#It doesn’t feel like your pulling shit out of your ass????

[thecoochiefairy]

belle. onyankopon.

𑄽𑄺 warnings 𑄽𑄺 15.7K word count. black original character, onyankopon, photogrpaher!onyankopon, sweet!onyakopon, dominant!onyankapon, arrogant!onyankopon, unprotected sex, vaginal penetration, lil bit of sweet talkin’, praising, LOTS of dirty talk, aggressive dirty talk, oral [f] [m], slightly tipsy sexy? nasty sex chile, just a fine ass black man, minors aren’t welcome!

𝒄𝙤𝒐𝙘𝒉𝙞𝒆𝙛𝒂𝙞𝒓𝙮 𝙩𝒉𝙤𝒖𝙜𝒉𝙩𝒔 .ᐟ had this one in the vault for a minute, and i feel like this tapped more into my romantic side + y’all may find that kinda boring, ugh. sorry. anyways, this is inspired by another black film me + bestie recently watched, the photograph, + i just hope you enjoy. song for this one is fade away, by lucky daye.

visual. visual. visual.

BRENT FAIYAZ’ FUCK THE WORLD ALBUM PROTRUDED ALONG THE PROJECTOR, multicolored lights waking him a minute before his alarm. He raised a tattooed arm over his face, equally greeted by the sunlight coming into his high rise apartment. It was the way he’d always wanted it—a sense of peace he’d perfected—but he couldn’t lie, it was lonely at times. Silent all the time. 

A small grunt falls from his lips as he forces himself out of bed—the warm water of the shower glides down his muscular frame, minty soap sticking to his skin even as he steps out. As he rubs a soft cloth along his dampened face, a ping comes on his phone. 

COLUMN IDEA DUE TODAY. RUN IT BY YOUR BOSS. 

“…Shit.”

Pressing the volume button on his phone to ignite the ceiling speakers, Been Away is the next song on the track list. Leaning closer within the mirror, he cleans up the sides of his hairline, redoing a couple of his cornrows—Another ping on his phone.

GOOD MORNING, ONYANKOPON. I’LL BE READY FOR YOUR COLUMN PRESENTATION TODAY. BRING ME SOMETHING GOOD.

The white tee he pulls over his head clings to his broad frame, leather jacket being paired with cargo shorts, tying the look together with his burgundy Nike dunks. He couldn’t help but to match the vibe of the weather outside, as he always enjoyed autumn in New Orleans—the atmosphere, people, food, it all flourished within October. 

He decided to make a quick stop today. Grabbing a blueberry muffin from the bakery close by his place, his blacked out G—Wagon sped down the road, screeching the tires entirely too early in the morning. 

If Onyankopon’s driving was too early for the bustle of New Orleans’ downtown area, the office he worked in wasn’t anything better—Cheery co-workers, coffee cups within their hands as they tapped along their computers, shifting in and out of the red room to present their ideas to their boss—it’s unfortunate that her attention was on her best editor this morning.

Unlocking the door to his office, he tosses the keys against the table, body thumping into his chair. Fingers running across his braids, he felt for a millisecond that he was in the clear. 

That’s until he heard a voice.

“Onyankopon.”

He closes his eyes for a moment, hand over his mouth to stifle the groan he has to restrain. Guess he wasn’t so lucky this morning. 

“Did you think I didn’t see you coming in?”

Her salt and pepper bob swung with each movement she made, pointed red glasses along her face, a singular eyebrow raised as usual. 

“I was tryna’ avoid you. Not gon’ lie,” he mutters.

“And you thought buying me a muffin would distract that?” 

“Better than all that black ass coffee you be drinkin’,” he retorted, lifting the bag towards her.

She snatches the bag from his hand, “Don’t be cute with me, Onyankopon. Do you have your column idea ready?“

His nervous energy spreads in a way that’s more subtle, his nails scratching at the bottom of his goatee. 

He murmurs, “Not exactly,” eyes shifting to the side as he said it.

She raises both her eyebrows, “I know my editor-in-chief didn’t just say he doesn’t have an idea for this month's column— Clearly his degree wasn’t just for fun?” 

“I—“

He sighs into his hand again, sitting up straight as he speaks, “It’s ain’t a lack of effort, aight?” his hand waves to the side, “I’ve been tryin’ all week—I got nothin’.”

She presses her lips together, giving him a one over. Onyankopon had been one of her best employees, which was why she’d given him the promotion months before. He not only had a degree in journalism, but was caught having an eye for taking pictures, which led him into being the one responsible for not only taking photos, but creating a story behind them. Don’t get him wrong—Onyankopon loved his job, and he loved taking pictures even more—but both could be exhausting, especially when his passions were becoming more of a demand.

She closes the door to his office, making the conversation more intimate as she questions, “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“I was tryna’ figure it out myself before talkin’ to you about it. You know I don’t like to ask for help,” His voice was lowered, a whisper of a confession from him, “I’ve never not had an idea. Shit is irritating.”

The older woman sighs, “It’s okay to feel stuck, Onyankopon. Everyone here has gone through it. It’s also okay to say when you need help.” 

“I know. I know that.”

And really, he does know that. It was just the stubborn side of him that didn’t want to ask for it. He’d worked hard enough to even be in this position, and he wasn’t going to mess that up by asking for handouts. 

With a sigh, she says, ���Look—we were originally gonna do a piece on black owned businesses last month, but scrapped the idea last minute. How about you do something with that?”

Onyankopon pauses at the idea, his brain turning it over silently. 

“Yeah. I can work with that,” his fingers scratch along the length of his cornrows, “Got sum’ in mind for the photo portion yet?”

She shakes her head, “That’s all the help I can give you. Take today to look around at some places, talk to some business owners, and you can decide what you want to do from there—but I’m counting on you, Onyankopon.”

He nodded in response, forcing a small smirk as he reassured, “I got you. Don’t worry about it.” 

But as quickly as the smirk appeared, it disappeared the minute she was out the door—Hell, this was going to be a pain.

A couple blocks down from the business district sat a cafe right on the corner of Decatur street, planted in the middle of the art district. It was quieter than places like Cafe Du Monde, but just as busy, if not more at times. 

It was the perfect mixture of calm and chaos—customers coming in to sit within the shop’s library to read the books off the shelves, inhale the scent of coffee grounds as they waited for a cup, or enjoy the sugary fluff of beignets—she let out a huff as she held a tray with one hand, going over to a crowded family table.

“Okay, I have a coffee—dark roast, two sugars, one cream?”

The father of the family takes a sip of the coffee she’d previously labeled, a satisfied groan parting from his lips as he compliments, “You are the only person I’ve ever met to get my order correct. You’re amazing.” 

A soft smile comes to her heart shaped lips, “Is there anything else you needed?”

The man shakes his head, his daughter and wife doing the same, too invested into their food to request anything else.

The moment she turns, her smile drops a bit, as she pushes back the wavering exhaustion that wants to hit her body. Her eyes flick to her only employee—seeing him glancing down at his phone per usual. 

“Eros, if it’s something that ain’t emergency related, imma’ need you to get off your phone and act like I pay you to be here—“

He holds up a finger to pause her rant, “Aht—honey ,” he taps on the screen of the phone, “I’m on break.”

She raises an eyebrow, “Oh? Taking a break you decided to go on yourself, nor clock out in the process. You’re nearly employee of the month!” 

Eros huffs in response, stuffing the phone back into his pocket. He questions, “Am I not employee of the month already?”

“In your delusions? Of course,” she pulls the handle from beneath the coffee machine, tipping the pot over into a chocolate brown mug, “Please go check on your tables.”

He calls out over his shoulder, “We’d go out of business without me here!” before disappearing amongst the tables.

Her eyes glance along the rustic interior of her shop—wooden chairs with intricate designs carved into them, round tables with miniature lanterns sat within the middle, green plants hung along different corners of the cafe—this was home to most people that came in and out, a serene place that she couldn’t be more happy to provide to her customers. She places a plate under the cup of coffee she’d just made, carrying it over to one of her favorite customers of all.

“Good morning, Mr. Boudreaux.”

She greets the elderly man, gently sitting the cup of coffee across from him, “How are you feeling today?”

The man’s wrinkly face softened at the sight of her, returning her greeting with a bright smile of his own, “Hello, Darlin’,” he responds, his thick accent slipping into each word that he spoke, “I’m doin’ wonderful. An’ how ‘bout yourself?”

“Tired—but here,” she replies, pulling the towel over her shoulder between her palms, wiping off any stains against her fingers, “You sure you don’t want anything else? I don’t need you just drinking coffee when you come here.”

Mr. Boudreaux chuckles, waving a hand in dismissal at her words, “I’m sure, sweetheart. Just my coffee is fine.” 

He lifts the mug closer to his face, breathing in the strong scent of it, “Wouldn’t want to ruin my waistline with your sweets,” he adds on, winking.

 She gives a soft laugh, “Of course—oh, I’ll bring you your extra sugars.”

 “My extra sugars?”

She pauses. 

Turning back towards him, she says, “Yes, Mr. Boudreaux. You always keep two sugars next to your cup in case your coffee is too bitter, remember?” 

“Oh…yeah. ‘Course. I remember,” the old man murmurs, his voice trailing off, a smile still on his face, but smaller than before. 

“Love? We might need another pitcher of the chicory,” Eros calls from the counter, leaning down to check if they had any more in the front.

“Coming.”

She gives the older man a weak smile, hand against his shoulder as she pulls away from him. Going into the back to grab a bag of the powdery root, she pushes her palm against the door as she’s back in the front to hand the ingredient over to her friend.

Eros questions, “How’s Mr. Bodreaux doing today, more senile than usual?” 

“He’s not senile,” she reminds, “He has Alzheimer’s. Don’t do that.”

Eros sighs, lifting the bag of chicory into the air as he shrugged, “Semantics,” he mutters, “Anyways, that’s not the only thing that’s empty—we need more espresso beans.”

You sigh, “Dammit. I knew I forgot to order something this morning. Uh—you can grab the emergency stash from the back, I’ll order some later tonight—“

She pauses, noticing as the customers within her shop are looking in the direction of outside. Her eyes follow to where they all stare, noticing a tall figure—but she can’t even look at him, all she sees is the camera pointed at her cafe, soundlessly snapping photos from the outside.

“Uh—you know him?” 

Eros squints against the sun outside, standing on his toes as he attempts to get a better look. 

“Don’t think so,” he mutters. 

She watches as he backs onto the curb, camera covering his entire face as he snapped more photos. But when she noticed the uncomfortable looks of her customers—she had to think quickly on her feet. 

Throwing the towel she holds, the bell jingles above the door as she exits the building. She’s a bit breathless as she waves, “Hi—Um, excuse me?”

Even when she tries to go unnoticed, she’s hard to not look at. 

A swirl between cinnamon and burnt orange sprawls around her head, the color outstanding even with being swathed under a loose scarf to pull her curls from her freckled cheeks. 

The pinstripe blouse she wears hugs the curve of her waist, squeezing the poke of her hips beneath the fitted cargo pants that pull the look together. Olive. It had to be one of her favorite colors. Her reddened hair mimicked the color of her eyebrows, equally matching her lashes—she was committed to gingers, browns and greens—pretty. 

But nothing was more pretty than her face. It was round like a doll, eyes feline, the caramel of her skin contrasting with the milky clutter of a birthmark surrounding her left eye, nearly swallowing that entire part of her face. 

She gains his attention as she questions, “Hello? What are you doing?” 

Onyankopon takes the camera away from his face, letting it hang around his neck as his head turns in her direction. His eyes roamed all over, trying to take in the entirety of her form as she stood within his site—The soft shade of her cheeks, the curls that peeked from their silk cloth, the color of her skin. 

He’s at a loss for words. 

Clearing his throat, he runs his fingers along the back of his neck as he replies, “My fault. I’m just—takin’ pictures of the building.”

His voice is low, attractive. Their native accent has his voice by the throat, heavy with every word that drops from his mouth. She’s quick to brief him over—even if she wanted a second longer to stare. There seem to be more tattoos along his body than clothes, even if his arms were covered by the leather jacket he wears. They start from his neck, dancing beneath the cotton material of his shirt. His brown skin is smooth, melting, complimenting the shine of the silver jewelry from his nose, ears and fingers. The cornrows on his head fit his face perfectly, jaw aligned by the goatee on his face—he was finer than fine. 

She clears her throat, crossing her arms, “I see that—But why, is what I’m asking.”

He hums softly, hands within his pant’s pockets as he responds, “You own this place, huh?”, nodding his head in the direction of the cafe.

She turns her head back to look at the building. 

Her breath exhales, “It’s mine, yeah.”

Onyankopon raises his brows, a small smirk crawling along his face as he responds, “Impressive.”

Stepping closer to her, his hands still tucked inside his pockets as he looked up and down her figure, “How long’ you been runnin’ it?”

“Why you’ askin’ so many questions? I’m the one tryna’ figure out why you’re taking pictures of my building.”

He gives a soft chuckle at her defensive tone, “Aight, aight. Chill. I’m just curious, that’s all.”

He tilts his head to the side, “You got a body hidin’ in there or sum’?”

The lower of her eyebrows soften. She flicks her eyes to the bustle of people walking, suppressing the smallest smile. 

She responds, “No, I don’t.”

“The world finna’ go cold—I think that was a smile I almost saw. You gon’ tell me yo’ name, or imma’ have to find it under a crime case?”

The sound of her laugh was soft, sweeter than what he expected. She points up at the sign, “It’s Nola, like the sign up there.”

NOLA’S BREW. 

She pushes a flyaway behind her ear, “My mom was a little too in love with her hometown as you can see.”

He chuckles, “It’s cute though. You was’ born here?”

“9th ward. You?” 

Nola pulls the scarf from around her hair, giving him a chance to see the color frame the shape of her face—she quickly ties it back as he looks a little too closely. 

“7th,” he replies, “You’ a long way from the West Bank. Whatchu doin’ over here?”

“My momma owned this shop since I was a baby, passed it down to me before she died—so…yeah,” she plays with a curl along the side of her shoulder, freckled cheeks flushed in her explanation.

He observes, “You’ gotta’ be a couple years my junior with that accent of yours.”

She raises an eyebrow, “What you’ tryna’ say? I’m twenty-five—although you ain’t supposed to ask a woman’s age. How old are you, stranger? Since you still haven’t told me your name.”

He grins, “Onyankopon. And I’m twenty-nine.”

Twenty-nine. 

It wasn’t anything crazy, but a man four years older than her might’ve been a little intimidating. Nola keeps her composer as she reminds, “You still never told me why you’re taking pictures of my cafe.”

“Imma’ photographer,” he explains, pulling the camera up from his neck, gripping it by the strap as his thumb rubs against the side of the device.

Onyankopon continues, “I’m doing a column on black businesses’ in the city, wanted to find something less local—smaller, ended up finding your shop.” 

His eyes won’t stop boring into her, “I’m glad I did.”

Nola didn’t want to be insecure. But she was, especially with a man staring at her the way this one did. She suddenly wants to swipe the birthmark off her face, shrink her hips to be slimmer, look more presentable then she did at this moment. 

She ignores his last comment, “You write on the column too? Not just take the pictures?”

“Editor-in-chief, unfortunately.”

The height difference between them now becomes a bit more prominent the moment he takes another step towards her. 

He notices the way she starts to shrink, the way she avoids meeting in his eyes—it’s almost cute.  

“You’ nervous or sum’?”

Nola blinks at the question. She twists a curl in her finger, coiling it as she responds, “No, I’m just—cold.”

Onyankopon then lifts his camera from his neck, angling it right on the entirety of her. Her body flares in panic, and she shrieks, “Woah!—What are you doing?”

“I gotta get some shots of the person who runs the place, right?”

“No—no,” she steps forward, pressing her palm along his lens, pulling it down, “Please don’t do that. I’m, um—not a big fan of pictures.”

The smirk on his face drops. The way she reacts has him confused—maybe even a little Concerned. 

His fingers lower the camera away, his voice lowering too as he questions, “What you talkin’ ‘bout? You’ pretty as hell.”

Nola still holds his camera within her fingers, close enough to smell the scent of cocoa musk. Giving a nervous laugh, she gently shakes her head as she replies, “That’s a bit overzealous.”

He frowns, “You serious? You really don’t like gettin’ yo’ picture taken?”

“No.”

Nola clears her throat, birthmark glowing under the sunlight coming from within the clouds as she gives a polite rub to his palm, “Look—um, maybe you should find another business. I can recommend some food trucks, other coffee shops. I don’t think my place fits your column.”

His hand still hadn’t moved from her wrist, the heat seeping through her veins—She smelled of everything that was good. 

Onyankopon rolls his full lips together, “You run a black owned coffee shop on the busiest street in New Orleans—prime real estate—and you’ tellin’ me your place ain’t good enough for my column?”

“Sounds a little local then, don’t you think?” 

She turns his words back on him, gently pulling her hand away from his, “You want something that’s special, Onyankopon.”

“You’ right. So let a nigga take a picture of you, Nola.” 

That causes her mouth to part open a bit. She sighs, “Onyankopon—“

Her eyes glanced back to her shop, “I should go back inside.”

Onyankopon gently finds her wrist before she could take another step, pulling her back into place, “Nah, hollon’. Don’t be tryna’ run from me.” 

He’d be lying if he didn’t enjoy the way the sunlight bounced off her skin, the flush of her cheeks darkening from being nervous. 

“I’ll buy a coffee if you need me to.”

“Now you tryna’ buy a picture of me?” 

“I’m tryna’ get yo’ attention, girl. You’ stubborn as hell.” 

Nola tugs at the dark pink of her lips, tinted with brown as she glances over his face. Her curls fall against her shoulder as she tilts her head, “I’m sure they’ll be another woman’s attention you can find in another coffee shop.”

She hears the jingle of the door, Eros peeking his head out, “Nola! We need that espresso—“

He halts, glancing over his friend standing across from an extremely attractive man. 

“Am I—interrupting something?”

Nola shakes her head, “No, you’re fine. I’m coming.” 

She turns back towards Onyankopon, “I really have to go.”

Her soft spoken—yet stern—voice was like honey. She was a little difficult to figure out, which made her more intriguing in his eyes. 

“I’ll come back tomorrow then.”

She raises an eyebrow, “I never said I’d be in your column, Onyankopon.”

He shrugs, “You didn’t say you wouldn’t, either.”

Now both of her eyebrows raise, “And you think an additional twenty-four hours is gonna change that?” 

“I’ll wait an eternity if that means talkin’ to you.”

The sight of him hovering above her smaller frame has her heart thumping again. His words are stern, meaningful. She hates how they make her feel.

“Nola!” 

Eros becomes impatient this time. She pushes out a huff at the sound of her name, still racking her brain on even agreeing to his words.

She then says, “Tomorrow. But no pictures—you can only pull that camera out if I say so.”

He gives a lopsided smile, his eyes lighting up at her response.

“Aight, Mama. Nothin’ that ain’t on your terms,” he agrees, “Promise.”

The term of endearment makes that thump in her heart jolt. She pulls a curl behind her ear once more as she turns away, “I mean it!”

“Heard you. Imma’ see you—Nola from 9th Ward.” 

Her hand pressing along the door slows as she looks back at him once more, and that’s when the softest giggle pulls from her lips.

“Bye, Onyankopon from 7th.”

                                       𝓐ᥫ᭡

LOOKING WITHIN THE MIRROR WASN’T SOMETHING NOLA DID OFTEN. It became a habit of hers today—from looking into the reflection of the coffee maker, the small mirror on the counter, bathroom breaks—she was unsure why she had prepared for today’s new customer to enter the cafe. Maybe a small part of her was anticipating him to come. 

But as time passed throughout the day, and each jingle of the bell atop of the door wasn’t him, she began to think their entire conversation wasn’t anything she should’ve taken seriously. 

“You okay?”

Eros wipes the toaster on the opposite side of the counter, raising his eyebrow as he looks over at Nola who stares into space.

“Hm?” She turns, “Oh—sorry, yeah,” she looks to the door that opens, seeing as another customer comes in, “I’m fine,” her shoulders deflate a bit. 

“You thinkin’ about that boy, ain’t you?”

Nola blinks, “Boy? Who?” 

“Come on now,” Eros rolls his eyes, “I see the way you look every time the door opens.”

He comes closer, placing his chin over her shoulder, “I saw the way you were lookin’ at him yesterday. He was foiinneee.” 

“He was aight.”

He snorts as she gives her simple reply, “Oh bullshit. You were blushin’.”

His elbow knocks into her side, “What were y’all talking about anyways?”

“Said he’s a journalist—but it seems like his main passion is photography. He’s doing a column on black owned business’, ‘wanted the shop to be a part of it— I didn’t really give him a yes to that idea,” she briefly explained, beginning to brew a mug of coffee written along a sticky note.

Eros’ expression falls with her words, “You tellin’ me a fine ass man like that came in here asking you to be a part of his column— and you said no?”

“He asked for the cafe, Eros. Not me.”

“But he wanted pictures of you.”

“Yeah? What kinda pictures?” she retorts, “I’m good on’ being in his onlyfans portfolio. I told him I’d think about being in it, that’s it.”

Eros rolls his eyes, “You’re killin’ me.”

He leans in closer, “What’s the problem, Nola? Is this about your—“

“Eros,” Nola warns, “I just—let’s not get into that, okay? I’m allowed to say no to someone wanting to take photos of me. Can he just come, propose this column idea, and go about his business? Is that alright with you?”

Eros’ expression becomes solemn. He sighs, “Fine, Fine. I was just saying. But can I ask, when’s the last time you’ve been on a date?”

Nola rolls her eyes, “I went out with that lawyer that came here a month ago!” She points out, giving a polite smile as she hands off the warm mug to a customer, “Beignets, please.”

Eros moves to the display case. He scoffs, “Wrong—That don’t’ count, boo. That man was boring as hell. He talked about the history of coffee for two hours, and the date was here while you were on shift!” 

He grabs the beignets from within the glass casing, placing it on the tray.

She shrugs, “He said he was busy that day.”

She sighs, realizing how she sounded. Maybe she did need to loosen up a bit. She needed to give herself the opportunity to flirt with an attractive man—And Onyankopon was attractive. 

The moment she goes to reply—the jingle of the door catches her attention. 

A plaid black and brown button up covers the wife beater he wears, alabaster cotton clinging to the sculpt of his abs under the patterned material. He wears a pair of brown dunks today, cargos pulling together the entire outfit. His nose ring shines under the light atop of the door, cornrows always looking as if they were freshly done.

Her eyes flicker down to the bouquet of Lilies and delphiniums mixed within his palm, wrapped in sea green paper—Eros’ mouth parts a bit at the sight, “Just pictures, huh?”

Nola was a bit lost for words—Which wasn’t a thing for her. 

She looked different today. The sunset ginger of her curls are fuller, flowing down to the hips of her corseted dress she wears. The straps continuously slip from her shoulders, bustier full beneath the sweetheart neckline, lace trimming the drawstring tied between her breast. 

Nola’s face is already flushed. She gives him a childish wave as she greets, “…Hi.”

Onyankopon practically glares at the sight of her. He was unsure of what to say, but the feeling of holding the flowers in his hand gives him a bit of courage.

 His low voice greets, “You look pretty, Mama.”

Her full lips curl into a nervous smile. With eyes peering down to the flowers, “You forget to drop those off somewhere?”

Onyankopon glances down with her, his lips stretching into the lazy smirk that Nola hated to love, “Nah. They’re for you—Thought you could use some color outside of them’ plants you got around here.”

“Flowers after the second interaction, huh?” Eros questions, “Y’all hear them’ wedding bells?” 

Nola flicks her eyes towards her friend, “Eros—go away, yeah?” 

He gives a wink, “Already gone,” making his way around the counter, he stops, “You don’t happen to like

men too, do you?”

Onyankopon chuckles, “Nah. Just pretty women, like yo’ shy ass friend.” 

He sighs, “Too bad. I’m gone.” 

Eros goes to check on customers, blowing a kiss towards Nola’s death glare.

She apologizes, “Sorry about him. Um—thank you, for these,” she gently takes the bouquet into her hands, “Was traffic bad? It’s nearly six.”

Okay, she tried to say that without sounding like she was waiting for him, but she couldn’t help but question his whereabouts.

“Bad as hell. Why you’ askin’? You’ thought I was finna’ stand you up?”

“No!—No. I just—I figured you would come earlier this morning—not around the time I almost close up shop. It’s not my business to know what you were doing,” she shakes her head.

He leans against the counter, watching as she places the flowers onto the edge, “You cute as hell,” he grins, “I just got caught up with some other parts of

the column. I wanted you to be my last stop.”

“What other places did you find?” 

She turns towards the sink to fill a jar up with water, bending her body a bit to reach further.

Onyankopon eyes immediately drop down to follow the arch within her back, the way the fabric tightens around her hips, the shape of her ass—

He looks back up to her, biting the inside of his cheek as he forces his eyes back to her face, “Couple food trucks, and some clothing businesses.”

“That’s good. Hopefully you didn’t ambush them like you did me,” she teases, unrolling the flowers from the paper they’re wrapped in, beginning to place them within the water stem by stem.

“They were all friendly enough—One nigga didn’t even want the money I offered, just wanted his pictures taken.”

“Money?” she blinks, “Why the hell you ain’t say that when you first approached me—I would’ve been real friendly if I knew I was getting paid!” 

He raises his hand to his chest, “Is that all I’m worth? A dollar sign?”

“I was worth a cup of coffee if you recall,” Nola reminds, leaning herself against the counter, “I’m not pretty enough to be paid off?”

“Hell nah. You’ the prettiest fuckin’ belle in New Orleans.”

“Such a sweet lil’ southern boy you are,” she hums, leaning her face against her palm, “These lines work on all the belles of New Orleans?”

“Nah, they’ reserved just for you.” 

Onyankopon watches as Nola smiles, a flush spreading over her cheeks, “You got a cute ass smile. Got a nigga nervous— lawd,” he flaps the wifebeater he wears, making Nola giggle in return. 

She shakes her head, “You’re a mess. Want anything to eat?”

“Now you know I ain’t finna’ leave Nola’s Brew without her famous beignets. I asked around the city.”

She dips down to grab for a plate, “You wanted to know about me so bad that you asked around the city? Stalker, much?”

“More like a researcher. I was doin’ what any good journalist would,” He watches her place the pastries from the case onto the plate, “Besides, I ain’t think you’d ever agree to me comin’ back, so the only solution was to ask around.”

“Hm. I guess that’s fair,” Nola slides the plate over to him, “Want me to feed them to you?”

He raises an eyebrow, “That’s what you want? You tryna’ drop sum’ on my tongue already?” 

She rolls her eyes, “I was hoping that stuffing your mouth would keep you quiet—Feed yourself.”

Nola takes the vase off the counter, leaving him with that final comment. She begins to circle around the cafe, Onyankopon only able to watch as she hands the flowers out to each woman sitting within the building. He wasn’t used to being so starstruck by a woman, but damn, here she was. 

The moment she leaves, Eros comes speed walking in replacement, glancing over the shop before he quickly lowers his voice, “Nola will kill me if she ever knew I told you this—but she seems to like you, and I just don’t want her fight or flight to kick in if you pry on her issues with pictures.”

He makes sure she isn’t looking in their direction before he continues, “She had a girl throw acid on her back when she was a teenager—it caused really bad chemical burns that triggered her vitiligo.” 

Onyakopon’s eyebrows lowered, shock within his expression at the words that Eros spoke. Everything was starting to make sense. He glances behind himself, watching her face a customer with a cheerful giggle. 

He murmurs, “Is that why she was so uncomfortable? ‘Bout the whole picture thing?”

Eros nods, “She still has a hard time—being okay with the way she looks. So—just be patient with her. She acts like she doesn’t like the sweet stuff, but she’s really softhearted.”

“You over there messing with him?” 

Nola brings her attention back to where both men stand, crossing her arms over her chest with a raised eyebrow. 

Eros frowns, “Moi? Messing with somebody? Never.” 

Onyankopon shakes his head, grinning as she places her vase on the empty table, “He straight lyin’. He was in the middle of sayin’ how cool I was.”

He couldn’t lie, that story was still stuck on his mind. Something in him wanted to make her smile—Make her feel safe. 

Nola looks between the two, narrowing her eyes a bit. She says, “Hm. Okay. Anyways, how are you doing, Mr. Boudreaux?”

Sitting next to the elderly man who’s distracted in his own game of solitaire, she leans her curls against his shoulder, “You need another coffee?”

Mr. Boudreaux gives a huff, waving it off, “No, no. I’m fine, darlin’. If I drink anymore, I’ll be up all night.” 

Nola giggles, “Understood.”

She then look over to Onyankopon, “This is Mr. Boudreaux—He’s been coming in here since my momma owned the shop, but I’m starting to think he just likes my company,” she hums, wrapping her fingers around his arm, “Mr. Boudreaux, this is Onyankopon—he’s trying to do a column on black businesses in New Orleans, said he wanted to do a section on my cafe.” 

Mr. Boudreaux gives a hum, “Nice to meet ya’, young man.” 

Onyankopon gives a polite nod, “Nice to meet you, too, sir. How she’ treating you here? ‘She as friendly as they say?” 

The older man looks down at Nola, patting her head with a small smile, “That and more.”

“Maybe you can write about Mr. Boudreaux instead? Take the spotlight off me that you wanna shine so badly,” Nola suggests to Onyankopon, playfully spinning one of the cards on the table.

Onyankopon chuckles, “I want the world to know the good things ‘bout this place and the people inside— but you’ ain’t getting off the hook that easy. The owner has their own section.” 

Nola sighs, leaning further into the older man as she adds, “It seems he’s also trying to court me, Mr. Boudreaux.” 

Mr. Boudreaux chuckles in response, beginning to shuffle his cards as he says to Onyankopon, “I may not remember much, but I do remember one thing—my wife also hated a mass amount of attention. Barely enjoyed mine. She couldn’t see what I saw. You have to be a woman’s mirror sometimes— remind them why you’re always lookin’.”

Onyankopon watches Nola’s expression soften, those pretty freckles on her face shining under the lights of the shop as she listens.

That was definitely sound advice.

The last couple of hours were spent checking on customers that lounged around the cafe before closing, talking to other regulars, and even trying to reach Onyankopon how to make the perfect cup of coffee—Nola giggled as he politely served the cup to a customer, the older woman talking his ear off as she repeated how handsome he was.

She didn’t expect to enjoy his company with the short time of meeting him, but he was—sweet. He knew how to make her laugh, and he seemed to be interested in what she had to say. She might’ve liked him. 

Nola hands him a glass cup to wipe, using her own rag to clean the counter as she questions, “Anything you thinkin’ about saying in your column?”

“So now you gon’ let me do it?” 

She tilts her head, “Hm—not yet. But if I did let you, what would you say?”

“I would say that you got a real pretty cafe. Good ass beignets, Nice people, better coffee—And a boss who’s real’ easy on the eyes.”

“I’m serious, Ony.”

He chuckles, placing the glass back in the case, “I’m forreal’. Why ‘you always think I’m frontin’?”

“Cause a nigga that wants something will say anything to get it,” she replies, handing him another cup.

“And you’ think I want sum’ from you?”

“You want that picture, right? Maybe you’re all flirty so you can do your job, then suddenly I never hear from you again.”

She goes to place her final cup in the cabinet above the counter—but that’s when it’s snatched from her fingers, Onyankopon placing the cup above her reach, closing the cabinet before she can fully protest. 

His eyebrows lower, “Can I just wanna talk to yo’ cute ass cause I want to, or it always gotta be something malicious?”

Nola tilts her head to the side, curls falling against her shoulder as she sees his face. She sighs, “Okay, maybe I’m being presumptuous.”

She pushes a rag towards his free hand, “Wanna wipe down the tables to seem less malicious?”

Onyankopon smacks his lips, “Got a nigga doin’ free labor to prove that I like you? That’s crazy,” He takes the rag into his fingers, nodding nonetheless, “Yeah, aight. You good with sweepin’, or you need me to handle that too?”

“Just the tables.”

Nola watches as he begins wiping down the booths, muscles flexing beneath the plaid button up he wears. She hated how good looking he was. 

“So, you actually like this one or you just wanna make him a new employee?” 

Eros pushes the door open from the kitchen, gathering all of his stuff within his hands as he prepares to clock out. 

Nola keeps her eyes on Onyankopon. She replies, “He’s sweet.”

“Ain’t never heard you say a man was sweet before. He cleans, listens, calls you mama. You sure we can’t keep him?“

Nola nudges her shoulder against his, shaking her head as she mutters, “Get out of here, Eros.” 

Eros chuckles, throwing an air kiss to her, turning towards Onyankopon as he winks, “Later, Papi.”

Onyankopon shakes his head, “See you, Eros. Be safe.” 

He watches the bell jingle above the door, turning his attention back to Nola, “Yo’ friend is sum’ else.”

“Yeah, he’s a mess.” 

Reaching out for the rag, her voice is soft as she tells him,  “Listen—I wanted to say thank you for helping me close up tonight. It was kinda busy today—I hope I didn’t hinder any of your plans?”

“You good, Mama. I had this jazz lounge to head to later on—but the owner is on a business trip, so he won’t be able to do the column anyway, said I was more than welcome to go snap a couple photos.” 

Nola raises her eyebrows, “A jazz lounge? Don’t think I’ve ever been,” she murmurs, adjusting the seats under the smaller tables, “Sounds cool.”

“You talkin’ ‘bout it sounds cool, you thought you wasn’t’ comin’ with me?”

“Is that your way of asking me?”

“Maybe you was’ right on yo’ lil’ theory about a nigga wanting somethin’ from you, Ms. Nola from’ 9th ward—I might’ve helped you clean up ‘cause I want you to come with me to this lounge—Smart, huh?”

She’s unable to hide the amusement along her face. Nola barely remembered the last time she’d gone out with a man—besides that boring lawyer—and she enjoyed spending time with Onyankopon. A couple more hours wouldn’t hurt. 

She glances around the restaurant once more, a sigh passing her lips as she questions, “Do I need to change?” 

Onyankopon smiles. 

 Nola dropped her keys within the miniature purse she carried, tucking it under the seat of Onyankopon’s car as they parked at the end of Bourbon street. Beads hang from the top of multicolored buildings, street performers catching the attention of people walking by—an all around experience awaited each time someone peered at the corner of the French Quarter. 

