#That ending is a mixed bag all the way through

[v6quewrlds]

&.⠀⠀OFF THE TABLE I⠀⋆⠀JUSTIN HERBERT.

pairing⠀⁎⠀justin herbert x single mother!oc. word count⠀⁎⠀4.3k.

series summary⠀⁎⠀in maya's eyes, love has been completely off the table since the birth of her son, miles, six years ago. fate disagrees with maya's point of view, bringing her justin in more ways than one.

author's note⠀⁎⠀these chapters will generally be under 10k words. no idea how long it's gonna be, but i have several parts planned for the future <3 series warnings⠀⁎⠀18+ mdni, smut (none in this part), oc warning [maya atkins], single motherhood, friends with benefits, discussions of guilt, mention of deadbeat dads.

read more⠀⁎⠀justin herbert masterlist⠀⁎⠀part two.

The rumble of the car engine came to a stop as Maya pulled into the driveway of her parents' home. The right index finger of her unmanicured hand was pressed against the start/stop button, and she felt the subtle vibration under her thighs completely halt. She took a moment to gaze at the quiet street, the porch light casting a warm glow on the lawn. Streaks of gold mixed with pinks, purples, and midnight blue painted the sky, hinting at the end of a long week, yet the start of a long weekend.

She collected her keys, leaving her purse behind in the passenger's seat. Her heels hit the concrete one after the other, her muscles tensing as she pushed herself onto her feet. "Bag," she muttered to herself, turning towards the back doors of her recently upgraded Mazda CX-5. She grabbed the handle with her left hand and pulled open the door with a click. The smell of the leather interior melded with the faint scent of Miles' shampoo from his car seat. Her hand reached in to grab the bag she had packed for his weekend with his grandparents. Two of his favorite plushies, his book for the week—Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, his current hyperfixation was Roald Dahl chapter books, and a tablet (parental controlled to hell) with access to only educational content.

The bag slung over her right shoulder familiarly, though the stretch of her blazer pulled at the left. She locked the car with a habitual double press of the lock button on her keys, then turned on her heel to approach the house. Her eyes fell upon the welcome mat, slightly askew from a day of her parents' comings and goings. She corrected it with a gentle nudge of her foot before using her spare key to unlock the door.

"Mom, Dad," she called out, her voice echoing through the hallway. The smell of dinner lingered in the air—something rich and comforting that immediately made her stomach growl. She pulled her heels off, bending over to set them on the rack beside the door. Her feet sighed with relief as they met the cool tile. "Miles," she sang out, a smile playing on her lips. The patter of little feet grew closer, and before she could even straighten up, she was enveloped in a warm, sticky hug.

"Mommy!" Miles beamed, his eyes sparkling with excitement. He held onto her tightly, his small body wriggling against hers.

"Hi, baby," she responded, feeling his energy and love in every inch of her being. She knelt down to return his embrace fully, her cheek pressing to his soft hair. "How was school today?"

"Good," he said, his voice muffled against her neck. "We had a pizza party!"

Maya chuckled. "Wow, sounds like a great Friday. Did you save any for me?"

Miles pulled away, his face flushed. "Nope, I ate it all," he said with a cheeky grin, his breathing heavy from the excitement of seeing his mom.

Maya laughed, brushing some lint away from his striped blue and orange t-shirt. "I bet it was real good, huh?" she said, standing up. She bent down to kiss him on the forehead, her eyes catching the glint of the gold necklace her mother had given her for her birthday years ago and saved when she outgrew it, so the necklace was now a permanent part of Miles' collection.

"Where's Papa and Mimi?" Maya asked, setting the bag down near the stairs. They had picked Miles up from school on her behalf, as they always did on Fridays which she used to meet with her clients located the farthest away from her central hub of Los Angeles County.

Miles looked up at her with those same brown eyes she saw in the mirror every morning, his little face a canvas of innocence and curiosity. "Papa is in the bathroom, and Mimi is in the kitchen," he said, pointing down the hall, reaching up for her hand to guide her.

Maya's mother, Brandy, emerged from the kitchen, her eyes lighting up at the sight of her daughter. She was a smaller woman, her natural coils that matched her daughter's were pulled back from her face with an extra-large claw clip Maya recognized as one likely stolen from her collection. The twist out on her 4B hair looked fresh, saturated with her favorite curl cream that smelled of shea butter.

"Maya, baby, how was your week?" she asked, her voice warm and inviting. She turned to face her daughter, dressed in a V-neck top and flared yoga pants. Her arms opened wide, ready to embrace her.

Maya stepped into the warm hug, feeling the stress of the week melt away. "It was busy, but productive," she replied, her voice muffled against her mother's shoulder. "How did the pick-up go?"

"It went well," Brandy said, pulling back to look at Maya. "You look good, baby. Did you finally get some rest?"

Maya nodded. "I had a meeting that ran late, but I managed to squeeze in a quick nap before I picked him up on Thursday." She took a deep breath, the aroma of her mother's perfume bringing a brush of comfort to her senses.

Her father, Raymond, appeared at the top of the stairs. "Look who's here," he boomed, his baritone voice filling the space. "You staying for dinner?"

Maya glanced at her watch, the digital face reading 6:45 PM. "Can't tonight, Dad. I'm heading down to that new place on Melrose for dinner and drinks," she said, reaching out to hug her father, who stumbled as Miles scrambled to hug his leg.

"Oh, okay," Raymond said, his eyes searching hers before he added. "You meeting someone?"

Maya shook her head with a roll of her eyes, "No, working again. The client I'm working with is struggling with menu items, just need to get an idea of what's out there, what's popular…" she responded, watching as Miles turned to run off for the door, presumably eager to dig into his bag of activities.

"Bubba, what do you need?" she called after him, watching as he disappeared into the living room.

"Nothing, Mommy, I got it," he yelled back, immediately following up with a 'rawr' signaling he had found his dinosaur plushie.

Brandy chuckled. "He's in a loud mood today," she said, stepping aside to let Maya into the kitchen. The counters were cleared of the usual clutter, a sign that her mother had spent most of the day cleaning in preparation for Hurricane Miles. "How long do you think you'll be out tonight?"

Maya shrugged. "As long as it takes, I guess. I'll text when I'm on my way home," she said, leaning against the kitchen counter, her eyes scanning over the fridge covered in her son's artwork. And there it was, that creeping of guilt into her stomach. She knew her parents looked forward to their weekends with Miles, but she couldn't help the feeling that she was abandoning him. It was a sinking feeling that she had grown accustomed to over the years, especially when work called on her weekends.

"You're thinking too deep, Maya," Raymond said, his hand landing on Maya's shoulder with a gentle squeeze. "You work hard all week, you deserve a break. Get your work done, go home, sleep in—" before he could complete his thought, her mother interrupted.

"Don't be shy to get some," Brandy added with a knowing smile. Maya chuckled, rolling her eyes. Her parents had always been blunt about their desires for her to find someone, but she was always amused by the bluntness of it all. She hadn't had a serious relationship since Miles' dad, and even that was more of a whirlwind romance that ended with a baby and a lot of unanswered questions.

"I'm just going to check on Miles before I head out," Maya said, making her way to the living room. Her son was sprawled on the floor, the backpack wide open, its contents spilling out like a treasure chest of toys and books. She squatted beside him, her hand smoothing over his hair. "Remember to be good for Mimi and Papa, okay?"

Miles looked up at her with those big, innocent eyes. "I will, Mommy. I'll miss you."

"I'll miss you too, sweetie," Maya said, her voice thick with affection. She gave him another kiss, then stood, her eyes following him as he turned back to his toys to continue playing. She took a deep breath, gathering herself.

"Okay, I'm heading out," she called out to her parents, picking up her purse and sliding her feet back into her heels. "Let me know if you all need anything, okay?"

"We're fine, baby," Brandy said, waving her off with a dish towel. "You go do what you have to do. Enjoy your weekend, honey."

Maya nodded, slipping her phone into her pocket and grabbing her bag. "Love you, Miles," she called out, her heels clicking against the floor as she made her way to the door. She stepped out into the cool evening air, the breeze playing with her hair. She took a moment to appreciate the quiet of the neighborhood before climbing into her car and heading towards Melrose.

The restaurant was already bustling when she arrived, the neon lights flickering in the windows. She stepped inside, the low murmur of conversation and the clink of glasses filling her ears. The hostess, a young woman with a sleek bob, glanced up from her podium. "Just one tonight?" she asked, her eyes scanning Maya from head to toe.

