lots of pot.

Certainly there was more to him and his personality beyond the tough survivor surface, but nobody ever talked about that, and he had become a lone wolf less in the sense that he was simply too shy than in the sense that he wanted to be left alone, so it was difficult to find out more by talking to him personally.

In fact, you had never talked to him before. You only took a few classes together and even for group projects, you were never paired with him to get the chance to strike up a conversation. Those who didn’t look down upon him were intimidated by him, and he probably wasn't the type of person to make friends in class, anyway.

However, you were determined to change that today. For one, you wanted to praise his work in the schoolyard earlier. The other reason was that you suddenly realized he wasn't the timid, skinny, little boy with a passion for building rockets anymore, rather than the handsome 17-year-old who had just beaten up your ex-boyfriend—something you held him in the highest regard for.

Your new locker wasn't too far away from his, which you used to your advantage now. After a few seconds of fumbling with the combination you still hadn't fully memorized, you decided to leave it and avoid an embarrassing scene.

“Good fight,” you said casually, leaning against the lockers.

Huffing, he opened his locker without more of a response. You weren't sure if he even looked at you all. If he did, it was a glance that lasted no longer than a split second.

“That was my ex,” you pointed out off-handedly, the smirk audible in your voice.

Finney didn't seem to care, only moving slightly to look at you past the locker door and murmuring sarcastically, “Well, sorry about that.”

“Not at all, he was an asshole,” you shrugged, putting the books into your bag when you realized you weren't going to be able to open the locker, before adding, “Still is, as it turns out.”

A smile tugged at his lips as he quickly put something in his pocket while hurriedly scanning the near-empty hallway and closed the locker. “You mean he's a dick by nature?”

“Right on the money, Finn,” you confirmed, the strap of your bag sliding down your shoulder as you got too comfortable in your cool position.

Suddenly, Finney frowned and you thought it was because you had used his name, but then he gestured toward the locker you were leaning against. “Do you need help?”

Being offered help because you were too stupid to open your own combination lock was the worst case scenario you hadn't even thought of before approaching him. You had expected him to act annoyed or ignore you—both of which did happen—but you hadn't expected him to show pity for you, nor was that your goal.

“Um…” You couldn't think of a clever reply before he stepped closer to you, lightly tapping the metal beside your head with his bruised knuckles.

“This one?” he asked and you shook your head, stepping aside. “Next to it.”

“Forgot your combination?” He turned to you with a smirk, which made your cheeks heat up. You prayed it was subtle, even if he was close enough to definitely notice.

“I was just assigned this locker, my old one was larger than I needed,” you said almost defensively. “I just remember 8–17… and whatever the last number was.”

Finney nodded, an unreadable expression on his face as he didn't take his eyes off you while you talked. “Let's see.”

He turned the dial to the numbers you had given him and for the last round, he leaned in as he carefully turned the dial in the other direction, listening for the click when he hit the correct one. Soon enough, the lock was open and he straightened up. “24.”

“Thank you,” you said sheepishly, suddenly more embarrassed than you had been earlier when you had at least been struggling to open it by yourself without him watching. Or maybe he had been watching, or else he wouldn't have known you needed help.

You opened the door and finally put your books away, seeing from the corner of your eye that he was staring at you, still not leaving your side when his job was technically done.

“Hey, you got a piece of paper?”

You handed him a pencil along with a ripped-off corner of a paper that was sticking out of one of your books to take notes in case your notebook was full.

Finney wrote something on it—presumably your locker combination—and gave it back to you. As you read his writing, you looked up at him in confusion. “That's not my combination.”

“Of course not, it's my phone number,” he grinned, giving you a bewildered look at how you could have thought he would write down anything else. “You know, that's two favors on my part.”

Jack tried his best to get the night off. Tried. This month he was unsuccessful. It was nearly morning when he got home. The winter sun hadn't bothered to begin to rise before he left the hospital. After a shift like tonight's, he was usually wiped. But the little pink heart was keeping him awake.

The floors creaked under his footsteps. The TV hummed with the sound of old sitcom reruns. There was no sign of you immediately.

Everything had been cleaned up, put away, and tidied. No dishes left on the coffee table. No mugs sticky with tea and half drank. No books laid face down on the arm of the chair. Nothing that would signify you were still awake. He's disappointed but understanding, it's late.

Jack walked past the refrigerator on his way to the bedroom. His hands already working on undoing the button on his cargo pants. With a sigh, he glanced at the calendar that had been plastered in his mind all night. He pauses. Something is different than when he last looked at it this evening. A little sticky note pressed against the center of the calendar.

I missed you

That's all he needed to know. Jack's lips upturned into a small smile. He slips into the bedroom. His clothes are following him like a trail of breadcrumbs to the bed. It's a bad habit he picked up after too many long shifts. He'll pick them up in the morning, but he knows you'll wake up before him and throw them into the hamper. It's something he didn't leave when he left the bachelor life.