The thinness of her golden heel stumbled as a group of drunken party goers passed by in shrills of laughter, Onyankopon’s attention on his camera, making sure his lens was focused. 

Nola’s fingers slipped into the warmth of his palm, leaning a bit closer to calm her nerves. She gives an apologetic exhale of, “Sorry—it’s been a while since I’ve been here.”

Onyankopon adjusts his grip to tighten around Nola’s trembling palm, her skin soft against his rough fingers as he continues to focus on the viewfinder, “You’ fine, Mama. Don’t apologize.” 

The beads of the buildings clatter in the distance, her nerves calming slightly when she leaned closer to him. Safe.

“Look.”

She tugs him in the direction she stands, now in front of a painted mural—it’s simpler than the ones planted all around New Orleans— clouded captures of green trees through an arched doorway that represent a forest. 

“Tromp l'oeil—means to trick the eye,” the French term rolls off her tongue effortlessly, staring back to the painting.

“You speak French?” 

 His camera lens focuses on the mural, capturing the trick in the painting, “You full of little surprises, huh?”

Nola giggles a bit, “My momma spoke it fluently— most creole people do. I wasn’t willing to learn it though,” she shrugs, “How’s it showing up on the camera?”

“You’ so interesting,” he murmurs, looking through a different view finder, “I’m tryna’ find the best lens for it.” 

His fingers fiddle with the focus, tilting his head back and forth to the painting, “Remind me to ask you to speak some French for me later.”

She rolls her eyes. Turning back to see his focus along the camera, she comes closer as she questions, “Can I see?”

“C’mere.” 

He turns the camera towards Nola. The lens captures the vibrant colors of the paint, the illusion creating a deeper archway with trees inside a building. His eyes watch as a slight smile forms on her face, admiring the work.

She clicks through the photos he’d already taken, stopping at a particular one as her acrylic nail gently taps the screen, “I like this one.”

“Yeah?” 

“Mhm. The colors compliment the shadows. Makes it all look like a dream.” 

Onyankopon’s chin nearly brushes against her shoulder, but not quite. His voice is a bit huskier than before as he murmurs, “I like it too. Looks good in color.”

When she turns to look at him, their faces are now very close—The heat radiating off Nola’s skin is almost felt. Onyankopon’s eyes flit down to her lips.

Her heart is back to thumping within her chest. A new feeling progresses within their interactions—his glare down to her face makes her clit throb, and she has to blink herself out of the fantasies that course through her mind like a flash. 

She clears her throat, pulling her curls behind her ear as she questions, “Wanna try a picture of me?”

His breathing becomes more of a soft, almost deep rasp, but he pulls a smirk as she suggests the picture, “You finally lettin’ me take a picture, huh? That mean you trust me now?”

She leans herself against the brick wall, “Hush. I just—I wanna know how you get people to be comfortable.”

He closes the camera lens, raising an eyebrow at her statement, “Comfortable? Nah— that ain’t my goal.”

Onyankopon moves forward, gently guiding her hands behind her back, his gaze lingering on the curves of her shape. 

He murmurs, “I want the people I capture to seduce the camera—not look comfortable.”

Nola frowns, “You want me to fuck the camera is what you’re saying?”

“Nah, no.” 

His fingers move to brush over her curls, gently pushing her hair to the side to expose her neck, “I just wanna see you natural—like how you’ be in the cafe—Just keep talkin’ to me.”

There’s a hesitance within her face as Onyankopon pulls the camera back up, Nola glancing around the area, feeling the shyness tensing through her body. 

If only she could see herself. Her hair frames her face perfectly, freckles daubed along her cheeks as the neon lanterns glow in between the snowy and caramel mixture of her skin. 

She blinks, “Uh—what should I say?”

His camera clicks in her direction, studying each soft feature within her face. The shyness in her expression makes his hands itch—but he wanted to see it. He wanted to capture her most vulnerable moments. 

“Lemme’ hear more about yo’ momma.” 

His voice was a bit more of a husk, but his focus never once left the lens.

Nola glances at him from behind the lens. She takes a deep breath, looking back at the crowd of people as she responds, “Um—My momma used to take me here when I was younger. She used to get her palm read by the ladies on the street. They terrified me,” she softly giggles.

“Yeah? Why they’ terrified you?”

“I think the idea of someone knowing my life before I did was a little spooky for me—Momma was worse than those women at times. Always telling me what I’d look like, who I’d be in the future.”

The softest smile is along her face, reminiscing at the thought of her mom. 

“…She also told me there was gonna’ be a time where I wasn’t gonna have her. I didn’t know she meant so early on in my life—Probably should’ve listened a little harder.” 

Her smile goes a little faint, almost forgetting the camera was there.

“You miss her?”

“…It’s hard to miss her when she’s always with me. In my mugs, my books, my plants, my beignets,” she softly laughs, “She’s everywhere with me. So, not too often.” 

The cool air of the night begins to wisp around her hair, it’s as if the temperature brings her back to reality—she finally sees the camera.

She walks up to him, covering the lens as she exhales, “Alright, boy. I’m done being your lil’ muse. Ain’t this supposed to be a date?”

“Date?” 

He chuckles at the term, “You callin’ this a date? You tryna’ get a nigga’s hopes up?”

She blinks, realizing what she’d just said.

“Did I say date? I meant—you finna’ be late to see this jazz lounge!” 

Her heels click against the ground as she walks, “C’mon!”

Onyankopon’s grin follows at her quick attempt to cover her words, letting the camera hang at his side as he follows after her, “Girl—you already called it a date—you can’t take that back now!” 

He follows behind as they approach a white-bricked, historic-looking building, a hum of jazz music slipping from inside as it draws them closer. A live band plays on the stage towards the back of the dimly lit lounge—Couples and friends moving to the rhythm, a mixture of flavor scented cigars dancing in the air.  

Onyankopon guides Nola to an open table, pulling her chair out for her before sitting across from her. His eyes glance over the interior of the building, the various people of differing ages laughing and socializing. The vibe feels—romantic.

Nola watches his fingers nearly itch for his camera. He peers through the darkness, clicking photos of the art above the walls, the dancing figures, the intimate tone the club sets for itself. 

“So,” her eyes flick from the candle in the middle of the table, up to his handsome features, “You never told me how you got into journalism.”

Goddamn her, he thought. Her freckles looked almost like constellations within the candle light, “That’s a bit of a story.”

“Oh. You one of them niggas.”

His eyebrow raises back at her, “What ‘you mean by that?”

“The one that wants to know everything about a woman, but the moment she wants to know something about him—he’s silent.”

“Maybe I’m just not a nigga who likes to talk about himself.”

“Well isn’t that boring?”

Nola’s voice is sarcastic, eyes turning away as she waves for the attention of a waitress. Her shoulders deflate a bit at his vague response, and that small speck of dismissiveness might’ve proved him too good to be true. 

“Can I have a frozen sangria?” she politely asks, handing the menu back to the woman as she smiles, “Thank you.”

He watches her order, his eyes narrowing as she avoids his gaze. He was a bit thrown off by how quickly her mood had changed. 

The waitress nodded at her drink request, turning to Onyankopon, “And for you, sir?” 

He muttered, “A beer. Thank you.” 

He waits until the waitress disappears, “So you don’t fuck with me no more?”

“You said you didn’t have anything to say, so why you’ still talkin’ to me?”

Onyankopon’s eyes narrow. His gaze becomes a little cold, “I didn’t say I ain’t wanna’ talk to you, Nola. I just said I wasn’t someone who like talkin’ about themselves—there’s a difference.”

“And if I said some shit like that to you, yo’ ass would’ve been all in my face lookin’ for an answer,” her accent becomes heavier the more she’s annoyed, “But you can say you don’t like talking about yourself and dismiss my question, huh? Yeah— okay.”

“Nah, shawty. I wouldn’t have been all in yo’ face. If you said you weren’t comfortable talkin’ about yourself—I would’ve left you alone. I ain’t pry about them’ pictures, did I?” 

She huffs, “Well maybe I just wanna know something about the nigga I like. I ain’t’ think that was a crime.”

His eyebrow raises at her confession. The cocky bastard has a grin along his face, “So that’s why you trippin’. ‘Cause you like me? Why you’ makin’ yourself all frustrated when you could’ve just said that?”

“Why would I boost your big ass ego?” 

He can see the way her face flushes despite her attitude. He can’t stop looking at her, Onyankopon’s gaze more serious as he confirms, “I like you too, Nola.”

Yeah, she was blushing. Again. Her eyes watched as people began to flood the dance floor, the band beginning to play a more calming tune rather than the upbeat instrumentals they carried on before. 

She reaches for his hand as she questions, “Come dance with me?”

Maybe this was her way of apologizing. She pulls him to a corner of the dance floor, placing his arms to the lower part of her back. Nola giggles as he places her feet along his shoes, noticing that she stood on the tips of her heels to wrap her arms around his neck.

He gives a soft chuckle as he pulls her closer, “You still mad?” 

She sighs, “I might’ve been a little mean earlier. I’m sorry. I just—I like you, and I wanna know things about you.”

He didn’t need her to apologize. He wanted to know everything about her, so it wasn’t wrong for her to want the same. Nola leans herself more into him, pressing her curls against his chest as she follows the rhythm of the music. 

That’s when Onyankopon says, “Imma’ photographer that went to school for journalism, and my pops thinks I’m wastin’ my life away. That don’t’ sound too interesting to tell anybody.”

“Why does he think that?”

His fingers tightened against her waist a bit, “He wanted me to be a doctor, and all I wanted to do was take pictures. He ain’t’ believe me when I said photojournalism was a real profession—you know how it goes with parents.”

“Are you happy though? That you followed your dreams?”

Onyankopon pulls her even closer, his nose lightly running against her curls as he murmurs, “I wouldn’t be here with you if I ain’t always go’ for what I wanted.”

Nola blushes, covering it with a snort, “You’re so corny.” 

He chuckles at her snort, keeping her body close to his, “Corny? Nah. Delusional? Maybe.”

Nola had noticed something about Onyankopon. As the night went on, drinking, dancing, she couldn’t pull away from the look upon his face each time he snapped a photo. He was almost—elated. 

It was the same eyes she had each time she opened her cafe, each time she made a customer happy—like she was exactly where she needed to be.

However, being exactly where she needed to be didn’t apply at this moment—as she was now standing at the doorway of Onyankopon’s condo, heart beating within her chest as she’d agreed to come over when the weather began to get bad outside. His place was closer to Bourbon street, and she’d decided to camp out here until he could drive her back home. 

It was a modern-styled condo. White walls, leather furniture, and wooden frames throughout the home. He seemed to love the color brown. The coffee table was covered in books and magazines, along with vinyls that he’d collected over years of traveling. 

“You want sum’ to drink?” 

Nola’s heart continuously thumps in her ears. She gives a weak smile, “Sure—a glass of wine would be nice.”

He gives a nod, his hand gripping her fingers to lead her onto the couch, “I got you. Make yourself comfortable, aight? I’ll be back.” 

The silence of the place was almost deafening. The only sounds Nola could focus on were the occasional car passing by outside, the rain, and the clinking of the wine glasses. 

She picks up a book off of the glass table, mindlessly flipping through the pages and looking at the pictures, distracting herself. Placing the book back down, she clears her throat as she places her heels next to the door, adjusting her dress as she comes down the foyer leading to the kitchen.

“You have a record player?” 

Her eyes caught sight of the machine first, but then she caught sight of him—his back was facing the hallway, plaid button up now removed for her to see the muscular bulge of his arms, coated in tattoos. Nola swallows.

Her gaze scans over his bare skin, his body chiseled,  muscular and strong. The black cotton boxers under his cargos ride a little below his hips, showing more of his tattoo work upon his skin. Down, down, down—

“Yeah, my pops said music sounded better on em’. He put me on.”

She needed another distraction. Squatting down, Nola pulls one of the vinyls—Al Green, Love And Happiness—pressing the button up top as she places the disc within the slot.

The needle moves around the record, playing in soft strums, mixing with the sound of the rain falling outside. It fits the moment well, but doesn’t seem to help the tension she feels.

Her eyes fall to the other corner of his living room—a makeshift backdrop hangs from his ceiling, another camera posted on its stick across from the white background. 

She calls from down the hallway, “You um—take pictures here, too?”

“Yeah, I do most of my test shoots here—Better than havin’ to rent a studio and the client says they don’t like their pictures.” 

He comes out of the kitchen, a bottle of chilled wine in one hand, her glass of Stella Rose Black within the other.

She gives a soft smile as she takes the glass, “Thank you. Um—does that happen a lot? Having clients not like their photos?”

“Unfortunately. Most people think they’ finna’ look exactly like they do in real life, but that’s impossible. They’ just picky sometimes.”

“Well—maybe you don’t know what it’s like to be the one in front of the camera and not behind it.”

She tugs him onto the backdrop, stepping back as she locks her fingers around the camera. She giggles, “Lemme’ get one of you. I’m sure you know how to take the perfect picture.”

Onyankopon stands in the center of the white cloth, his arms folded over his chest as he reminds, “This ain’t ‘bout me. I thought you just wanted me to talk?”

“We can multitask,” she mutters, looking at him through the camera—he seems bigger in the frame, taking up the entirety of it. Nola then prods, “So, tell me something, Onyankopon from 7th Ward, what do you love about photography?”

He keeps his face down, eyes almost glaring as he looks towards the camera, “That’s a broad question.” 

Onyankopon’s fingers itch, his expression hardening a bit more, “I like the control I get from behind the camera.“

Oh.

 Nola’s smile faintly drops from her face. Her heart was back to thumping in her ears, almost having the skin singed.

A photo clicks through her swallow, her eyes still peeking through the camera as she softly replies, “Control is a…word choice.”

He’s focused solely on her. Onyankopon murmurs, “Don’t try to act like you don’t get the same thing from yo’ lil’ cafe.” 

His voice is huskier by the second, “We all like bein’ in charge.”

“So that’s what you want? To be in control of the person you’re taking pictures of?” 

“You sayin’ you don’t want the same thing when you deal with people?” 

His gaze burns into her, “When they walk through yo’ doors, don’t you want them to know that you’re the one controllin’ the place? That you’re the one that runs shit?”

His words make her tense. The darkness of night begins to consume the room a bit, the moonlight coming through as the rain slows down. 

She’s back to playing with the curls of her hair, a nervous giggle spilling from her lips as she says, “I don’t think I’m too good behind the camera,” stepping herself back from the lens.

His eyes follow her every movement, his expression almost dark. 

“Why not?”

She’s unsure of how to answer that. 

“…You said you have a sense of control when doing so, but I feel a little awkward tryna’ take photos of you. So—maybe I’m more submissive, in that sense. Better at taking direction then giving it,” she pulls her hair to one side, coiling a piece beneath her finger.

The words out of her mouth have his eyes lowering to watch the motion of her fingers. He murmurs, “Submissive, huh?”

She wants to facepalm herself. She realizes how she sounds, shaking her head as she corrects, “I just meant—um, you know what I was saying.”

Nola steps forward, keeping her fingers twisted under her curls, “Listen, Ony. I just wanted to say that I—I had a really nice time with you today.”

He watches her stumble over herself, finding an adoration within her nerves. Cute. He steps closer to her. 

“Now she wanna’ be nice, ain’t that sweet?”

Nola softly laughs, “I’m serious. The time I’ve spent around you has been nice, you’re sweet—and—admitting again that I like you was a little embarrassing, so I’m hoping you didn’t say it just because I did— That you meant it.”

Her eyes waver as he’s closing the distance between them, his tall height looming over her frame to look down at her.

“I’d love to be in your column, Onyankopon.” 

He’s close. His breath almost brushed over her skin, “I like you too, witcho’ pretty ass.”

Onyankopon watches her stare up at him, her curls still in her hands, “And I still mean it.” 

That other feeling returns once again, a throb coming between her legs from the vibrations that pool through her lower stomach. Nola flicks her vision from his low eyes, to his lips. The nervous part of her encapsulates her brain, and her face lowers a bit as she nervously giggles, “Um—the rain slowed down—Maybe you should take me home?”

He hears the shudder in her voice, that giggle she does when her nerves get the best of her. His hand finds a tiny curl along the back of her neck, fingers gently placing there. 

“Nah. You’ fine right here.”

Her mind seems to spin like that record playing— Onyankopon lowers his jaw, rubbing his lips onto hers—which makes Nola release the quietest gasp, a small pout forming along her mouth, lashes fluttering in return. 

Her voice is different. 

“…O—Ony…” 

The moment he hears a whimper escape her, his thumb pushes up her chin to meet the pout of her mouth, kissing her. He’s gentle, the tone shifting into something—passionate. He can feel her heart hammering through her chest.

The taste of his tongue makes her feel drunk, almost in a daze. He won’t stop.

Another shift in the air—his tongue is now everywhere it doesn’t need to be—he’s in her ear, gliding along the sensitive shell—then, he’s dragging down her neck, a place that was generally her spot. She reaches up to tug at his cornrows, the sounds pushing from her lips intrusive—louder than she expected, a broken gasp stuttering from her lips as she pleads again, “Ony…”

Her neck is sensitive. The sounds spilling through her mouth are filthy, the way her fingers twist around his hair gives him a small sense of satisfaction. It gets his mind racing, just imagining what kind of sounds he can have her making later on.

“Why you callin’ me like that, huh?” 

He’s snatching pieces of her skin into his mouth.

“You’re making me wanna’ fuck.”

Her voice is a whine, pouty in the full sentence. She didn’t even think about those words before she said them. 

He grunts at that, Nola jolting out another gasp when his free hand spanks her ass from beneath her dress, gripping the flesh with a shake, “You whinin’ like you need this dick. You want it?”

Horny, Horny, Horny. That’s all she can think of. But somewhere, somehow, her senses begin tapping the back of her brain. She didn’t want to make any decisions based on temporary emotions, despite how intense they were—despite how she anticipated that side of him. 

“Wait.”

She tugs at his hair, able to pull his mouth off her skin. 

“S—stop…” she breathlessly instructs, “Hold on.”

“What you’ doin?”

His voice is rougher than usual, like it had been grated and sanded between sheets. But his grip softens on her waist, letting her pull away from him. 

“I’m tryna’ put you on this sofa and eat yo’ pussy the fuck out.”

“Ony, Jesus.” 

She now presses both hands to his chest, her tone still breathless as she admits, “I just— I really don’t wanna fuck this up by moving too fast.” 

Nola presses her forehead to his chest as she squeezes her eyes shut, “I’m sorry.”

Onyankopon stops. His fingers find a way to her hips, holding her in the gentlest way he’d done before. He refused to ruin this moment, and if she wanted to stop, he would. 

He’s looking down at her, a small smile lifting at the corner of his mouth, “Ain’t nothin’ you need to apologize for.” 

Nola’s quiet for a moment. Her voice then whispered, “…I think I should go, since I probably ruined the night.”

“Aye, nah. You ain’t ruin nothin’, girl. Chillout’.”

He takes her chin, lifting her head up to look at him, “Just ‘cause you got boundaries don't mean ruined it. I’m still fine, aight?” 

She nods her head. Her arms slowly make their way around his neck, “Um—well, can I just—we can cuddle, if you want? You’ can give me butt rubs?”

He chuckles. He’s amused by the request, her soft arms wrapped lovingly around his neck—His face is still close to hers, “You’re spoiled, mama.”

“I’m not spoiled,” she frowns, laying herself atop of his body, gently pulling his palm beneath her dress, “Your hands are just warm.”

She’s soft. He can feel her against his chest, sinking into him like she’s meant to be there. His words are rough, but his touch is careful as his palm grips the flesh of her ass, “Just say you wanna’ be spoiled. It sound’ better.”

Her eyes feel a little heavy. She can barely give him a reply, feeling sleepy as she murmurs, “I’m a lil’ spoiled…”

He can’t help the smirk along his face.

 “Spoiled and sleepy, huh?”

He lifts a strand of her hair, curling it between his fingers, “You really finna’ pass out on top of me?”

“Mhm,” she breathily whispers, “Your heartbeat is like a lil’ lullaby—They say if your heart is slowed, it reflects how at peace you are.”

A small laugh escapes from him, “Yeah?”

His body is like an oak tree, hard and sturdy, still.  She’s laying softly over it, almost like a leaf, the beat of his heart slow and steady against her—He murmurs to her, “Lil’ mama owns a shop and apparently got a degree in psychology,” which makes her softly giggle.

“I got a woman, everybody.”

“Onyankopon?”

“Hm?”

“Sleep.”

“Aight.”

Being with Onyankopon was different. He was patient—When she got frustrated, when she got nervous, when she just needed his comfort—he was there. He’d driven Nola to her apartment the next morning to shower and prepare for work, laying against the sofa as he rubbed his palm against her white Persian cat, Snowball, inhaling the scent of vanilla as she got dressed. He was constantly affectionate, pulling her into kisses that made her giggle, holding her hand as she rambled to him, keeping her talking as he snapped photos of her behind the counter of her restaurant. A kiss along her forehead was what he left her with as he had to go back to work—and then, he was gone.

Nola didn’t know she wouldn’t hear from him for the next five days. 

She told herself she shouldn’t have cared, but she did. It was when he didn’t answer the phone the first couple of times, nor a text message—she’d die before leaving a voicemail. 

Her emotions ran through her body as the days passed—from worried, to concerned, to irritated, to pissed off. Nola was trying not to jump to conclusions, but she was two days away from not hearing from Onyankopon for an entire week.

“Why you’ staring in the mirror like that?”

Nola pulled her face towards Eros as she made an espresso, not realizing her eyes peered directly within the small mirror they kept on the counter.

Her voice is soft as she murmurs, “I’m good.”

She didn’t want Eros to dramatize the situation if she’d told him, so she hadn’t. But, this was her closest friend, and she felt like she was going to explode if she didn’t express how she was feeling. Maybe she would only tell him a small part.

“I haven’t heard from Onyankopon in almost a week.”

“What?! That fuck ass nigga bro—“

Nola was pleading with her eyes for him to not make it worse—Eros’ expression softens, knowing Nola well enough that she was probably thinking of the worst case scenario—his anger wouldn’t help. 

He leans against the counter, his expression curious as he gently pries, “You’ve called him? Texted him?”

“Everytime I called it went straight to voicemail.”

She presses her lips together, “I probably should’ve stopped calling after he didn’t answer the first time.”

“You don’t think he blocked you, right?”

That makes her chest feel heavy. 

She admits, “I don’t know, Eros. Maybe? I just—“

She feels her throat becoming tight. She felt stupid to wanna cry, considering she’d known him for less than two weeks. Her fears of something like this happening kept her from saying yes to him, and when she did, it now felt like egg on her face. 

“—I’m fine. You mind bringing these sugars over to Mr. Boudreaux? I need a bathroom break.” 

She drops the sugars within his palm, already walking towards the restrooms placed within the front of the cafe— the moment she turns for the hallway, the bell jingles atop of the door, that cocoa musk scenting the entire shop in milliseconds. 

“Nola.”

There he was. Now, roses appeared within his palms. It wasn’t as sweet as the first time he’d done it. 

That deep voice would’ve made her shiver, would’ve sent warmth through her body—but she felt nothing of the sort. 

“What are you doing here?”

“I needa’ talk to you.”

“About what, Onyankopon? Whatever you wanted to talk about you could’ve said five days ago.” 

She’s already dismissive, flicking her eyes over the cafe to her customers, “I have to get back to work.”

He steps a bit closer, the flowers in his hands hanging low towards the floor, “You ain’t even gon’ hear me out?”

“You were too busy? You didn’t have time to text me back to let me know you were okay? You’re not ready for anything serious? Which one is it?” She crosses her arms, eyes narrowed at him.

Okay, he fucked up. Onyankopon had been working on his column, and when he got into his mode, he was nowhere near his phone—But that wasn’t an excuse to ignore her. 

“What you’ talkin’ bout?” He frowns, “It’s none of that. I just been workin’, Nola—That’s it.”

“How am I supposed to know that, Onyankopon?” She squints, “Look— you don’t owe me any type of loyalty to tell me what you’re doing every millisecond of the day, but if you say you like me as much as I thought you did days ago, a simple text wouldn’t have stopped your fuckin’ paycheck.”

Onyankopon eyebrows lower, “Look— I’m a grown ass nigga, Nola. You know that. I was just handlin’ business, I can’t sit there and be on my phone every five seconds.”

“Did I say that?” She raises an eyebrow, “‘Cause ion’ think I said that. You—“

She stops, realizing she was actually about to get upset.

“You know what? You’ right. I got a shop to run, so gon’ head and be grown, Onyankopon. I gotta go.” 

She attempts to step around him, irritated eyes flickering up the moment he moves in front of her.

His voice is lower, “So you’ done with me?”

“You ‘was done with me the moment you ignored me, Onyankopon. If I ignored you for nearly a week, I would’ve apologized, like a grown ass nigga actually would have!“

“And ain’t that what the fuck I’m doin’ right now?” 

“So you pursue me, decline my calls, don’t text me back—Five days later, you bring some stupid ass flowers and say you a grown nigga that got things to do? That’s your apology?” 

She gives a dry laugh, “Get the fuck out my face, Onyankopon.” 

“You finna’ piss me off, Nola—You know I want you,” he dips his face close enough to catch her scent, “Why you actin’ like this?”

She’s frustrated. Irritated. But ultimately, she was hurt. She hated being emotional, but she felt stupid for being this upset. For liking him. Nola’s throat felt heavy, her fingers trembling as she turned into the hallway leading to the bathroom, a glare of her tears shining as she dismissed, “I’m not finna’ get upset right now.” 

He takes the initiative to grab her hand, pulling her fully behind the wall as he grunts, “Nah, you about to start cryin’,” his expression softens, “Don’t do that, c’mon. I’m sorry, baby. Aight? I’m sorry.”

“No,” she whimpers, placing her palms beneath her eyes, “I shouldn’t even be…c—crying about this…”

“Quit it, Nola. C’mon,” he wraps his fingers along the back of her neck, “Don’t start cryin’ over me. Not over this, baby—please.”

“I just don’t wanna feel stupid, Onyankopon.” 

She can’t help the small cry that escapes from her throat, but she tries her best to keep her tears from spilling—He’s holding her tight, his hand running up and down her back as he murmurs, “You ain’t stupid, Nola. I’m bein’ stupid, and I ain’t tryna’ fuck nothin’ up with you. I promise I won’t do it again, aight?”

Nola takes a deep breath, swiping her fingers beneath her palm as she stops herself from crying. She’s silent for a moment, a deep exhale pushing from her lips. 

“…Sorry.” 

He rubs the tip of his thumb against her cheek, “‘Preciate you apologizin’, but you ain’t got nothin’ to be sorry about, aight? You got’ every right to be mad at my ass.”

She’s still pulling herself together, her face flushed and red. Onyankopon brushes his mouth against her jaw, “You want yo’ stupid ass flowers?”

The smallest giggle falls from her lips. She can hear Onyankopon grin, “A giggle? Hell freezin’ over again?”

She flicks her eyes up to him, “You ain’t funny, Ony.”

“Nahh, don’t be tryna’ front now.” 

He lifts his brow, grinning even wider. That’s when his fingers cup her flushed cheeks, his nose brushing against hers as he murmurs, “You missed me, crybaby?”

She shoves his arm, ignoring his chuckle as her entire face is still red. He smelled good—damn, she did miss him.

Onyankopon brings his eyes down, “I was tryna’ come tell you’ the expo for my column comin’ up this weekend.”

“You just now tellin’ me a couple days from it?”

“Three days—and I’m just now tellin’ you ‘cause you ain’t lemme’ talk before.”

She reaches her arms to find the comfort of his shoulders. Nola sighs, “I’m sure you have a million pictures of me for the column—you want me there too?” 

“Nah, ion’ just want you there—A nigga need his ole’ lady there.”

Nola tilts her head, a small smile spreading along her face. She rubs her palms against his neck, “I guess I can get pretty and come—Or, maybe I’ll disappear for five days. We’ll see.” 

Onyankopon gives her a glare, smacking his lips as he says, “You playin’. You ain’t funny.”

“I’m not?”

“Not at all.”

“I’m a lil’ funny,” she pinches her thumb and index finger together. 

“Yeah, aight—disappear and see what happens. Deadass.”

“We’ll see.”

Okay, maybe she was just messing with him. Three days later—her nerves were bundled within the tips of her fingers as she stood in the opening of a matte black building, cream marble floors reflecting the golden melt of her heels. 

It was like being in an art museum—multicolored lights blared along the alabaster walls, photos displayed under oversized lamps—colleagues standing around, conversing quietly as wine glasses clinked politely.

Eros adjusts the button up he wears, eyes slightly wide as he exhales, “So—this is an art expo.” 

Nola breathily whispers, “…Yeah. It is.”

Eros gives a smile to a waitress passing by, snatching a glass of wine from atop of her platter. The gallery itself held a bit of an intimidating air—the way the people around them held their chin up, the way they carried themselves—it was intimidating.

He murmurs, “I feel undressed.”

“You look nice,” Nola hums, adjusting the silk of his top, “Go find you an artsy cutie. I’m sure he’s in here somewhere.”

He winks, “Will do.”

Eros gives her a hip bump, and the moment he finds his interest in a man standing next to a painting, that’s when the scent hits her—cocoa musk. 

There he is. His attire was different from the streetwear he usually sported—the sleek black suit fitted to his muscular frame, watch along his wrist, jewelry along his fingers. His nose ring shines beneath the lights, looking as handsome as ever.

But Nola, she was pretty. God, she was.

Her caramel complexion glowed, contrasting with the dewey shine against the lighter parts of her skin, ginger hair perfectly tousled in a way that was careless yet elegant as is framed down to her hips. The cedar toned dress she wears clung to her curvy silhouette as it flowed to her ankles, sheer that it gives the slightest show of her areolas. 

And her eyes—gorgeous, honeyed and captivating to the point of wonder.

Nola’s smile spreads at him, that same breathless, “Hi,” spilling from her lips like the first time they’d met, “You look nice.”

Her scent wafts up his nose like the sweetest perfume. He can’t help but stare at the smooth curves of her hips, the way the dress wrapped perfectly around her body—her brown nipples seeping through the fabric a bit, peeking by the covering of her curls. 

Onyankopon leans down to press his mouth to her ear, “You look too muhfuckin’ pretty, love.”

Her face drops down to her hands as she hums, “Thank you. Um—I didn’t wanna come empty handed, and it may seem corny, but—“ she giggles a bit, “You like to bring me flowers, so I thought I’d bring you a lil’ plant.”

Her palms hold the tiniest succulent within a dark green pot, “It’s a jade plant— for good luck.”

Ony’s expression is gentle as he takes the pot within his hand, “Thank you, Mama. Shit is thoughtful—Lemme’ have a kiss, a nigga been thinkin’ about you all day.”

She leans against the tips of her heels as she gives him a peck—but she feels a little strange, as she notices that she has the eyes of other people within the gallery.

People acted as if seeing her vitiligo was like an animal walking on their hind legs—and now, Nola had the urge to cover her face with her hair. 

“I wasn’t late for anything, was I?”

His hand drops to the small of her back, fingers lightly rubbing in a circular motion as he can instantly feel her discomfort, “Nah, you ain’t miss me or nothin’. As much as I wanna enjoy this gallery with you—I gotta go find my boss to talk about sum’. You want me to go find Eros? Ion’ wanna leave you alone.”

Nola shakes her head, “I’ll be fine. Go put my plant somewhere safe, and come find me later, yeah?”

“Aight,” he murmurs, placing a final kiss to her forehead—his fingers finding her chin to make her look up at him, “You be good.” 

The moment he leaves her, a small exhale passes through her lips. Nola decides to take this moment to explore the gallery alone. It was interesting to see the other presentations, professional pictures under a beautiful capture of words to represent the photos. 

Yet, eyes were still on her. 

She was used to a strange glance here and there, but this was a little abnormal. She nearly had the urge to go find Eros, but when she turns for the next hallway—she stops.

Her ears catch a familiar voice, replaying on a loop through the static of a television. It’s low, soft, feminine.

“You miss her?” 

“It’s hard to miss her when she’s always with me. In my mugs, my books, my plants, my beignets. She’s everywhere. So, not too often.” 

That was Nola’s voice.

She picks up her dress as she follows to where the group stands, eyes peering through the ocean of people.

Her fingertips fly to her lips. 

“Oh my god.”

She was expecting to see a multitude of other black owned businesses’ within the biggest gallery of Onaynkopon’s expo, but she never expected that she was the muse for this entire column. 

Every picture he had taken of her was here. At the cafe, at the jazz lounge—she was everywhere. 

Nola’s eyes flicker down to the paragraph written below the TV that repeatedly loops the video. It’s bold, brown. 

The essence of a black woman is a unique blend. She is confident but not pretentious, soft on the outside but not a pushover, strong in her convictions, but not harsh. She is gentle with others, but she isn’t meek. She’s humble in her happiness and even in her anger. She’s sensitive. She over-thinks. She’s insecure. She grieves. She cries.

I was lucky enough to capture the essence of what that authenticity had to offer. To my southern belle—a woman who doesn’t even realize the depth of her beauty. Thank you. 

The moment she sees Onyankopon, there’s almost a shy look along his face. It was the first time she’d ever seen it. She’s unsure if her feet are still planted along the floor. 

Her head turns, voice shaken as her eyes gloss, “How did you—I thought this was a—it’s about me?”

He chuckles, hiding his face a bit as he looks down to her, “You’ been on my mind since I first seen’ you, Mama. You’re my inspiration.” 

She doesn’t know how to reply in words. So Nola grasps his chin, kissing him, unable to show her appreciation any other way. Her heart feels full—she can’t describe it.

“…Thank you—for this. For you.”

Onyankopon didn’t expect it—but his heart jolted. 

The moment he goes in for another kiss—a coworker apologizes as she interrupts the moment, “Sorry—um, a couple of people want to speak to you, Onyankopon.”

Nola readjusts his tie, wiping the lipstick along his jaw as she nods her head, “Go. Come find me later.”

He takes her chin in the grip of his fingers once more, the expression on his face is one of the softest she’d ever seen. 

“Aight’. I’ll find you.”

He gives one last lingering kiss to her cheek, disappearing off into the gallery.