Maya nodded. "Yes, just me. Do you offer food at the bar?"

The hostess smiled, grabbing two menus. "Absolutely," she said, leading Maya through the crowded dining area to the bar. The space was intimate, with high-backed stools and a polished mahogany bar that gleamed under the soft lights. She took a seat at the corner, her back to the wall, and opened her notebook to the page she had reserved for the night's findings.

She scribbled her first observations, namely the lighting—soft and flattering, a good balance between mood and practicality—and the music, a mix of old school R&B and contemporary jazz that created an ambiance that was both nostalgic and modern. The bar was a blend of chrome and glass, with bottles of various liquors arranged with the precision of a museum exhibit.

"What can I get you, gorgeous?" the bartender, a man in his early 30s with a clean-shaven face and a friendly smile, asked as he approached her.

Maya looked up from her notebook and gave him a polite smile. "I'll warn you I'm a culinary consultant, so please forgive me if I annoy you tonight," she said, her voice a smooth blend of humor and apology. "Could I start with a non-alcoholic mojito?"

The bartender grinned. "Not a problem, I've had my fair share of picky customers," he joked, getting to work on her drink. "What brings you here? Just work?"

Maya nodded, watching him mix the mint and lime with soda water. "Always," she replied, her eyes taking in the freshness of the ingredients set in front of him. "I've got a client looking to spice up their menu, and I want to see what's working for others before I make any suggestions."

The bartender slid her drink over, the mint leaves bobbing at the top. She took a sip, her eyes closing as she savored the crispness of the mint and the sweetness of the lime. It was perfect, and she made a note of that. "You're in luck," he said. "We just revamped ours last week. If you're looking for inspiration, I can give you the rundown on what's selling and what's not."

Maya's eyes lit up. "That would be amazing," she said though her head turned at the sound of a guest attempting to capture the bartender's attention. "Come find me when you're free," she told him gesturing behind him. "I'll be here a while," she finished with a laugh.

The bartender nodded and moved off to serve the waiting customer, leaving Maya to sip her drink and continue her observations. She noticed the way the staff interacted with each other and the guests, the efficiency of their movements, and the presentation of the food that was being delivered. She made notes about the cleanliness of the bar and the variety of the non-alcoholic options, something that she felt was often lacking in similar establishments.

As the evening progressed, she ordered a few more items from the menu, each one carefully considered and critiqued in her notes. The bartender, whose name she had learned was Caleb, checked in with her periodically, offering insights into the popularity of certain dishes and sharing a few stories about the chefs that had created them. The conversation flowed easily between them, a blend of professional curiosity and friendly banter that had her relaxing more and more as the night went on.

The low murmurs of the restaurant at the beginning of the night slowly grew to all all-out chatter and laughter as more guests filled the space. Maya's notebook was now a canvas of scribbled notes surrounded by three half-eaten appetizers and an empty mojito glass. Caleb, the bartender, had been true to his word, keeping her informed of the bestsellers and even slipping in some behind-the-scenes gossip about the staff drama.

With the swell of guests, she decided to take a backseat, allowing him to handle the busy crowd. As the night grew later, the restaurant's energy remained high. Taking another look at the menu, she picked out a dessert to end the evening with, lifting her head to begin an attempt to catch Caleb's eye.

Her efforts proved increasingly difficult as Caleb found himself pulled in all directions by guests across a spectrum of intoxication levels, each demanding his attention. She pursed her lips, watching him juggle drink orders and good-natured banter with a skill that suggested he'd been born to this life.

As she sought to capture the bartender's attention once more, she felt a presence beside her. She glanced over to find a tall, broad-shouldered man in a dark shirt and dark wash jeans, his handsome face framed by the dusting of his well-groomed facial hair across the lower half. His sandy hair curled perfectly around his ears, thick enough that she could make out layers, but not long enough that it touched his shoulders. Her second glance over his frame brought her a brief moment of shock as she took in just how tall he was. He looked at her with a friendly smile and leaned in, raising his voice slightly to be heard over the din.

"You need the bartender?" the man asked, his voice a rich baritone that resonated through the room. Maya nodded, a bit taken aback by his proximity. "I got you," he said, raising a hand to signal Caleb. The bartender nodded in recognition and held up an index finger, signaling she would be next.

"I'm Justin, by the way," the man introduced himself, extending a hand as he leaned against the bar.

Maya took a moment to appreciate the confidence in his grip and the way his eyes held hers as she took in his athletic build. "Maya," she replied, her voice a touch lighter than she intended. "Thanks for the help."

Justin nodded, his smile never faltering. "No problem. This is the busiest I've ever seen this place." He glanced around the crowded restaurant, his eyes reflecting the lights from the bar.

Maya took another sip of her drink, her gaze lingering on the group of men at the end of the bar. They were all tall and muscular, their laughter booming through the room. "You come here often?" she asked, her curiosity piqued by their presence.

"Not really," he admitted. "But when you're in town with friends, you tend to follow the crowd." He nodded towards the group, who were now looking their way.

The bartender, Caleb, made his way over, a knowing smile playing on his lips as he caught the interaction between Maya and Justin. "Another drink, Maya?" he asked, his eyes darting to Justin before returning to her.

"Dessert this time, then I'm heading out," Maya said to Caleb. "I'll do the cinnamon baklava roll-ups, to go, please. And put whatever his drink is on my tab," she added, gesturing to Justin.

Justin's eyes widened slightly. "You don't have to do that," he protested, reaching for his wallet.

Maya waved him off, her head shaking. "Consider it a thank you for saving me," she quipped, reaching in her bag to find her wallet.

Justin's hand remained outstretched, his eyebrows rising. "I can't let you do that," he said, his voice firm.

Maya chuckled, pulling out her credit card and placing it firmly on the bar. "I've got it," she assured him, her voice steady. "I'll just charge my next client extra to make up for it," she joked, her professional persona slipping slightly to reveal a playful side that matched the lightness in her eyes.

Justin hesitated for a moment before conceding with a grin. "Alright, I'll just get another Blue Moon, thanks, man." He nodded to Caleb, who took the cue to serve him up. "So, while we wait, tell me about these clients you charge exorbitant amounts for your time," he said, leaning slightly closer, his eyes sparkling.

Maya couldn't help but laugh. "It's not quite that dramatic," she said, her cheeks warming. "I'm a culinary consultant. I help restaurants and bars refine their menus, train their staff, troubleshoot, that kind of thing."

Justin nodded. His gaze was genuine, and Maya felt a flutter in her stomach. "That's pretty cool," he said. "Did you go to culinary school or something?"

Maya took a moment to appreciate his curiosity before responding. "Yeah, I did," she said. "But I realized that strictly cooking wasn't for me. I'm more of a behind-the-scenes kind of person. I like new challenges, I get to work with different kitchens and concepts. It keeps things interesting."

"So what would you recommend from this menu?" Justin asked, his eyes scanning over the list of exotic cocktails and tapas.

Maya's gaze followed his, her mind racing through the dishes she'd tried so far. "If you're into spice, the habanero-infused guacamole is amazing with the plantain chips," she said, her voice taking on a professional tone. "But if you're looking for something sweet, the churros with the caramel rum sauce are amazing."

Justin nodded thoughtfully, his eyes shifting up to take in her side profile. "I'm more of a savory guy," he said. "Did you try the chicken tacos?"

"I did," Maya said, her smile widening as she motioned to the sample to her right. "They're pretty good. The meat's cooked really nice, not too much heat. Ask for the pineapple salsa on the side to avoid getting them too soggy."

Justin's gaze lingered on her for a moment longer before he spoke up again. "It wouldn't be too forward of me to ask for your number, would it?"

Maya's heart skipped a beat. She had been enjoying the conversation, but she wasn't expecting this. She took a deep breath, contemplating the implications. "Maybe," she said coyly. "Depends on why you want it."

Justin leaned in, his voice lowering. "Well, I'd love to pick your brain about more of these hidden gems in the city," he said. "And maybe, if you're down for it, I'd like to take you out for a drink. You know, to thank you for the advice and to make up for the fact that I didn't pay for that last one."

Maya felt a warmth spread through her chest, his words carrying an undeniable charm. She studied him for a moment, taking in the confidence that seemed so natural to him. "Alright," she said finally, taking his phone in her hand. "Does this make us even?"