Your body is illuminated with the glow of the TV. It's such a peaceful scene. The faint blue light softens the features of your face. Jack stands for a moment and just watches his wife sleep. He knows you're deep asleep by the sound of the little puffs that pass your lips with every exhale. The remote to the TV is thrown haphazardly onto the bed. He picks it up but hesitates to turn it off. He prefers it off but he knows you sleep better with the noise. Jack decides against it, he doesn't want to wake you. You deserve the rest

He sets the remote on the nightstand as he pulls back the covers. He blinks long when he sees you tucked under the blankets. You're wrapped up in that little sheer chiffon nightgown he loves. It's a present for him. It's purposeful and he's aware of it. He slides into the bed next to you, his hands grazing the fabric.

He presses his lips against the shell of your ear. It's a welcoming kiss, one he'd normally place on your forehead if you weren't facing away from him.

All he can think about is that shared calendar and you. It's the first time he wasn't able to trade shifts since you both agreed to this. These little hearts had been appearing on the calendar for four months now. He didn't think it would last this long. Neither of you did.

His hand ran across the light material. The fabric ruffled and lifted higher up your body. He couldn't see you underneath the covers but his hands had mapped out every dip, every curve, every scar, he didn't need to see to know his way around.

The movements are awkward as he attempts to make room for himself. There's plenty of room in the bed. More than enough for each of you to sleep comfortably. This isn't about sleep. His leg slides between yours. There's something missing, soft cotton. Can something be missing if you knew it wouldn't be there? He turns his head away, needing a moment to breathe air that's not yours.

One arm slips around your waist. He pulls you close to him. His hand wanders further. The tips of his fingers dip below and between the softness of your thighs. They dance across your folds before finding your clit. Little circles traced around the spot. Jack can feel the way your breathing deepens in your sleep. Your chest rises and falls with every movement he makes.

He pulls his hand away, only for a second, to move your thigh further, to make things easier for the both of you.

"Jack..." It's sleepy. It's lost somewhere between the world of the conscious and the depths of sleep. It's muffled by the pillow pressed to the side of your face.

He doesn't say anything. He doesn't know how awake you are, if you are at all. It doesn't matter. Not tonight.

The bed creaks as he shifts. One hand stays on your thigh. The other hand is wrapped around the base of his cock. Jack is careful as he moves, trying his hardest not to press any weight on you, avoiding waking you further, working around the awkward yet intimate position. Slowly, the tip of his cock slips in. His eyes close as he pushes the rest in. It's always better than he remembers.

He's not going to last long. The day, or rather night, has dragged his stamina away from him. His lips find the corner of your jaw just under your ear. Jack's hips move smoothly against the curve of your ass. Each roll pushing as deep as he possibly can. With every thrust, his hand slips further from your thigh. He can't get a good grip like this, not when he's lost in the feeling of your waiting cunt.

Your breath catches. Jack bites back a groan. He can feel you tighten around him. That's what does it. His arm that had been failing to hold your thigh has all its strength and grip back. He's pulling it back, angling it, making room for him to drive as far in as possible. He grunts as he stuffs your pussy full and empties himself, flooding your hole with his spend.

He waits a moment. He needs a moment. His hand lets go of your thigh. It traces up your body, skimming over the soft skin. He stretches a bit more, awkwardly leaning over you. His face is in your face. He presses a chaste kiss to the corner of your lips before taking a moment just to watch you lay there peacefully. Slowly, he untangles himself from your body, smoothing down the sheer nightgown as he moves away.

He reaches over and grabs the remote, turning off the early morning hour infomerical. His hand pressed against your stomach, slipping under the nightgown as he pulls you close once again. There's a moment of reflection as the sun makes its way over the buildings.

He hopes it works this time. The little doodles of hearts on the calendar haunt him. Jack wants them to disappear, wants them to turn into milestones and doctor's appointments. A due date. It's been too long. His thumb rubs across the softness of your belly before finally joining you in the realm of unconsciousness.

Clark Kent, Superman, the golden newspaper writer <3

Imagine interning under the same company as Clark, you want to write the biggest stories and have them published to the world! Now imagine being Clark's intern, happily trailing behind him as he works. Carrying his paperwork, buying him coffee every morning, oh you angel!

It only took a week of being his intern for the Kryptonian to fall head over heels in love! It only takes a month for him to tell his parents all about you and! And it only took a day for him to watch over you….

Every moment he fights crime he listens for your heart beat. Every night he flies by your apartment, watching your nightly routine. Every morning he greets you with a smile as he stares at your finger. Goodness you'd make an amazing spouse… He just needs to bid his time and soon you'll be in a small cabin far off on a farm with only him