In that same moment, Eros appears—choking on his champagne as he eyes the exhibit, “Holy shit—Is that you?!”

Nola had a confession to make. She was very much someone who enjoyed a man taking action, and this was an overstatement of what she expected of him. Not only did it make her feelings grow, but she couldn’t lie—she was now horny. 

She eyed him from across the building, watching his every move—the way he smiled, talked, chuckled, glared. It probably didn’t help that she was on her third glass of champagne, and it was going straight in between her legs. 

Onyankopon wasn’t stupid, either. He took her around to meet some of his colleagues, and he could feel her energy. In the way she fixed his clothes for him, rubbed her fingers in his facial hair as he spoke, pecking his mouth every chance she could, rubbing his arm—it was different.

Nola was tipsy by the time they made it back to his place, giggling as Onyankopon carried her bridal style into the house, “You’re so sweeet. My feet were hurting.” 

His voice is a low hum as he chuckles, “You tipsy as hell, baby.” 

He sets her down against the sofa, Nola groaning, wrapping her arms against his neck so he can’t fully sit her down.

She’s giggly, her face flushed, eyes glossy as she pulls him against her, legs wrapping around his torso to pull him even closer. 

“Mama,” he chuckles, gently pulling her legs from around him, “You need some water?”

“No,” she breathily replies, “You actin’ like I’m drunk or  sum’.”

“Imma’ get you a bottle.”

Nola rolls her eyes, leaning herself against the sofa as she watches him disappear down the hall. She sighs, “You ain’t take my shoes off, Ony…”

He comes back moments later with a full glass of water; “C’mere—I’m takin’ yo’ shoes off right now, aight?”

He kneels down to her feet and unlaced her heels, sliding the material off, “This how you gon’ act every time you drink?”

Nola leans her chin within her palm, hair sprawling around her body as she exhales, “I’m fine.”

A grin spreads along her face shortly after, “You’re so handsome, hm?”

He rubs her arch with the pad of his thumbs, taking the opportunity to feel the smoothness of her skin, “Yeah? You think so?” 

Her eyes are low, lashes nearly covering the brown of her pupils as she nods, “Mhm.”

“You been starin’ me down all night. Why can’t you keep yo’ eyes offa’ nigga, huh?”

He gives her ankle a kiss, which makes Nola giggle again.

She hums, siren eyes searching his face—Nola wraps her fingers along the back of her thighs, pulling her legs up as she sultrily giggles, “You make me horny.” 

The smirk on his face is lazy, gaze languid as he rubs her calf, “That’s how you feelin’—You’ crazy.”

He stands above her as he chuckles, beginning to remove the chains around his neck.

She sits up as she pouts, “No, don’t take em’ off,” running her fingers against his abdomen, touching him. She can’t stop touching him. 

“Aight,” he grabs for her hand, “You gettin’ touchy.” 

Her chest is flushed, fingers running along the cotton material of his shirt, rubbing the muscles of his abdomen. 

“Look so good, Ony.”

Yeah—sober Nola was nowhere to be found. 

She reaches for his chain as she tugs him down by it, sticking her tongue out with a giggle, awaiting for his mouth.

“Kiss me.”

He was trying to be good. But at the sight of her, Onyankopok licks at her tongue with a groan, fingers wrapping along her chin to keep her in place as he kisses her back. 

“Nasty ass.”

He’s murmuring against her mouth, Nola jumping as she gives her ass a harsh spank—he’s tonguing her down all the while, wavering the temptation he’d been holding back.

She’s hornier by the second. Nola’s eyes are like stars the moment she pulls her mouth away from his, breathless as she tugs at his briefs, dipping her fingers beneath the material to brush her palms against the veins of his dick. 

“Want your dick in my mouth, baby.”

“Nola—“

She moans as she molds her lips around his tip, eyes fluttering closed as she begins eagerly sucking him into her mouth. She’s lost within a newfound pleasure. 

Onyankopon groans, unexpected of her craving for him—he takes a grip of her fiery curls, her mouth spreading around his dick as she bobs her head back and forth—He can hear the wet noises of her saliva sucking him in and out, and it just makes him grunt, “Shit, mama. Hollon—you’ tipsy as fuck.”

He’s throbbing within her mouth, Nola’s tongue massaging the ripples of each vein within his length—she won’t stop. 

Her eyes are rolling as she rotates her palm at the base of him, low eyes flickering up as she whimpers, “Fuck my mouth.”

Onyankopon can barely comprehend her words, feeling the intoxication from her voice and the drunkenness of her expression. Her eyes are round, glowing beneath him. 

Her throat is hugging his tip at this point, Nola widening her jaw, parting her tongue further away from the roof of her mouth as she drops her nose to nearly kiss his abdomen—his girth knocks the air within her windpipe each millisecond. 

His voice is a husky rumble, "God damn," he exhales, "I ain't even got you naked yet."

Nola can feel the cheeks of her face begin to burn, but she can’t focus on the discomfort—the room nearly spins the moment she gags along his dick, sultrily panting as she pulls him halfway from her lips, slapping his tip against her tongue.

She then yanks up at the material of her dress, the brown of her nipples smooth against the lights pouring down onto the sofa. 

“Come play with em’.” 

Her mouth trembles a gasp the moment his full lips come down to lap at the bulge of her nipples, rotating in his mouth with the nudge of his head. 

“You feel so good,” she softly whines, lightly grinding her hips forward to meet his body.

“You look so muhfuckin’ good.”

His hand finds her ankles again, lifting her leg to drape over his shoulder, spreading her legs open for him as he buries kisses at the apex of her thighs—warm.

Nola feels like her entire body is buzzing. Her thighs shudder the moment he spanks the side of her ass, spreading her legs even more—a bubblegum pink shines beneath the caramel brown of her folds.

The sight of her—thighs spread, cheeks flushed, hair framing her blushed face. She’s trembling—Warmer.

“Pussy pretty as fuck, baby. You gon’ lemme’ drop my tongue on this shit?”

“Please.”

Her voice is high, vulnerable.

The sound of it causes Onyankopon’s jaw to lock. He’s unable to help himself as he buries his mouth in between her legs. His tongue drags against her pussy, giving the slowest lick, allowing her to feel every trace of his mouth.

She shivers, Nola pressing her fingers against the back of her thighs to hold them within the air, lips trembling into a pleasurable frown at the sight—Onyankopon’s just slurping her up, head shaking in her folds, nodding up and down as secretion sops against her flesh.

“Ony,” her mouth quivers, “Y—yes…”

His tongue winds around her clit before he sucks it, letting it pop free as he continues eating away at her.

“Shit tastes like muhfuckin’ dessert—a nigga ain’t never had no shit like this,” he muffles, spanking her skin—now, he’s becoming lost within the pleasure of her body. 

The wet noises of his mouth against her core is the most erotic thing she’s ever heard—she’s never had anyone taste her, touch her, or even smell her like this.

It’s as if she’s completely intoxicated—Like a bottle of champagne had been doused within her liver—she’s grinding herself against his tongue, placing her fingers along the top of his head to rock herself down to meet his mouth. Seeing her be so shy, sweet—to this, it felt like a dream. 

“I’m gonna c—cum,” she softly cries, “Put it in. Come fuck me, baby.” 

His tongue nearly wags along her pussy, a glare along his face as he pulls up, “That’s what you want, huh?”

His palm wraps along the base of his dick, smacking his tip along her clit— it makes her whine, “Yes.” 

Nola’s lower back hangs off the edge of the sofa, the strength of Onyankopon’s palms holding the back of her thighs to keep her from falling. Her knees press against her chest, head tilted as she watches his body hover above her.

They wanna take their time—but they can’t. It’s a burn at this point. 

Onyankopon’s tip slowly sunk in between her folds, spreading her apart, splitting her in a slow drag. Her mouth parts—her eyes lightly roll back as her lower body ignites on fire—it’s a rush of discomfort, mixed with a deep sense of pleasure. 

She reaches her hand up for his abdomen, her hips rotating a bit as he spreads her opening farther apart. She groans when he snatches her hand down. 

“Ony…”

“What you’ callin’ me for? This how you’ wanted it,” he grunts. 

Her body trembles. 

“You’re filling me up so fuckin’ good.”

He can’t help himself. He darkly chuckles, “You horny as fuck. Keep lookin’ at me with them fuckin’ eyes.” 

He snakes his hand lower to clutch the back of her neck, head knocking down, nearly cradling her by the strength of his arm, dropping her down onto his dick. The back of her thighs clap against his abdomen.

His eyes are locked with hers, and he can see her expression changing—her lips parting, her eyes rolling, her hands reaching for something to grab onto. 

Nola’s eyes meet his, she’s whining, “Oohshittt, Ony.” 

He pulls his palm away from the back of her neck, finding his fingers swimming back into the ocean of her curls—he yanks her head forward, placing it within a position to give her complete sight of his dick disappearing into her walls. 

“Ony what?” he grunts, “You keep callin’ me—Keep whinin’ for me. Open yo’ fuckin’ pussy, watch this shit cum.” 

Her mouth drops open, eyes rolling as she does watch—the girth of him somehow becomes swallowed by her walls, the cream of her arousal increasing with each stroke—Nola moans loudly, her hand sliding between her legs, fingers softly rubbing at her clit. 

Her eyes are blown, pleasured tears pooling at her brown irises as sniffles, “I’m c—cumming…f—fuck.” 

Onyankopon’s tip feels weighted as it’s choked by the snug of her walls, nearly pushing him out as her arousal gushes through the warmth of her folds. His own hand replaces hers as his thumb is lightly playing with her already sensitive clit, watching as her inner thighs fluttered in response. He’s still stroking, “Let it out, baby. Goood muhfuckin’ girl. Keep cummin’’.”

The emotions she feels pooling from her body overwhelms her, arm reaching up as she pulls him down for them to now be chest to chest. Onyankopon buries his face within her neck as she drags her other hand along his back, helping with his continuous thrusts, grinding him forward to go deeper into her. 

She clutches along his body, her shoulders trembling as she repeats to him in whiney cries, “I’m cumming…” 

She presses her nose against his cheek—her eyes boring into his, her pleasure, her tears, they flush along her face as she whimpers, “I…I need you, Ony…” 

Onyankopon growls against her throat, "I need you, too, Mama, “ His thrusts slow, deep, his hips rocking forward, “Youn’ know how bad I need you. A nigga ain’t going nowhere."

He swipes his thumb beneath her cheek, taking in the beauty of her face. Pretty from the moment he met her, pretty from the moment she opened up to him, pretty from the moment he wanted her. He gives her a low moan, his lower abdomen tightening as he glares, “I’m finna’ bust, baby—fuck.” 

Nola locks her lips against his, whimpering along his mouth, muttering to him, “Cum in me.”

“Shit got you talkin’ crazy,” his voice is dark, “Quit playin’.”

“Please,” she pressed her forehead to his, her soft cries making Onyankopon grunt at her pleas, “Please, Ony…” 

His dick is pulsing, beating inside of her—her voice is like an erotic poison—the warmth of his release makes her feel even more full, moans syncing together in a sultry symphony. Onyankopon presses his nose along her shoulder, latching kisses, giving her an affection he’d never stop giving her.

The pleasure they’d given one another is something neither of them expected. Nola is beneath Onyankopon, staring up at him with that face of hers. The alabaster of her skin is flushed, the caramel mixing between the complexion equally reddened, hair sprawled around the freckles of her cheeks. 

He rubs his thumb along the swell of her lip, “You prettier than a muhfuckin’ picture, Nola.”

She digs her face within his palm, shyly giggling, “I probably look a mess.”

“Nah,” he murmurs, “You so fuckin’ beautiful, ain’t no probably.” 

His hand drops to the swell of her ass, giving it a squeeze, “Imma’ need you like this all the time.”

Of course, she deflects from his compliments.

“…Wanna cuddle again? And give me butt rubs? I’m sleepy,” her voice is a bit of a murmur, “I wanna talk ‘cause I like you—but I’m sleepy.”

“Aight’—come‘ere.” 

He pulls her into his lap, the warmth of his body enveloping her, his hands sliding up and down the smoothness of her thighs.

“You heard me?” Her voice is soft, “I like you, Ony. Youn’ like me?��� She questions, face already sunken within his chest, eyes closing at the same time.

“Now you’ all open and shit. You wasn’t like that before—“

A finger flicks on his cheek. He chuckles. 

“But forreal’—You know I do,” he murmurs, “You ain’t never gotta’ doubt a nigga again. Go to sleep.”

His fingers brush through her hair, massaging her scalp as she relaxes against him. It’s as if they remake the scene of their first night together—she lays atop of his chest, listening to the sound of his heartbeat that’s a comforting tune. They seem to have one more thing in common—the want to be like this, again. And again. And again. 

[arrenjo]

Summary: Your apartment floods and you do your best to make it on your own, but when Robby finds out he takes matters into his own hands.

Notes: I’m a slut for a one bed trope, whoopsie. These can probably be stand alone but I like having somewhat of a series going. Obviously inspired by Whitaker’s whole living-inside-the-hospital deal. Also omfg I’ve looked at this draft for so long I might die.

Back | Next

“Shit shit shit!!” You jumped at your alarm from a dead sleep and threw on your scrubs. Resting in this hospital was fucking impossible and you had finally gone to sleep— and subsequently overslept.

You ran a brush through your hair and brushed your teeth in the bathroom in a matter of about a minute before you threw on your shoes, slung your backpack over your shoulder, and raced out the door. Thankfully you only had a couple of flights of stairs to go down.

Your apartment had flooded earlier in the week and everything was a total loss. You had the things you had in your work bag and a bag you kept in your car, and that was it. You weren’t really sure how your apartment complex got away with not offering you another place to stay that wasn’t triple your rent, but you were fucked. You went to Gloria in a desperate time of need and she was kind enough to let you use a spare hospital room for the week and promise her discretion, but you were running out of time to find something else and there were no options.

Dana, Donnie, and the rest of the ED nurses would absolutely have your ass if they knew you refused to ask them for help, but it wasn’t their problem. You ran into the nurses station, out of breath, and got report on your patients. After a bit of running around to play catch up, Dana caught you at your workstation charting.

“Hey kid, you alright?” She asked, placing a cup of coffee in front of you.

“My angel,” you said, taking a sip and giving her a grateful smile. “Yeah, you know how I struggle with being on time for dayshift sometimes. Your girl is not a morning person.” You lied with just a little too much enthusiasm. It was partially true, dayshift really did turn your world upside down. You and mornings did not particularly get along.

“Yeah, uh-huh, okay,” Dana said and rolled her eyes. She patted you on the shoulder and walked away. You’ve got to find a place. Your exhaustion was starting to show and people were starting to notice.

__

“Hey,” Dana’s voice snapped Robby’s attention to her face as she pulled out a chair and sat down beside him. Oh shit, he thought, whatever Dana was about to talk to him about, she was serious.

“What do you think’s going on with our girl?” She nodded in your direction. Your back was to them, your head in your hands. It was clear that something was up, but Robby hadn’t put his finger on exactly what yet. He had been watching you, observing your every move. The casual touches had stayed casual, but he could feel the increased tension in your body when he first made contact. When the touch lingered for more than a second, he could feel you relax into his touch. He didn’t say anything to you. To tell the truth, he liked it, but he didn’t like that you were so tense to begin with.

“I don’t know,” He muttered, his eyes still on you, looking over the rim of his glasses. He paused for a moment to wonder if he should play it cool or lay his cards on the table for Dana.

“Abbott’s got a big mouth you know. Heard he and Princess had a bet going on and that Princess won.” Dana interrupted his thought process with a knowing smirk. Robby sighed and took his glasses off, reaching to rub the side of his head in the same motion, his eyes searching to find you across the nurses station again. You ran your hands through your hair and got up, starting towards the med room.

“Abbott doesn’t know half of what he thinks he does,” Robby countered, glancing at Dana after the med room door had closed behind you.

“I’m just sayin’, you watch her every move. I’ve seen how you look at her when you think no one’s paying attention.” Dana said with a shrug.

“Dana!” Whitaker appeared out of a room, beckoning the charge nurse to him. He looked bewildered and a little scared, but Robby had come to realize that was his normal facial expression.

“Saved by the bell,” Robby said with a chuckle.

“This conversation isn’t over, but check in with her, will ya?” Dana said, already starting towards Dennis, mentally preparing herself for whatever was behind the curtain that he had just popped out of.

__

An exhausting twelve and a half hours later, you feel disgusting. You had blood, sweat, and bodily fluids— none of which were yours— what felt like everywhere. After you gave report to the night shift nurse, you slung your backpack over your shoulder and headed for the stairwell. All you wanted was a long, hot shower and the one good thing about the hospital was that the hot water never ran out. You had one more pair of clean scrubs for the week and then you had to figure out what the hell to do about laundry. Your thoughts preoccupied you as you walked, never noticing Robby several paces behind you. He had called your name once, but when you started up the stairs instead of outside, he made the decision to follow you.

You entered the hallway on the 4th floor and ducked into the first room to the left. The hallway was empty except for you, no nurses working upstairs meant that there were no patients and the entire 4th floor was shut down. You pushed the door closed behind you with your foot, leaving the door just slightly ajar. The tunnel vision had really set in on that shower. The small crack between the door and door frame spilled just enough light into the dark hallway for Robby to find where you had gone. He pushed the door open and opted to stand in the doorway, his hands in the pockets of his hoodie. It only took him seconds to assess the scene and figure out what was happening. There were half dried out pictures laying on a few surfaces, your duffel bag sat on the chair with a towel draped over the back on the opposite side of the room. You had dropped your backpack just inside the door with your shoes. The cot in the middle of the room looked tiny and uncomfortable, no wonder you were exhausted.

In the bathroom, you had just taken your hair down and were just about to start the water for your shower when you realized you had left your towel draped over the chair in the next room.

“Shit,” You muttered and stepped out of the bathroom, looking down to untie the waistband of your scrubs as you did. The stupid fucking knot wouldn’t come out and-

“Ahem,” Your head snapped up to the sound of someone clearing their throat. Robby stood in the doorway, arms crossed across his chest, leaning cooly on the doorframe. Oh fuck. You pressed your lips into a tight line and closed your eyes for a brief second.

“Robby,” You breathed, opening your eyes to look at him. He was silent as he took you in, his eyes catching for just a split second at your exposed skin. Your cheeks immediately heated and you knew your face was red.

Fuck, how do I explain this?

“My apartment flooded,” You began as you grew uncomfortable in the silence. He had been staring at you for a solid ten seconds, never offering a word. “The only places they offered me were triple my rent and I can’t afford that,” You met his eyes from across the room.

“Why didn’t you come to me?” He asked, taking a step towards you. His hands moved from across his chest to inside the pockets of his hoodie again.

“I’m not your problem,” You said with a snort, shaking your head.

Robby groaned your name and ran a hand through his hair, resting his hand at the back of his neck before he dropped it to his side.

“Let me help you. You tell me that I have to take care of myself, but you have to take care of yourself too.” Robby’s eyes were set, determined.

“Let me spot you the cash and-“

“No, Robby, I can’t-“ You stopped short, feeling the hot tears threatening to spill. The embarrassment made your chest tight.

“Okay no, bad suggestion, I’m sorry,” He immediately apologized. You took a steadying breath, opting to come clean.

“I can’t afford it, and I don’t want to be a burden or a freeloader. It makes me feel weak when I can’t just do everything myself, y’know?,” You told him, avoiding eye contact, desperately trying to regain your composure. The tears were threatening to spill again. Robby gingerly walked towards you and stopped just in front of you. He took your face in his hands and tilted your chin up to him.

“You are not a burden. You could never be a burden. Sometimes you gotta have help.” He said, you felt your muscles relax into his touch.

“I have an apartment,” He started slowly.

“No, Robby. They said it could take months,” You said softly. “I don’t know what I’m going to do but I can’t ask you to do that.” You put your hands on top of his, he searched your eyes for a moment before continuing.

“You’re not asking, I am, please stay with me. I won’t be able to sleep knowing that you’re here, and then both of us will be exhausted and cranky.” He gave you a small smile, his thumb gently stroking your chin. Your cheeks burned at the contact, your gaze dropped to his mouth. It seemed like he was having the same thought, because when your eyes found his again, he was staring at your mouth. His eyes snapped back up to yours, waiting for an answer.

“Why do you care where I sleep?” You asked softly. He grinned and shook his head

“You want to stay with me or not?” He asked rhetorically.

“Okay,” You started “-But just until I figure something else out.” You said. You already had feelings for him and this was about to get a hell of a lot more complicated if you acted on them. You dropped your hands to your sides with a small sigh. His hands lingered on your cheeks for another second, then he ran his hands down either side of your neck and across your shoulders, he stopped at your biceps and gave your arms a reassuring squeeze.

“Come on, we gotta be back early tomorrow.” He said casually, dipping his head to look at you. The trail that his hands had made felt like your skin was on fire, and him using the word ‘We’ made your stomach turn flips. Your eyes widened. He was asking you to come home with him now.

“You mean… tonight?”

“Yeah, you have to sleep, and just looking at you being so exhausted makes me tired.” He feigned a yawn and a stretch that made the corners of your mouth twitch.

“And just how hard have you been looking, Doctor Robinavitch?” You teased, turning back towards the bathroom. He rolled his eyes at you and pulled a box from the closet.

“You coming or not?”

“So impatient,” you shot back, but then quickly started gathering your things. Fuck it, might as well go all in. Robby snorted and started helping you gather your clothes and the few personal belongings you had left into the box. You worked together in silence until Robby picked up the box and slung your bag across his frame. You reached for the box and he shook his head.

“I got it, it’s a little bit of a walk.” He said, you held your hands out for it again, making a ‘gimme’ motion.“I said I got it.” He insisted, pulling the box out of your reach to the other side of him.

Most of your walk with him was quiet, you were deep in thought about how in the hell you were going to live in the same house as this man and not embarrass yourself. Your skin still ached for more of his touch.

“You don’t have to do this,” You said suddenly as he took his keys out to unlock the door to his apartment. He glanced up at you before turning his attention back towards his keys.

“I know.” He said simply and unlocked the door. “But I want to,” he said and held the door open for you. You felt your cheeks flush as he turned on the lights. His apartment was clean and simple, the most decorations he had were books on shelves and a blanket folded on the end of the couch. He had the basics: a couch, TV, a kitchen that looked functional, coffee table. You didn’t get red flag vibes from being here, but you could tell that this was a place that he didn’t spend a ton of time. Robby walked through the apartment and you trailed behind him. You walked past the kitchen and into a hallway, and into what looked like a bedroom. He turned the lights on and you could quickly tell it was Robby’s bedroom.

“Oh I’m sorry I didn’t mean to-“ you started but he cut you off.

“No, this is where you’re going to sleep. I have other rooms but there’s not another bed.” He placed the box on the bed and reached up to scratch the back of his neck. “Never really had the need for one.” He admitted sheepishly.

“No, Robby I’m not coming into your house and taking your bed,”

“I’m not asking.” He said simply, locking eyes with you. “I’ll sleep on the couch.” He said matter-of-factly, like there was absolutely no question to it.

“Shower is off the bedroom, it’s the only one.” He pointed to the door in the corner of the room. “I changed the sheets on the bed this morning. There are towels in the cabinet, and the laundry room is through there if you need to wash anything.” You nodded, giving up on fighting him about the bed for the moment.

“Is it okay if I shower?”

“You don’t have to ask, make yourself at home, I’ll be in the living room.”

By the time you hopped out of the shower half an hour later, you found Robby sitting on the couch, reading. He had a pillow and blanket folded up beside him. You stopped to take him in, he was sitting with his legs crossed, glasses perched on his nose. He didn’t even make a move when you walked in the room, hair still wet and falling down your shoulders. Robby patted the seat next to him without looking up from his book. You sat down next to him and pulled out your phone, scrolling while nervously chewing on your lip. When you looked back at him, his book was closed on his lap and he was studying your features.

“What’s wrong?” He asked softly. You turned your phone so it was face down on your lap.

“I don’t want to fight with you about the bed, but I don’t want to sleep in your bed, Robby. You’re doing enough by letting me be here.” He chuckled at the response and took his glasses off.

“Here I am thinking that you’re in some emotional distress and you’re upset about sleeping in my bed?”

“Robby,” You sighed, running a hand through your hair.

God, no. I’m not upset about sleeping in your bed, I’m upset that you won’t be sleeping in your bed with me. You decided that confession would be a little too honest.

“I just don’t want to overstep,” you settled on that response and he gave you a grin.

“I promise it’s fine, couch is comfy.” He shifted back into the couch and spread his arms. One settled behind you and the comfortableness of the gesture made your stomach flip.

“I am going to go shower though,” He said and started to stand. You nodded and pulled out your phone again, but as he turned you looked up from the screen, watching him walk to the bedroom. You let your mind wander for a split second and a heat rushed across your chest and down your abdomen.

A hot shower with Robby was probably the best thought you had had in a while. You lingered in that thought for a moment and then shook your head to clear it, pulling your phone back out and settling into the couch to scroll. You must have been more tired than you realized, because the next thing you felt was warm hands sliding up under your back and your legs and lifting you in the air. You started to scramble and were immediately comforted by Robby’s voice.

“Shh, shh,” He soothed, “I’ve got you.” You felt him making his way towards the bedroom and your heart rate picked up. The way he picked you up with such ease made your stomach flutter.

“Please don’t drop me,” you mumbled with a half hearted giggle into his chest, clinging to his shirt tightly. Robby snorted.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured into your hair. He continued walking down the hallway, carrying you with ease. When you got to the bedroom, he eased you down on the bed, gently laying your head on the pillow. He hovered above you for just a moment and he started to pull away. You shook your head, your mouth just inches from his.

“Don’t go,” You whispered. He stopped in his tracks, his breath warm across your lips. He searched your eyes, lingering for just a second, almost as if he wanted to say something, and you swore you saw him open his mouth.

“Please,” You said softly, you weren’t sure if it was the sleepiness clouding your judgment or the fact that he cared enough to carry you to bed, but you wanted him close more than you ever had.

“Okay,” He said simply, you weren’t sure but you thought you may have heard some relief in his voice. He crawled in the bed beside you and you scooted closer to him. The smell of cedar shampoo made your mouth water, you were desperate for his touch. Both of you knew that you were blurring lines between the two of you, but neither of you seemed to care. He wrapped an arm around your waist, holding you from behind. You settled into him, he buried his face in your hair, his breath on your neck.

“Thank you… for this. For everything,” You said quietly, relaxing further into him.

“I might be a little bit selfish,” He admitted, you could hear the defeat in his tone. “I wanted you here. I mean, here,” he gestured vaguely to the room with the arm that was draped around your waist. “But here too,” he said and wrapped his arm back around your waist, pulling you closer. You smiled and ran your hand down his arm, interlacing your fingers with his.

“I wanted to be here too.”

[azzifudd]

oneshot of paige giving azzi the necklace sounds like your style…i am begging politely

it does kinda sound like my style doesn't it...

more than they can say

paige bueckers x azzi fudd

426 words

“Babe!”

Paige’s voice echoes through the apartment. She bends over to place her cup in the dishwasher, brow furrowed in confusion when Azzi doesn’t respond to her call.

“Azzi! We're gonna be late.” 

Still nothing. Paige grunts and heads toward the bedroom.

“Who takes longer to get ready, my ass,” she grumbles, pushing the door open.

Azzi is standing at the newly delivered vanity, head bent over a jewelry box. At least she’s already dressed, Paige notes, almost disappointed. 

She’s dressed simply, in a tight black tank that exposes the skin of her shoulders and arms and a pair of Paige’s pants. 

“We’re gonna miss our reservation if you keep dilly dallying.” 

“Dilly dallying?” Azzi snorts, still shifting through Paige’s things. 

Paige comes up behind Azzi, resting her hands on the table, bracketing Azzi in as she tucks her chin into the crook of Azzi’s neck. 

“Stealing my shit again?” 

“It’s not stealing if it’s mine.” Azzi says, all matter of fact. Paige scoffs, but it’s lighthearted. They’ve been sharing closets for years at this point, and as much as she pretends to deny it, she loves seeing Azzi wearing her stuff. 

And even though she’s only going to be here for a few days on this trip, Azzi’s things are already all mixed with Paige’s, like she lives here too.

“Whatcha looking for?” 

Azzi’s bracelets already adorn her wrists, her favorite rings already on her fingers. 

“Just need one more thing to complete the look.” She lifts up a tangle of necklaces, the chains twisted together. 

“Wait.” Paige rests a hand on her wrist. She digs into a different drawer, pulling out a box. 

“Someone gifted this to me a while back, but I..” She shrugs. “I saved it for you.”

Azzi slides the box open, breath catching when she sees what it is. 

“Put it on for me?” She tips her head forward, baring her neck as the chain brushes her neck. 

Azzi feels the light graze of lips against the back of her neck, where the clasp of the necklace is now secure. There’s another press behind her ear, then a kiss where her neck meets her shoulder. 

Paige rests her chin atop Azzi’s shoulder again, arms reaching around to pull Azzi back to press against her front. They both stare at where the charm rests between Azzi’s collarbones. A delicate heart, with the number five resting right beside it. 

“Looks good on you. Being mine.” 

Azzi turns in Paige’s embrace, arms coming up to hook around her neck. They’re late to the reservation. 

[tobesolnelyx]

fratboy lottie 🤤🤤 u obviously go to every party her frat throws and she ends up whisking u up to her bedroom to fuck u senseless b/c she just can’t handle how hot u look when u dance

NSFW - MDNI

the frat house is packed as hell. it smells thick like weed, cigs and…vomits, probably. there’s people wearing random pieces of clothing. some are making out in the corners, some are playing drunken games and it seems like in the kitchen is some weird gathering of drunken philosophers

lottie invites you to every single party, holding you close almost the whole time. cause it’s not even a possibility that some guy might hit on you. like she would go either drag you back into her car, or just broke vodka bottle on his head. maybe both. maybe she has some problems with keeping her temper when it comes to you.

at some point, when you both had few drinks, she goes into the bathroom. leaving you for just few minutes.

few minutes are enough.

of course you’re dumbly drunk. your ego and confidence is suddenly higher than normally. you swiftly find yourself, well, friends. i mean, she knows those people better, but you’re her girlfriend so they automatically assumed your their another buddy or something.

you talk shit with her about them anyway.

when she returns, glancing around to spot you, she nearly gets a huge boner right and there. she stares at you while you’re swinging your hips, currently giggling, and dancing with some girls. presumably girlfriends of her teammates.

obviously you had to wear this tight dress. the one she loved fucking you in. the one that was just exposing your breasts and shoulders. sweat is glistening on your skin while you’re dancing around. music is loud, and lottie thinks she’s going to blow up because of this cacophony.

she needs to adjust her jeans while she seats on the couch again, trying not to make it obvious that her dick is already hard and throbbing at the sight of you.

sometimes she feels like really horny teenage boy. but god, how she could feel other way when you look like that? when you’re nipples are picking out, and all she wants to do is to suck on them until they’re swollen. until they’re sticky from her hot saliva.

and when you twirl around, showing off your ass, gaining looks from other guys. she has enough. she knows she won’t take it anymore.

“babe,” she appears, taking your hips in her hands. she’s towering over you, obviously. you throw your arms around her neck, giggling like total idiot at the sight of her. not actually registering that the others are looking, and her erection brushes against your thigh. “come with me.”

she doesn’t even wait for the answer. she listens to your pouts that you were hustling having fun! but she’s already manoeuvring you towards the stairs. her bedroom.

you whine grabbing her so slightly muscular arms and you look up at her with pleading eyes. “what are doing…?” you sigh, glancing at her. maybe you’re a bit drunk. but not completely wasted.

she glances around like she’s thinking and then, without any warning, her hands are on the back of your thighs. lifting your ass up. you yelp, arms wrapped tightly around her neck, legs clenching around her hips and…

oh.

it hits you when you feel her bulge brushing against you.

there’s a pause. one look that you both share. something shifts, something becomes way hotter and sultry than seconds ago. like someone just turned on the heating more.

she caries you all the way to her bedroom. you try to grind against her, but she nearly drops you when she feels your body rubbing her dick. in her hands you weight nothing, but she’s so fucking sensitive right now.

she kicks the door when she enters the room. and to close them? she slams you on them (placing hand behind your head so you won’t get yourself hurt tho <3).

her lips are on yours on instant. her hands are holding your hips against her large bulge. you tangle fingers in her hair pulling her closer as you both completely pressed. party long forgotten when her hot tongue pushes down your throat.

she’s already panting. the kiss is basically just tongue, saliva and sucking on lips.

you both moan when she grinds against you. the wetness in your panties is getting hotter, sticking painfully to your cunt.

her lips are on your jawline and neck. well, those are barely kisses when it’s all tongue and teeth. marking you up, so everyone knows that you’re hers. your head falls back off against the door and you’re desperately bucking your hips towards her cock, whimpering her name all over again.

you don’t know if you feel more or less drunk right now.

“lottie…lottie, please—“ you whine trying to get her closer, gain more friction.

“i know, babe” she murmurs. “shut up, princess. someone will hear it.” she mumbles again, and panting like hell, she starts to undo her jeans and boxers.

“it’s not like you think it’s hot if someone might catch us— oh fuck!” you dig nails into her neck when somehow, with one hand holding you against the door, she managed to pull out her cock, put your panties aside, and shove dick in your entrance without a warning.

“you could’ve…holy shit…” you pant clinging to her. your words are turning into series of soft “oh’s” when she starts thrusting into you.

“yeah, yeah” she murmur focusing on holding you tightly and making as deep and as hard pumps she can. “shut it, pretty girl”

she feels your walls clenching around her dick. she groans loudly. her tip is stroking your g-spot so good that you think you see fucking stars for a moment. you buckle your hips towards her movements, meeting her halfway.

“fuck im gonna cum—“ she whines pumping into you frantically. room is filled with your moans, her pantings, and cock slapping into your pussy. you take her greedily.

and you know you’re going to need those birth-control pills

[batsovergotham]

the fight for yourself pt3

"You've got the costume. You've got the power. You're Spider-Woman. Act like it."🕷🕸️

Main!Mark Grayson x Spider-Woman! Reader

warnings: SMUT IMPROPER USE OF WEBBING LOLLLL, some angst with comfort, biting/scratching in a sexy way mark gets TORE UP, not many warnings this chapter honestly

w/c: 16k

a/n: yall this is so nasty im so sorry. lmk ur thoughts in my inbox or in the comments!