Justin grinned as he watched her type in her number. "More than," he said, taking his phone back and sending her a quick text to confirm they had connected. The vibration sounded in her purse, and she pulled out her own phone to read the simple message:

This is Justin. Looking forward to seeing you again.

Maya felt a thrill of excitement. It had been a while since she'd felt this way, but she couldn't ignore the little voice in the back of her mind reminding her of her responsibilities. She pushed that little voice to the side, taking a deep breath just as Caleb returned with her to-go dessert. She took it with a smile, feeling the warmth flood through the white plastic bag. She stood from her bar stool, taking in the height difference between herself and Justin. Her head tilted up to meet his eye contact, and she couldn't help but appreciate the way he had to look down at her, not in a patronizing way, but as if he were frozen in place, worried that if he broke eye contact, she'd vanish into thin air.

"I should get going," she said, the words feeling awkward on her tongue. "I have an early morning with a client."

Justin nodded, stepping back to allow her space to move in the direction of the exit. "It was nice to meet you. Maybe we can do this again sometime?" he asked, his voice hopeful.

Maya felt a tug at her heart, the kind she hadn't felt in a long time. "I'd like that," she replied, her eyes shining. "Have a good night with your friends."

"You too," Justin said, his gaze lingering on her before she turned to leave. She walked out of the bar, the cool Pacific air taking over the warmth that had settled over her skin. As she got into her car, she couldn't help but open up the message thread again, her heart racing as she reread his words. The simplicity of it—the fluttering flush of crushing—was surprisingly sweet, and she found herself smiling to herself in the quiet of the driver's seat.

Maya made the short trip home, her thoughts swirling around the encounter with Justin. She knew she couldn't get too invested—she had Miles to think about, her career to focus on—but it was difficult to ignore the excitement bubbling within her.

The hours of the next morning melted together as Maya spent the majority of her day with her client. The conversation with Justin lingered in her mind like the sweet scent of cinnamon from the baklava rolls. When her phone buzzed with a message from an unsaved number as she made the drive home, she felt a mix of excitement and trepidation.

It was simple:

How was your day?

Yet her heart skipped a beat as she read the message, recognizing the sender as none other than Justin. She set her phone aside, brainstorming a potential reply as she hit the highway toward Culver City. It was a simple text, but it felt loaded with potential. The weight of her son's importance in her life rested heavily on her shoulders, but for a moment, she allowed herself to indulge in the flirty banter that had been so long absent from her world.

Maya parked in her driveway and took a deep breath before responding.

Busy, but productive.

She texted back, keeping it casual.

How about yours?

Justin's reply came quite quickly after, relating to her woes and easing into a smooth conversation.

The male attention was a welcome change of pace for Maya, whose life had been seized by the relentless grind of single motherhood and career ambition. The conversation with Justin was a breath of fresh air, a reminder that there was more to her than just being Miles' mom.

Have you recovered from my interception last night?

Maya's text echoed in Justin's mind, bringing a smile to his face as he read it in the locker room. He quickly responded, playing along with the banter.

Barely.

He typed.

But I'm willing to let it slide if you give me a chance to redeem myself.

His foot tapped anxiously as he watched those three dots signaling her typing appeared at the bottom of the text thread. The anticipation grew as the message popped up:

Well, if you're feeling generous, maybe we could meet somewhere whenever you're free?

Justin's smile grew. He had hoped their encounter wasn't just a one-off fluke.

I'd like that.

He replied, trying to keep his excitement in check.

I should check my schedule, but I'll get back to you with a few dates.

The schedule in question had nearly two entire weeks blocked off between the start of OTAs and some promotional appearances and photoshoots. He figured he'd take another look at his schedule when he was home, sitting down, and freshly showered without the wandering gazes of his teammates who still circled in the locker room.

So he left it there, gathered his towel, and headed for the showers.

Leaving it there stretched on, the dates left unchecked, the promise of getting back to her forgotten. As the days passed, Maya found herself touching the edge of disappointment, scooching close to tumbling over when she checked her phone for a follow-up or even just an apology for disappearing that never came. She reasoned it was for the best, that she had Miles to focus on, and that maybe, just maybe, she'd dodged a bullet with a tall, charming man who likely had more women in his lineup than he could count.

So she threw herself back into her work, balancing motherhood and her consulting gigs with renewed vigor, trying her best to shake off the sting of "what if?".

[aventurineswife]

Ok I thought of something silly:

There’s an old lady NPC running a grocery stand in Okhema’s Marmoreal Market, Demetria.

Reader and Dan Heng are there to do a little shopping (they have to feed themselves, after all) and Demetria shuffles a few extra pomegranates into their bag, on the house.

Demetria: “For you and your husband.” 😉

Reader’s too stunned to correct her that, yes, they’re in a relationship with Dan Heng, but not married.

…Should I note that pomegranates are often a symbol of fertility? 😅 Nevermind that Vidyadhara are unable to reproduce—

Sweet as Pomegranate

Summary: While shopping for supplies in Okhema’s Marmoreal Market, you and Dan Heng encounter Demetria, an old woman running a grocery stand. After she mistakenly refers to you both as a married couple, you're left flustered, but Dan Heng remains his usual composed self. The encounter ends with the old woman giving you extra pomegranates, and offering her blessings for your "union." Though you're embarrassed by the misunderstanding, there's a quiet comfort in the bond you share, even without labels.

Tags: Dan Heng x Reader, Fluff, Light Humor, Mild Embarrassment.

The bustling Marmoreal Market in Okhema was a mix of colors and scents—vendors calling out to passersby, fresh produce piled high, and the air thick with the chatter of travelers and locals alike. Dan Heng and you moved through the maze of stalls, your destination set but still taking in the sights. The two of you didn’t often spend much time on leisurely shopping trips, but today felt different. Perhaps it was the quiet calm between you, the sounds of the market filling in the spaces of a shared silence.

“Do we need anything specific?” you asked, glancing up at Dan Heng, whose sharp gaze had already scanned the nearby stands for anything of value.

He nodded, his tone as composed as ever. “We’re running low on supplies. I’ll leave the rest to you.”

That was Dan Heng’s way of leaving the choice to you. He didn’t care much about food selection, so long as it kept them fueled for the journey. You smiled, feeling a little more at ease in the lively chaos of the market.

You approached a stall tucked at the corner of the market, an old woman with silver hair and a warm, wrinkled face sitting behind a counter stacked high with fruits. She looked up as you approached, her bright eyes twinkling with something mischievous.

“Well, well, if it isn’t the quiet young man and his lovely companion,” she greeted, her voice carrying a touch of playfulness that immediately put you at ease. “Come to get some fresh pomegranates, I suppose?”

You blinked, your thoughts a little slower to catch up. You weren’t sure how she knew your names, but you didn’t have much time to dwell on it.

“Yes, please,” you said, nodding. “We’ll take a few pomegranates.”

The elderly woman smiled as she carefully plucked the ripe fruits, placing them into a woven bag. Her hands moved with the practiced precision of someone who had spent countless years at this task.

As she reached for a few more, she added in a voice just low enough that only you and Dan Heng could hear, “For you and your husband.”

You froze. The words hung in the air, unexpected and startling. A blush crept up your neck, and you opened your mouth to correct her, but the words caught in your throat. You were too stunned to explain the mistake that had just been made. You glanced at Dan Heng, who remained perfectly composed, his usual impassive expression unreadable.

The old woman didn’t seem to notice your hesitation as she shuffled a few more pomegranates into the bag. “For good health and good fortune, yes? A lovely couple like you deserves to have something sweet.” Her smile was warm, and her eyes sparkled with something playful—or perhaps knowing.

You blinked, not quite sure how to respond. It wasn’t that you were uncomfortable with the idea of being thought of as Dan Heng’s partner. It was just… the husband part. You weren’t married. Not that the idea hadn’t crossed your mind a few times, especially during the quiet moments you shared with him on the Astral Express. But there was a certain weight to the word, something formal and unspoken, that made you hesitant.

But Demetria was already wrapping up the pomegranates, slipping them into a bag with a wink. “On the house,” she said, her tone as light and teasing as ever.

You opened your mouth to protest, but she held up a hand. “No need to argue, dear. Consider it a gift for your lovely union. Blessings for the future, hmm?”

Your cheeks burned with embarrassment, and you looked over at Dan Heng, your thoughts racing. How would he react? To your surprise, his face remained as unreadable as ever. There was no sign of discomfort, amusement, or annoyance—nothing to give away what he was thinking. He simply nodded politely, accepting the bag of pomegranates with the same quiet composure he always held.

You felt your heart race, unsure of what to say. Finally, you managed a soft, “Thank you…”

Demetria winked again, then turned to Dan Heng. “Take care of them now, won’t you? A man should always take care of his spouse.” She said it with the kind of certainty that only comes from a lifetime of experience.

Dan Heng, ever the enigma, merely gave a small nod. "I will." His voice was calm, but there was something else in it—something you couldn’t quite place.

Once you were out of earshot, your embarrassment finally broke free, and you turned to Dan Heng with a small laugh. “Well, that was… unexpected.”

Dan Heng’s response was as measured as always. “It’s not uncommon for people to assume things,” he said, his eyes catching yours for the briefest moment before he turned away. “We should head back.”

You couldn’t help but smile a little at his nonchalant attitude. His reserved nature hadn’t allowed him to clarify anything either—he’d let the old woman’s words hang there, unanswered. But despite the awkwardness of the situation, there was something comforting in the way Dan Heng remained unfazed, even in the face of a misunderstanding.

The two of you walked side by side through the market, the pomegranates quietly swaying in the bag between you, as the weight of the words settled in your mind.

Perhaps you weren't married. But that didn’t make the connection between you and Dan Heng any less meaningful. And maybe, just maybe, you both could share a quiet understanding about it, without needing to define it with labels. For now, you’d leave it as it was—like the fruits you carried, ripe with promise and yet undefined.

And as for the old woman’s blessings… you’d let them be a little joke between you, something sweet, like the pomegranates themselves.

[niallerspayno]

Gates Of Hell

Masterlist

When a hotel mix-up forces you to share a bed with the one member of the band you can’t stand, years of bickering with Zayn explode into something far rougher—and far more intimate—than either of you ever planned.

Tags: Zayn x reader, enemies to lovers, forced proximity, smut (unprotected p in v, fem receiving oral, light choking)

…

You’ve been part of One Direction for almost two years now—long enough that the fans have finally stopped calling you “the new one.”

It was meant to be temporary. A label experiment. A single feature on a single track that turned into a last-minute tour spot, and then somehow, a permanent place onstage beside them.

The boys took you in like family. Louis is your chaos partner. Niall brings you coffee every morning without fail. Harry hugs you just because he can. Liam makes sure you actually sleep. They’re your brothers in every way that matters.

All of them—except Zayn.

Zayn has always been… difficult.

He’s never liked you, not from the start. You don’t know why, and you stopped asking a long time ago. Every word between you two is short, sharp, and delivered through clenched teeth. The others call it “banter.” You know better. You’ve tried civility, silence, sarcasm—nothing works.

And now you’re in a hotel lobby somewhere in Germany, staring at Paul like he’s just announced the end of the world.

“Only three rooms?” you repeat, your voice flat.

Paul sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “There was a mix-up with the booking system. They’re completely full. I’ve tried calling around, but everything nearby’s the same story. It’s one night. You’ll survive.”

You open your mouth to argue, to suggest maybe you could share with literally anyone else—

“I’m with Liam,” Niall says quickly, tossing his bag over his shoulder like it’s already settled. “He doesn’t snore. Much.”

“Oi,” Liam mutters, but he doesn’t argue.

“I call Harry,” Louis chimes in, spinning his room key between his fingers. “He lets me use his conditioner.”

Harry gasps. “You use it? I thought it just vanished! You little thief.”

You whirl on them. “Wait, seriously? You’re all just—”

“It’s one night, love,” Louis says sweetly, far too sweetly, already backing toward the lift. “Think of it as… trust-building.”

“Or a social experiment,” Niall offers, eyes twinkling. “Can the two mortal enemies survive a king-sized bed?”

Harry leans in behind Louis, stage-whispers, “Spoiler: they can’t.”

“I’m not sharing with him,” you hiss, jabbing a finger in Zayn’s direction.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Zayn mutters, dragging his suitcase behind him with the enthusiasm of a man heading to the gallows.

Paul groans, rubbing at his temples like the headache just kicked in. “Can we please not do this here? It’s two in the morning, I haven’t eaten since Berlin, and I swear to God, if anyone else makes a joke about ‘enemies to lovers’ I’m putting you all in bunk beds.”

“You hear that?” Louis gasps dramatically. “That’s a trope threat. We’re this close to a ‘there was only one sleeping bag’ situation.”

“Or—” Niall leans toward you with a grin “—we lean into it. Really lean in. Sparks fly. One bed. The tension. The rage. The—”

“The restraining order,” you cut in.

Paul claps his hands once. Loud. “Enough. You’re all acting like children. Room keys have been handed out. No switching, no whining. I don’t care if you build a pillow wall or sleep in the tub, just don’t cause a scene.”

He looks at you, then at Zayn. “And you two—try not to end up on the news.”

Then he walks off muttering something about needing a raise.

You glance over at Zayn. He’s silent, jaw tight, gaze fixed on the elevator.

You grip the key in your fist. “I hate this.”

Zayn shrugs. “Good. We’re off to a great start.”

And with that, he turns and walks toward the lift without waiting for you.

You stomp after him, wheeling your suitcase behind you with all the grace of a hungover rhino. Zayn doesn’t even hold the lift. He just steps inside and hits the button like you’re not two feet behind him.

The doors are nearly closed when Harry wedges his boot in and squeezes in beside you, Louis, Niall, and Liam following like a pack of gossip-hungry hyenas.

“Cozy,” Louis chirps, practically bouncing on his heels.

Zayn leans against the wall, arms folded, hood still up, eyes closed like he’s trying to pretend the rest of you don’t exist.

Unfortunately for him, you do. Very loudly.

“Don’t fall asleep,” you mutter. “I’m not carrying your sulking corpse upstairs.”

His eyes flick open. “As if you could.”

“Oh, I could. I’d just drop you halfway up the stairs.”

“I’d rather that than listen to you talk all night.”

“You wish I’d talk to you at all.”

Louis lets out a dramatic gasp. “Enemies to lovers speed run, lads, we are witnessing history.”

“I give it till midnight before one of them gets handsy,” Niall says, elbowing Liam. “Ten bucks says it’s her.”

You scowl. “I will shove you all down this elevator shaft.”

Harry snorts. “Please don’t. I’m too pretty to die.”

Zayn doesn’t say anything else, just mutters something under his breath in Urdu that you’re pretty sure is not complimentary.

The elevator dings.

Mercifully.

The doors slide open and you barrel out, not bothering to wait for him this time. Your room is at the end of the hall—of course it is—and you lead the way with a huff, ignoring the snickers echoing behind you.

“You two have fun,” Louis calls after you, sing-song and evil. “Remember—cuddle therapy! It’s real!”

“Sweet dreams,” Harry adds. “Try not to kill each other. Or do. It’d be interesting either way.”

You slam the door shut behind you as Zayn steps in.

The room isn’t small, but it sure as hell feels like it. Neutral-toned walls, one low lamp casting a soft yellow glow, and a bed that is definitely not made for two people who hate each other.

You drop your suitcase at the foot of it and cross your arms.

Zayn doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t say a word. He just shrugs off his hoodie and tosses it onto the nearest chair.

And underneath it?

Black tank top.

Tattooed arms on full display.

Of course.

You try not to look, which means you absolutely do look, and then regret it instantly.

Because Zayn’s hot. Infuriatingly, unfairly hot. And that’s the problem, isn’t it? If he were just a dick with no jawline or tattoos or that voice like molasses and smoke, you could hate him easily.

But no. He has to smirk at you when he catches you staring.

“See something you like?” he says, all low and smug.

You scoff. “Please. I’ve seen more impressive shoulders on coat hangers.”

He chuckles under his breath, slow and deep. “That why you’re still staring?”

“I’m not—” you start, then clamp your mouth shut when you realize you are.

Zayn moves toward the bed like he owns it, dragging his suitcase closer and unzipping it with one hand. “Let me guess. You’re the type to steal all the blankets, yeah?”

“You’re the type to hog them.”

“Not if you stay on your side.”

You glare. “I’m going to build a pillow wall.”

He shrugs. “Good. Maybe it’ll muffle the sound of your whining.”

You throw a pillow at him.