Mark’s wrists are bound again, stretched wide above his head, webbing wrapped tight and glistening against the wood. He’s panting already, flushed and tense beneath you, eyes locked on your face with a heat that’s gone from dazed to focused, like he’s not just watching you but memorizing you.

You straddle his hips again, your bare thighs sliding along his skin, the wet mess between your legs sticky and still slick from the first time. You’re flushed and raw, your core aching, but the want doesn’t ebb, it spikes. The second you feel him twitch, hardening under you again, you swear your body pulses in anticipation.

“I thought you said you were holding off,” you whisper, brushing your lips across his.

Mark smirks, helpless but cocky in that way only he can manage when tied up. “You're the one climbing back on. Pretty sure this is your fault.”

You grin against his mouth, then reach between you, guiding his cock through your soaked folds again. He shudders hard, head falling back. “Shit.”

You slide down slowly, inch by inch, your breath breaking as you take him again, deeper this time, the angle more intense. Your thighs tremble as he fills you, and his arms pull instinctively against the webbing, a groan ripped from his throat.

“Holy fuck,” he chokes. “You feel–God–”

You sink all the way down until your hips meet his, thighs spread wide, clenching around him as you adjust to the fullness. You bite your lip hard, moaning into the warm space between his neck and shoulder.

Then you start to move. Slow at first, savoring the stretch, the drag of his cock along your still-sensitive walls. But it builds fast, your pace stuttering as pleasure rushes through you again, sharp and raw and unbearable. The slap of your bodies echoes in the room, wet and filthy, and your moans start to rise out of your throat completely unchecked.

“Mark–fuck, Mark–”

His hips buck up instinctively, even with his arms bound tight, and the sound that rips out of you is loud. Too loud. You feel it leave your body like something being torn out, half-scream, half-beg, and it bounces off the walls before you can stop it.

And somewhere in the haze, through the sweat and the noise and the way your vision is going white, you barely register the slam of the bedroom door flying open.

“IS IT BACK?! IS IT THE SYMBIOTE?!”

You freeze. Mark's eyes snap open. Your body stiffens on top of him, still flush against his lap, your chest heaving. You twist your head over your shoulder,

And standing in the doorway, eyes wide, face ghost-pale, is Harry.

You shriek. Loud. Louder than before.

And in your panic, your hand jerks up on instinct.

Thwip.

A thick strand of webbing shoots straight from your palm and attaches immediately to the ceiling fan.

There’s a beat of stunned silence,just you, Mark still inside you, his arms stretched above his head and still webbed, both of you frozen like horny mannequins mid-thrust, when your body jerks violently upward.

The fan isn’t even on, but the web pulls taut, yanking your arm straight above your head. Your entire torso lifts slightly from Mark’s, your spine arching in the worst possible angle, your ass in the air, face twisted in a wild-eyed panic.

“I’M STUCK!” you screech, dangling awkwardly over your boyfriend like Spider-Woman with a concussion.

Mark stares up at you with wide, stunned eyes.

Harry, standing in the doorway holding the containment unit and what looks like an old fire extinguisher, freezes in place.

There’s a long pause. No one says a word.

Then Harry whispers, horrified, “Oh my God. She’s possessed again.”

“Harry,” Mark groans, still pinned, still inside you, face red with a mix of orgasmic afterglow and pure humiliation. “It’s not the symbiote.”

“She’s webbing the ceiling, Mark! She’s levitating!”

“I’M NOT LEVITATING, I’M STUCK!” you snap, flailing your free arm. “Turn around and close the goddamn door!”

Harry blinks, finally noticing the reality of the situation. Naked you. Webbed, gasping, tangled on top of a similarly naked and restrained Mark. A sheen of sweat over everything. And a slow, miserable drip from the ceiling fan web line.

He drops the extinguisher. “I THOUGHT I WAS SAVING YOUR LIFE. INSTEAD I WALKED INTO,INTO SPIDER-PORN!”

“I SWEAR TO GOD, HARRY,” Mark yells from beneath you, “IF YOU DON’T GET OUT OF THIS ROOM IN THE NEXT TWO SECONDS-”

Harry’s already stumbling out, face white, babbling to himself. “I need bleach. I need therapy. I need to never come back here again.”

The door slams behind him.

Silence.

You’re still straddling Mark, your arm stretched up to the ceiling, web dangling uselessly. Your entire body is sore, sticky, and mortified. You finally tug yourself free with a loud, wet pop, and collapse onto Mark’s chest like a dying fish.

“Kill me,” you mumble into his collarbone.

Mark wheezes. “No one’s dying. Except maybe Harry.”

You both lie there in stunned, post-sex, post-Harry silence.

Then Mark mutters, “So, that ceiling fan thing? Kinda hot.”

You groan, smacking his chest weakly. “Do not kink-label this.”

He grins, lips brushing your temple. “Okay. So what you’re saying is… round three, with suits?”

You’re collapsed on top of him, sweaty, sticky, humiliated, and still slightly vibrating from both the orgasm and the trauma. Your arm aches from being yanked upward like a slutty trapeze artist. The ceiling fan above you is now dripping with web goop and making a low, sad creaking noise like it, too, regrets everything that just happened.

Mark’s still hard inside you. Of course he is. Viltrumite stamina is apparently God’s cruel joke.

“I don’t think I can ever show my face in public again,” you mumble into his chest. “I’m gonna have to fake my death. Move to space. Change my name.”

Mark’s fingers trail lazily along your back, still covered in undissolved webs, still somewhat helpless, which is honestly the only dignity you have left. “Hey. It wasn’t that bad.”

You lift your head slowly. “You were tied to a bed. I was screaming. Harry walked in holding a fire extinguisher and a containment unit. I Spider-Woman’d myself to the ceiling fan, Mark. That fan will never emotionally recover.”

Mark winces. “Okay. So maybe… a little bad.”

There’s a loud creak above you. The fan lets out a pathetic whine, then a single chunk of webbing droops loose and lands on your back with a wet slap.

You stare at him, dead-eyed. “It’s crying.”

“It’s grieving,” he corrects solemnly. “It saw things no fan should.”

You flop back down, face in the mattress. “God. Harry’s gonna write about this in his will.”

Mark grins, biting back a laugh. “He already has. It’s the Osborn Family Tragedy now. Norman had the Goblin. Harry has us.”

You snort into the sheets, then immediately groan. “Ugh. The sound the web made when I ripped off the ceiling. It was like ‘schhhhhlop.’ I sounded like a perverted lasagna.”

“Honestly?” Mark says, voice soft, teasing. “I’m still not over the scream. You sounded like a goat getting exorcised.”

You shove him weakly. “I hate you.”

“No you don’t.” He looks smug. “You screamed my name like I was the last donut at a police station.”

“I was panicking! I scream when I panic!”

“I know. That’s why I’ll never sleep again.”

You both lay there in silence again. Still tangled. Still joined. The room smells like regret and victory and suspiciously like something’s burning. Possibly your reputation.

Then, from down the hall, Harry’s voice floats faintly through the door.

“I’m burning the fan.”

You scream into the pillow.

Mark’s stomach jumps with laughter beneath you.

You roll off him, collapsing on your side, tugging a corner of the sheet over your chest like that’s going to do anything now.

“…Round three?” he asks quietly.

You pause. Think.

Then mutter, “Only if we gag each other this time.”

Mark grins wide. “Kinky.”

You groan. “So Harry doesn’t call an exorcist.”

“Oh. Right.”

The fan creaks above you one last time. You flip it off.

Literally.

ִ ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙

You’ve been hiding under the blanket for ten solid minutes now.

You haven’t moved. You haven’t breathed too loud. You’re seriously considering whether you could fake your death just to escape this conversation.

Mark’s lying beside you, completely unbothered. Shirtless. Smirking like he just watched your entire soul do a backflip off a cliff.

“Okay,” he says finally, his voice still raspy with sleep, “I have to ask.”

“No, you don’t.”

He turns his head toward you. “How the hell did it even get up there that fast? Like, were you conscious? Was that instinct? Did you aim for the ceiling fan?”

You groan and tug the blanket higher over your head. “Stop talking. I panicked.”

“Oh, I know. The velocity was amazing. I think you dented the fan.”

“I hope it falls and hits me in the face.”

Mark sits up slightly, dragging the blanket with him so he can look at you better. His hair’s a mess. There’s still a faint scrape healing near his collarbone from last night. He looks like someone who got tackled by both emotional catharsis and very enthusiastic sex. And he’s still grinning.

“I mean, I know I’m good in bed,” he says casually, “but I didn’t think I was propel-yourself-to-the-ceiling good.”

You throw a pillow at his face. He doesn’t dodge. He actually catches it, tucks it behind his head, and lounges like this is just a casual Tuesday.

“I hate you,” you say again.

“No, you don’t. You stuck to the ceiling while sleeping with me. That’s like the superhero version of doodling someone’s name in your notebook.”

You peek out from the blanket. “Mark.”

“Mrs. Grayson,” he says in a mock-solemn tone. “Mrs. Webby Grayson.”

You toss the other pillow. He ducks this time.

“Seriously, though,” he says, voice gentler now, “you okay?”

You sigh. “No. Harry literally kicked down the door like we owed him rent and made me Spider-Woman into the fan. I am not okay.”

Mark flops onto his back, hand resting over his stomach. “Okay, to be fair, Harry thought the symbiote came back.”

“And that justified him seeing me naked?”

Mark shrugs. “He’s scarred for life. He’s probably already in a lab somewhere, writing his resignation letter in binary code.”

You groan again.

Mark turns to face you. “But seriously. That was… last night was kind of a big deal.”

You bury your face into the crook of your elbow. “I know.”

“Like, I’m not trying to make it weird. Or heavier than it was. I just–”

“It wasn’t just sex,” you mumble.

He blinks. “Right. Yeah. Exactly.”

He nudges you with his knee under the blanket.

You glance at him.

“I meant it,” he says. “What I said. About wanting you. About being glad it was you this time. Even if the ceiling fan will haunt me forever.”

You laugh despite yourself. “I’m never going to live this down.”

“Oh, you absolutely are not,” Mark says. “I’m bringing it up at our wedding.”

You stare at him.

He immediately backtracks. “Not–not that we’re getting married! I’m just saying if we did, hypothetically, there’d be, like, a fan-themed cake topper or something. As a joke. Not a real wedding. I mean, unless you wanted to–”

You’re full-on blushing now.

He groans. “God, kill me.”

You smile. “No, I’m glad you said it.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Because I’m never going to let you live that down either.”

Mark covers his face with both hands. “Fantastic.”

You both laugh.

It’s soft. Warm. That kind of laughter that hurts a little, because it means you’re not afraid anymore.

You roll over, stretch, and sigh. “Okay. We should probably face the lab. Apologize to Harry for the trauma. Drink something with caffeine in it. Pretend to be normal people.”

Mark mutters, “I’d rather get possessed by the symbiote again.”

You chuck a third pillow at him. “Get up, Web-husband.”

He grins. “You’re never calling me that again.”

“We’ll see.

You’re still hiding behind a coffee mug in Harry’s lab kitchen, pretending the night didn’t end with emotional soul-baring and end with you sticking yourself to the ceiling fan.

Mark? Mark is thriving. He’s sitting on a stool, sipping from a chipped black mug like it’s a throne, hair still a mess, smugness at an all-time high.

The TV in the corner flickers to life, and Mark flips through a few channels lazily until,

Jameson.

Right there. Live. Center stage. Grumbling, red-faced, and visibly suffering.

You sit up straighter.

“Turn it up,” you mutter.

Mark obliges, smirking. “Time for the daily Jameson rage stroke.”

J. Jonah Jameson stares out from the screen like he just bit into a lemon dipped in cyanide.

“I never thought I’d say this,” he begins, each word sounding like it’s being pulled from his soul with a rusty pair of pliers, “but it appears I may have–may have–been misinformed about Spider-Woman.”

Mark sets his mug down, eyebrows rising. “Oh, this is already better than caffeine.”

You narrow your eyes at the screen.

Jameson shuffles a few papers, visibly fighting the urge to scream.

“Late last night, reports came in of a confrontation between what we previously believed to be Spider-Woman, under the influence of a dangerous alien entity, and GDA forces. Eyewitness footage captured the event in full. Courtesy of Edith Brock, independent reporter and twin sister of Eddie Brock.”

You blink. “Wait. Edith filmed it?”

Mark nods. “Yeah. Guess it runs in the family.”

The screen cuts to footage. Shaky, grainy, but it’s undeniably you.

The moment the symbiote was ripped off. You, screaming. Mark, his face not showing, standing over you. The emitter glowing like a star going supernova. And then, your body, limp and shaking, finally your own again.

The shot lingers on you crawling into Mark’s arms, shaking.

Mark makes a face. “Damn, that angle makes my jaw look good.”

You jab him with your elbow.

Back on screen, Jameson pinches the bridge of his nose like he’s about to have a breakdown.

“This footage,confirmed by GDA analysis, shows Spider-Woman actively resisting the symbiote. Removing it. Fighting it. Which… indicates that she was not acting of her own volition during recent attacks.”

He takes a deep breath like it physically hurts.

“Effective immediately, I am retracting all prior statements labeling Spider-Woman a threat to public safety.”

Mark mock-gasps. “Is this… growth?”

Jameson raises a finger. “However, I still have concerns about reckless costumed vigilantes operating without oversight, and I maintain that her suit sets feminism back at least two decades.”

You glare at the screen.

Mark snorts. “Yeah, there it is.”

“But,” Jameson sighs, and it’s the kind of sigh that sounds like it’s been living in his lungs since the Nixon administration, “until further notice… she is not Venom. She is, begrudgingly, Spider-Woman.”

The feed cuts to commercial.

The room is quiet.

Mark raises his mug. “To begrudging clarity.”

You exhale, slowly. Hands trembling just a little around your mug.

“I can’t believe she filmed that.”

“She wanted the truth out,” Mark says. “Pretty sure Eddie wouldn’t’ve shut up until she did.”

You smile faintly. “Guess it’s poetic.”

He looks at you, expression softening.

“They see you now,” he says. “The real you.”

You nod slowly.

“They can call me whatever they want,” you say. “Just as long as I’m not that thing anymore.”

Mark leans over and bumps your shoulder with his.

“You’re Spider-Woman.”

You look at him.

He grins. “Even if you do occasionally go full exorcist on Harry’s ceiling fan.”

You groan into your mug.

He laughs.

And for once, the news isn’t a threat. It’s a relief.

The elevator in Harry’s lab creaks open with its usual obnoxious hiss. Mark steps out first, already tugging his yellow-and-blue suit top into place over the compression bandages you’d helped wrap around his ribs. He moves slower than usual. Less confident in the shoulders. Still healing.

Harry’s got his arms crossed, tablet tucked under one, dressed like he’s been living off vending machine protein bars and Red Bull since 3 AM. Because he has.

You follow behind them, jacket zipped to your neck. The echo of the suit, the old one, the one that looked like you before everything cracked, feels heavier than it should.

Mark glances back at you. “Still okay?”

You nod. “Not sticking to the ceiling. So that’s progress.”

He smirks. “That’ll be on your tombstone.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “If you two start flirting mid-briefing, I swear to God I’ll unplug your comms.”

Mark raises a brow. “That supposed to be a threat? Sounds like peace and quiet to me.”

You cut in before it escalates. “We’re not walking into a kill box, right?”

Harry stops at the lab’s central console. Taps a few keys. A holographic map pulls up, a transport corridor heading directly to Guardian HQ.

“No kill box. Just a debrief. Cecil’s expecting you. He gave us a ten-minute window, so try not to piss him off in the first two.”

“Not making any promises,” Mark mutters, tugging on his gloves.

You cross your arms. “You think he’s mad?”

Harry gives you a look. “You mean besides the part where you bonded with a shapeshifting alien organism that tried to decapitate his best agents on live television?”

You wince.

Mark sighs. “Okay, but to be fair, she didn’t ask to get possessed.”

Harry taps his tablet again. “You think that’s gonna hold up in a meeting with Cecil? He’s already writing the postmortem in his head. We’ve got ten minutes to get ahead of it.”

You exhale slowly. “Right.”

Mark moves closer. His voice lowers. Just for you.

“You don’t have to go in there like you’re on trial.”

You raise a brow. “I kind of am.”

“No,” he says. “You’re walking in as Spider-Woman. You saved people. You fought it off. You won.”

You look at him. “And if he doesn’t care?”

Mark’s jaw tightens. “Then he deals with me.”

Harry looks up. “Can you not threaten the director of the most powerful Government agency on the planet?”

“I’m not threatening,” Mark says. “I’m promising.”

You sigh, already regretting the hours to come.

Thirty minutes later, you’re standing outside Guardian HQ.

The air is cold, sharp against your cheeks. The front entrance is mostly empty, guarded, but not hostile. Still, it feels more like walking into a courtroom than a government building.

Mark walks beside you.

Harry follows a pace behind, adjusting his tablet like a shield.

You enter through the side doors and take the long hallway past mission control. The walls hum with energy. Cameras follow your steps. Guards glance, then look away.

No one smiles.

At the end of the corridor, Donald is waiting. Clipboard in hand, polite as ever.

“Mark. Miss. Mr. Osborn.”

Mark raises a brow. “You look like you haven’t slept.”

Donald deadpans, “I haven’t. Thanks for noticing.”

You fidget with your zipper. “Cecil still upstairs?”

“He’s in the situation room. Wants full accountings. Emotional responses. Timeline breakdowns. No sarcasm.”

Mark winces. “Yikes.”

Donald turns. “Follow me.”

As you walk, your heart starts to hammer. You try to calm it, but the thought of sitting across from Cecil again,having to explain what it felt like, what you let happen, it clings like residue.

Mark nudges your elbow.

“Whatever he says,” he whispers, “you did the right thing.”

You glance at him. “What if he doesn’t see it that way?”

Mark shrugs. “Then he’s wrong.”

You smile faintly. Keep walking.

You’re not Venom anymore. You’re Spider-Woman. And it’s time to prove that to the one man who never stopped watching.

The “situation” room is dim, industrial, sterile. Steel walls. One long table. A screen built into the wall behind it, currently off. You half expect to see a stack of photos from the worst night of your life ready to be slid across the table like an episode of Cold Case.

Mark enters first, hands in his jacket pockets, jaw tight.

You follow.

Harry lingers behind both of you, pulling up files on his tablet, muttering something to Donald, who gives a curt nod and leaves the room.

And then there’s Cecil, seated at the far end of the table, flanked by nothing and no one. His expression is unreadable. The little hair he has left is combed. His suit is dark, and the tie is as red as ever. The scars on his face feel less like an injury and more like a warning sign.

He doesn’t say anything for the first five seconds.

Just looks at you.

You stand there. You don’t flinch.

Finally, he speaks.

“Sit down.”

You do.

Mark stays standing behind your chair, arms crossed.

Cecil’s eyes flick to him. “This is her debrief, Grayson. Not yours.”

Mark doesn’t move. “I’m here.”

Cecil sighs but doesn’t argue.

“Fine.”

He leans forward, folds his hands, and zeroes in on you.

“I want a clear, uninterrupted account of what happened,” he says. “From the moment you noticed changes in your physiology to the exact second the symbiote detached. No metaphors. No excuses. Just facts.”

You exhale slowly. Nod.

And you begin.

You walk him through the first headaches. The insomnia. The mood swings. You mention the first night it spoke to you in your sleep, how it didn’t feel like a voice, just a vibration in your skull that said your name like it owned it.

You mention the blackouts. The flare-ups in strength. The near-lethal encounters on patrol. You say you thought you could control it. You were wrong.

Cecil doesn’t interrupt once.

Not when you talk about the fight. Not when you describe the moment the suit turned on Mark. Not even when your voice falters as you admit, “I almost wanted to keep it. Because it made me feel powerful. Like I didn’t have to be afraid anymore.”

He lets that hang in the air.

Then he speaks. “What changed?”

You glance at Mark.

“He did,” you say. “He reminded me who I was. And I remembered that I didn’t want power. I wanted control.”

Cecil’s expression doesn’t shift.

Harry cuts in quietly, setting down the tablet. “We’ve run full scans. Post-separation, there’s no sign of parasitic residue. Neural mapping is clean. The suit didn’t leave behind any chemical markers.”

Cecil raises an eyebrow. “You sure?”

Harry nods. “As sure as I can be. It’s not dormant. It’s gone.”

Cecil turns back to you.

“You understand why I’m not throwing you a parade, right?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

“You understand why I still had agents and teams watching you?”

You flinch, but nod again.

“You almost killed my agents. You went dark for days. You disobeyed a direct order to check in after your last mission. You left Mark to cover for you while you spiraled. And don’t get me started on what you did to the news cycle.”

“I know.”

He studies you. Cecil’s jaw ticks.

He leans back in his chair. Finally… finally, he nods.

Then he presses a button on the table. A small red light on the wall blinks green.

“Room’s no longer recording,” he says.

You stare at him.

He exhales, long and tired. “I watched the footage. All of it. You were gone. Not just physically. Mentally. You looked hollow. And then, at the last second, you reached for him.”

His eyes flick to Mark.

Mark doesn’t blink.

Cecil looks back at you. “You fought your way out. That’s not nothing.”

You don’t speak.

He adds, quieter this time, “You scared the hell out of me.”

You almost laugh. “You don’t get scared.”

“I do when one of mine nearly stops being human.”

You go quiet.

He glances at Mark again. “She’s lucky you didn’t give up.”

“I never was going to,” Mark says.

Cecil nods once.

Then sits up straighter. The moment’s gone.

“I want you back on the board,” he says. “Limited missions. Partnered. No solo field work until I sign off. You’ll check in daily. And if I get so much as a blip on the radar that says you’re slipping again, I pull you. Understood?”

You nod. “Understood.”

He leans back. “Good.”

Cecil finishes outlining the terms in that clipped, flat way he has. Limited missions. Partnered only. Full monitoring. Daily check-ins. No media. No solo operations. No margin for error.

You don’t argue. You don’t even flinch.

You sit at the table, hands curled lightly in your lap. Mark stands just behind your chair,close, but not overbearing. Present. Harry lingers off to the side with his tablet, flicking through data without really looking at the screen.

And then Cecil asks the question he always does, in the coldest, most clinical way possible.

“Why are you still here?”

It’s not rhetorical. It’s not philosophical.

He’s watching you like you’re a broken prototype someone soldered back together and handed him without a manual.

So you answer. Slowly. Carefully.

But honestly.

“I didn’t start this to be a hero,” you say.

Cecil’s gaze doesn’t shift. He doesn’t blink. Just waits.

“I didn’t even think I was cut out for it. I got powers by accident. I didn’t want them. I didn’t want this.”

Mark glances down at you, quiet.

You go on.

“But that same day, when it happened, someone I loved was killed.”

Cecil’s head tilts slightly.

“My uncle,” you say. “He was everything. Grounded. Kind. He wasn’t a soldier or a scientist. He didn’t believe in heroes in the cape-and-spandex sense. But he believed in doing the right thing. Every day. In little ways. He always told me, if you have the ability to help someone and you choose not to? That’s on you.”

You swallow hard.

“I didn’t help him.”

The room is still. Not even Harry’s tablet hums.

“I had the chance,” you say. “Not to stop the whole thing. But to do something. To see the signs. To step in. And I didn’t. I brushed it off. Figured someone else would deal with it.”

Mark’s hand brushes against your arm at the back of the chair. He doesn’t speak.

“I watched him die,” you continue. “I watched the aftermath. The blood. The way the city just kept moving like nothing had happened. And I realized, if I have the power to stop something, anything, and I don’t?”

You look Cecil straight in the eye.

“Then I’m responsible.”

His expression doesn't change.

“That’s why I became Spider-Woman. Not because I wanted a name. Or a suit. Or headlines. I did it because I couldn’t let someone else die because I was too scared to step up again.”

Harry sets the tablet down. His eyes are a little wider now. Like this is the first time he’s really hearing it.

Mark crouches beside you without saying a word. Just stays there. Anchoring you.

You keep going, quieter now.

“And yeah. I messed up. The suit got inside my head. It made me feel stronger, sharper. I started thinking maybe I needed it. That it was the part of me that could finally make a difference.”

You glance away.

“But I was wrong. It took everything I believed in and twisted it. And I let it.”

Silence.

You finish the thought. Not for them,for yourself.

“I came back because I couldn’t let that thing use me to hurt people. I couldn’t run from it. I needed to fix what I broke.”

Cecil is still for a long moment.

Then he exhales, slow.

“I appreciate the honesty,” he says. “It’s rare.”

He stands, walks to the door. Just before opening it, he pauses and looks back.

“You want to fix it? Then fix it. I’m not interested in stories. I’m interested in action.”

You nod.

Then, to your surprise, he adds.

“For what it’s worth, your uncle was right. Power doesn’t mean anything if you’re not willing to use it for something good.”

The door hisses open, and he steps through.

Gone.

You sit still for a second longer.

Then Mark leans his head lightly against your shoulder and says, voice low.

“He’d be proud of you. For what you said. For coming back.”

You don’t speak.

But you believe him.

And for the first time in what feels like weeks?

You believe in yourself too.

The hallway is quiet.

Not the kind of quiet you had after the fight. Not the quiet between screams or held breaths or orders shouted over comms.

This is the quiet that only shows up after you’ve said everything that could be said in a boardroom…and realize the words that mattered most didn’t make it into the room.

You and Mark walk in silence down the long corridor past Cecil’s office, feet dragging slightly from the weight of the week. The sterile lights buzz above you, and you’re both too tired to care. You don’t talk until you reach the end of the hall, where the windows stretch wall-to-wall, letting in the dull gray of early dusk.

You stop.

Mark stops beside you.

And for a moment, neither of you say anything.

Your reflection stares back at you in the glass, faint and flickering. The woman in the suit that doesn’t feel like yours anymore. The one who almost didn’t make it back.

“I never told you about my uncle,” you say, voice soft.

Mark turns toward you just a little.

“He died the same day I got bit.”

You look out over the city.

“I didn’t know what I was yet. I didn’t know what was changing. But I felt it. My skin was hot. My thoughts were warped. I was scared. And then I saw him on my way home.”

You breathe out slowly. “He’d been shot. Caught in the crossfire of a car-jacking. Wrong place, wrong time. He bled out before the paramedics got there.”

You say it like the words taste bad. Bitter and clunky in your mouth, “It all started because I went to that stupid wrestling match.”

Mark looks at you, doesn’t interrupt.

“I won,” you add, quieter now. “Knocked the guy out cold. Crowd went wild. I thought, I don’t know. That I’d finally done something right. Like, really right. And then the guy running the place tries to stiff me. Says I pinned the guy too early, or whatever the hell.”

Your jaw tightens, and you don’t realize your fists have clenched until your nails start digging into your palms.

“So yeah,” you say, your voice harder now. “Some other guy comes charging out of his office ten minutes later. Screaming about being robbed. Says the guy took the day’s cash and ran.”

You glance at Mark, but he’s still quiet. Still watching. Letting you say it how you need to.

“I saw him. The thief. He shoved past me. I moved out of his way. Like I was just another face in the crowd. He ran right past the exit and I didn’t do a damn thing.”

Mark’s eyebrows pull together, but he doesn’t speak yet.

“The guy who stiffed me? He starts yelling at me like it’s my fault. Tells me I could’ve stopped him.”

You let out a shaky breath.

“And he wasn’t wrong.”

Mark’s voice is soft when he finally speaks. “You didn’t know.”

You shake your head slowly. “I didn’t care. That’s what’s worse. In that moment, I didn’t want to help him. I thought, ‘Serves you right.’ And I let that guy go.”

There’s a pause. One of those silences that settle over the room and feel too loud.

“And that same night… Uncle Ben didn’t come home.”

You close your eyes. You’ve said it before, sure. But not like this.

The words sit heavy in the air.

“I’ve lived with that every day since. And that’s why I started doing this. Why I became Spider-Woman. Not because I wanted to wear a mask. Because I had to believe I could stop it from happening to someone else.”

Mark doesn’t interrupt.

You glance over at him. “I never told you. Not since the funeral.”

He runs a hand through his hair. “Yeah. Well… I didn’t tell you I was Invincible. So I think we’re even.”

You laugh. Just once. Bitter and soft.

“God, we were so stupid,” you whisper.

“We were scared,” he says again, more firmly this time. “Both of us. And we didn’t trust each other enough to say it.”

You look at him, really look, and for a moment, you’re back in that version of your life where he was yours and you were his and everything made sense. Until it didn’t.

“I really thought you were cheating on me,” you say. “With Eve.”

Mark winces. “I know.”

“I thought you were pulling away. Getting distant. Canceling plans. You started vanishing without explanation. And I just… I let it eat me alive.”

He turns toward you, leans against the glass. “You weren’t wrong to feel that way. I did pull away.”

“You just didn’t tell me why.”

He nods. “I didn’t know how. I didn’t want you to look at me and see… all of this. The missions. The deaths. The world-ending crap. I wanted to keep you safe from it.”

You meet his eyes. “But you weren’t keeping me safe. You were keeping me out.”

Mark closes his eyes for a second. “I know.”

“And I didn’t ask,” you say. “I assumed the worst. We spent three years building something and I let it crumble because I didn’t believe you’d give me the truth.”

His voice is quieter now. “It felt like you didn’t trust me either.”

You nod.

The silence stretches.

“So what now?”

Mark stares out the window for a moment.

Then he says, “I still love you.”

You blink. It hits harder than you expected. Like something behind your ribs just cracked open again, this time for the better.

“I don’t expect you to say it back,” he says. “I’m not trying to fix three years of good and bad in one night. I just… I needed you to know.”

You step a little closer.

Your voice is low. Raw.

“I still love you too.”

Mark looks at you. Really looks. And there’s something soft in his eyes that wasn’t there before. No hesitation. No fear.

Just the truth.

“I’m not asking for perfect,” you say. “But I want to try. Slowly. This time, I want to talk when things get hard. I want to be your girlfriend. No more secrets.”

Mark reaches for your hand.

You let him take it.

“I want that too,” he says. “All of it. Even the hard stuff.”

You squeeze his hand, gently.

“I’m not ready to run again,” you murmur. “Not from you.”

“Then don’t.”

And he pulls you into him. No dramatics. No sweeping kiss.

Just warmth. Familiarity. The steadiness you’ve both been missing for months.

You close your eyes.

The window glass is warm now. Not from the sun, GDA windows are reinforced, resistant to everything from UV rays to sniper rounds. But from you. From him. Standing too close for too long in a space that never makes room for softness.

You’re still holding Mark’s hand. You haven’t let go. Not since the moment you told him you still loved him.

But now, with your forehead resting gently against his shoulder, the weight of it all starts to shift. Not disappear, but settle.

Mark’s breath is steady. One of his fingers runs along the curve of yours absently. Like he’s reminding himself you’re here. That you’re real. That this, whatever this becomes, isn’t slipping away again.

You speak first.

“I need to apologize to Eve.”

Mark doesn’t move.

But he’s listening.

You pull back just enough to look up at him. “I owe her that.”

He raises his eyebrows slightly. “You sure?”

You nod. “Yeah. I mean, I hated her for months. And she didn’t even do anything.”

Mark runs his thumb along the inside of your wrist. “You were hurting.”

“I was projecting,” you correct. “I thought you were pulling away because you were falling for her. But the truth is… I didn’t give you space to explain. I let myself spiral. I let the insecurity eat at me, and then I made her the villain in my head because it was easier than admitting I felt like I wasn’t enough.”

Mark doesn’t speak right away.

You look at him.

“I need to tell her I’m sorry.”

He nods. “She’ll appreciate it.”

“I don’t expect her to forgive me. I just want her to know I get it now. That I was wrong.”

Mark shifts, leaning back against the window, still holding your hand loosely.

“I think,” he says carefully, “that she never hated you. Not even when things were tense. She was confused. And yeah, maybe a little hurt. But she knew something else was going on. She’s smarter than we give her credit for.”

You nod. “I know. I think that’s what made it worse. Knowing she was never cruel to me. I was cruel to her.”

“You were scared,” he says. “And everything was falling apart. Doesn’t mean it’s okay. But it makes sense.”

You shake your head. “Doesn’t excuse it.”

He shrugs. “Nope. But you owning it now? That matters.”

You look at him again.

He adds, “Want me to come with you?”

You think about it for a second. “No. I think I need to do this on my own.”

Mark nods. “Okay. Just let me know how it goes.”

You smile faintly. “Thanks.”

He tilts his head. “Are we officially grown-ups now? Apologizing? Communicating? Processing?”

You roll your eyes. “You’re really trying to ruin this moment, huh.”

He smirks. “Little bit.”

You bump his shoulder, just enough to feel it.

He smiles at you. Not that half-forced one you’d been getting for days. Not the one hiding guilt or uncertainty.

This one is real.

You exhale. “Okay. I’ll text her. Ask if she has time.”

Mark squeezes your hand once before letting go. “You’re doing the right thing.”

The second-floor lounge isn’t busy.

It never really is, too tucked away, too quiet. Just a couple of metal benches, a vending machine that hasn't worked since last August, and a floor-to-ceiling window that tries to convince you the GDA isn’t buried in the heart of a bunker.

Eve Wilkins is already inside.

She’s seated near the far window, jacket half-unzipped and tied around her waist, tank top clinging to her collarbone, one ankle crossed over the other. Her orange hair’s pulled into a low ponytail. She’s sipping something from a biodegradable cup with one hand and scrolling her phone with the other.

She doesn’t look surprised when you enter. She doesn’t even flinch.

She just looks up. Sets her phone aside. Stays seated.

There’s no smile.

No tension either.

Just that calm, neutral Eve-ness that always made you feel like she could see through you.

You stand across from her for a second.

You hadn’t expected your heart to pound this hard.

“Hey,” you say.

“Hey,” she replies. “You look… better.”

You nod. “Little less murdery.”

A pause. Then she nods back. “Good. That’s… good.”

You take a breath.

“I didn’t come here to pretend things were fine between us.”

She leans back slightly, legs uncrossing. “Didn’t think you would.”

“I wanted to say something I should’ve said a long time ago.”