He catches it one-handed, grinning now—sharp and wicked—and tosses it onto the bed before peeling off his tank top in one smooth motion.

Your brain stalls.

Every inch of his torso is light olive skin and ink and lean, defined muscle. Tattoos swirl across his chest, down his arms, over his ribs. He stretches just a little as he tosses the shirt aside, like he knows what he’s doing.

And then he crawls into bed.

Not slides.

Not climbs.

Crawls.

Slow. Casual. Effortless.

Like he’s done it a thousand times. Like this is his bed. His room.

You’re still standing there blinking when he flops back against the pillow, one arm tucked behind his head, sheets riding low on his hips.

He doesn’t even look at you.

Just mutters, “Turn the light off when you’re done staring.”

Your jaw drops.

You grab your pyjamas from your suitcase with a snap, fists clenched tight around the fabric, and storm toward the bathroom before you do something insane.

Like look again.

Or punch him.

Or both.

Inside, you slam the door and lock it, breathing hard.

Your skin is flushed. Your heart’s racing.

And you hate—hate—how warm your face feels.

Because no matter how much you loathe him, no matter how much he grates on every last nerve you have…

You’re still flustered.

You change slowly, trying not to overthink it—but of course you do.

The red satin set wasn’t chosen for this. It’s just what was clean. A camisole that dips a little too low, shorts that cling a little too well. Silky, soft, and completely inappropriate for sharing a bed with the one person you swore you’d never even nap near.

You stare at yourself in the mirror, mutter a quiet “fuck it,” and open the door.

He’s still in bed.

But now he’s looking at you.

Lying there on his side, head propped on his hand, sheets tangled around his hips. His eyes trail over you—slow, deliberate, unbothered. Heat simmers behind them, dark and unreadable.

You freeze in the doorway. “What?”

Zayn doesn’t blink. “Didn’t realize we were dressing for seduction.”

You narrow your eyes. “Didn’t realize you were such a perv.”

He hums like he’s amused. “You’re the one wearing lingerie.”

“It’s pyjamas, you dick.”

“Sure.”

“You were shirtless first,” you snap, stomping toward the bed.

“Not my fault you’re easily flustered.”

“Not flustered,” you lie, yanking the covers back and sliding in with sharp, irritated movements. “Just repulsed.”

Zayn’s voice is close when he murmurs, “That why your cheeks are still red?”

You nearly launch a pillow at him again, but instead, you turn your back to him with a dramatic huff and yank the covers up to your chin.

The bed shifts beside you.

You feel it—his body moving just enough to make the mattress dip. His leg brushes yours under the covers, a light, irritating graze that makes you jolt.

You snap your leg away like it burns. “Try that again and I’ll break your fucking knee.”

Zayn exhales a quiet laugh. “Didn’t realize breathing was an act of war.”

“You didn’t breathe. You drifted. There’s a difference.”

He shifts again—deliberately this time—and his foot presses against yours, slow and unapologetic.

Your pulse spikes.

“Zayn,” you warn.

“What?” he murmurs, voice low, almost amused. “Worried you’ll like it?”

You roll toward him with a glare. “Touch me again, and I swear to God, I’ll stab you in your sleep.”

He raises a brow, eyes flicking lazily over your face—and then lower. “That a threat?”

You lean in, your voice sharp enough to cut. “It’s a fucking guarantee.”

He smirks, something wicked curling at the corner of his mouth. “Mm. Might be worth it.”

Your blood boils. From rage. From heat. From him.

You should turn away. You should shut your eyes, roll over, and pretend none of this ever happened.

Instead—your knee brushes his thigh.

Slow. Deliberate.

His smirk falters.

Then he snaps.

In one fluid, furious motion, Zayn rolls on top of you—body pinning yours to the mattress, hands grabbing your wrists and slamming them into the pillows above your head.

You gasp, startled.

“You started this,” he growls, voice rough and right at your ear. “And now you’re gonna pretend you didn’t want me to do something about it?”

You writhe beneath him, your anger tangling with something hotter, deeper—your body betraying you, reacting to the weight of him, the scent of him, the way his chest presses to yours, bare skin sliding against satin.

“I hate you,” you spit, but your voice breaks around it. Your hips lift, trying to find friction, your breath already quickening.

Zayn looks down at you like he’s ready to ruin you.

“You hate me?” he repeats, grinding his hips into yours—slow, punishing. “Then why are you so fucking wet for me?”

Your eyes snap shut as a desperate noise escapes your throat, and you curse yourself for the heat pooling between your legs, for the way your body arches into his touch without permission.

Zayn doesn’t wait for a reply.

His mouth crashes down on yours—hot, rough, furious. It’s not gentle. It’s not sweet. It’s teeth and tongue and years of unsaid words poured into a single, punishing kiss.

You fight him.

Your hands twist in his grip, your mouth trying to pull away, but it’s all for show—and you both know it. Because the moment his tongue sweeps past your lips, the moment he groans into your mouth like he’s starving for it, your body melts beneath him.

He growls against your lips, releasing your wrists only to slide his hands down your body, gripping your waist hard enough to bruise. “Keep struggling,” he mutters darkly. “See how long I hold back.”

“I’m not.” You gasp as he grinds down harder, cock pressed thick and hot against your core.

“Bullshit,” he hisses, dragging his mouth down your neck. “You’ve wanted this for months. You just didn’t want to say it first.”

His teeth sink into your throat, sharp and possessive, and you cry out—not in pain, not really. It’s too hot, too intense. It sends a shiver straight through you.

You slap at his shoulder, but it’s weak, half-hearted. “You’re such a prick.”

“Keep talking,” he growls. “Say something else I can bite you for.”

And he does—right at the base of your throat. Then lower, dragging the strap of your camisole down with his teeth until your breast spills free, flushed and aching.

“You look better like this,” he mutters. “Messy. Needy. Mine.”

You hiss at the claim. “I’m not—”

But he cuts you off with another kiss, this one even rougher. His hands are everywhere—palming your breast, tugging your hips higher, pressing you exactly where he wants you. You can feel how hard he is, how ready.

“You are,” he growls against your mouth, biting your lower lip before kissing you breathless again. “You fucking are.”

Zayn’s mouth is everywhere—biting, licking, tasting. Down your neck, across your collarbone, then lower, lips wrapping around your nipple as he sucks hard, hand splayed across your stomach to keep you still.

You squirm, hips shifting against him, but he growls and pins you down harder.

“Stop moving,” he snaps, voice dark and frayed. “Or I’ll make you beg.”

You glare, chest heaving, every inch of your skin prickling under his touch. “I’m not begging for anything.”

He smirks against your skin. “You will.”

Then he slides down your body, dragging the satin shorts with him. The fabric clings to your thighs, soaked through, and he hums low in his throat when he sees it. “Look at that,” he murmurs. “So wet. All that attitude, and you’re already fucking dripping.”

You move to kick him, but he grabs your thighs and shoves them apart, spreading you wide and lowering his face between them.

You barely have time to snap another threat before his mouth is on you.

Hot. Wet. Unrelenting.

Zayn licks you like he’s trying to punish you with pleasure—long, deep strokes of his tongue that make your hips jerk and your thighs clamp around his head, only for him to shove them apart again with a growl.

“Stay still,” he snaps against your pussy, voice muffled and rough.

You try.

God, you try.

But his tongue is ruthless, circling your clit just right, dipping lower, fucking into you with practiced precision. He moans against you like he loves the taste of your surrender, and the sound goes straight to your spine.

Your fingers twist in the sheets. Your body’s trembling. Your legs won’t stop shaking.

“Zayn—” you gasp, a warning, a plea.

He groans again, arms locking tighter around your thighs, holding you in place while his mouth devours you. Lips, tongue, teeth—every part of him claiming you, ruining you.

You’re so close.

The pressure coils low in your belly, hot and tight and overwhelming. Your hips twitch, your breath breaks, your whole body tenses—

And then he stops.

Pulls back completely.

You whine—loud and raw, shocked by the sudden loss. “What the fuck—”

Zayn wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes wild and glinting.

“You don’t get to come yet,” he says, voice wrecked. “Not until you beg.”

You stare at him, panting, furious, soaked and throbbing and trembling beneath him.

“You bastard,” you breathe.

He smirks, lips still glistening. “Keep talking like that,” he murmurs, crawling back up your body, “and I’ll edge you ‘til you’re crying.”

His mouth brushes your ear. “Say it.”

Your body aches—every nerve lit, every muscle trembling, your cunt clenching around nothing, desperate and empty and throbbing with need. You’re furious. Humiliated. Soaked.

And still—your hips roll against him again.

Zayn groans into your ear, his teeth grazing your skin. “Say it,” he breathes. “Say you want me to fuck you. Say it and I’ll give you everything.”

You bite back a moan, refusing to give him the satisfaction.

But then his hand slides between your legs again—fingers slipping through your slick folds, teasing, cruel.

He doesn’t push in.

He doesn’t touch your clit.

He just hovers there. Threatening. Promising.

“Beg,” he growls. “Come on, princess. I’ve got all night.”

You glare up at him, chest heaving, heart pounding.

And then—

“Please,” you rasp. It rips from you before you can stop it. “Please, Zayn.”

He stills.

Your pride cracks in your voice as you meet his eyes. “I need you to fuck me.”

His mouth crashes against yours before the sentence is finished—biting, claiming, starved. One hand grabs your thigh, pulling you open, and the other wraps around your throat, just enough pressure to keep you his.

“Good girl,” he growls against your lips. “Now don’t fucking hold back.”

He doesn’t waste a second.

Zayn shoves his briefs down just far enough, his cock thick and flushed, heavy against your thigh. You feel the heat of him, the weight, the sheer intent in the way he lines himself up and presses the head right where you need him most—slow and teasing at first, like he wants to savor your desperation.

But he’s not in the mood to be gentle.

Not tonight.

With a low, vicious growl, he thrusts in hard—deep and sudden, burying himself inside you in one unforgiving stroke.

You cry out, back arching, fingers clawing at his shoulders as the breath gets punched out of you. The stretch is intense, overwhelming, but it’s perfect. He feels too good, too deep, too much—and your body takes him anyway, clenching around him like it’s exactly what you’ve been starving for.

“Fuck,” he groans, voice rough and ruined. “You feel that? You were made for this. Made for me.”

His hand tightens at your throat—not choking, just holding. Just claiming.

“You begged for it,” he snarls, hips snapping forward again, the pace brutal from the start. “So take it.”

And you do.

You meet every thrust, your body greedy for more, your moans growing louder with every slap of skin against skin. He’s feral with it, fucking you like it’s the only way to shut you up—like it’s the only way he knows how to make you his.

“Look at you,” he pants, watching the way your face twists beneath him. “So cocky until you’re full of me. You love this, don’t you? Love being fucked like you’re mine.”

You nod, barely able to breathe, tears stinging at the corners of your eyes from the intensity. “Yes—fuck, Zayn—”

“That’s right,” he growls. “Say my name. Let the whole fucking hotel know who’s making you come.”

Your voice is hoarse, raw from moaning, crying out, begging. And he’s not slowing down.

Zayn’s hand slides from your throat to the back of your neck, forcing you to keep your eyes on him. “Keep looking at me,” he grits out. “I want to see your face when you come.”

You’re close. Too close.

Your thighs tremble, body arching into every brutal snap of his hips, the bed creaking beneath you as he fucks you hard enough to make the headboard slam against the wall. It should be embarrassing. Should make you shy, make you want to crawl into yourself.

But you don’t.

You meet his thrusts with all the fire still left in you, teeth bared, fingers digging into his shoulders as you growl, “Harder.”

Zayn snarls like an animal, shifting his grip to pin both your wrists above your head again, body slamming into yours with even more force.

“You don’t get to ask,” he spits. “Not anymore. You gave yourself to me when you begged.”

You can barely breathe, tears slipping down your temples now—not from pain, not really, just too much pleasure. Too much of him.

“I hate you,” you rasp, voice shaking.

“I know,” he pants, hips grinding deep. “Hate me while I make you come.”

His free hand slides between you, fingers rubbing your clit in tight, punishing circles. You cry out, body jerking under him.

“You’re shaking,” he growls. “You gonna come for me?”

You nod, frantic.

“Say it.”

“I’m gonna come—fuck, Zayn—please—”

That’s all it takes.

Your orgasm slams into you like a freight train—violent, overwhelming, all-consuming. You scream his name, back arching, legs locking around him as you pulse around his cock, every nerve lit on fire.

Zayn doesn’t last another second.

With a guttural growl, he thrusts once, twice, then buries himself deep and stays there, hips twitching as he spills into you, hot and thick and endless. His body shudders over yours, his forehead dropping to your shoulder, teeth grazing your skin as he pants through the aftershock.

You both lie there, wrecked.

The room is thick with heat and sweat and the scent of sex. Your pulse echoes in your ears, your body trembling with the aftershocks of everything he just gave you—took from you. You don’t know where the hate ends and the need begins anymore. Maybe it never mattered.

Zayn stays buried inside you for a moment longer, breath warm against your shoulder, chest heaving against yours. His hand still rests at your throat—no pressure now, just a possessive hold that lingers like he’s reluctant to let go.

Neither of you speaks.

Because what is there to say?

Eventually, he shifts. Pulls back slowly, carefully, as if suddenly remembering you’re not just a body he can use to vent years of tension. You hiss at the sensitivity as he slips out of you, the loss of him making your legs twitch, the ache setting in deep and low.

You expect him to roll away.

He doesn’t.

Instead, he rises from the bed and disappears into the bathroom.

You lie there, blinking at the ceiling, dazed and sore and flooded with adrenaline. You don’t know if you should feel victorious or defeated. You don’t know if you won whatever twisted game the two of you have always played.

You don’t hear the tap run, but you hear the soft sound of the towel wrung out, the rustle of movement. You half-expect him to just toss it at you from across the room—some smug comment to match it.

But instead, he returns quietly. Stands at the edge of the bed, eyes sweeping over you with something unreadable in his expression.

Then he kneels between your legs.

“I’ve got it,” you mutter, trying to sit up, your voice still wrecked.

Zayn ignores you.

“I said—”

“Lie back,” he says, low and firm. “You’re making a mess.”

Heat rises to your face. “It’s your mess.”

“And I’ll fucking clean it up.”

You scowl, trying to shove his hand away when the towel touches your thigh. “I don’t need your help.”

“You can barely move,” he snaps, catching your wrist mid-swat. “Stop being difficult for five seconds.”

You freeze, eyes locked on his. The heat between you hasn’t vanished—it’s just simmering now, molten and quieter, tangled up in pride and tension and something you don’t have the strength to name.

He softens the pressure on your wrist, then lowers it back to the sheets.

“I’ll be quick,” he says, and this time it’s almost gentle.

You lie back with a huff, turning your head to the side, refusing to look at him while he moves the warm towel between your thighs. He’s careful. Irritatingly so. And despite yourself, the care in his touch makes your throat tight.

It’s not a grand gesture.

It’s not even tender, really.

But it’s real.

When he’s done, he tosses the towel toward the bathroom, not bothering to check if it lands, and climbs back into bed beside you. He doesn’t touch you—not yet. Just lies there, head tipped back against the pillows, chest rising with deep, steady breaths like he’s finally coming down too.

You stay facing the wall, jaw clenched, muscles tight, already rehearsing tomorrow’s regrets.

But the mattress shifts behind you.

And then—without warning—Zayn drags you back into him, one strong arm locking around your waist, chest pressing flush to your back like he owns the space between you.

You jerk in his grip. “Get off.”

“No.”

You squirm harder. “This isn’t a fucking sleepover.”

“Good,” he mutters. “I don’t do those. I just fuck girls who hate me and then hold them anyway.”

Your elbow shoots back, catching his ribs.

He grunts. Laughs.

“Still full of fight, huh?” His lips brush your ear. “Didn’t sound like that five minutes ago.”

“Touch me again and I’ll bite your fingers off.”

Zayn hums. “Tempting.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“And you’re warm,” he says simply, already settling in. His thigh slides between yours again, lazy and unapologetic. “Don’t act like you don’t like it.”

“I don’t.”

“Your heartbeat says otherwise.”

You open your mouth, ready to fire something back—but the words die in your throat.

Because you’re still not moving.

Because his arm feels too good around you, solid and steady, the heat of him wrapping around your frayed nerves like something dangerous you can’t quite bring yourself to escape.

“You’re not staying like this,” you whisper, one last stab at control.

Zayn’s voice is low. Confident. “Then push me off.”

You don’t.

And after a beat, he knows it.

You both do.