Eve gestures lightly toward the seat across from her. “Go on.”

You sit.

The metal’s cold against your legs. You can hear the faint hum of power lines in the walls. No one else is around.

Just her. Just you.

And everything that’s been stewing for years.

“I owe you an apology,” you say.

Eve watches you closely. No expression, just waiting.

“I haven’t been kind to you,” you continue. “Not even neutral. I was rude. Cold. Passive-aggressive. And you never did anything to deserve it.”

Eve’s brow furrows slightly. “Why?”

You swallow.

“Because I thought you were going to take him from me.”

The words are bitter and soft. They taste worse out loud than they did in your head.

She blinks. “Mark?”

You nod.

“I saw the way he trusted you,” you say. “How often he turned to you. How easy it was for you to just… be in his life. And I let that scare me.”

Eve doesn’t speak.

You go on.

“I thought you were the person he wanted to talk to. The one who got him. And I started building this whole narrative in my head, like it was only a matter of time before he left me for you. Or maybe… that he already had.”

Eve’s voice is quiet. “I never tried to do that.”

“I know that now,” you say. “But I didn’t ask. I didn’t talk to you. I didn’t talk to him. I just... pulled away. Snapped. Acted like you were some rival when all you ever were was his friend.”

You look down at your hands.

“I was so scared I wasn’t enough. That I didn’t have what you had. You’re smart. You’re brave. You’re respected. You’re beautiful in more ways than one. I kept asking myself why someone like him would stay with someone like me when you were in the room.”

Eve breathes in, slow. Doesn’t interrupt.

“I made you the enemy,” you whisper. “Because that was easier than dealing with the truth. That I didn’t feel worthy of the relationship I was in. And I’ve been holding onto that shame for a long time.”

A beat of silence stretches between you.

“I was jealous of you,” you admit.

Eve finally moves,just slightly. She doesn’t look smug. Doesn’t look vindicated. She just looks… tired.

“I kind of figured,” she says softly. “But I didn’t know why.”

You nod. “I didn’t either. Not really. Until after. Until I almost lost everything and came out the other side with no more excuses.”

Eve leans forward, elbows on her knees, eyes still on you.

“I hated that we weren’t friends,” she says. “Because I liked you. From the beginning.”

Your throat tightens.

“I liked how you didn’t care about looking cool. Or impressing people. You were just you. Sharp, and weird, and stubborn as hell. I thought we’d get along.”

You blink.

Eve shrugs. “But then you’d look at me like I was something stuck to the bottom of your boot. And it sucked.”

“I know,” you say. “I’m sorry.”

“I didn’t want Mark,” she says. “Not like that. Not ever while you were together. I would’ve died before doing something like that to you.”

You nod. “I know that now.”

She leans back again.

Silence falls between you, heavy but clean. It doesn’t sting like before.

It just... settles.

“I don’t expect you to forgive me,” you say. “I just didn’t want to keep pretending we didn’t both know I was awful to you.”

Eve tilts her head.

Then she says, “I forgive you.”

You blink again. “That easy?”

“No,” she says. “But it’s a start.”

You let out a breath that trembles as it leaves you.

“I don’t want things to go back to how they were,” you say. “But maybe… something new.”

Eve smiles. Small. Honest. “I’d like that.”

You sit in silence again, but this time it’s something easier. Not comfort, not yet. But possibility.

“I thought you’d hate me,” you admit.

Eve stands up. She offers you her hand.

“I don’t hate you,” she says. “I never did.”

You take it.

And for the first time in a long time, you let yourself breathe.

The sun’s dipped low by the time you and Mark leave HQ. It’s late enough for traffic to slow but early enough that the city’s still awake, buzzing in the periphery. The air smells faintly like burnt fuel and early fall.

He walks close beside you, not rushing. He’s got his hood up, and you’ve got your jacket zipped halfway. It’s not the best disguise, but it’s enough to blend in.

He offers his hand when you reach the corner by the bus stop.

You take it without thinking.

May’s house is just far enough from the city to breathe, old residential streets, cracked sidewalks, porch lights glowing like fireflies in a jar. The kind of place where front doors don’t always lock and neighbors still wave.

You both walk up the familiar steps.

The porch light’s on.

You haven’t been here in days.

You haven’t called.

You feel sick with guilt by the time Mark knocks on the door.

There’s the sound of shuffling.

Then the door opens,

And May’s standing there, arms crossed, face pale with relief and fury.

“Where the hell have you been?”

You open your mouth. Nothing comes out.

Mark gently steps in. “She’s okay. I promise. We both are.”

May’s eyes flick from him to you. Her hands tremble.

“I called you,” she says. “I texted. I left voicemails. I went to Mark’s dorm. You went completely dark.”

“I know,” you whisper. “I’m sorry.”

She doesn’t hug you.

Not right away.

She just looks at you like she’s counting the bruises, the weight loss, the shadows under your eyes.

Then she steps forward and pulls you in.

It’s not a tight hug. It’s not a gentle one either. It’s fierce. Real. Her hand cradles the back of your head like she used to when you were little, when you’d come home from school with scraped knees and tear-streaked cheeks.

“I thought I lost you,” she murmurs.

You nod into her shoulder. “I thought I lost me too.”

Mark stays quiet, standing awkwardly on the porch, until May notices.

She pulls back and gives him a look. “You. Inside. Shoes off.”

He blinks. “Yes, ma’am.”

Inside, it’s warmer than you remembered.

There’s a candle burning in the kitchen. Something vanilla-sugar. A mug in the sink. The news is paused on the TV, muted. May pulls out two old blankets and throws them on the couch like she doesn’t trust either of you not to keel over in her living room.

You sit curled under one, your hair still messy from the GDA hallways and sleepless nights.

Mark’s beside you, still a little awkward.

May drops tea bags in two chipped mugs and says, “Start talking.”

You look at Mark.

Then back to her.

“I’ve been going through something,” you say carefully. “It got… bad. Worse than I expected. I didn’t want to drag you into it.”

May doesn’t look satisfied, but she doesn’t push harder.

She sets the mug in front of you and one for Mark.

Then she turns to him. “You two together again?”

Mark nearly chokes on his tea.

You sputter, “May,!”

“What? I’m old, not blind,” she says. “You think I didn’t see the way he used to look at you during breakfast? He made heart eyes over cereal.”

Mark turns red. “I did not.”

“You absolutely did,” you mutter.

May smirks, but it fades quickly.

“I don’t need all the details,” she says. “But I need you to promise me something.”

You nod.

She looks at you hard. “If you disappear again, someone tells me. I don’t care what’s going on. If you need help. If you’re scared. I get told. Got it?”

Tears sting the backs of your eyes. “Got it.”

She turns to Mark.

“You too, chemistry boy.”

He nods solemnly. “Yes, ma’am.”

After dinner (canned soup, boxed mac and cheese, three glasses of water like it’s penance), May goes upstairs. She doesn’t say be good. She just says, “Don’t break anything.”

You and Mark are left on the couch. You lean into him. Not like earlier. Not cautious.

Just warm. Familiar.

Mark rests his chin on top of your head.

“She loves you,” he says.

You nod.

“I can see where you got the good parts from.”

You smile. “She thinks you’re a dork.”

“She’s not wrong.”

You laugh.

And in the quiet, in that soft golden light of a safe, ordinary living room,you let yourself feel okay.

Not healed.

Not whole.

But okay.

You glance up at him.

“Do you think we’ll ever be normal?”

Mark looks down at you, that boyish smile barely there. “I don’t think we ever were.”

You nod. “Yeah. I don’t want normal anymore.”

He presses a kiss to your temple. “Me neither.”

You don’t need suits. Not right now.

The TV is still on, casting soft flickers of light across the living room. Some sitcom you’ve both ignored is playing on mute. You don’t even remember when the last episode ended. The laugh track is predictable. The jokes are recycled. But the silence between you and Mark?

It’s not uncomfortable.

Just... full.

You’re lying side by side on May’s couch, your legs tangled under the blanket. His hand rests against your back, thumb brushing small circles between your ribs. You haven’t said anything in minutes, and it’s the kind of quiet that only happens when both of you are thinking the same thing.

You turn a little. Just enough to glance at him. “Hey.”

He looks at you. “Hey.”

You hesitate, then say it.

“I’ve been thinking about that night.”

Mark shifts slightly, his hand pausing. “What night?”

You raise an eyebrow.

His expression folds. “Oh. That night.”

You nod once.

Mark lies back again and groans into his arm. “God.”

You smirk a little, but there’s something softer under it. Something still tender. “We never really talked about it.”

He exhales. “Yeah. Probably for the best at the time.”

“Maybe not anymore.”

Mark’s eyes flick to yours. He nods slowly. “Okay. Let’s talk about it.”

You glance back toward the muted TV, then down at your hands. “Did you… know it was me?”

There’s a pause.

Then he says, “Not know, know. But...”

You wait.

“It felt like something I wasn’t supposed to recognize, but did anyway,” he says. “Not like I figured it out. Just like… I recognized you. Somewhere under everything. The way you moved. The way you touched me. It wasn’t obvious. It just... fit.”

You stare at him.

“That’s exactly how it felt for me,” you admit. “Like, I didn’t consciously think, ‘Oh, that’s Mark.’ But my body knew. My hands knew. Even the way I breathed around you, it was like I just recognized you.”

Mark sits up a little, running a hand through his hair. “It scared the hell out of me. Afterward, I kept replaying everything in my head. Every sound. Every move. I couldn’t stop thinking, why did that feel so familiar?”

You nod. “Same.”

“I was so sure I’d imagined it,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Because what were the odds, right? Like, what were the actual chances we’d cross paths that night, both in masks, both completely wrecked emotionally, and–”

“Hook up like idiots,” you finish.

Mark groans. “God.”

You laugh, but it’s quieter now. A little sad. A little warm. “I remember not wanting it to stop. Even though I didn’t know who you were, I didn’t want to let go. It felt like... like I was clinging to something I’d already lost.”

Mark swallows, voice soft. “Same here.”

You tuck your hands under your chin and look at him. “Do you think some part of us knew?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

“Yeah. I think the parts of us that weren’t broken knew. Even if we didn’t.”

You blink slowly, eyes stinging. “I hated myself for it afterward. For wanting it. For not stopping it. I thought I was spiraling. That maybe I was just using you.”

Mark turns toward you, brushing your hair back behind your ear. “You weren’t using me. And I wasn’t using you. We found each other in the worst way, but I think we were just trying to feel something real.”

You close your eyes. “It felt real.”

“It was.”

There’s a long pause.

You whisper, “It still scares me. How badly we missed each other. How close we were without knowing it.”

Mark nods. “I know.”

Another beat.

You shift closer, your fingers brushing his. “I didn’t know it was you. But I didn’t not know either.”

Mark smiles softly, something pained in it. “Yeah. Same.”,’”

You laugh. “That tracks.”

He’s quiet for a second. Then he says, more gently, “I don’t regret it.”

You nod. “Me neither.”

Mark shifts forward and rests his forehead against yours.

“No more guessing,” he says. “No more half-truths. We tell each other everything. Even the badstuff.”

“Even the embarrassing stuff,” you add.

“Especially the embarrassing stuff,” he says, grinning.

You smile.

And then you whisper, “I knew it was you. Not in my head. But in my bones. I knew. And I still chose you anyway.”

His voice is softer. “I chose you too.”

You kiss him then, slow and warm.

No suits. No confusion. No masks.

You wake up to sunlight cutting through the blinds, soft, golden, and a little too warm on your face.

You blink against it, groggy, your brain still wrapped in static. Your limbs feel heavy. Your neck’s sore. The blanket’s twisted around your legs and your shirt’s rucked up over your stomach.

You roll over and run right into Mark Grayson.

Still fast asleep, flat on his back, one arm draped across your waist like it belongs there. His curls are messier than they were last night. He’s breathing softly, mouth just barely open, brows relaxed like someone who hasn’t had to think about the world ending for once.

You freeze for a second, your thoughts catching up.

This isn’t the couch.

This is your room.

Your bed.

You remember being on the couch. You remember the way your body sank into his. How his voice got quieter and quieter until you couldn’t even keep your eyes open.

But you never made it upstairs.

Mark must’ve carried you.

Your face burns at the thought of it. You didn’t even stir. He just… picked you up. Brought you here. Put you to bed. Stayed.

Your throat’s dry. Your chest aches a little, but not in the sharp, breaking way it used to.

You shift gently beneath the covers, trying not to wake him.

But of course you do.

His brow furrows. He makes a soft, groggy noise and turns toward you.

His arm tightens slightly around your waist. “You awake?”

You nod against the pillow. “Yeah.”

He hums, eyes still closed. “What time is it?”

“No clue.”

“Did we teleport?”

You laugh softly. “You carried me.”

He blinks one eye open. “I did?”

“Yeah. You tucked me in and everything.”

Mark groans and covers his face with one hand. “That’s embarrassingly domestic of me.”

“I liked it.”

He peeks at you through his fingers. “Yeah?”

You nod.

He exhales, lets his arm relax. “You were completely out. I figured the couch wasn’t doing your back any favors.”

“It wasn’t. Thank you.”

He closes his eyes again, his voice barely above a whisper. “Of course.”

You lie there together in the quiet, your heart finally beating at a steady rhythm. His chest rises and falls in time with yours. Somewhere downstairs, you hear the muffled sound of a kettle and the shuffle of May’s footsteps.

You press your forehead against his shoulder. “We should probably go down.”

“Five more minutes,” he murmurs.

“Mark.”

“I’m serious. Just five.”

You roll your eyes, but don’t move.

The air between you feels soft. Easier than before.

After everything that’s happened,after all the chaos, the hurt, the masks and guilt and distance,this morning feels like a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

Mark shifts slightly, adjusting the blanket around your shoulders. “Your aunt’s probably downstairs thinking I snuck into your bed.”

“She probably knew you carried me up here before I even woke up.”

“She’s terrifying,” he mumbles.

You smile. “She’s just perceptive.”

“Mm. So… you’re okay?”

You nod. “I think so. For the first time in a while, I really think I am.”

He opens both eyes now, gazing at you. “Me too.”

You stay like that a little longer.

Wrapped in quiet. Wrapped in each other.

And for once, the world outside can wait.

After a while, Mark's finally up, standing by the dresser, shirt in hand, half-awake, trying to wrangle his curls with one hand and yank the fabric over his head with the other. He’s still got marks from the night before along his ribs, your nails, probably, and bruises starting to bloom faint under his collarbone. His voice is rough, sleep-thick. “I’ve got patrol in, like, ten minutes…”

He says it like it’s a valid excuse. Like you’re just gonna let him go.

You blink up at him from the pillows, body bare, one leg bent and draped casually to the side, not even pretending to cover yourself. His shirt’s halfway on, arms tangled in the sleeves, when you flick your wrist and thwip, a web lashes out, yanks it right off him mid-motion, and slaps it against the ceiling where it sticks.

Mark stares up at it like it just personally betrayed him. “Oh come on,”

You stretch with a soft groan, arms overhead, spine arching, breasts lifting just enough to make his mouth go a little dry. “Didn’t say you could leave.”

“You ambushed me.” He points, accusatory, but doesn’t take a step back. His eyes drop to your stomach, to the line of your waist disappearing under the mess of sheets. He tries not to let his gaze linger. Tries.

“You said ten minutes.” You cock your head. “And I’m calling bullshit.”

He rubs a hand over his face, chuckling under his breath. “Wow. Okay. I thought by now you knew I’m not a ten-minute guy.”

You bite your lip, grinning. “Mark Grayson. Did you just give me your sex résumé?”

He shrugs, like he can’t help himself. “I'm just saying. There's a track record. You know better than anyone.”

“You're the worst,” you laugh, reaching up toward him, fingers curling in the air. “Get back here.”

He lets out a low sigh, but he’s already moving. Shirtless, still warm from the bed, he crawls onto the mattress like a man torn between duty and something much better. His knee brushes your thigh as he leans over you, one hand braced beside your head, the other finding your wrist and gently pinning it down against the pillow.

"You’re gonna make me late," he murmurs, his voice suddenly close, low.

“You were already late,” you whisper back. “Might as well earn it.”

He kisses you before you finish saying it,messy and warm, with that boyish eagerness he tries to hide under all the super-confident posturing. You catch his bottom lip with your teeth and he groans, just a little, hips pressing down into yours. The feel of him, already hard again, makes you gasp into his mouth.

“God, you don’t waste time,” you mutter.

Mark grins against your neck, voice muffled as he trails kisses down your throat. “I have ten minutes, remember?”

You laugh breathlessly, legs wrapping around his hips as he slides between them. “Show-off.”

He doesn’t answer. His fingers slide low, teasing the slick heat between your legs, and your body answers before your brain catches up,hips rising, breath catching, skin already flushed. You arch up into him, moaning softly against his shoulder, and he moves like he never had any intention of leaving.

Mark doesn’t answer. He just bends down and kisses you.

It’s unhurried at first, soft and warm and deeper than you expected. His hand cups the side of your face, thumb brushing your cheek, the other resting on your thigh. His lips taste like sleep and toothpaste and something almost shy, like he still isn’t used to waking up like this, with you.

You lean into it, fingers curling at his sides, pulling him closer as he deepens the kiss. He’s standing between your knees now, hips pressed just barely into yours, and you feel the way he breathes,shaky and uneven, like he’s trying to memorize the way your mouth feels.

You slide your hands up his back, dragging your nails gently along his skin, and he shivers against your lips. The kiss turns messier, more urgent. Less about good morning, more about don’t leave yet.

Mark breaks the kiss with a gasp, forehead pressed to yours, breath hot against your lips.

“Fuck,” he mutters, eyes still closed. “You’re gonna make me blow off a mission.”

“You say that like it’s hard,” you whisper back.

He laughs, breathless, and nudges your nose with his. “We’re seriously gonna get caught making out on some satellite feed one day.”

You smirk. “Just saying, suits do unzip. We’ve got options.”

Mark groans, head dropping to your shoulder. “No. No. That’s how I end up thinking about your thighs mid-fight and flying into a building.”

“Worth it.”

“You’re a menace.”

“You’re not running.”

He sighs like he’s surrendering. Arms wrap around your waist, pulling you flush against him, and you let your legs settle around his hips like they belong there.

“I’ll give you five minutes,” he murmurs.

“You’ll give me ten,” you whisper into his mouth, “and you’ll like it.”

And he does.

You smile as you rise to your knees on the bed, the curve of your body catching the light just right, and step down onto the floor in front of him. “Well,” you murmur, your hands finding the waistband of his boxers.

His breath catches as you kneel in front of him, fingers curling into the waistband but not pulling yet. You press your mouth to the soft skin of his hip, kissing slowly, lazily, as he sways slightly under your touch.

“Holy shit,” Mark whispers.

You tug his boxers down in one smooth motion, and his cock springs free, flushed and already hard, curving up toward his stomach. He’s twitching with anticipation, and you glance up at him, smirking.

“You still got ten minutes?”

He nods, but it’s slow, like his brain’s buffering.

You don’t wait. You lean in and press your lips to the base of his cock, kissing up along the vein until you reach the head. You run your tongue along the tip, tasting salt and heat, then take him into your mouth, slow and warm and deliberate.

Mark gasps, his fingers finding your hair, not pushing, just gripping,light, trembling, like he’s grounding himself.

“Jesus,” he chokes. “Okay. Yeah. Fuck patrol.”

You hum around him, taking him deeper, letting him slide across your tongue. His hips jerk just slightly, restrained only by sheer will, and his breathing breaks into staggered little gasps.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “That mouth should be illegal.”

You pull back, just enough to tease the head of his cock with your lips, and murmur, “Let’s add it to the list of crimes.”

He groans, deep and low, his abs tightening as you start again,sinking your mouth down, cheeks hollowing, tongue working the underside. His thighs flex under your hands, already tense.

“God, you’re gonna break me.”

You look up at him with a devilish glint. “That’s the idea.”

You suck him deeper, bobbing your head in a rhythm he can barely handle. His grip in your hair tightens, breath stuttering, chest heaving. Every little moan, every soft fuck that slips from his mouth fuels you. He’s so close already, trembling, body taut like he’s holding back from tipping over the edge.

“Wait–wait–I’m–baby,” he gasps, voice cracking.

You pull back just enough to stroke him with your hand, slow and steady, mouth hovering near the head of his cock as you murmur, “Y’know, we should really try this in the suits again.”

His whole body twitches. “You–what?”

You lick him slow, teasing, then smile up at him, hand still stroking. “We could make a rooftop thing out of it. I web your wrists behind your back, keep the suit on... and you keep the mask.”

Mark’s knees almost buckle. “You’re gonna get me killed.”

“Or make you come in five minutes flat.”

He makes a strangled noise, somewhere between a moan and a laugh, and tries to say something else, but your mouth is already on him again, sucking him down deep, and his words dissolve into nothing.

When he comes, he does it with your name tangled in a broken gasp, hips shaking, one hand in your hair and the other bracing hard on the dresser. You don’t stop until he’s spent, until he’s twitching in your mouth and mumbling incoherent praise under his breath.

You finally pull back, lick your lips, and sit back on your heels, watching as he tries to recover, chest heaving, eyes dazed.

“I…” he breathes. “I was supposed to be airborne by now.”

You grin. “So go.”

Mark just stares at you, then up at his shirt still stuck to the ceiling. He groans, rubbing his face. “You’re the reason Cecil’s gonna kill me.”

You crawl back into bed, pulling the sheet lazily over your hips. “And I’m worth it.”

“…You really are.”

There’s a heat in your chest that feels new, like confidence finally cracking through the usual quiet shell you wrap around yourself. Normally, you’d hesitate here. Look away. Pull back and make some awkward joke. You’d give him space.

Not today.

Today, the air feels thick and heavy with everything left unsaid. Your body’s buzzing, bold. You step in close, bare skin pressing to his, and your hands come up to his chest. He’s still flushed, breath ragged, the muscles beneath your palms tensing slightly when you touch him like that. You feel his heartbeat, fast and uneven, pulsing right under your fingertips.

You lean in, kiss the edge of his jaw, soft, slow, then let your mouth trail up to his cheek, the corner of his mouth, the shell of his ear. You feel the shiver run through him, and you smile against his skin.

He exhales like he’s trying to get control of something. “You’re acting different.”

Your lips find the crook of his neck. “Is that bad?”

He doesn’t answer, but the way his hands settle on your hips, tight, possessive, says it’s definitely not. You kiss lower, letting your mouth brush over the strong line of his throat, feeling the way he swallows under you.

He murmurs your name, a quiet warning wrapped in a plea.

You tilt your head, breath warm against his ear. “Do you want me to stop?”

He grits his teeth. “Fuck, no.”

You keep the momentum, pull him with you by the waistband of his boxers, and kiss him hard. His lips part immediately, hungry now, and your tongues tangle as your hands explore his chest, the curves of his shoulders, the way his muscles tighten under your touch.

Mark moans into your mouth, low and breathy, and the sound vibrates down your spine. One of his hands gently touches your skin, sliding over your bare waist, warm and steady, while the other grips your thigh, hoisting your leg up around his hip. You grind against him, both of you half-naked, mouths locked, breaths broken.

His fingers trail down, following the curve of your thigh, then up, under your breasts this time, higher, until his hand’s between your legs. You feel him hesitate for just a second.

“You sure?” he whispers against your mouth, voice rough.

You nod, almost panting. “Yes. I want you to.”

That’s all he needs.

He kisses you again, deeper now, as his fingers slip between your folds, and you suck in a sharp breath at the first touch. You’re wet, aching, and he feels it instantly. His breath catches in his throat, and you can hear the way it stutters when he starts to move.

“Holy shit,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

His index finger circles your clit slowly, lightly, teasing, and your hips twitch into his touch before you even realize you’re moving. He kisses your jaw, your neck, your shoulder, all while his fingers work lower, slipping through your slick heat. When he presses one inside, you gasp, sharp and real, hands digging into his biceps to steady yourself.

“You okay?” he murmurs.

You nod fast. “More.”

He obliges without hesitation, curling his finger inside you, then sliding in a second, slower this time. The stretch makes you moan softly, your body clenching around him. His other hand grabs your hip, holding you steady as he begins to move, slow, deliberate thrusts of his fingers that leave you dizzy.

“God,” you breathe, head falling back. “That feels so good…”

He groans softly, watching your face, drinking in every little reaction you give him. “You’re so tight… Fuck, I could do this all day.”

Your body rocks with him now, matching his rhythm, grinding down against his palm like instinct. Your breath is coming in short gasps, your skin flushed and damp, and your legs threaten to give out if he keeps this up. He curls his fingers just right and you cry out, grabbing a fistful of his hair, pulling him into a desperate kiss.

Mark moans into your mouth as you clench around his fingers again, your whole body trembling. He slows for a beat,like he wants to draw it out, but the way you grind into his hand, the heat radiating off you, the way you bite down on his lip when he teases too lightly…

It drives him fucking crazy.

“You’re so perfect like this,” he mutters, voice ragged, lips brushing your ear. “All soft and wet and,fuck, you’re squeezing me so tight,”

You whimper, not even thinking about it anymore. No walls. No hesitation. Just you, needing him, pulling him deeper.

And still, through it all, his voice stays close to your skin. “You really waited ‘til today to get bold on me?”

You manage a breathless laugh. “Shut up and make me come.”

His grin is wicked, and his fingers speed up.

Your back sinks into the mattress like it’s cradling you, the sheets twisted beneath you, damp with heat. Your legs fall open on instinct, the motion of his fingers still moving between your thighs, heartbeat pounding against every sensitive inch of you. You’re panting, flushed, chest rising and falling, leaving nothing to the imagination. You should be shy. Usually, you would be. But not this morning.

Not when Mark Grayson is crawling between your thighs with that look in his eyes.

There’s a change in the air around him. He’s all warm breath and heavy hands, and that cocky smile that should piss you off but only makes you ache. His mouth is still slick from kissing you, and his fingers glisten with your wetness as he presses them to your inner thigh, parting you with a reverence that steals your breath.

“You always get this wet when I finger you?” he murmurs, voice low and curious, like he’s fascinated,like he’s addicted.

Your throat tightens, eyes fluttering shut for a second. “Only when it’s you.”

He lets out a breath that borders on a groan, then leans in, and his mouth brushes the inside of your thigh, hot, slow, and maddening. He kisses you there, lips soft, tongue flicking out to taste your skin. Then higher. And higher still. He’s taking his time, hands firm on your legs, spreading you wide open for him, like he doesn’t care if you beg. Like he’s expecting you to.

And you just might.

Because the second his mouth touches your pussy, all the air rushes out of your lungs. He licks a slow, deliberate stripe up your folds, tasting you like he’s been craving it for days. His tongue is wide and hot and hungry, the way it moves already making your hips rise off the bed in search of more.

“Fuck,” you whimper, head tipping back into the pillow. “Mark,”

He groans into you, the vibration running through your core, making you tremble. His hands grip your thighs tighter, grounding you, keeping you spread for him as he sucks gently on your clit, then flicks his tongue against it in firm, teasing circles. You’re already soaked, but he doesn’t ease up. He devours you.

Each lick is heavier now, more insistent, and when he drags his tongue lower, dipping it inside you, your thighs instinctively try to close around his head,but he won’t let you. He nudges them open again with his shoulders and pins them there like he owns this part of you now.

“Stay still,” he mutters against your skin, voice wrecked and hot, the words vibrating through your slick folds. “Let me taste you.”

You moan, high, helpless, sharp. Your hand flies to his curls, fingers digging in, tugging just enough to make him groan again into your cunt. He loves that. You feel how much he loves it, his tongue moving faster now, slick and wet and relentless. You can hear every obscene sound he’s making, hear the way your body reacts, wet and messy and absolutely desperate.

“Oh my god,” you gasp, hips rocking uncontrollably. “Don’t stop–don’t you fucking stop,”

He doesn’t. He won’t. His tongue works tight, fast circles over your clit now, alternating between sucking it into his mouth and flicking it with the tip of his tongue. You’re not even sure what you’re saying anymore. Your hands are in his hair, your thighs are shaking, and your entire body is strung tight, trembling, every nerve drawn toward that one pulsing point of heat where his mouth is ruining you.

Then his fingers return,slick with your arousal, and he pushes two inside you, curling them deep as his mouth latches back onto your clit. The sensation is devastating. The stretch. The rhythm. The way his tongue and fingers sync up like he’s been reading your mind this whole time.

You arch off the bed, voice caught in your throat. “Mark, fuck, I’m gonna–please–please–”

He groans again, almost possessive, and it hits you like a storm. Your orgasm rips through you, hard and shuddering, your thighs clamping tight around his head, your hands pulling at his hair, your whole body locking up as the wave crashes. You cry out, eyes squeezed shut, toes curling, body twitching uncontrollably as he keeps going, drawing it out until your voice is hoarse and your thighs are shaking.

Only when you whimper, pushing weakly at his head, does he finally pull away.

He lifts his face from between your legs, flushed and glistening, panting through parted lips. His jaw is wet. His eyes are dark. And he’s smiling, smirking, actually,like he just won the goddamn lottery.

You’re still panting, limp on the mattress, every muscle in your body melted.

Mark leans in over you, settling his weight on his forearms, pressing a kiss to your thigh, then to your stomach, then higher, mouth trailing over every inch of you like he’s claiming the whole thing. He reaches your mouth and kisses you,slow, messy, and deep, and you can taste yourself on his tongue, feel the satisfied throb between your legs.

“You good?” he whispers, forehead pressed to yours, voice a little smug.

You stare at him, still catching your breath. “You licked my soul out of my body.”

He grins, stupid and proud. “That’s a yes.”

You manage a small laugh, dazed and breathless. “You’re not going anywhere.”

His eyes flick up to where his shirt is still stuck to the ceiling. He sighs, but the smile doesn’t leave his face. “Yeah, I figured that part out around the time your thighs locked around my head.”

You pull him in again, softer now, lips brushing his. “Next time we try it in the suits.”

He groans, full-body, and lets his head fall to your shoulder. “You are never allowed to say that mid-fight.”

You smile, fingers sliding into his curls again. “No promises.”

Mark’s still breathing hard against your neck, his weight draped over you like he’s melting into your skin. The heat between your legs hasn’t faded,in fact, it’s only sharpened, a slow-burning throb that pulses with every shift of his body above yours. You’re still wet, still trembling, and now he’s pressed flush against you, hard again, cock twitching where it rests between your thighs, warm and heavy and undeniably there.

You drag your fingers up his back, nails scraping lightly along his spine, and he shivers. When he lifts his head to look at you, his face is flushed, lips swollen from kissing and from you clenching around his mouth just minutes ago. There’s something soft in his eyes. Something unguarded.

“You sure?” he asks, quiet, thumb brushing your cheek.

You nod, but it’s more than that. You reach for him, pull him down by his neck, dragging him into a kiss that’s less delicate now. Hungrier. Your teeth catch his bottom lip, not enough to hurt but enough to surprise him, and he groans into your mouth.

Your thighs spread for him, wider, guiding him in without a word. He shifts between them, his cock nudging your entrance, and even with how wet you are, he doesn’t rush it. His hand cradles your jaw, his other arm braced beside your head, and he eases into you slowly, inch by inch, filling you with a care that makes your chest ache.

You gasp, biting your lip as your back arches into the stretch. He’s thick, hot, and deep, and when he’s all the way inside, he stops there, just holding, just breathing.

“Fuck,” he breathes, eyes flickering shut. “You feel… perfect.”

You hook your legs around his waist and pull him closer. “Then move.”

Mark does, slowly at first, gentle, rocking thrusts that make you feel every inch of him. His grip shifts, one hand sliding to your hip, the other tangled in your hair as he buries his face in your neck, groaning into your skin like he’s already falling apart.

He sets a rhythm, steady and deep, each roll of his hips pressing him right against that spot that makes your breath catch. He whispers things between kisses,“you’re so fucking tight,” “god, you take me so well,” “look at you”,and every word melts into your skin like heat. His voice is ragged, threaded through with restraint. You can feel him holding back.

But something in you is different this time. Something wild.

You tangle your fingers in his hair and tug, firm, sudden. His head jerks back, just enough for you to lean up and bite his neck, not gentle, not teasing. He groans loud at that, hips stuttering.

“Jesus,” he gasps, blue eyes blown wide as he stares down at you. “What’s gotten into you?”

You don’t answer. You just pull again, rougher this time, and meet his thrust with one of your own, grinding your hips up into him with a rhythm that makes your breathless moan echo through the room.

His next thrust is deeper, harder. It punches a sound out of you that doesn’t even sound like a word, and suddenly his hand’s at your throat, not squeezing, just holding, grounding you. You gasp, mouth falling open, and he smiles down at you, that cocky, dangerous tilt of his lips that says you started this.

“You’re gonna let me fuck you like this?” he groans, snapping his hips forward again. “Let me have all of you?”

You dig your nails into his shoulder, dragging them down hard enough to leave lines. “Take it,” you breathe. “I’m not stopping you.”

And he does, hips slamming into you now, each thrust deliberate and deep, like he’s trying to carve the shape of himself into your body. You moan, loud and wrecked, biting into his shoulder as he pounds into you, the bed rocking under the force of it.

He brings one hand to your thigh, lifting your leg higher, opening you wider, and you feel him hit deeper, harder. Your breath catches, your moans spilling out raw and unfiltered, and still he keeps whispering,“you’re so fucking good,” “so wet for me,” “look how pretty you sound when I fuck you like this.”

You claw at his back, tug his hair again, and when you feel him groan, deep and guttural, you know he’s close.

“I’m–fuck–I’m not gonna last,” he pants.

You wrap your arms around him and hold tight. “Then cum inside me.”

Mark’s rhythm stutters. He buries his face in your neck again and thrusts hard, one last time, before he spills inside you with a groan, his whole body jerking. The heat floods you, and the feeling, his weight, his heat, his voice in your ear, pushes you over the edge right after, your body locking around him as your orgasm crashes through you, white-hot and overwhelming.

You’re both gasping, clinging to each other, trembling.

Neither of you says anything for a long moment. Just panting. Kissing. Catching your breath.

And then Mark laughs, breathless and hoarse. “So… no patrol, huh?”

You nuzzle into his neck, still trying to come down. “Not unless you plan on flying there with my legs around your waist.”