So you lie there, seething, tangled up in the boy you swore you couldn’t stand—his breathing slowing, his body melting against yours, and your pride burning hot behind your eyelids as sleep starts to pull you under.

…

Author’s note: I kind of want to write a part 2! What do you think?

[cicilychann]

HAIKYUU BOYS + THE REAL-LIFE “MAN ROLE” THEY TAKE ON (PART 2)

(These are the characters not listed in Part 1)

જ⁀➴⋆˚✿˖°₊ ⊹ᝰ.ᐟ જ⁀➴⋆˚✿˖°₊ ⊹ᝰ.ᐟજ⁀➴⋆

Tendou Satori

• Surprisingly observant, he notices the little inconveniences you deal with and finds creative solutions.

• Handles unexpected chaos well: flat tire? sudden panic? he’s already solving it while joking.

• Not your typical “manly man” but takes over social navigation, dealing with weird people, or uncomfortable situations.

• Never forgets details: meds, your schedule, even how you take your coffee.

• Reliable in ways you don’t expect, which makes him dependable when it counts.

Ushijima Wakatoshi

• Strong, quiet, dependable. The one you trust to lift anything, fix anything, call anyone.

• Takes on traditional provider roles: makes sure things are paid, working, and safe.

• Doesn’t speak much, but acts with full conviction once he understands what’s needed.

• Handles stress silently; never panics, always steps forward.

• Will stand in the cold holding your bag without complaint if it makes things easier for you.

Semi Eita

• The “I’ll handle it” guy who pretends he’s annoyed but still does everything.

• Takes over house tasks without being asked; trash, laundry, calls to the bank.

• Doesn’t like confrontation but will absolutely step in if someone’s being rude to you.

• Plans ahead financially, mentally, and emotionally even if he acts casual.

• A mix of protector and fixer, grumbles but gets it done.

Yamaguchi Tadashi

• Grows into responsibility, doesn’t act “in charge” at first but learns fast.

• Handles emotional temperature of the relationship quietly: he knows when you’re off and adapts.

• Will become the guy who handles all doctor visits, grocery lists, and medicine tracking.

• Not forceful, but dependable in day-to-day stress: the one who says “let me do it” when you’re overwhelmed.

• Emotional support AND practical backup.

Kita Shinsuke

• Textbook “husband material.” Pays bills early, cooks, fixes things, checks in with you regularly.

• Handles traditions, family expectations, emergencies, all without raising his voice.

• You never have to ask twice; he remembers everything and keeps routines running smoothly.

• Naturally steps into the calm, leadership role in any dynamic.

• No drama, no games, he does what needs doing before it becomes a problem.

Suna Rintarou

• Chill but scarily efficient when needed.

• Lets you vent, lets you cry, then casually solves the problem like it’s nothing.

• Takes over awkward social things or online orders without blinking.

• Handles messy things: returning stuff, booking hotels, getting refunds.

• Doesn’t act “in charge,” but you realize over time he’s the one holding things together.

Aran ojiro

• Protective but not possessive, always walks you home, always double-checks you’re okay.

• Makes sure the bills are paid, your needs are met, and the plan is clear.

• Likes being useful and shows love through consistent, everyday responsibility.

• You don’t even notice how much he’s handling until he’s gone for a day and things feel off.

• Grounded. Grown. A real partner. (WAKE UP PEOPLE, STOP SLEEPING ON HIM!! )

Bokuto Koutarou

• High energy but extremely responsible in relationships.

• Wants to do well for you, handles heavy lifting, errands, and stressy stuff with enthusiasm.

• Will call five places just to find your favorite food.

• Doesn’t “take charge” in the classic sense, but always backs you up fully, like a loyal soldier.

• Surprisingly dependable once his switch flips into serious mode.

Kenma kozume

• Doesn’t come off as “in charge” but ends up being the brain of the operation.

• Manages logistics like a pro: appointments, bookings, taxes, he makes sure nothing slips.

• Quietly anticipates your needs: extra charger, pain meds, water, you didn’t even ask.

• Doesn’t like emotional conflict but will shut people down with savage logic if they stress you out.

• His version of taking charge is “let’s not make this harder than it is,” but he’s always prepared.

Sugawara Koushi

• The emotional glue and household CEO. He handles your breakdowns and your taxes.

• Nurturing but firm: lets you cry, then hands you the list of things to do.

• Handles emergencies with unsettling calm. “I already called the plumber, we’re good.”

• Lowkey the dad friend of the relationship—always carries tissues, painkillers, and a power bank.

• You’d trust him to raise a kid and pay your bills on time.

˚ ༘`✦ ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹˚ ༘`✦ ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹˚ ༘`✦ ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹

(🌻: maybe i’ll make a part 3? not all the characters are here yet lol and even part 3 probably won’t be enough for all the haikyuu boys, so i’m just adding who i know + wanna include hehe, sorryyy! )

—⁠☆

[purplerakath]

Cobra Kai S4-6 - Why Robby/Tory doesn't Work

This is one of those ships that should be really easy to make work, but the show just kind of doesn't. There are a few factors to why this is generally.

The reason is show's focus drifted more and more to Daniel and tanked a bunch of sub-plots there.

But there's also just- a narrative issue the show ran into and didn't even try to resolve. Which is Season 5.

Spoilers, etc, for Seasons 4 and 5 mostly.

Season 4 - P(r)etty Spite

So season 4 actually works! Season 3 set-up some common ground with both having probation officers and both being kind of fed up with happy people with families. Both are good at that thing they like doing (Karate), and bad about letting people in. And their specific 'person of problem' is equally a person the other has a vested interest in.

Tory wants to mess up Sam's happiness, and Robby the same for Miguel (on different reasoning but they don't talk about why they're like this they are just using the situation they are in). This is: good. This works. This I buy into.

Okay, but...

Spite and revenge are not actually the healthy groundwork for a relationship. That's the thing, you'd need to pivot that into something more stable for the relationship to play out. The shared 'world is shit to us and our parents suck' angle would be a good basis.

Except we spend all of Season 5 with them on two wildly different plots. And Tory's plot here is good, Tory discovered she didn't win. Her achievement has no value, and she's mad about it. The sensei that respects her as a person is in jail, and the sensei that cheated her out of even reveling in her victory put him there. So Tory, lil' miss do it all herself trust nobody they all betray you, is doing deep cover investigation shutting out everyone else.

While they do the barest bones 'make Robby and Miguel brothers' plot for Robby (which is fine, it's not bad, but it isn't good). But this means Robby is firmly out of Cobra Kai, he reaches out to Tory, but she rejects it because she's a walking ball of trust issues. So they don't have a lot of screen time to be- you know- together.

Tory's strongest relationship in Season 5 is Devon. They share a bond of dead/dying mothers, they share a love of karate, and they have a complicated relationship with Sensei Kim. And the most tense relationship for Tory is Sam, with their history and Sam realizing as much as Tory was awful to her, Tory has a lot more going on behind the scenes Sam just- did not know about (and could not understand).

So when the finale rolls up, and Robby is still into her there's no actual groundwork for why that's a relationship that matters.

So this is when we cement it in Season Six and- oh NO.

Season 6 rolls up and there are only five episodes where we can cement why Tory and Robby are still into each other. We spend most of them on repeating Daniel and Johnny fights from the past three seasons. The big Tory episodes are:

Finally putting the Sam/Tory rivalry to bed.

Tory's mom dies and everyone fumbles this.

Once she's back on Cobra Kai, on her own again, we get a single awkward Robby scene. Several 'Robby and Tory looking at each other' moments, and a really good Sam and Tory scene where she says 'we're not on the same team but I'm still on your side.'

A scene that, if given to Robby, would have done literally anything to cement them as a couple. Tied in with the very... ill thought out happy ending for the pair of them, it all comes down to being just a bit- gross.

I think that either becoming a pro-martial artist with sponsorships and a career path would have worked, both of them being a branding purposes influencer couple does not.

Which sucks because separately, their final moments of clarity defining who they are as characters work. Robby got cheated out of a victory (again), but instead of past losses (where he feels like he failed), he knows he could have won and knows he already has what he needs to get back up.

Tory, meanwhile, needed to hear confirmation she's loved and isn't alone. Which she got from Robby and the LaRussos. And she needed to kick a few of Zara's teeth down her throat for generally justice related thoughts. Outside of the Influencer couple angle these work.

Could the Show have fixed This?