“…Don’t tempt me.”

Mark’s body is a furnace against your back, skin slick with sweat, his breath ragged and hot at your ear as he holds himself above you, still buried deep inside. His cock throbs where it fills you, twitching with every clench of your body, and you’re still gasping from the last orgasm, your legs weak, your thighs trembling,but you’re not done. Not even close.

And neither is he.

His hand curls around your hip, slow and possessive, grounding you while he rolls his hips again. You groan, low and sharp, feeling him press deeper than before, and your fingers clutch at the sheets.

But it’s not enough.

You turn your head slightly, catching the edge of his jaw with your mouth. You don’t kiss. You bite. Not hard enough to break skin, but enough to make him freeze. To make his grip tighten. His breath hitches, a sound you feel more than hear, and your nails rake down his back without thinking, scraping, digging, dragging, and this time, you do break skin.

Mark groans, deep and guttural.

“Fuck–fuck–baby,”

You don’t apologize. You’re not shy about it. Your fingers curl into his back again, dragging fresh lines down the muscles there as he thrusts harder, sharper, like your touch sets something loose in him.

He presses his chest to your back, groaning into your shoulder. “You missed me, huh?”

You nod, panting, voice cracked. “Yeah. I did.”

His hand slides from your hip up to your wrist, pinning it into the mattress beside your head. Not rough, just enough to hold you there, to keep you close. His other arm wraps around your waist, pulling you tighter as he starts to fuck you in earnest, long, deep thrusts that make you keen beneath him, the sound high and unfiltered.

“You don’t have to tear me open to say that,” he pants.

“I do,” you snap back, voice low and broken. “You were gone too long.”

He groans at that, pressing a kiss to the back of your neck, one that turns into teeth. You shudder, hips jerking back into him as you take every inch he gives. His cock drags along every spot that makes your stomach curl, makes your mouth fall open in a moan that barely sounds human.

He leans into your ear, voice strained and shaking. “You want me to slow down?”

“No,” you whisper. 

Mark moves harder now, faster, each thrust punching a sound from your lips, your bodies colliding with heat and friction and slick need. You’re soaked, wet enough to drip down your thighs, to make every movement filthy and loud. You arch into him, hands scrambling for more of him, and when your nails find his back again, you scratch, deep, messy, red.

His hiss turns into a groan.

“God, you’re gonna kill me.”

You clench around him, tight, pulsing. “Good.”

He loses rhythm for a second, breath catching, the pace faltering as he buries himself deep and stays. He wraps his arm tighter around your waist, holding you against him as he rocks into you slow, grinding instead of thrusting now, dragging the head of his cock against your sweet spot over and over again until your legs start to tremble uncontrollably.

His voice is at your ear again, low and wrecked. “Say it again.”

You barely register the words. “What–?”

“That you missed me.”

You bite his neck, harder this time. He groans loud, hips stuttering, and you breathe against his skin, voice rasping out hot and fast.

“I missed you. I missed you inside me, I missed you fucking me like this, missed feeling full–needed you,”

He growls, full-throated, and fucks into you hard enough to rock the bed.

“You’re mine,” he breathes, one hand tightening around your wrist, the other sliding between your legs. His fingers find your clit, slick and swollen, and he rubs tight, fast circles, the kind that make your vision blur. “Let me feel it. Come on, baby. Let go.”

You can’t even warn him. The pressure explodes all at once, your whole body seizing as you clamp around him, crying out loud and broken. Your climax crashes through you in waves, your voice raw, your nails still dug deep into his skin.

He curses, voice low and frantic, and thrusts deep one last time before he follows you,his hips locking, cock pulsing as he comes inside you again, hot and thick. You feel it fill you, feel his arms tighten around you as he groans into your skin, breath ragged, spent.

You both collapse, panting, trembling. Your body is shaking, overstimulated, slick, and marked. Mark’s back is bleeding faintly in streaks where your nails raked him raw, and his neck is red with the imprint of your mouth.

And still, his arms wrap around you like you’re something he’s afraid to lose. His voice is quiet now, lips against your shoulder.

“I’m not leaving again. Not anymore.”

You turn your face, find his jaw, and press a kiss there, soft, lingering.

“You’d better not.”

His weight settles into yours like the last piece of something that had been missing for too long. His chest is still rising and falling against yours, fast and heavy, both of you soaked in sweat and each other. His cock twitches once inside you before softening, and you both groan, his more of a low, wrecked exhale. You’re still clinging to him, arms wrapped around his shoulders, legs hooked at the waist, like you’re afraid he’ll vanish again if you let go.

He doesn’t try to move.

The silence is heavy with afterglow. The kind of silence that feels like heat between skin and breath and bruises. Your thighs are trembling, the sheets ruined beneath you, and you can feel the mess of him leaking out of you, sliding slowly down to the backs of your thighs.

Mark finally shifts enough to nuzzle his nose into your neck, kissing the hollow under your jaw. “I should’ve come back sooner.”

Your fingers thread through the damp curls at the back of his neck. “You think?”

He chuckles, weakly. “Didn’t expect you to go full primal on me. That was… new.”

You hum softly, the sound lazy. “You were gone for days, Mark. I think I earned the right to bite.”

He laughs again, but it’s strained, and he groans softly as he tries to lift himself up onto his elbows. “God, I’m dead. You shredded my back.”

“You loved it.”

“I did,” he admits, grinning. “I also think I’m now… criminally late.”

You glance at the clock on the wall.

“Oh.” You blink. “You’re so fired.”

Mark flops onto the bed beside you, chest still rising and falling. “I was supposed to meet Cecil two hours ago.”

You let your head fall back into the pillow and sigh, satisfied and smug. “Tell him you were being held hostage.”

He turns his head, looking at you. His hair’s wild, sweat-matted, cheeks flushed. He looks thoroughly ruined.

“…Think I could say I was attacked by a sex demon?” he mutters.

You grin, rolling over to press a slow kiss to the bruise forming just beneath his collarbone. “Only if you want me to bite the other side too, keep it symmetrical.”

Mark groans and drags a hand down his face. “I have to shower before I even try to explain anything.”

You raise a brow. “Alone?”

That gets his attention.

His eyes flick over to you again,completely bare, body marked with his fingerprints and bruises, glowing under the soft morning light like sin itself. “I mean,” he says slowly, “I was gonna say something responsible. But that feels like a trap.”

You sit up, still wobbly, your thighs aching in the best way. You lean across him, reaching for his hand to pull him up. “Let me trap you in the shower, then. Save water.”

“You’re gonna fuck me to death.”

“Only after I clean you up.”

Mark groans, letting you pull him off the bed with exaggerated drama. His back is streaked red where your nails dragged through, a few welts already rising, and you pause behind him to run your fingers lightly over the marks.

He hisses. “God, you really,”

You press a soft kiss to the highest scratch. “You liked it.”

“…Yeah, okay, maybe.”

You both shuffle to the bathroom like survivors of some hedonistic war. He leans against the sink as you reach for the water controls. You don’t ask. You just turn the knobs, let the steam rise up as the water heats.

Mark wraps an arm around your waist from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder as you both stare into the mirror, at your bodies, the bruises on your neck, the claw marks across his back, the smudges of sweat and cum between your thighs.

“You’re glowing,” he mutters.

You look at him in the glass, raising a brow. “You look like you lost a fight with a wild animal.”

His lips curl into a grin. “I did. She was gorgeous.”

You snort, and tug him into the shower with you.

The spray hits like a shock at first, hot and perfect,and you both hiss at the sensation on sore, used skin. His hands find your waist almost immediately, pulling you back against him under the stream. Water runs down your bodies, washing away the mess, but not the ache, not the burn.

You reach for the soap and lather your hands, then slide them slowly over his chest. He sighs, eyes fluttering shut.

“This,” he mutters, “might actually finish me off.”

“You’ll live,” you say softly, dragging the foam across his chest, over his ribs, careful over the bruises.

He opens one eye. “Only if you let me repay the favor.”

You raise a brow, biting your lip as you lean back into him. “Clean me up first.”

He grins, all teeth and sin. “Yes, ma’am.”

The water drums soft against your skin, warm and endless, slipping over the bruises on your hips, the claw marks on his back, the sweat still clinging to both of you. You stand chest to chest in the steam-fogged shower, wrapped in Mark’s arms, his forehead resting against yours as you catch your breath.

There’s a hum in your body still, the kind of hum that doesn’t settle. A low, aching pulse between your thighs where you’re still tender from him. Inside, you’re sore and full and a mess, but it’s not enough, not when you know how close you came to not having this again.

Mark kisses your temple, slow and careful, the water running down the back of his neck. “You okay?”

You nod, but it’s small. You don’t say anything yet. Not while your cheek is pressed to his chest, listening to the beat of his heart.

It had only been a few days. A few stupid days apart, the kind of break that starts with silence and turns to bitterness before either of you know what’s happening. You don’t even remember the last words said, just the space that opened up between you. Long enough to miss him. Long enough to ache. Long enough to forget how his mouth felt on yours, how your bodies fit, how quiet his voice gets when he’s about to come.

You finally speak, low, rough against his collarbone. “I didn’t know if you’d come back.”

His arms tighten around your waist, like he can feel that weight in your voice. “I didn’t know if I should.”

You pull back just enough to look at him. His eyes are raw. Still a little red, maybe from the heat, maybe from something else. He doesn’t look away when he says it.

“I didn’t want to show up just to fight again.”

You shake your head slowly. “I wasn’t gonna fight.”

Mark smiles faintly. “No, just bite the fuck out of my throat.”

You breathe a laugh through your nose. “That wasn’t a fight. That was missing you.”

The look in his eyes shifts, softens, darkens. His hand comes up to cradle your face again, thumb tracing your cheekbone, the pad of it brushing just beneath your eye like he’s memorizing you all over again. “You didn’t call.”

“You didn’t knock.”

“I thought you wanted space.”

“I wanted you.”

He exhales hard and kisses you before he says anything else,mouth open and slow and sorry, his tongue brushing yours, his hands pressing you against the tile. The water runs between you as he lets his forehead rest against yours again.

“I’m so fucking late,” he mumbles.

“You’re soaked in cum and covered in bite marks. I think ‘sorry I was emotionally reuniting with my ex-girlfriend mid-fuck’ is a solid excuse.”

Mark grins. “You’re not my ex anymore.”

You hum, pleased, and tug him close by the waist of the towel barely clinging to his hips. “No. I’m not.”

The two of you step out of the shower minutes later, toweling off quickly, still touching in small ways, his hand brushing your lower back, your fingers sliding along the bruises on his ribs. The bedroom’s still a mess, the sheets twisted, your suits tossed in a corner. You find yours and kneel down, brushing a hand over the webbed pattern and mask before unzipping the bag fully.

Mark’s pulling on the lower half of his suit when he looks over at you. “You brought it here?”

You don’t answer right away. You slide one arm into your sleeve, the suit tightening around your torso as the synthetic fabric seals against your skin. Then you turn and glance at him.

“You don’t stop being who you are just because you’re pissed off.”

He watches you quietly for a moment, then nods. “Guess not.”

His suit zips shut with a faint hiss of pressurized fabric. Yours follows a second later. You reach for your mask and just hold it in your hands. You’re not hiding anything from him now. Not your eyes. Not your mouth. Not the mark you left high on his neck.

Mark steps up behind you, his hands coming to rest lightly on your waist. “You up to come with me?”

You glance back at him. “You think I’m putting this on just to hang out?”

“I do look good flying, though.”

“You look better moaning.”

He grins, and you lean up to kiss him, slow and firm. When you pull back, his lips are parted, and he’s already flushing again.

“Come on,” you say, brushing past him toward the balcony. “We’ll do one lap. Maybe two. And then I’m taking you apart again.”

He groans as he follows you. “You’re never gonna let me go on time again, are you?”

You swing up onto the ledge and fire your first web. “You walked out once, Grayson. I’m not giving you the chance to forget what this feels like.”

He flies up beside you, his eyes soft behind his googles, smile crooked.

“I won’t.”

ִ ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙

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[somebody-not-from-here]

Snippet of something I started on the bus home from watching Thunderbolts bc hooo boy did I miss Bucky

No spoilers just congressman!Bucky x media assistant!reader

“Well, at least you have a lot of online support.” She posited. “Especially with younger people.“

That piqued his interest. “I didn’t know the younger generations cared about veteran’s rights policies.”

She fiddled with the screen of her laptop, pushing it back and forth on its hinges, contemplating how to phrase her next sentence. “Well, it’s not exactly your policy - though that definitely helps - it’s more. Well, congress is filled with mostly old white men, you know?”

A scoff. “I’m an old white man. I literally fought in world war 2.”

“Yeah but… how do I say this…The other old white congressmen, with good policies, don’t have the added advantage of being the de facto sex symbol of politics, right now.”

Fuck. Worst possible way she could have said it. Proven further by the look of utter confusion and dumbfoundedness on her boss’ face right now.

“The- what?”

“You…” god. Her face was burning. “To put it plainly; you’re a hit with the straight ladies and the gays, uh, sir.”

“They think I’m…attractive.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why?”

That was a hilarious question to receive - from the man that pays her salary, no less. From the winter soldier, even. And the sheer comical nature of it all was heightened by how genuinely he had asked. Clearly he had never been literally anywhere on the internet, in the last year. How does she even begin to answer, not only something so incredulous, but also (in her non-professional and very much personal unshared opinion) kind of obvious?

“Well,” her eyes couldn’t help but trace his figure. I mean surely he knew he was attractive, right? She could only imagine the amount of girls he would have pulled back when he was just a boy in uniform on his days off from punching nazis and protecting the country. She wasn’t even particularly pro-military, herself, and even she could see the appeal.

Add to that the beard scruff and the hair you could only dream of running your hands through and those eyes and the fucking motorcycle-

“You’re just naturally likeable. It’s attractive.” Is what she settles on, so that she doesn’t sound like a college freshman in heat in front of her fucking boss.

Something makes him hesitate, then. Blue eyes assess her for what feels like forever. And, for a moment, she’s so sure that being blipped all over again would be preferable to the whatever energy that this conversation has brought into the room and has her face turning every shade of red.

Then he smiles, amused. “Naturally likeable.” He actually laughs a bit, and seeing Congressman Barnes laugh feels like something extremely precious and rare. Something she is getting an absolute privilege to see. “There’s very viable claims out there that I could have killed JFK, and you think I’m naturally likeable.”

“You’re mysterious! Dangerous but noble. Intimidating but not an asshole about it,” - and you have a great ass, she holds back, “it’s appealing!”

“ I have a metal arm that could crush a person’s skull with barely any effort.”

“Yeah! It’s hot!”

His eyebrows shoot up and she curses internally. Shit. “Um, that’s what the demographics say, anyway. Sorry. That was just my professional opinion and I spoke out of turn. I’ll just stop now-“

“No, no, please. Continue, sweetheart.” His smile turns ever so sinister and she’s pretty sure she’s going to pass out. “I’d love to hear your unprofessional opinions on why I’m appealing.”

———————————————————————-

Maybe I’ll continue it. I have ideas…

[the-traveling-poet]

hi, how are you? i saw that your requests are open, so how do you think Levi would deal with a s/o that goes non verbal (maybe after a bad expedition)?

thank you! :)

Hello anon! Thanks for dropping in! <3

I used to write out drabbles/fics/hc’s for any and all asks, (I still can for this cute idea, just pls lemme know!!) but this one feels more like a personal curiosity-type question? Imma go with the flow :)

Personally, I adore the ‘acts of service over words of affection/affirmation’ hc for Levi; where he shows he cares so deeply through his actions rather than saying ‘ily’.

I dunno, really fits the way I myself perceive his character!

So with an s/o who goes non-verbal due to stress and/or a traumatic event—even just a really shitty period of time where the ability to verbalize anything they feel becomes way too overwhelming—I feel that Levi would go full guard dog mode. xD

Expedition gone sideways? BAM, Levi’s right there pulling them up onto his horse to head back, and whisks them off to a place he knows they find comforting. He won’t ask them to speak up and say if they’re injured or dirty or need something—he knows. He knows, and he’ll check them over carefully while watching their face for a reaction they can’t verbalize.

Stressed out and can’t handle speaking up? BAMM, Levi’s their body guard all day; more so than usual.

As long as they’ve consented to it beforehand, he’s answering for them. He already knows their daily schedule and their preferences by heart, so if he can make it easier on them by speaking up on their behalf, he absolutely will.

Just really out of it for a spell and don’t have the energy?

BAMMM, he’s RIGHT fuckin there. They’re staying in their room; he’ll go fetch whatever they need that can’t be found within those four walls. They want physical comfort? He’ll hold them on the couch or the bed and just pet their hair. They need a distraction? He’ll talk to them while they just relax and listen.

And shit, dear god above, if someone where to try and antagonize them to get them to speak up for themselves during a stressful time where they feel like they can’t/wont?

You can bet he’s beating that person’s ass if they didn’t shove off after a warning. Levi doesn’t mess around about his s/o’s comfort, no matter the situation it places him in. He simply could not be bothered to care less until his bb feels better.

TL;DR — Levi would be very supportive of an s/o who goes non-verbal. Whether that be rarely or constantly, he doesn’t see it so much as a challenge to overcome and work around, but apart of who they are and how they operate.

~My Levi Ackerman Headcannons, Drabbles, One-shots & More!~

[gojosluut]

hi ur blog is so cute i luv ur writing! idk if u take requests but i was wondering going to an amusement park with gojo and him trying SO hard to be non chalant on the rides and chill but as soon as u guys get on he starts screaming like a BITCH i just feel like thats so him and its kinda funny to him after a while and he does it extra loud just to tease and embaress u idk >.<

Hii !! thank you sm!! (*꒦ິ꒳꒦ີ)♡ !!

a/n- I tried super hard on this cause i’m such a pussy and have never and will never go on a roller coaster. So in all honesty it would be my ass screaming and crying next to him😭 -

-crack and fluff! mainly crack though !

ೃ ✿𓈒ॱ⬭ᩙ ೃ ✿𓈒ॱ⬭ᩙ ೃ ✿𓈒ॱ⬭ᩙ ೃ ✿𓈒ॱ⬭ᩙ

It was dumb. It was dumb even getting in the car to come to the damn amusement park, let alone to even wait in line at the roller coaster he picked out cause he was trying to act tough in front of you. Satorus mind was freaking out and spiraling, he looked down at you while you were looking up at the rollercoaster examining it.

His lips upturned into a smirk as he squeezed your hand to get your attention. “It doesn’t even look scary, i mean i’ve been higher in the air than that thing,” he cockily says. But as the two of you get closer and closer to it being your turn. He’s shitting himself. He even lets go of your hand because of how sweaty his palms are and stuffs them into his pockets, which earns him you giving him a weird look which is deserved.

Once the two of you were strapped in the seat of the roller coaster he’s sweating. Bad. He doesn’t even know why he’s nervous or even scared when he’s been higher than the damn thing, but as soon as the operator pushes the level forward to make the ride go he squeezes his eyes shut. He feels your hand go ontop of his that was gripping the bar, his eyes open slightly looking down at you.

“you okay?” You ask suspiciously raising your eyebrow slightly at him. He just laughs shakily, “yeah yeah..i’m fine..just uh..” Before he can even get out his shaky half ass sentence the cart is going down the tallest hill, and he loses it. All the trying to act calm in front of you just flies out the window.

He screams at the top of his lungs as it goes down, his eyes squeezed shut and his large hands about to break the damn bar because of how hard his grip was. You can’t even scream because of how funny he looks his high pitch scream is louder than everyone else on the ride. You lower your head from how hard you’re laughing at him, once the cart is down the tall slope he has to swallow his heart back down to his ribcage. He looks over at you with a pouty look from how hard you’re laughing at him.

His pout fades as his lips upturn into a small smirk getting an idea as the cart goes down another hill not taller than the last one. But this time he puts all of his breath, lungs, everything in him as he lets out a louder high pitched scream. Your head whips up looking at him your cheeks turning red slightly from just how loud he was screaming. Your hand goes to the side of his cheek pushing his face slightly.

“Satoru!! Shut up!” You laugh out from embarrassment, trying to cover his mouth with your shaky hand. As he was the only one on the ride that was actually screaming that loudly. He gives you a side eye stopping for a moment before screaming again once you take your hand away from his mouth, that damn ass.

Once you two were off the ride he looks down at you with a grin his hand interlocking back with yours.

“Wanna do it again?” he says with that stupid cocky smirk. You laugh shaikly still calming down from the adrenaline rush plus the laughing.

“no.” You say breathily between laughs looking at him. He rolls his eyes smiling pulling you into his side as you both wonder to the small ice cream cart.

ೃ ✿𓈒ॱ⬭ᩙ ೃ ✿𓈒ॱ⬭ᩙ ೃ ✿𓈒ॱ⬭ᩙ ೃ ✿𓈒ॱ⬭ᩙ ೃ ✿𓈒ॱ⬭ᩙ

[thewinter-eden]

Blood Sugar Virus (29)

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Genre: Horror, zombies, strangers to lovers, angst, suspense, slow burn Pairing: Kang Yeosang x female!reader Warnings: based on the Wanteez Zombie episode, zombies, language, discussion of parasites, gore, angst, heavy topics, suggestive content

Story Summary: You (stage name Sugar) are the co-captain of a horror acting group. You and your guys are the ones the companies hire when they want to stage a zombie, ghost, or any vaguely horrific and dystopian episode. So when you get hired by Ateez to develop a zombie program, it's just another routine that you've done a million times. Everything's going exactly according to script--until suddenly it isn't, and it starts getting a little too real.

🏆 Esteemed Moot: @ramadiiiisme

⭐️ Reader Spotlight: @mrsminseochoi

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Namjoon sits next to Jimin on the couch, reaching out a hand to pat his arm companionably. “Still hanging on, Chim?”

The younger man sports an easy grin, and even you can see the color returning to his cheeks. “My leg feels like it’s been put through a wood chipper, but the burn in my chest is finally starting to fade.”

Namjoon looks at you. “How did you come up with hitting him with a defibrillator?” He glances to the very same AED machine, which you had left near the axes.

You frown, still too concerned about the pain you caused and the potential harm you caused Jimin to be overly comfortable with your idea yet. “I don’t know. I just saw the AED and all I could think about was the bug zapper in the hallway of my apartment. I thought maybe sending a shock through his body might kill the parasites in him.”

“And it worked, right? I mean that was like an hour ago.” Hongjoong is still sitting with his back against the couch, his head near Jimin’s shoulder.

“I’m not a zombie.” Jimin says brightly. “I’d say it worked.”

“Have you looked at your leg?” Namjoon asks. “To see if the parasites made it farther after the shock? I don’t want to suggest that maybe you knocked them unconscious or something, but what if?”

You’re too amused by the thought to be worried about it. “I don’t think you can knock a parasite unconscious.”

“Nonetheless, anybody who wants to take my pants off is welcome to check.” Jimin winks at Namjoon. “You sure you’re not just looking for an excuse?”

Your co-captain rolls his eyes and slaps the man’s good hip. “Shut the hell up and roll over.”

Jimin shrugs and rolls onto his good side, which puts his posterior on the side of the room where you’re all sitting.

“While I’m sure we’re all excited by the prospect of earning a peep show in the middle of the worst night of our lives, if every one of you assholes doesn’t turn around I’m serving fat lips for dinner.” Rosé proclaims, reaching over her head to grab Mingi’s face in both hands and turn it towards the wall.

“I’ve already seen it anyway.” You quip, but you scoot yourself around with the rest of Ateez to face the other direction while Namjoon pulls at the waistband of Jimin’s high school costume.

“Ooo, you’ve seen it already?” Of course it’s Wooyoung.

When you glance toward him, you see a comical contrast between his teasing expression and Yeosang’s disturbed frown. The latter shoots you a side eye that has you giggling with evil intensity.

“Hey Jimin, remember when that dog bit you in the ass that time we were on a lunch run?” You call over your shoulder.

“Don’t fucking remind me.” His voice is muffled by the couch cushions.

You turn your grin back to the guys. “This crazy little purse dog jumped down from someone’s table outside this sandwich shop that we were getting everyone’s lunch orders from and fully latched onto Jimin’s butt. Ya boy was freaking out, like, ants-in-his-pants freaking, and he dragged me into the men’s restroom and dropped his pants without warning so I could make sure he didn’t get rabies or some shit.”

San nearly falls over, laughing so hard. “Oh my god.”

“Dog bites are serious!” Jimin whines.

“Yeah so is sexual harassment.” You fire back. “I could have had you blacklisted.”

“He was crying too hard for it to be sexual harassment.” Namjoon argues simply. “Though we did make him buy Sugar’s lunches for the next two weeks.” There’s the sound of rustling fabric. “Alright, Jimin, happy to report that your annoyingly perfect ass is intact. Looks like the fuckers didn’t make it past your upper thigh, but your leg is pretty bad.”

“Yeah no shit.” Jimin grumbles. “And the bite hurt. You guys would have been crying too.”

“I don’t cry.” Jongho returns flatly.

“You guys can turn back around.” Namjoon says, and your group returns to sitting in the circle around the snacks.

For the next few minutes, the room continues to fill with chatter as Namjoon, Seonghwa, and Jongho rest and refuel after their trip up to the third floor.

“So now that we know the AED works, we at least have a defense against getting infested.” Namjoon nods to you, offering props for thinking to grab the device and bring it back with you. “We should have grabbed the ones from all three floors, but it’s better than nothing.”

Or maybe not props so much as a subtle jab that you should have brought it up when you first split off for the axes.

Dammit.

“I have a taser in my purse.” Rosé offers softly.

“Hell yeah.” San grins at her as Mingi’s eyes go wide with delight.

“Best damn thing I’ve heard all day.” He says, squeezing Rosé proudly. “Fuck yeah, you have a taser in your purse.”

Yunho turns to you. “Do you have a taser in your purse?”

You shake your head. “It didn’t fit with my gun in there.”

Wooyoung’s and San’s jaws both drop at the same time. “You have a gun in your purse?”

Yeosang has already identified the sarcasm in your voice by the time you level them both with a dry stare. “She’s kidding, you numb nuts.”

“It’s South Korea, of course I don’t have a fucking gun in my purse.”

While they groan in disappointment at the lost opportunity to turn this night into a zombie shooting video game, Yeosang turns to you. “But you have a taser, right?”

You give him a sheepish smile that’s more of an ugly grimace. “I kept meaning to get one. But I never had time, and they’re so expensive!”

“I offered to buy you one.” Jimin refutes. “You just kept pushing it off.”

You shrug. “I’ve never needed it.”

Yeosang’s eyes are saucers. “What do you mean you’ve never needed it?”

“The taser conversation didn’t happen until after that incident. And what am I supposed to do, just carry it everywhere? Stuff it under my costumes?”

“Ideally, yes.” He returns, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “After this, we’re getting you a taser.”

“Sure thing.” You bluff, not at all willing to fight the ‘after this’ statement right now. “But some of my costumes don’t have enough fabric to conceal it.”

He just stares at you.

“I’m kidding.”

“Damn, I was gonna re-up our contract.” Wooyoung mutters. When San slaps him upside the head, he backtracks immediately. “I was also kidding! Jesus, it was a joke.”

“It’s okay, they’re our more popular programs.” Rosé says, happily adding fuel to the fire. “And besides, your siren costume has that strappy leg thing, we could just make it cyberpunk or something.”

Yeosang looks physically pained. “Is that another joke?”

She just snickers at him, and you don’t say anything, just watching him struggle to get his face under control. You can’t tell if he’s trying not to imagine the costume or if he’s disturbed by your more racy program options, but you let him figure that out on his own.

You do have a number of more scant costumes for certain jobs, but they’re all paired with your scariest storylines to make up for the sensuality suggested by your wardrobe department.

“I don’t really know what to believe right now, but I just want to say that your job scares me.” San says seriously. “Like, before this zombie stuff actually started, our program was awesome. It was intense and frightening and really cool, but to hear about some of your experiences?” He shakes his head and looks down at his hands. “I would be scared to do what you do with some of the clients that you’ve had. And now, knowing you, knowing the risks, I’d be so worried about you guys every time you go to do a job.”

“That’s why we do the program prep with clients now.” You tell him reassuringly. “It helps you get to know us and immerse yourself better when the program starts, but it also gives us a chance to get a feel for you. We’ve been able to catch some odd vibes and cancel contracts with some clients because of it.”

He looks relieved, but still concerned. “I’m still gonna be worried. Some of us could come with you, you know? Hang out outside while you work, so we can be nearby if you need us.”

His care for your team after only a week and one hellish experience is endearing and incredibly heartwarming.

“That’s a good thought, San, but we won’t have programs after this.” Namjoon says carefully. He bears the weight of everyone’s saddened looks with quiet anguish. “Our team is gone. If we survive this, it’s done. It’s over.”

“Don’t say that.” Rosé pleads. “Honestly, Joon, why did you have to say that? Why couldn’t you just let us have a few good moments?”

He turns to her, eyes tracing the sorrow on her face before examining every inch of Mingi’s body pressed against hers. His jaw tightens. “Our friends are gone.” He says again. “My best friend took a chunk out of Sugar’s shoulder. I can’t just pretend this isn’t happening, and I can’t pretend things are just gonna go back to normal after this.”

Her eyes harden bitterly. “Nobody’s pretending anything.”

“Guys.” Jimin coughs weakly, a deep frown signaling his obvious discomfort with the argument. “We’re just talking.”

“Yeah, I didn’t mean to—” San starts, but you cut him off.

“You didn’t. It’s okay. We thought about hiring extra security, but our company didn’t have the budget for it.” And you couldn’t afford to cover it.

“They had the funds.” Namjoon mutters, backing off from Rosé. “They just didn’t have the fucks to give.”

Hongjoong pulls one foot up to rest his elbow on his knee. “Well, in the spirit of saying fuck you to your company, if you guys ever decide to go back into the business, in any capacity, I’ll get you some security.”

Rosé smiles at him. “We can’t let you do that, but it’s so sweet of you to offer.”

“Oh I wasn’t offering.” He informs her.

You’re smiling at the exchange. You don’t throw in your own two cents, because it doesn’t involve you, but you’re grateful to hear his protective support all the same.

“You don’t have to foot any bills for us just because we’re trying to get you out of this mess.” Namjoon adds, but he nods appreciatively.

“It’s not a thank you. Don’t get me wrong, we’re all indebted to you guys for risking your asses for us, especially Sugar—”

“Leave my ass out of this.” You quip, and Yeosang snorts into his own water bottle.

“—Alright, respective asses notwithstanding, I’ll be hiring a security company because we’re all friends now and I’ll be damned if I’m letting any of you worry about asshole clients anymore.” Hongjoong finishes, shooting you a playful sneer. “You guys should have had security from the start.”

“Hell yeah,” Seonghwa agrees. “We could start a company for security guards to get trained for stunts and acting and shit. We could make it so you don’t even have to leave them out in the parking lot, because our van crews weren’t exactly effective as oversight.”

“Hyung, that’s fucking brilliant.” Sam exclaims. “Dude, we’re so starting a company. Look at us—entrepreneurs.”

“And this is how Ateez takes over the world, by starting a private military of armed actors.” You remark, grinning when he points at you like you’ve inspired him.

“I’m so in.” Wooyoung agrees. “It’s gonna be badass.”

“I think it’s a great idea.” Jimin says. “We could take real fight training now.”

Namjoon lets them continue to brainstorm for a few minutes, and then crunches his soda can and throws it into the trash pile. “Alright, back to work.” He stands and unfolds the floor plan again. “We’re gonna hit the barricade at the southeast corner, in these two classrooms and the bottom of the corner stairwell. Everybody’s coming this time, so we need someone to help with Jimin. I’ve got one of the axes, who else wants the other two?”

“San and Yeo are the strongest, but Mingi and I can step in if we need to take turns.” Yunho says.

“Me too, I’ve got you, hyung.” Hongjoong says to your co-captain.

Namjoon is momentarily stunned by the honorific, biting his cheek to stop a flattered smile. “Alright, sounds good. I also want people with free hands to watch out for each of us with axes. Zombie watch and also keeping an eye out for signs of fatigue so someone else can step in and start chopping. Sugar, Seonghwa, Rosé, I like you for the job.”

You hook a thumb at Yeosang. “He’s mine.”

His head snaps to you, eyes wide, cheeks reddening as he gives a flustered chortle.

You hear your words then, also hearing the hoots of teasing laughter from the others as you drop your head to your chest and groan. “I meant I’ll take Yeo. Dammit, shut up Wooyoung, I meant I’ll keep an eye on Yeosang. God dammit. Shut up, Yunho.” You’ve sunk yourself. Damn your tired brain.

Yeosang is grinning. “Alright, I’m hers. Who’s my second?”

You and Namjoon facepalm simultaneously.

“Oh I’m definitely sticking around for this.” Yunho volunteers. “I’ll step in for you, Yeo.” He winks at you.

“Kill me now.” You grumble into your hands.

“Maybe later.” Yeosang quiets you with a satisfied little smirk that makes you want to throttle him.

“Okay, pivoting from that weirdness, I volunteer to watch San’s muscles for signs of fatigue. I’ll watch ‘em like a hawk.” Rosé promises.

“Oh hell no.” Mingi grumbles as Rosé cackles. “I’m San’s second.”

No room for argument, not like there were any other options.

Namjoon groans. “Oh my god, I’m surrounded by horny teenagers. Seonghwa, that leaves you with me. You fine with that or do you have a crush on one of the muscle boys too?”

“No, I’m good.” Seonghwa’s laughing, giggling with Hongjoong at the matching blushes on San, Mingi, and Yeosang’s faces.

“Wooyoung, can you be on Jimin duty?” Namjoon questions.

“Why am I a duty?”

“Because you’re a three legged dog and you’re gonna let Wooyoung carry you.”

Wooyoung, meanwhile, seems pleased by the appointment. He salutes Namjoon. “I’ve got him, hyung.”

Namjoon fights another tiny smile. “I want you guys with Sugar’s team. She’s stronger than Rosé, and she doesn’t complain about how much Jimin smells.”

“Hey!” Rosé.

“Fuck you, I smell like roses.” Jimin.

“Jongho, you’re our overwatch/backup. Our teams will be working in different rooms, so I want you moving between the three of us as a line of communication.”

“Happy to warm the bench, hyung.”

Honorary big brother Namjoon looks suddenly overwhelmed by the abrupt cohesion of the remainder of your team and the entirety of Ateez. “Alright. Good. Let’s get going.”

Jimin’s grunting, struggling to push himself up. “Fuck, I can’t get off this couch.”

Wooyoung instantly jumps to his feet, hurrying to assist. “I can get you off.”

“I’m sure you can, darling, but our friends are still here.” Jimin returns without a second’s hesitation.

The room erupts again and Namjoon rolls his eyes to the ceiling. “God help me.”

The troops are readying for battle. San lands a few practice swings into the big desk, making Rosé shriek with surprise as wood chips fly at her. Mingi shields her with the breadth of his body and glares at San, who keeps practicing.

Namjoon is consulting with Hongjoong and Seonghwa, softly going over plans that you can’t hear about facing the military on the other side of the barricade.

Wooyoung has Jimin braced against his hip, standing with you as you watch Yeosang shrug off his dirty white button down and stretch his arms in preparation.

When he’s just in a tight undershirt, you are not at all prepared to see the obvious evidence of Wooyoung’s earlier claim about him being a gym junkie. “I am no longer thinking professional thoughts.”

Wooyoung cackles and almost falls into you, laughing so hard as Yeosang gapes at you.

“Oh my god.” You just fucking said that out loud. “Oh fuck me.” If you could just go ahead and use Rosé’s taser on your own brain, you’d solve so many issues.

“Oo, me—I volunteer!” Wooyoung chortles at you, barely managing to hold Jimin up when Yeosang scowls at him.

“I think that’s a bad idea, bud.” Jimin grumbles, face already pale at the stress on his leg.

“Do not make me axe my own head off right now.” You mumble, turning away from your stupidly self-appointed team and hiding your face in the corner. You think you hear Yeosang’s soft laughter behind you, but it’s entirely drowned out by Wooyoung continuing to mock you for completely losing your brain to mouth filter.

You cannot get yourself eaten by a zombie soon enough.

Anything is better than this.

“Would you idiots keep it in your pants and strategize or something? There are fucking zombies out there.” Namjoon shouts over the din.

The noise lessens immediately, the members of your team finally settling back into the situation you’re about to face.

“Woo, can you help me adjust my weight? I feel like my leg is going to fall off.” Jimin mumbles, and you turn back to them in time to see Wooyoung’s expression shift into solemn focus, hurrying to lean Jimin against the splintered remains of the desk.

“Why don’t you get on the side of his bad leg,” you suggest, moving over to help.

Wooyoung follows your instructions perfectly, planting his hip right beneath Jimin’s.

You guide Jimin’s arm over the younger man’s shoulder, and help Wooyoung ease the entire weight of his bad side over onto himself.

Jimin settles on his good leg with a sigh of relief. “Much better. Thanks.”

“When we get to our classroom, you can sit down again.” You promise, ruffling his hair. “Are you okay right now?”

He smiles shakily at you. “I might throw up the four bags of Doritos that I ate, but I’ll try to give you a warning.”

“That would be appreciated, hyung, thanks.” Wooyoung utters smartly. “Seriously though, just let me know if you need to rest. We can borrow Jongho if you need a piggyback ride.”

“That’s definitely on your list of good ideas.” Jimin wheezes weakly. “I’ll let you know.”

You step back from them, satisfied that they’re ready to go, and bend down to collect four water bottles that had been passed over for the sodas. You shove them into your duffel bag, along with the defibrillator box, and sling it across your back, wincing at the sting of your cuts.

When you straighten, you find yourself next to Yunho. He’s also warming up his upper body in preparation to eventually take over swinging the axe for Yeosang, but he smiles down at you as you approach.

This could be it.

This could be your last quiet moment with him before it’s all over. You can’t keep seeing the traces of guilt in his eyes when he looks at you. “Hey.”

“What’s up?” He asks you. “Can I help with anything? Want me to take your bag?”

You shake your head with a smile. “No, I’ve got it. I just wanted to talk to you.”

He stops swinging his arms, halting the windmill movements you’ve done a million times to warm up for your programs. “Sugar, about earlier, when I—”

You put up a hand to silence him. “Yes, about that. We’re good, Yunho. I still owe you my regret for stopping you from helping Yeosang and Mingi with Jungkook, but on the count of the other thing, we’re good.”

He looks down, mouth tightening. “That wasn’t the same. You made a good call with Jungkook. I stand by that. But the other thing, what I did to you—Sugar, I abandoned you to die. After you swooped in like a fucking answered prayer and tackled those zombies, after they had you pinned, I left you to die. I pulled Yeosang away, and he was trying to help you.”

“You fucking what?” Namjoon.

This is the first he’s hearing of the incident, and pissed doesn’t even begin to describe him.

Yunho blanches, stumbling back a few steps as your co-captain is suddenly in his face, stammering in a struggle to figure out if he should explain himself or just take whatever abuse he’s about to get.

You’re not willing to let it get that far. Shoving yourself between them in a move that makes your entire body seize with pain at your hip, you grip one hand in Namjoon’s shirt and rest the other more comfortingly on Yunho’s arm. “Stop. Back up.” You’re talking to Namjoon, but he doesn’t even look at you.

“Is that true?” He’s seething, speaking to you without meeting your eyes. “Did he let you save his ass and leave you to die?”

“Namjoon, I said get back.”

The room goes quiet at your snarl, all eyes turning to the three of you.

“I sent you out with her. I sent you to get the axe and you didn’t think to fucking mention that you don’t care if she lives or dies?” Namjoon lunges forward, shoving you back into Yunho, and you just barely get your footing back in time to push him back again.

The others are tense, concerned, hesitant to jump in while you’re still managing to hold off a physical altercation. They can’t defend Yunho for his panicked choice against you, but none of them look pleased about your friend trying to jump down his throat.

“I do care. I fucked up and I’ll never forgive myself for it, but I do care.” Yunho argues, his voice brimming with anger. “Don’t talk to me like I wouldn’t do anything to make that right, and don’t fucking talk to me like I don’t care.”

You’re seconds away from kicking Namjoon in the balls just to make him look at you, but you need him to be able to swing an axe in a minute or two, so you just settle for digging your nails into the muscle of his chest and forcing him back with all of your strength. “Hey.” You snap, and his eyes finally flicker down to you. He’s fuming, beet-red with rage, shoulders trembling furiously. “You walked up in the middle of a conversation between me and him. You need to take a step back.”

“Why didn’t you tell me? I need to know when someone in my group is putting you in danger—don’t touch her, asshole, I’ll fucking break you.” Namjoon’s arm jumps up as Yunho puts a hand on your shoulder to protest you trying to defend him.

“Hey!” You punch the heels of your hands into his chest. “Joon, we’ve dealt with this. This is old news, it’s handled, it was a mistake. It doesn’t concern you.”

He’s wide-eyed, gawking at you. “Doesn’t concern me? You almost died—you were almost killed. You spend all of your time and energy trying to protect people and they turn around and throw you to the wolves? Goddammit, Sugar—”

“Hey, don’t turn this on her.” Yunho snaps, no longer apologetic. “She’s the reason we’re all here, she’s the reason you even had your acting team in the first place. Why don’t you try trusting her with the job that she obviously does better than you?”

This is no longer helpful.

“No, stop.” You’re holding them both back now. “Stop, none of this is valid, or constructive. Yunho has been locked in. He’s had our backs—he’s had my back. And this team would be nothing without Namjoon, so just take a minute, please.”

Namjoon hasn’t cooled off even a little bit. “No, this is bullshit. I’m not sending him out there with you again, he can fuck off and find the zombies for all I care.”

Before you can center yourself, he puts a hand to your shoulder and pushes you out from between them. Your weight lurches, body folding over on your hip, and you give an involuntary cry as the raw flesh pinches itself in the movement. Namjoon freezes, watching you stagger.

It’s Yunho who catches you, Yeosang suddenly close enough to take your arm as well, both of them glaring at your co-captain.

You don’t want this.

It was so wonderful, so beautiful the way you had all come together to decompress and joke and embarrass yourselves among friends, and you can’t stand to watch it all fall apart before your eyes.

You can’t leave them like this.

“Please stop.” Eyes brimming with tears at the sting still burning through your hip, you stumble in Yunho’s grasp and feel him brace you with an arm around your waist. “Please, Namjoon, please stop. I trust him, okay? We’re good.”

He’s still frozen, face splashed with horror at the pain he caused you, and he’s finally listening.

“When I came up with the AED idea for Jimin, he was the one who delivered the charge. He wouldn’t let me do it. We thought—” Your voice breaks, tears slipping. It’s such a miserable memory, such a viscerally terrifying moment that still has its claws in you, that you can barely say the words. “We thought it might kill Jimin, or hurt him irreparably, and he wouldn’t let me be the one to do it. He saved me from that, Joon. He cares. I trust him.”

Namjoon swallows, eyes flashing between you and the man who is stabilizing you after his own actions harmed caused you harm. “I don’t want him on your team. He can swap with Mingi.”

“No.” You sniffle and glare at him. “I want Yunho. Don’t touch my team.”

“Sugar, I need to know that you’re safe—”

“Don’t touch my team.” You pull yourself upright, letting Yunho’s arm release you, and approach Namjoon with as little limping as you can manage. You lower your voice until only he can hear you. “I get that you’re scared. I get that you’re worried about me and Rose and Jimin. But you haven’t been through what I’ve been through with these guys. And if you don’t get your head out of your ass and remember all of the things that they have done for us tonight, you’re going to make yourself the enemy. I trust them. Trust me.”

He’s quiet, jaw clenching, cheeks hollowing.

At long last, he nods. “You cleared things up with him? You feel safe?” He’s terrified. He’s fucking terrified that he’s going to lose you, or worse, lose all of you and walk out of here alone.

You can never even hint to him that your own safety is no longer your concern. “I feel safe.”

He glances over your head at Yunho. There are a few seconds of tortured silence before he closes his eyes and pulls you into a tight hug that sets your body on fire all over again. “I love you. I just want you to be safe.”

“I know.”

“Please be careful.”

“They’ve got me, Joon.”

“Okay.” He lets you go. Stepping around you, he extends his hand to Yunho and waits upon the grace of the man who is well within his rights to withhold every ounce of courtesy and respect. He doesn’t say anything—he won’t apologize for acting to defend you, and he won’t offer a blanket declaration of trust, but he’s willing to rebuild the bridge.

Yunho shakes his hand. “I am sorry. I always will be. But it will never happen that way again.”

You don’t let Namjoon answer. Instead, you turn back to Yunho, where he stands next to Yeosang, both of them watching you with hooded expressions. Bypassing Yeosang for the moment, but not ignoring the realization that he had stepped in for you, you prop yourself up on your tiptoes (and it still doesn’t make you tall enough) and throw your arms around Yunho’s neck. It’s a gesture of goodwill, a return to your conversation before Namjoon derailed it, and an act of friendship that you hadn’t thought you’d ever reach with him.

If it’s the last time you get to broach this subject with him, you want to take his burden with you. “We’re good, Yunho.”

He hugs you back, and you hear conversation start to pick up around the room again as tensions ease once more. “I’m so sorry, Sugar. I never realized how scared you must have been, so I’m…I’m just really sorry.”

You ease back on your heels, letting him go. “No more apologizing. I mean it.”

He nods, and manages a small smile. “You’re way too nice for your own good, you know that?”

You roll your eyes. But you’re serious when you say, “I won’t forget what you did for Jimin. For me. Thank you, Yunho.”

He’s grinning now. “Scariest thing I’ve ever done, but there he is.”

You both turn to where Jimin is still leaning heavily against Wooyoung, laughing at something you can’t hear. “Yeah. There he is.”

Warmth has returned to the room; Hongjoong has found Namjoon’s side again, softly helping to ease his fears about the incident that had been sprung on him without warning.

In the other corner of the room, you hear San teasing Rose, still holding his axe. “Do you sit on everyone’s laps or are you just partial to Mingi’s?”

“Bite me, Choi San.”

“Is that an open invitation or just for him?”

“Shut up, Mingi.”

Yeosang draws your attention away from them, stepping in close to your side. “Are you okay?” His fingers reach for your hip, his eyes flicking up to search your face.

“He just needs a minute.” You smile shakily. “He’s not a bad guy, he just carries a lot on his shoulders.”

“Are you okay?” He asks again.

You meet his eyes, caught by the solemnity in his gaze. “I’m okay.”

He gives a nod, but he lingers. Eyes soft, lips parted, he’s looking at you like he wants to say something, his fingers lifting from your hip to brush the backs of yours with a feather-light touch before his hand drops to his side. Blinking at the floor for a second, an eternity passes before he looks up at you again with the slightest smirk. “So, you like what you see, huh?”

“God, just kill me now.”

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tag list : @mysterysold @threevracha @igotajuicyass @velvetmoonlght @ramadiiiisme @mrsminseochoi @nightshadeblooming @furfoxsake22 @marvolos @lunaryoongie @latisthegenderfluidwannabealone @noukstmblr

[takingmyair]

— dom!yeji x fem!reader, fingering, overstimulation, disgusting amount of grinding and cum, praise kink, no men/minors interact

—

“ oh baby.. “ yeji breathes out against your lips as you’re sat pretty in her lap, making out with her. yes you just got back from a date, yes she just fucked the life out of you last night, yes you still need her. again. she was just so handsome and sweet to you today, it really gets you going everytime.

“ you’re all over me lately… “ she’s definitely not complaining, especially with the way she chuckles lovingly as your tongue fights hers for dominance. you know damn well she wins everytime, but it’s worth the fight.

“ yeji… “ you moan softly when your clothed core grinds softly against her. her hands grip your hips and guide you while your short skirt rides up your thighs, revealing your panties underneath. yeji pulls away for a moment to look down at the sight. the shy laugh she lets out when she notices the faint wet patch on your panties only makes you more soaked.

“ what is it, tell me what you need, baby. ill give you whatever you need. “ she knows exactly what you need, but she wants to hear you say it. she’s trained you to be such a good girl for her and never ever disregard your needs, even if you sound pathetic. “ fuck me, please. “ your words come out a little muffled as you’ve began to nuzzle your face into her neck.

she hums softly as your hips begin to rock against her more while her hands rub up and down your sides. the overwhelming urge to slip her fingers right into your aching cunt take over yeji’s mind, she can’t pretend like your outfit today hasn’t been driving her up the walls. she thanks god for the nice weather today.

after a lot of sloppy and needy grinding against her, with her lips leaving little kisses and bites along your jawline, she finally removes your shirt and tosses it onto the bed behind her. her hands explore your whole body, massaging and groping every inch. she dips her head down to the curve of your tits and kisses the soft skin.

you’re growing more and more needy as the seconds go by and you can’t bare anymore of yeji not fucking your cunt, but you’ll be good, you’ll wait patiently, for her.

“ i like this skirt. “ the skirt is fairly short and she’s just being a perv when she says this, she knows it shows too much of your thighs and ass if you bend over. “ and the panties… but they have to come off. “

next thing you know, your panties are also thrown onto the bed beside her. your arousal is coating her fingers as they finally begin to rub your throbbing clit. “ shit, yeji… “ you say breathlessly. “ n-need you inside, please. “

and within a few seconds she’s granting your wish, slowly slipping two fingers into your entrance. you welcome her warmly with a clench onto her fingers and a long, sweet moan from your lips. a satisfied smile plasters on her face as she gently tugs on your hair with her free hand so she can angle your head and kiss you while she does this.

“ better? “ yeji replies contently, “ yes… so much better… “ at this point, little whines are slipping from your lips when she begins to pump them in and out slowly and yeji can’t help but hum in response. she’s so in awe at how much you fall apart for her so easily. she doesn’t think she’s really that good at this whole sex thing, but she is, and you really love her. it makes it feel so much better.

“ deeper, baby… please… “ you beg softly for her to fully bury her fingers in you to her knuckles. she fills you up so nicely as her fingers plunge deeper and deeper, curling at the perfect spot that will have you cumming in her lap in no time now. it’s at this point when she decides that kissing you is the best way to keep you close to her and grounded while she has her way with you. her lips are soft and she’s such a great kisser, it somehow has you getting wetter and wetter if that’s even possible. “ so pretty for me. “ she whispers against your lips.

her praise sends a chill down your spine, you love your girlfriend so much. your hips attempt to rock against her still, trying so desperately to engulf more and more of her fingers into your cunt. she’s sped up her pace just a little now, enough to make you feel close to the edge already. the way her palm slaps against your clit each time she thrusts her fingers back into you has you a whimpering mess on top of her.

“ fuck, im close! “ a filthy moan escapes from your lips and it causes yeji to let one out herself too. she can tell you’re close by how you’re tightly clenching around her fingers now. your breathing is all over the place and uncontrollable as you ache for release.

“ deep breathes for me, honey. just cum for me, let it go. “ she tries to ease you, knowing you get really caught up when the pleasures too much.

you take a few deep breathes and somehow, it allows you to feel her even more, your orgasm hitting you intensely. yeji muffled each of your cries and moans against her lips. your juices begin to gush out of you and onto her hand and lap, but she doesn’t stop. she slows down only a little to check in with you and help you ride it out before immediately fucking your hole just as she was before.

your body goes limp already, collapsing your head onto her shoulder as she fucks you into orgasm number two. her hand still threads into your hair and holds you close against her.

“ i love you. so much. “ she finally slows down for good, but you still need more. after she plants a soft kiss to your forehead and brushes your hair from your face, you start to grind against her fingers again. she chuckles, in awe of how needy you are for her. as you’re riding her fingers, she’s still slowly fucking them into you.

“ i love you too— fuck! “ one more orgasm washes over you, it’s the weakest of the three, but you’re still satisfied enough. her hand is soaked in your cum, all sticky and messy. she brings her fingers to your mouth, prying open your jaw with her thumb and signaling you to suck them clean. you do as instructed, as she watches you with loving eyes.

“ good? “ she asks with a smile on her face, clearly proud of herself. you nod and close your eyes as you snuggle into her again. your core is throbbing after being used so much, you’ll definitely feel it for the rest of the day. “ thank you for today, baby… “ you finally speak coherently again.

“ for what? “ yeji asks, a little confused what you thanked her for. “ just, for the date and being so perfect. “ you begin to get sappy and your girlfriend tends to get a little shy when this happens, so she just smiles and kisses the top of your head and settles down for a mid-day nap with you instead.

yeji is truly the best girlfriend you could ever ask for.

[zraiusxo]

yo. ran haitani x fem!reader? i would love to see you write something toxic lol, cause you seem so innocent, you always write fluff, you can't write smut. totally understand why you can't write smut though cause you're so cute! but i wanna see u write something REALLY toxic and angsty. i'm thinking they're both bonten executives! you can decide the rest. anyways, you can just ignore this if it's not to your liking!

♡ okay listen. listen before you read this. i don't know how to feel about whatever the fuck i made at 1am when i got high off my ass, okay? so please don't shit on me if this sucks lol. not proofread so it's definitely gonna suck ass. :p ♡ also! thank you for requesting me anon, i appreciate it. i'm glad to have seen more tokyo revengers requests in my inbox hwehe. but consider this a practice fic for writing smut. not the best, but i hope it's not too bad! ^^ ♡ cw: smut mdni, argument leading to smut, rough sex, emotionally charged angry sex, ran's unhealthy attachment and obsession towards her, power dynamics, degrading language, vulgar language, non-graphic physical aggression, violence, graphic depictions of killings murder, praise, pussy eating, hair-pulling, mentions of drugs, dirty talk, dark humor and casual profanity throughout, organized crime activities.

Ran Haitani x Fem!reader Oneshot

Bonten didn't need order. It needed fear. And she was its sharpest blade.

She who stood at the center of corpses was undoubtedly beautiful.

But Y/N wasn't beautiful like a flower. She was beautiful like the fucking guillotine.

Mikey didn’t assign her missions. He pointed at problems, and she handled them. She walks the corridors of Bonten like a whispered rumor— unhurrying, untouchable, and dripping in something heavier than danger.

Her presence doesn’t announce itself. It settles. Like silence after a gunshot.

And it always begins with the click of her heels.

Click. Clack. Click.

Sharp, slow and commanding. They aren't just heels. They’re punctuation marks at the end of someone’s sentence.

You were death in a woman's body. The expensive linen of your two-piece suit, matte black and clean-cut, was damp with someone else’s life leaking into the lining, left daringly bare beneath— no silk, no lace, no camisole. Just bare skin laced with something lethal coursing beneath.

Your lipstick never smudged. Blood never touches your lips, but the red kisses everything else. You never wore your scars on your sleeves. You wore blood instead—always someone else’s, never yours.

Your silhouette is a contradiction— because it’s not just what you do.

It’s what you are.

—

Bonten’s lounge always smelled like expensive leather and liquor-soaked silence.

The elevator doors opened with a quiet chime, spilling you into the glass-and-chrome quiet of Bonten headquarters.

It was late— midnight at least— but no one in this place really slept.

You walked in without a word, sharp eyes flicking briefly across the lounge.

It was sleek. Silent, most nights. A slow jazz track usually drifted from the bar’s speaker system— Koko’s doing. The floor to ceiling windows overlooked Tokyo’s bleeding lights, casting sharp, fractured reflections across the black marble floor. The glass walls looked out over Tokyo like they were daring the city to try something.

High above the mess of sirens and neon, this place was still. Like a throne room built by criminals.

Deceptively civilized.

Like them.

The night had that slow, familiar rhythm. Music low, ice clinking against glass, Sanzu muttering something about which knife cuts best, and Koko looking like he’d rather be left alone with his ledger and a bottle of Yamazaki.

Kakucho, usually silent, gave me a nod from where he sat in the bar. Subtle. Respectful, as always. Takeomi was near the back, a cigarette in between his ring and index finger— half-asleep.

Rindou sat comfortably on the wide velvet couch nursing his third drink, shoes kicked off, legs curled under him. Sanzu was stretched out on the rug like a lazy stray, tossing his knife in the air and humming something tuneless with his shirt half-unbuttoned, grinning wildly with pupils blown from whatever the hell he’d taken tonight.

“Well, shit. The room just got colder." he lifted his head first to glance at me, tossing the knife in the air before catching it by the handle.

I sat on the edge of the long velvet couch, slipping a cigarette in between my lips, the red of my lipstick tainting the white.

That’s usually all I had to be— present. In Bonten, silence spoke just as loud as the violence did.

“Thought you weren’t coming tonight,” Rindou said from across the couch, lifting his glass at me as I flicked my lighter to light the cigarette.

“I had to finish what you left behind,” I inhaled softly, the smoke curling around my lashes.

He chuckled before bringing his glass to his lips, not offended. “Tough crowd.”

“You’re not crowd,” I murmured, puffing out the smoke with parted lips. “You’re family.”

He almost choked— caught off guard as he looked around as if to confirm what he had heard.

“She says shit like that, and people still call me the unhinged one.” Sanzu asked with a snicker, resting his head against the cushion lazily.

"Cause you are fuckin' unhinged, crazy fucker." Rindou remarked matter-of-factly.

Koko snorted behind the bar, lifting his head from his tablet. “That almost sounded like affection.”

I let a small smile curl at the corner of my lips, blowing out smoke to the side. “Don’t get used to it.”

Ran chuckled. He was lounging with his sleeves rolled up against the muscle of his tattooed arms, two top buttons of his shirt undone just enough to remind me of the tattoo snaking down his chest.

Always so casual, like he hadn’t broken bones this morning and smiled through it. “You ever get tired of keeping the knife so sharp?” He leaned forward.

I tilted my head to the side slightly, my sharp eyes narrowing. “You ever get tired of pretending you’re not already bleeding?”

That made Takeomi chuckle— low, weary, like it hurt to find things funny these days.

That shut him up for a second. His smile slipped, barely. Then came a shrug. “Maybe I just like the pain.”

Rindou laughed under his breath, eyes flicking from his older brother— then to me. “You two need to fuck or kill each other. Pick one.”

Mochi raised an eyebrow slightly, amused. He didn't have much to say tonight, guess he wasn't in the mood to.

“Alright,” Koko stood up from his seat in the bar, spreading a map across the table.

“Mikey wants a presence at the Osaka port drop on Friday. We’re expecting heat. We need someone who can negotiate if needed, but also has the authority to shut things down if they smell wrong.”

No one said anything. It was silence. Then—

“I’ll handle it,” I said.

Rindou nodded like that made sense. Sanzu whistled low. Koko didn’t look surprised— he looked relieved, actually. “You’ll be point, then. I’ll send you the revised intel once they finish surveillance.”

“Alright,” I replied, glancing at the map Kokonoi had laid across the table. “Tell them not to rely on cameras and to use thermal drones.”

Ran tilted his head to the side slightly, a smug grin on his lips. “You’re always three steps ahead.”

My gaze narrowed, a small scoff leaving my lips. “Only because the rest of you are always two behind.”

A pause. Then Ran laughed— not cruel, not provoked. Just amused. “Touché.”

—

The lock clicked like a gunshot when I stepped into the lounge, door slamming hard enough to break the frame. My heels clicked against the black marble floor, and it echoed against the walls like a death march.

I knew even before I walked into that building, before the deal collapsed under my feet, before the cops swarmed the alley exit like fucking vultures— that this wasn’t an accident.

This was Ran fucking Haitani.

And that motherfucker was already here, of course he was.

Sitting in a manspread with his shirt half-unbuttoned as he leaned back in my chair like he owned the fucking place, cigarette burning lazy between his lips, visibly unbothered. He always made himself comfortable in places he shouldn’t.

Ran glanced at my figure slowly, blowing out the smoke sideways. “You mad?”

There was only silence as I slipped the bloody gloves off my fingers, dropping it onto the floor with a splat.

He laughed. "Fuck, you are mad."

“You think this is funny?” My sharp eyes pierced through his, tilting my head to the side menacingly.

“Funny? Nah,” he calmly said, not breaking eye contact.

“I think it’s hot.”

He stood then. Taller than me, infuriatingly so. That usual smirk was still there, but it was edgy now. Or maybe turned on. With Ran, it was always hard to tell.

“You left me.” I whispered, lower now. Flat. The quiet kind of angry.

“I knew you’d make it out.”

He stepped in front of me. Too close. His rough fingers brushed the curve of my waist. I slapped it away.

“You let me burn.”

Ran's lips twitched, his smirk lopsided now. "But you made it out, didn't you darling?

“I nearly didn't.” You retored.

“But you did.” He countered.

That line. That calm.

Like it made everything okay. Like the near-capture, the blood still drying on the hem of my pants, the way I had to jump through three back alleys and lie low in some kid’s fucking basement for an hour before the cops cleared out— like it was fine.

I moved before I realized it.

My fist cracked against his jaw, and his head snapped sideways with the force of it.

His pupils blew wide. His hand came up to cradle his jaw, tongue flicking along the inside of his cheek. “Fuck,” he mumbled breathily,

Then a chuckle erupted from his lips. “That was hot.”

Deep and low. That awful, sexy, obscene sound that made me want to rip his throat out and kiss it after.

I hated him. Hated that I could smell his perfume and that it made my knees want to buckle. Hated that his voice slithered into my skin and that my insides clenched when he got close.

“Kill yourself."

He snapped. One shove, and my back hit the wall. He pressed his leg in between my thighs, placing a hand on my lower back. "Keep running that fucking mouth. See where it gets you."

“You planned it,” I groaned as my back hit the cool concrete, looking up at his taller stature with a glare. “You leaked intel. You fucked the entry time. You wanted it to go wrong.”

Ran didn't answer, only staring down at me with dark, half-lidded purple eyes.

“You’re so goddamn beautiful when you’re furious.”

“Get off me, fucking psycho." I shoved him back. He slammed me harder into the wall, placing his rough hands on my hips.

"Takes one to love one.”

“I don’t love you.”

“I do.”

“Fuck you.”

“You will.”

He kissed me, hard and unforgiving, lips slick as he sucked on my lips so damn hard like his life fucking depended on it. I bit him hard enough to draw blood, licking it up as the red dripped down his chin, then sucking on where I bit him.

His groan shot straight through me— raw, feral. And he pressed harder, lips crashing against mine like punishment and prayer. I fought him. Dragging my nails down his chest. Feeling his muscles tense under my fingertips. Grinding my hips against his. Teeth against tongue.

He loved it. Sick fuck.

He spun me around, grabbed me by my hips, and dragged me backwards towards the counter. A gun case and bullets slid of the egde as he bent me over, slipping his hand inside my pants to cup my pussy, gathering the slick dripping down from my pulsating hole.

“You're insane—”

“And you’re wet,” he said, pressing two long fingers against my warm cunt, pulsing in response.

��Fuck you.” I bit back a gasp, feeling myself getting wetter, cheeks getting hotter.

“You keep saying that,” he muttered with a smirk, pressing his weight down on my back. “But all I hear is please.”

His hands were everywhere, cupping my tits, feeling the inside of my thighs, groping my ass. Clothes came off mid make-out session. My top hit the floor first. Then my pants. His rings left cold trails on my thighs as he shoved them open.

“No fucking underwear,” he muttered against my neck, slapping my ass harshly, causing me to bite my lower lip harder. “Fucking knew it.”

He got on his knees and kissed the inside of my thigh, slow and deliberate— and when his mouth found the tattoo there, the black Bonten insignia inked where only someone like him would ever see it, he smiled.

Then kissed it. Like he was praying to it. He kissed it. A kiss so soft it was offensive. Sacreligious.

“Ran—”

“Shut up.”

“I think I’ll die with this image burned into my fucking skull,” he muttered, dick twitching in his pants, breath warm against my pussy.

Then his mouth was on me.

His tongue moved in perfect rhythm— rough, then slow. Circling around my clit, then sucked on it. My knees buckled, and he held my ass in a firm grip, groaning against my pussy like it hurt to stop.

“Fuck, you taste mad,” he grinned against me, groping my ass tighter, slick dripping from my hole like honey. “Pussy's just as mean as your mouth.”

I bit back a moan— angry and breathless— reaching down to grab his hair, yanking his face closer to my wet cunt. He groaned into it, nose pressed against me, tongue flicking up and inside until I was grinding down on him shamelessly.

He let me ride his face like that. Let me chase my high.

I came on his mouth, muffling my moans against the back of my hand, fingers clawing at his scalp. Ran swallowed every drop of it, greedy fuck.

And he barely gave me time to breathe before he tugged his belt loose with one hand and shoved his pants down just enough to free his cock— hard, flushed, already leaking precum.

“Look at me baby,” he ordered, grabbing a fistful of my hair and turning my head around.

His cock was hard. Thick. Veiny. “You want this?” he asked with a shit-eating grin playing on his lips. “Say it.”

“Die.”

Without warning, he slammed his cock into me, immediately feeling the tight squeeze of my gummy cunt.

I gasped— sharp and shocked— as he bottomed out in one harsh thrust. “You’re dripping.”

His pace was brutal. Fast. He gripped my hips so tightly I knew I’d bruise “Say it,” he growled into my ear, fucking me deeper, faster, each stroke knocking the breath out from my lungs.

“Fucking hate you—” My lips parted, moaning the words out.

“Yeah?” He pulled his whole length out and thrusted it all back in harder, eliciting a low whine from me. “Don't lie.”

He slipped his index and ring finger in between his lips to wet it, pulled out to reach around and rubbed circles on my clit as he pounded into me. My eyes rolled back my head, letting myself get fucked dumb by none other than Ran Haitani.

“You hate this too?” he snarled, hips slamming against my ass, cock stretching me open. Fucked me so hard my back arched off his chest and I couldn’t breathe.

His hand wrapped around my throat again, pressure perfect. Head thrown back in a cacophony of moans. And I clenched tighter around his cock, sweat beading at my spine, the slap of his hips against my ass echoing off the walls.

“Ran—”

“You want me to stop?”

I didn’t answer. Couldn’t. He knew.

He angled his thrusts just right, hitting the spot that made me see stars. His fingers were rough on my clit— fast, merciless, no rhythm, just filthy friction. He bit my neck, fucked me like he was trying to break something.

“I hate you,” I said, but my hushed moans cut halfway through my words.

He chuckled against my ear, breathing heavily. “You’re lying again.”

I was.

Because my legs were shaking. Because I could feel it curling low in my stomach— tight, electric, unbearable. My body was betraying me, grinding back against him even though my mind screamed not to give him the satisfaction. The pleasure felt too much, overpowering the hatred I had built up for him.

“You’re close,” he breathed, his voice thick and low.

I didn’t answer, only letting out a choked moan.

His cock slammed into me again— deep, brutal, right where it hit me hardest— and that was it.

My pussy clenched hard around his cock, trembling, shuddering, vision going white around the edges. And still, he didn’t stop. He fucked me through it. Watched my back arch of his chest. Watched my knees buckle.

“Fuck, that's it.” he groaned. “Come on my cock darling, just like that.” My legs shook so bad he had to hold me up. He followed, groaning low into my ear, spilling inside me like he owned the right.

I hated him as I came around him. As my body clenched and spasmed and left me breathless. I hated how deep he reached. How good he felt. How every thrust knocked the breath out from my lungs and made me want to come on his cock again just to spite him.

I hated that it was his voice whispering low into my ear that tipped me over. I hated that it felt like falling into fire—

And that I wanted to burn again.

♡ okay so yes. he's kinda crazy. i wrote him like that yes. but i was just trying to base his character off bonten ran lore! i promise guys. i couldn't just write him like a tamed house dog just for her. he's unhinged in his own way, that's what makes him authentically Ran Haitani. ^o^ ♡ honestly feels weird posting something like this cause all i ever post is fluff and random oneshots hwehe. but still, i can't just ignore this. it's been sitting and rotting away in my inbox cause i was too scared to try and make smut anyways, thanks for reading though! i appreciate it. lovelots, mwah! :3

[hearts4pearlescentmoon]

Bro is trying so hard to be Stanford Pines

[lamefish]

when fratboy!satoru takes your virginity you kind of expect him to be an ass about it. he's cocky as it is, and has a habit of gassing himself up too much when it comes to his... skills in the bedroom. if you're not listening to him talk about how he's the strongest, you're listening to him talk about how he's the biggest.

being the only virgin of your friend group was starting to grate on you and... a small part of you might've wanted to find out if there's any bite to satoru's bark. it's not like the two of you were dating or anything, but you felt comfortable enough to walk up to him one day during lunch and ask, in front of his best friend:

"will you take my virginity?"

maybe you expected him to blush. or freeze up. or at least trip over his words. but instead, the stupid white-haired prick looked up at you with the most relaxed expression possible and shrugged.

"okay."

and that's how you ended up here, sitting criss-cross applesauce on his messy dorm-room bed with his tongue halfway down your throat. a few empty cans of beer and abandoned cheat sheets lay strewn over his floor, and you hate yourself for letting this be the backdrop of your entry into the sex-having life.

but you can’t hate yourself for long because as he runs a hand up your thigh and under your skirt, you start to feel more excited than you thought you’d feel. he pushes you back, slots his knee between your thighs and bites at your bottom lip before trailing down to your throat.

still, it’s satoru, so when he pushes your panties to the side and feels just how wet you are for him, he laughs. “you get this wet when you touch yourself or is all of this just for me?”

“shut up,” you groan as he nips at the skin of your throat and gently runs his finger through your folds and up to your clit. you’re surprised he knows where your clit is, even.

and he’s not wrong—you’ve never been wet like this before. you can feel just how damp the fabric of your panties are you as satoru pulls them down your thighs and hikes your skirt up to get a clearer look at your soaked cunt.

“pretty,” he licks his lips. “wannna taste her, that okay baby?”

his eyes search yours for consent and you’re stunned for a moment as he waits for ‘enthusiastic consent’. you didn’t expect this sort of check-in from a frat boy. your nod seems enthusiastic enough to him, but just for clarity—“use your words.”

“yes. please, gojo.”

“satoru,” he corrects you. “want to hear that name when you cum on my tongue. cant believe no ones tasted her before.”

the use of referring to your pussy as ‘her’ is odd but quickly overlooked when he delves into your pussy like he’s dehydrated. tongue flat against your heat just to flex and circle around your clit. he sucks and bites a little and pulls you to your first orgasm in nasty speeds.

you cum on his tongue whilst his eyes bore into yours from between your thighs. white hair pulled out of his face by your hand as you tug the strands in hopes that he’ll stop licking at your overstimulated clit. it takes until you’re shaking for him to finally pull back and free his angry cock from his pants.

you think you gasp when you see it. he said he was big but you didn’t think he was a truthful man in the slightest. his cock is so heavy it doesn’t even stand at full mast—it fights gravity. satoru sees the look on your face and instead of sporting a shit-eating grin like you expect, he climbs over you and presses a soft kiss to your forehead.

“let’s stop here?” he asks. “we could watch a movie. oooh what about die hard?”

you giggle, your nerves melting a little at his words. “i’m okay, i want this. i am not graduating as a virgin.”

satoru snorts and, after rolling a condom on, gently pries your legs apart enough for him to slot his wait in between them. he guides your ankles to link behind his back and slowly runs the tip of his cock through your slick folds. “tell me if you need me to stop,” he says. “just relax. i’ve got you, baby.”

you actually manage to relax a little, focus on the feeling of being stretched as satoru slowly pushes into you until his tip is completely hidden in your cunt. it’s uncomfortable, but not unbearable. “keep going.”

one of his long fingers dips down to rub soft circles over your clit to relax you a little more as he pushes deeper. you’ve never felt so full, so sore yet desperate for more… you wonder if it’s always going to feel like this, or if it’s just because satoru is the one breaking you open to find pleasure in your insides.

he lets out a pretty moan as he bottoms out inside of you, the weight of his heavy balls resting against your ass as he stills and catches your lips in a wet kiss. his tongue slips into your mouth, runs over your teeth and pushes against your tongue as he slowly draws out of you and then, with a grunt that you taste, snaps his hips forwards into you.

that hurts, but there’s an odd stitch of pleasure in the way he’s broken you open. “sorry,” he speaks against your lips. “it’s better that i just got it out of the way, it can start feeling real good soon. gonna make you cum on my cock, baby. you want that?”

you nod, eyes staring into his as your foreheads meet. satoru nods back, licking his lips and smiling. “yeah? you wanna be stuffed full, huh? always knew you were filthy. but i’m the only one that gets to see it.”

his arrogance pulls at your lips. “until i fuck the next guy.”

snap. his cock splits you open at that, and though you wince and screw your face us, you’re letting out moans made for porn too. his finger on your clit starts working a little faster as he draws back again just to drive into you even harder.

“no,” he dips his head down to bite at your neck. “not until you fuck the next guy. i mean you can try, baby, but it’s not happening.”

“ngh, what do you mean?”

another thrust into you sends you further up the bed. you’re sure you look a mess but satoru looks down at you with such wide blown eyes that you could be convinced you’re from the heavens. “not giving you up that easy,” he groans. “you know, i fucked someone last week just because they had your name. got to moan it without being slapped. again.”

your hand flies up to his chest, almost in an attempt to slow his now mean pace. “wait you—ngh god—you like me?”

“i’m far fucking past like,” he moans, hips starting to stutter. any discomfort has faded into glorious pleasure. your stomach starts to tighten again and you know you’re close enough that he’s going to try and time your orgasms. “you’re so perfect. so much better than i imagined.”

your eyes roll back a little at the thought of satoru fucking his fist late at night to the thought of you. how nonchalant he was when you asked him to take your virginity, you wonder if he went home last night and stroked himself to the sheer anticipation of being inside of you.

“satoru i’m gonna—”

he cuts you off with a deep kiss. it’s sex and want and lust, but it’s also soft in a way you can’t describe—maybe even a little anxious after his confession. it might just be his pending orgasm, but you swear his lips tremble between yours.

his cock throbs as he drills it into you, hits your most sensitive spot with every single thrust. it’s like he already has you mapped out, because you’re both cumming in tandem with each other before long.

a part of you aches to feel his cum spill into you instead of the condom he wears, to be claimed and filled by his seed over and over. would he fuck it back into you? clean you off with his talented tongue? would he plug you with his cock until he’s ready to overfill you with a second load?

he moans into your mouth and pulls back a little to revel in your fucked out expression. your legs still wrap around his waist, boxing him in and keeping him close. you worry that in typical frat boy fashion he’ll make an excuse and run off to recount the fuck with his friends. but satoru pecks at your lips, then your chin, then down your neck again.

“what are you doing?” you ask, vision slightly blurred from the intensity of your orgasm.

“gonna make you cum again,” he smiles against your skin. “didn’t you hear?”

“hear what?”

he pulls back to look at you, a soft smile pulling at his pretty lips. “that if you cum at least five times when you lose your virginity, you’ll fall in loooove.”

[sleepdeprivedfrfr]

obsessedbf!toji who loves when it’s cold outside because he knows you won’t try and push him away for being too clingy because he’s so so so sooo warm.

obsessedbf!toji who loves when you curl up to him or wrap yourself around him at night in the middle of your sleep, he thinks it’s so adorable.

obsessedbf!toji who doesn’t go to bed until you do, even if it means he’ll wake up grumpy the next morning for work.

obsessedbf!toji who complains to you one night about your sleeping schedule, “Why the fuck are you still up?”

“I’m watching asmr.”

“Turn that shit off and c’mere.”

“Shh this is a good part.”

He snatched your phone out of your hands and turned it off, “Toji what the fu-”

“Pay attention to me ma, not the fucking phone.” He whispered in a gruff sleepy voice as he pulled you to his chest and engulfing you completely. You huffed into his chest. "Stop acting like you don't love this," Toji grumbled lowly, you could hear the smirk in his words.

"Your tits are suffocating me Toji. No complaints though."

"Fucking freak."

He couldn't help but smile though after hearing your sweet little giggles.

obsessedbf!toji who picks up extra missions just so that he can spoil you, he literally refuses to let you work and truly believes that he should be the sole provider while you don't lift a finger. Also having you care for him when he comes home exhausted is a plus :3

obsessedbf!toji who lets you do skincare on him when he comes back home, he claims he hates it but he loves how relaxing it is and how much attention you put on him while doing it.

obsessedbf!toji who constantly teases you for watching asmr but slowly starts getting into it once you do it to him.

You were propped up against the pillows on the bed, while Toji walked out of the bathroom. He was moody from being at work all day, only to come home to you already showered, leaving him to have to shower alone. "C'mere baby," you patted your lap signaling for your big grumpy boyfriend to lay in it.

He let out a soft grunt and quickly placed himself into your embrace, his head on your lower stomach and hands resting on your hips while his body between your legs. You began tracing patterns up and down his back with your nails, and up and down his large biceps.

"Fuck that feels good ma." he whispered, causing you to let out a soft giggle.

"You still mad at me you big baby?" Your hands moved up to his scalp.

"Tch, whatever. Jus' keep doin’ what yer doin'." Was all he said while his thumbs lightly brushed back and fourth over your hips. His breathing began to slow and he let out soft snores.

obsessedbf!toji who surprising plans really romantic dates for you two, but as soon as you walk out of the bedroom all dressed up his hands are all over you, making you guys late to whatever reservation he booked.

"Babe we're gonna be late."

"Fuck you look so good mama, I can't help it." He says between kisses. Safe to say y'all were definitely going to be late again, that is if you even left the house.

another toji drabble/oneshot bc y'all loved the last one sm, might do an nsfw ver soon so yuh. Also thank you guys so much for 500 followers, I know im behind on a lot of stories rn so js bear with me pls 😭

also I’m so tired of seeing people canon toji as a bad husband/bf bc like y r we acting like he didn’t take his wife’s name?!? Like sure he may be broke in the show but that’s js bc his ass was gambling all his money away, anyways hope u enjoyed ;3

Likes, comments, and rebloggs appreciated!!

divider creds: @cafekitsune

[kurooh]

❤︎ LOVE POTIONS ! — MY HERO ACADEMIA

⊹₊˚. VALENTINE’S DAY 2025 — aphrodisiacs are both a curse and a blessing. / midoriya izuku, bakugo katsuki, todoroki shoto, kirishima eijirou, kaminari denki, & takami keigo.

warnings. 18+ content — mdni, fem! reader, aphrodisiacs / sex pollen, dirty talk, edging, brattiness, overstimulation, squirting, threesome, sickness but it’s sexy, breeding kink, unprotected sex.

xoxo, juno. everyone pretend it’s v-day 💘

MIDORIYA IZUKU.

⟡ getting hit by a villain’s quirk right before valentine’s day was not something you’d planned to do. somehow, the effects of the quirk end up being an early gift and also a curse.

fat tears race down izuku’s face, his hands grasping weakly at the sheets with each dizzying bounce of your ass onto his thighs. an hour has passed, spent in different positions around the house with less than five minute breaks in between—but no matter how many times you cum, the glowy pink ring around your irises doesn’t go away.

“too much, ‘s too much,” he slurs, words running into each other and becoming jumbled nonsense. “baby, i can’t, not anymore—shit! ‘m empty now, and it h-hurts so bad.”

“hurts?” you parrot disbelievingly, too deep under the spell to feel the burn in your thighs. “‘zuku, know what hurts?”

“no, i know,” he sobs, balls squeezing painfully as the familiar pressure returns to his cock. it’s familiar, but it’s not the same; there’s no cum involved, he’s been drained too dry to give you anything. “l-last time, please. i need a minute to, ngh, relax.”

it hurts. izuku’s cock is practically purple with overstimulation, but he’s too entranced to pull you off himself. when you’d arrived home, tugging at his belt and babbling about what had happened, izuku took a moment to consider if he had any notes on something like this.

villains with these types of quirks have always been rare, and it’s just his luck that one popped up before valentine’s day.

the couch groans from the combination of movement and weight on it, yawning with wear. izuku has never underestimated your strength or sex drive, but this . . you’re bouncy, and he’s wondering if the villain’s quirk enhanced your stamina too.

in a startling display of affection, you grab at his jaw and kiss away his tears, cooing sweet, sensual nothings into his ear. your voice is smooth when you tell him how good he’s doing, how sexy he looks when he’s whining so sweetly. just when he’s thinking it can’t get any better, you hit him where he’s weakest with a sultry murmur of want you to put a baby in me, izuku.

flustered, he can’t help but let out a squeal when you nip at his neck, kissing over previous bites and smatterings of freckles.

“do what you want with me,” he surrenders, verdant green eyes meeting your own. “hah, if that’s what you want, jus’ use me. fuck me, baby.”

BAKUGO KATSUKI.

⟡ you have the misfortune of tracking a villain with japan’s number one hero, the all too explosive dynamight. everything completely unravels during the confrontation, when katsuki’s rushing forward to deliver the final blow. the dastardly villain releases a thick, noxious smoke that fills the air with a sickening sweetness — despite all the coughing and hacking, he manages to subdue the villain until the police arrive, but you never make it back to the agency to regroup.

ridiculous, is all you can think as you’re being folded in half in the back of a company car that’s sneakily wedged in an alleyway. katsuki’s not-so-gentle teeth nip at the tender skin of your thighs, and he doesn’t think twice about the marks that are sure to show up by tomorrow.

“d-deeper, katsuki,” you writhe against the seats, too handsy for his liking. “please, it’s not deep eno—”

“shut it,” he grunts, scowling down at you. his usual expression doesn’t quite have the same effect it usually does, since it’s been mellowed out by the villain’s aphrodisiac like quirk. “don’t you dare tell me how to fuck, got it?”

a bratty huff escapes you, and you make a show of rolling your eyes at him, seemingly unimpressed. “i wouldn’t have to if you’d just do it right. oh, but who am i to judge the number one?”

a vein bulges from his forehead as he listens, crimson eyes seething silently while you continue to lay it on thick. “i guess dynamight can fuck however he wants, even if it’s subpar—”

in an instant, katsuki’s hand is on your throat and applying just enough pressure to force out a gasp from you. that teasing and talking back worked—now he’s really about to come undone, show you just how strong the number one pro can really be.

“can’t take that back now, can you? if you think you can insult me and order me around, oh,” katsuki grinds his teeth, pressing your knees into your chest without taking a moment to appreciate the pretty moan that leaves you. “fuck, you’ve got another thing coming. shut your mouth.”

“make me.”

he can’t seem to recall a time where he’s ever been this turned on—that aphrodisiac quirk’s got nothing on the way you talk to him, challenge him in a way that nobody has before.

katsuki draws his hips back, slow and deliberate in each movement. you were right, he wasn’t giving you his all; but now, he will, and he won’t stop until you eat your words. deeper? harder? faster? if that’s what you’re asking for, he’ll give it to you.

you watch breathlessly, mesmerized by the frustrated scrunch of his face, all because he can’t stop replaying your words in his head. a harsh slap to your clit snaps you out of your daze the moment it lands, stinging terribly.

“let’s work up to that, alright? you’re going to—”

“what if i don’t, katsuki?” you tip your chin up at him, looking down your nose at him. “then what?”

another slap, this time with a little more strength behind it. he disregards everything you just said, getting ready to give you an explosive orgasm you’ll have to work hard for.

“that’s what. now, let’s try that again—you’ll be good and count each slap, unless you want me to spank this slutty pussy raw,” satisfied by the responding clench of your cunt, he arches a brow and smirks. “your choice, brat.”

TODOROKI SHOTO.

⟡ with a new, unstable virus spreading rapidly through japan, scientists are racing to develop a cure. it seems to act like the standard flu, but it affects quirk users differently—shoto ends up with an unusual kind of fever.

“ah, ‘m cumming, sho,” cum squirts from your pussy like a waterfall, and everything’s so overwhelming that you unintentionally push his cock out. “good, ‘s so fucking good.”

sweat coats his face, clinging to the rough scar on shoto’s left side. panting, he sucks in a breath, grasping around for his swollen cock.

“i’m sorry,” his voice cracks once his tip slides through your sticky folds and makes your back jolt off the bed, “it’s just—shit, it’s not enough.”

“a-again? i, hah, don’t know if that’s a good—”

shoto shakes his head, shivering as a thin layer of frost appears on his right cheek; it sparkles brilliantly before melting into droplets of water that drip from his jaw. “i’m still burning up,” it’s completely out of bounds, but the low rasp of his sickly voice scratches an itch in your brain. “see, lovey? can’t even use my quirk to fix it.”

a sigh escapes you, and you spread your trembly thighs one more time. “i might be too tired to drive you to the hospital after this,” you warn.

“i know, but baby,” gratefully, shoto pushes forward, burying his cock to the hilt inside you. his warm hand settles on your lower belly to add some pressure, gearing you up for another explosive orgasm. “i don’t wanna be like this when we go to the hospital.”

he flushes darkly with embarrassment, and the mental image of a tortured shoto rutting into a hospital bed as waves of the fever’s severe effects overwhelm him is enough to make you soften.

once he starts to thrust, developing a rhythm that would put your own fingers to shame, his mouth drops open and he’s babbling incoherently. “ . . always so fucking hot around you, baby. i-it’s not my fault you’re so—haa, shit—so perfect, making me burn up whenever you’re not looking.”

and because being this deep inside you is as close as he can get to heaven, shoto sees no reason to hold back on the honest praise. he’s always been a little shy to express himself during sex, mouth drying up whenever he tries to say something rather dirty, but not now. since his brain is being fried by the heat at the moment, he won’t feel any embarrassment.

“sho, right there,” a breath is punched out of your lungs, and your nails scratch at his shoulders each time his tip kisses your sweet spot. “oh god, ‘m gonna make a mess again!”

his cock twitches and he moans your name, only egging you on. “can’t wait to taste it, darling.”

you fall off the edge, his words serving as the final push. euphoria curls through you, cresting like a wave until the sensitivity becomes too much, bringing you back to earth. abs clenching, shoto pulls out to cover your stomach in white.

in an instant, shoto’s temperature drops. quietly, he shivers against you, huffing into your neck.

“i want to stay like this before we leave.”

“you’ve got ice forming rapidly on your back, sho.”

“it’ll melt if i’m cuddling with you . . could you also rub my back? maybe i just need to sleep it off.”

KIRISHIMA EIJIROU.

⟡ eijirou listened to you specifically tell him NOT to eat the wrapped cookies you had in the fridge and when you left, he did exactly that.

“babe, baby, you feel so good,” cum races down his fingers in creamy rivulets, puddling at the base of his cock. caught up in his fantasy, eijirou flicks his wrist faster, hoping with all his heart to imitate the hot squeeze of your cunt. “s-so pretty when you take me, always so fuckin’ beautiful.”

his voice cracks just as the door opens, and your purse falls to the floor. your boyfriend is spread out on the bed, flushed feverishly and gasping out your name like he’s delirious—it would be the perfect scene to come home to if you didn’t spot two torn cookie wrappers near him.

“eijirou,” you speak his name lowly, catching his eyes and raising a brow. he’s not sure if he should feel awkward or turned on because of your scolding tone, so he just swallows dryly and looks toward you with hooded eyes. “already forgot the speech i gave you? why’d you eat the cookies?”

shame creeps up his neck and makes his skin prickle uncomfortably. grasping for a response, eijirou decides to question you right back. “why’d you have sex cookies in the fridge?”

“they were a surprise for valentine’s!”

oh.

now he really feels dumb for spoiling your plans. perhaps if he hadn’t been so hungry, so greedy, he wouldn’t be embarrassed under your scrutinizing gaze.

but the feeling doesn’t last long—your tough face drops into something more sultry: doe eyes and an upturned quirk of your lips that’s sure to finish him.

the mattress sinks under your weight, and you scoot beside him with a self satisfied smile. it’s small and quiet, but a voice in the back of his head tells him maybe you wanted this to happen; you certainly don’t look too upset about it.

“no way, baby,” a hiss escapes him when you slap his cum-stained hand away from his cock, instead choosing to replace them with your own. “am i dreaming? mrs. red riot, are you—”

his narration throws you off, and you choke just kissing his tip. you know eijirou’s surprised and eternally grateful, but damn. “mr. red riot, you’d be quiet if you wanted me to.”

“sorry,” he says earnestly, tensing up to hide the fact that he’s shaking like a leaf when you finally take him in your mouth. “i’ve just—” he inhales sharply as you slowly, torturously take him inch by inch. “i’ve been waiting s-so long for you to come home, babe.”

you swallow, throat squeezing tight around his cock, and eijirou’s clean hand flies to the back of your head, hovering precariously. “i’m crazy about you, all day every day, and the cookies made it worse. ‘m sorry for spoiling the surprise, i didn’t mean to—haa, w-what’re you doing to me? oh, you’re gonna make me—”

it doesn’t take long for obscene slurps and occasional gags to fill the room as you suck eijirou’s cock, spoiling him with each languid bob of your head. it’s too much, and the tension grows thicker in his gut, setting his insides ablaze with anticipation.

he’s hurtling toward his high, jerking his hips up and shamelessly preparing to fill up your throat this quickly—but then, you push yourself off of him. a shudder ripples through his body, and he throws you a pained, wide eyed look.

“why’d you..? baby?”

you motion for him to lay on his back, and he can see the gears in your head turning behind a wicked smile. “might as well draw it out, hm?”

“you’re gonna milk me?”

he’s so cute . .

you want to see him crying.

you hum, “only until you’re begging for me to stop.”

KAMINARI DENKI, ft. SERO HANTA

⟡ an undercover sting at a mysterious village with your work partners doesn’t go as smoothly as planned. the village, out in the far country, has been reported as the one place with the highest levels of quirk activity in japan. little did you know about the fact that this place is home to infectious pollen that makes its way into people via the air, or about its temporary effects on people . .

“what the fuck,” you moan, vision blurry between their faces and intermittent flashes of light. “there’s no way it’s from a plant, it can’t be—”

hanta’s tongue darts out to lick the salt away from his upper lip, and he points a finger toward a passage in the encyclopedia. “the symptoms are, ngh, the same.”

one of your hands works denki’s cock while the other shakily flips through an encyclopedia of germs and the like; hanta’s buried to the hilt inside of you, tan cheeks flushed with exertion.

“can’t you just read after?” denki unhelpfully suggests, blinking back a few tears while sparks of electricity fly off from his blond hair. “let’s just fix—yeah, baby, jus’ like that—fix the problem now and figure it out later.”

“shut it, denks,” hanta rolls his eyes, rocking his hips into you. despite the fact that the three of you are totally naked and in the middle of some kind of threesome, you’re researching what apparently caused this surge of uncontrollable arousal.

things began not long after you arrived in the village, where everything had looked unsuspecting and normal. surely there was a villain lurking around somewhere . . ? why else would there be so much unusual activity, enough to alert the authorities?

“look, they f-found something similar in america,” hanta’s voice wavers uncharacteristically, his own high racing through him with such intensity he doubles over.

“forget about the book,” denki’s begging while pressing dazed kisses to your tits, one hand tossing the book aside and slipping between your trembling thighs. “c’mon, babe. show us what you look like when you cum.”

perhaps this is something to be selfish about — when will an opportunity to fuck your hot coworkers come around again? hanta’s everything you’ve been daydreaming about, with a muscular physique sharp enough to have been cut from stone. denki’s just as attractive, though his features are softer, the result of his constant snacking while on the job or in the agency.

hanta nods in assent, already trailing over the edge. “want you to gush all over me, baby.”

thrashing under denki’s fingers, it momentarily occurs to you that maybe they’re a little too experienced. neither of them were concerned with a threesome when it was suggested, and there’s no mistakes in their almost synchronized movements.

just watching your eyes flutter and roll back is enough to make denki cum with a moan of your name as his cock sprays white. hanta’s pupils probably dilate a hundred times their size at the erotic sight, and his hips begin to stutter as heat races up his spine.

denki, shaking profusely, musters his voice and maintains his hurried pace. “g-good girl, go on ‘n let it out.”

since stepping foot into the village and inhaling that damn pollen, the pro hero’s been getting realistic flashes of thoughts he’s kept locked away for some time. you, on your knees, looking up at him like you’re ready to do more than just please. you, with your pretty eyes full of tears as you lose your mind beneath him.

an orgasm stronger than the lustful effects of any aphrodisiac tears through you, and your cunt bears down so hard it forces out hanta’s own high as well. with all his might, he tries to resist the surge of weakness that hits him and fails—he collapses on top of you, hugging you closely and burying his face in your neck.

loosely, your jaw hangs open and breathy gasps leave your mouth. denki’s sparking with electricity beside you and simultaneously struggling to get it under control. a single yellow spark flies off his body and mildly electrocutes hanta, snapping him back to reality. he jerks against you, sounding exhausted.

“uh. so, um, what’re we supposed to report when we get back?”

TAKAMI KEIGO.

⟡ bless his heart. for valentine’s, he decides to be a silk heart-shaped box of japan’s most expensive chocolate for you. he’d been so focused on finding your favorite flavors along with new ones that he didn’t even realize that he’d purchased sex chocolate.

“it hurts, dovey. it’s s-so painful.”

since sharing the box of chocolates with you, keigo’s been reduced to a pathetic mess who can’t seem to stop shaking when you just barely touch him. vermilion feathers puff up and out at his back, his messy wings conveying the way he’s crumbling inside.

you’re just as hot, skin crawling with a lustful itch only keigo can scratch for you. the frenetic beating of his wings whips up cold gusts of wind stronger than any ceiling fan, and not a single goosebump rises on your skin.

“right there, kei,” you moan, tears gathering in your eyes as he continuously hits your sweet spot. “oh my god, don’t stop.”

as if he’d ever plan to.

he hiccups, face flushed and hair tousled like he’s just returned from some mission out in the wild. softly, with the barest note of urgency, keigo whines out your name and a request.

“dovey, c’mon,” his voice cracks halfway through his sentence, shattered with unmistakable pleasure. “just tell me what you want, and i’ll, ah, i’ll fuckin’ give it to you.”

keigo’s entire body thrums with the need, the purpose, to please you, and his own pleasure hinges on you and your praise. sure enough, you cry out to him, words saccharine and addicting.

“make me cum, kei,” and he doesn’t need any further instruction, not when he knows your body this well. smooth fingers slip between your thighs and work your clit, causing your back to arch when he applies just enough pressure to send electricity through your nerves.

you’re wrapping around keigo’s waist, drawing him in and breaking down his self control easily.

“want me to fill up this pussy, baby? i can do it again and again—” he punctuates his words with harsh thrusts that amplify the clap of skin against skin almost as much as a quirk could, “while you take it like you were made to.”

quaking beneath him, you nod frantically, as if those are the words you’ve been waiting to hear. while he was so vividly illustrating the scene, his wings unconsciously began to wrap around your bodies, a sign of how much he wants it too.

you gasp, eyes squeezing shut with the last image being keigo’s face, twisted in ecstasy and scrunched with concentration. “gonna—‘m gonna cum, kei!”

“with me, dovey, please,” sweat pours down the sides of his face as the heated bliss tightens in his gut, applying an unbearable pressure to his cock. “let me feel you cum around me, ughhh.”

sloppily, keigo presses open mouthed kisses to your lips, and a delighted moan escapes him when you kiss back. your lips are soft against his, and your tongue carries the sweet taste of valentine’s chocolates, the expensive ones he’d come home with earlier.

with his orgasm creeping up on him and dulling his surroundings, a brief thought occurs to him about those chocolates. the sales lady had raised a brow when he filled up the customizable box with many pink chocolates that had been sitting in a case separate from the rest.. no, that can’t be right. surely this is the common valentine’s day effect on couples—it can’t be from the chocolate, can it?

[tonycries]

“She My Best Friend, Yeah We Not a Couple.”

Synopsis. You know it’s wrong to fuck your best friend. But how can you complain when you’re slammed against the library desk and stuffed full of his big cock like this?

Pairing. Multiple x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, unprotected sex, panties in your mouth (+ some other very heinous things), really fucking dirty, public sex, jealous sex (from his side), pet names (my angel), swearing.

Word count. 1.3k

A/N. My ancestors are prolly so proud of me rn. Art by @_3em on X.

“Best friend” his ass. 

It’s laughable really - the way those other losers think they have a chance with you when you’re begging for his dick every night. 

He’s known you since you were both whiney, snot-faced brats - and right now he’s got you sitting prettily on his lap in a study room tucked on the campus library. Your needy mewls are muffled into the crook of his neck as he holds you steady by your hips, the length of his achingly hard cock nudging the line of your ass. 

Panties hastily pulled to the side, your slick pools on his flushed tip, dripping along his length to his tight balls. Pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along your racing pulse, he drags his hefty erection teasingly along your dripping folds. 

God, he could feel the way your pussy was clenching desperately around nothing and it was driving him insane. 

Surely that study buddy of yours could wait a few minutes. Who did that scrub even think he was? Eyeing his pretty lil’ best friend like that.

“Hngh- please, I want-.” you whisper into his ear, the heat of your breath sending blood rushing straight to his already rock-hard cock. Your needy whimpers are cut off as he subconsciously thrusts in-between your swollen folds, juices making the prominent veins along his length glisten.

Fuck, this was getting too much for him too. 

“Tell me what you want, my angel.” he leans down to murmur raspily in your ear, sending a trail of goosebumps down your spine. You were so fucking hot. 

That scrub couldn’t even imagine this. How perfect you were. How wet you were for him. How lustful your voice is as you sinfully whine, “I want your cock in me so badly. Want you to fuck me right here. Right now.”

With lightning speed, he’s got you bent against the cold surface of the library desk, painfully hard cock throbbing under the thin material of your panties. You gasp as his length grinds against your quivering cunt.

Having you splayed out so sinfully for him, he’s never been more thankful that the old librarian was such a heavy sleeper - probably wouldn’t wake up for a stampede of elephants if it happened. 

“This shit is getting in my fucking way.” he groans out as a large hand grabs your soaked panties. 

A sharp rip! of fabric sounds throughout the still air of the study room. “Much better.” he grins dangerously, harshly groping every inch of skin now laid completely bare for him.

“Please. Put it in.” you mewl, voice dripping with need for him. Fuck, he’ll never get used to this. 

“Shhh, my angel.” with a low hiss, he bullies his thick cock into your dripping cunt.

“God. S’tight, so tight. Pussy so desperate for me hah- sucking me back in. She doesn’t want me to leave, huh?” he grits out through strangled moans as he sheaths himself completely into your wet pussy. Shit, at this point they’ll hear him and not you.

Warm walls squeezing him to insanity, he fucks you at a feral pace, pulling out till his tip teases your dripping entrance, only to ram himself fully inside once more. 

“Ah! Hngh- It’s too much. Please!” 

He would never get to know the feeling of your snug cunt desperately sucking his cock back in every time he rams into you. He would never get to feel the way your walls clamp down on him, struggling to adjust to the burning stretch of his thick cock. He could never make you feel this good.

That loser probably has a small dick anyway.

He drinks in the pornographic ah! ah! ah! leaving your mouth at each harsh thrust, feeling intoxicated off the animalistic cadence of his hips, and the thick white ring of slick forming at his base. 

“Shit. Always so good f’me, my angel.” he groans, your pretty moans only making him thrust impossibly deeper in a way that has you scrambling to hold onto the table for support. 

His throaty groans and the merciless slapping of his heavy balls against your ass echoes across the room as his fingers dig deep purple marks into your hips.

“S-someone’s gonna hah- hear-” 

“Then we must be quiet, hm?”

Before you have a chance to process what’s happening, the wet panties that were tightly gripped in his hand are now stuffed into your mouth. You moan around the large fingers forcing themselves inside, cold rings stretching your mouth as much as your cunt.

His cock twitches as he forces you to taste yourself, feeling you getting impossibly wetter. That’s his girl. 

He could never fuck you like this. 

Moans now muffled by the fabric in your mouth, his saliva-coated fingers move down to draw rough circles on your clit - making you yelp at the stimulation. 

He knows someone could walk in at any moment - and a part of him actually wants it to happen. Let them see, he thinks. At least then those fuckers would finally take a hint.

A soft whine of his name snaps him out of his pussy-drunk thoughts, blown-out eyes now meeting your dazed ones as you lock eyes with him over your shoulder. Lipstick smeared, tears clinging to your lashes, and panties half-hanging out of your kiss-bitten lips.

Ah, actually scratch that - he’s gonna keep his pretty lil’ best friend all to himself.

“Shhh, my angel. I’ve got you.” he towers over you, pressing a trail of kisses up the curve of your spine before angling your neck to attach his lips with yours. He delights in your surprised squeal, clearly not expecting him to kiss you with your panties still in your mouth. But for you, he’d do anything.

Cock twitching, your feet almost lift off the ground as the rhythm of his hips gets harsher. He intertwines his tongue with yours, sweet slick-soaked panties wrapped in the middle. Fuck, he was going insane at the contrast of your soft tongue with the lacy fabric of your panties, hand around your neck getting tighter.

You moan incoherently as he sucks on your tongue, drool dripping down the corner of your mouth and onto the polished library desk. 

It was so fucking lewd. Doesn’t matter how many losers swarm around you - none of them deserved you. None of them could fuck you like this.

Your sounds of pleasure get more and more frantic as his cock still slams inside you relentlessly, ringed-fingers continuing their abuse on your clit - getting closer and closer to what you crave.

He can feel the way your walls flutter so snugly around him. God, he’s so fucking turned on that he doesn’t know whether the heartbeat he feels between his legs is his or yours.

Neither of you have to wait long. His tongue still continues its dance with yours, around your soaked panties, as you both cum with a muffled moan. 

Your pussy clenches around him as you climax him as if to milk his cock for all he’s worth. And you do, thick ropes of his hot cum painting your pulsing hole white. 

Riding out both your highs, he fucks his cum into you animalistically - feet lifting off the floor at his firm grip on your waist and the sheer power of his rough thrusts.

So messy. Damn, he has to send the librarian an apology gift later - a fruit basket or something, he wonders, barely lucidly. 

His mind is still foggy as he pulls his sensitive cock out, and pockets your panties for a lonely night without his dear best friend. Promptly plugging his fingers in your quivering pussy, cum smearing on his fingers, he mutters out a quick “Keep it inside.”

Walking out of the heavy, sex-filled atmosphere of the study room, he bumps into that fucking study buddy of yours - running late and clearly surprised to see him there.

With a slow smirk, “Sorry in advance, my girl made a bit of a mess in there. Hope you don’t mind.”

Hey, this is what best friends are for, right?

- GOJO, GETO, Choso, Tsukishima, ATSUMU, SUNA, Oikawa, Kuroo, EREN, Armin

A/N. Teehee *blushes like a slut*

Longfic Sunday incoming if I manage to write 6k words by tomorrow.

Plagiarism not authorized.