That's the big problem I have looking this over, my mind leans toward no. Season 5 being Tory on her own really defines that arc for her. There's no way to write Robby into her plan and not make her plan feel less... structured and good. And between Robby and Sam, Sam is the better tension to build and explore in Season 5. Because that's kinda driven both characters since the start of Season 2.

I will also refuse to suggest anything that takes any time away from Devon.

Season 6 they could have devoted more time to Tory's insecurity and put more focus on how she needs to feel supported (and give some of that to Robby). Either Robby making an effort (and Tory rebuffs it because she's bad at things) or Robby genuinely gets to be on her side for things (and reframing all the Kwon vs. Robby to match it).

Fair is fair, I'm a big SamTory shipper so I may be biased. But it would be interesting to try to cement a better basis for RobbyTory within canon before plot makes both of them do stupid things.

[cuntyji]

PANT0NE 6969 ❤︎‬ VARIOUS JJK MEN X FEMALE READER

Synopsis: A bold color choice, a little too much free time, and way too much devotion. One question: is that really the shade they think it is?

Warnings: 18+ sexual content, MDNI. Smut & crack. Established Relationship. Geto has not deflected, Toji is a DILF/older than reader (can be just by a couple of years, but feel free to read it how you'd like), Sukuna true-form is not implied since he only has one cock, but feel free to read it as such. Reader has a vagina + bush/fem-bodied. Hair pulling, doggy-style, P in V, dirty talk, creampies [implied], oral (seperate f. and m. receiving), riding, 😺 referred to as "her", dom! Nanami, top! Toji and Geto (seperate), sub! Choso, power bottom/switch! Sukuna

Note: From @nkopurin and I with love 😍 Thank you for helping me brainstorm this idea hehe <3

✶⋆.˚ Ao3  

GOJO SATORU

It started with a need.

Not a hair-related one, not initially. It began with something far more sacred and carnal. You were in bed one night, Gojo passed out like a very tall, very dumb angel after an equally dumb but impressively athletic session of “babe, let’s try standing up this time” — and your eyes, glazed but focused, landed on the thing.

Not the thing. His thing. Your phone, really, but more specifically, a photo of his dick. It wasn't anything risqué; in fact, it was borderline artistic. Backlit like a renaissance painting, his hand casually wrapped around the base like he was offering it to a museum. It was… majestic.

And pink.

Not an obnoxious pink. Not bubblegum, not fuchsia. It was a warm, flushed, expensive pink. Like blushing porcelain. The kind of pink that made you understand why entire cultures assigned gender to colors. This one? This was the tip of Gojo Satoru pink. A pink that made you feel cherished, cursed, and absolutely deranged all at once.

So you screen-shot it.

Uploaded it to a color picker site. 

Hex code #F7A5B3. 

Suspiciously gentle. Suspiciously perfect. Definitely suspicious, considering the site immediately tried to sell you 400 crypto coins and an NFT of someone else's nipple. But you took that code and ran.

Now, you couldn’t just buy that color in a bottle. No one in the hair dye industry had taken the noble, godly risk of bottling Gojo Satoru's dickhead hue. Cowards. And so, Saturday morning, armed with seven different pinks from a local store, a bowl, and a wildly misplaced sense of purpose, you began to mix.

“This is what God made me for,” you whispered, wrist-deep in dye, adding a smidge more ‘peach dazzle’ to your cauldron of horny alchemy.

The end result? Perfection. If a cherry blossom had an orgasm, this would be the aftermath. You smoothed it into your scalp, grinning like a lunatic as your bathroom mirror caught the glint in your eye—the kind of glint that only comes from knowing your hair now looked like your husband’s dick tip.

When Gojo walked through the door that evening, adjusting his blindfold with one hand and tossing his bag with the other, the first thing he did was stop. Blink. 

And then blink again, which was impressive, considering he was blindfolded.

“Oh?” he said, already walking toward you with the cautious reverence of a man approaching a shrine. “New hair?”

You didn’t say anything. Just angled your head in the light so it caught that very specific pink, glowing like divine foreskin in the golden hour. Gojo's brows lifted, then furrowed, then lifted again. 

He leaned in.

“Is this… me?”

You nodded solemnly. “Tip-inspired,” you clarified. “I color-matched.”

He said nothing for a long moment. Just took your chin gently in his hand and peered at your hair like he was identifying a long-lost artifact.

“…Baby, that’s so fucking hot.”

You snorted. “I figured you’d like it.”

“Like it? I feel seen. My dick feels celebrated.”

He kissed you hard, and somewhere between the makeout session and him half-carrying you to the bed, he muttered:

“I should return the favor.”

“What?”

“Yeah,” he said, nodding seriously. “Solidarity. Pubes.”

“No.”

“C’mon, I could go pastel! Lavender balls! Romantic!”

“Satoru, no.”

He was already halfway to the bathroom. You heard drawers opening. Things crashing. You had to throw a towel at him to stop the chaos. He caught it, grinning.

“You’re no fun,” he pouted, clearly half a second from ordering glitter dye off the internet.

“You’re not dying your happy trail. That’s the hill I'll die on.”

“Fine. But next time you do highlights… might I suggest the undertones of my shaft?”

You slapped him with the towel.

Your hair, though? Flawless. Divine. Blessed. And every time Gojo kissed the top of your head afterward, you could tell he knew exactly what he was kissing.

TOJI FUSHIGURO

It started with the nails.

Well—technically, it started with Toji giving you a lazy grunt of “go treat yourself or whatever” and sliding over a thick roll of cash like he was paying off a hit. And you did treat yourself. Just not in the way he expected.

Toji didn’t ask many questions when you came home, freshly manicured, tapping your newly adorned fingers against the countertop just loud enough for him to notice. You watched him squint, suspicious already. “The fuck’s that color?” he muttered.

You gave a tiny smile, tapping the pad of your thumb against your ring finger for emphasis—the ring finger that had his initials done in dark, bold lettering, sharp and crisp over the muted pink polish. “Oh, this?” you said sweetly. “Just something inspired by you.”

He blinked. Then looked again. His brow creased. 

“That’s my—wait. That’s my fuckin’ d—”

“Tip,” you offered helpfully. “Yup.”

Toji clapped a hand over his face and groaned like he’d aged ten years in a second.

“You’re despicable,” he mumbled through his palm. “Absolutely insane.”

And you just shrugged. because he hadn’t not given you the money for it. And anyway, it was a lovely color—rich, dusky, masculine in that very specific flushed way. The shade that only existed when he was half hard and half annoyed and half threatening to fuck your brains out for misbehaving, which was often. But then, of course, the nails weren’t enough. Because what’s a set without a matching main event?

The next time he saw you, it was in the evening light, your freshly dyed hair catching the low amber glow. And you swore you saw his soul leave his body.

“You didn’t,” he said flatly.

“I did,” you grinned.

He stared long and hard. The color was perfect. That dusky, raw pink, slightly darker at the roots. You’d even toned it to match that exact heat-flushed, post-shower hue he sported when he was about to fuck you against the nearest surface. He didn’t ask how you explained the shade to the ladies at the salon. He refused to. The possibilities alone were giving him a headache.

“Y’need therapy,” he grunted.

“Probably,” you chirped.

He dragged a hand down his face. Muttered, “...Fuckin’ hell,” and shook his head.

Still—when the lights were out, and your ridiculous little tribute of a hairstyle was bouncing under his hand as he pounded into you from behind like he had something to prove, he didn’t complain. 

His grip was punishing in your hair, the strands twisted tight around his fingers, just enough pressure to keep your head arched back perfectly so he could see your expression melt every time he shoved in deeper.

“Look at you,” he grunted, his voice ragged, his thrusts brutal and steady, “Wearin’ my fuckin’ cock like a badge.”

He tugged harder, yanked your head back until your mouth parted and your eyes fluttered. His hips snapped forward again, loud and wet and obscene. 

“Crazy fuckin’ woman,” he rasped, biting down on your shoulder now, lips dragging against sweaty skin, “—gettin’ salon dye to match my dick, the fuck’s wrong with you?”

“Everything,” you choked out, nearly delirious. “I’m so gone for you, baby, fuck—”

And he laughed. Full chest, low and amused, filthy even in his exasperation. His hand smoothed over your scalp for a second—like he might show you tenderness—and then he pulled again, drove in with a force that knocked the breath from your lungs.

“You’re gonna have to go back to that salon with a limp,” he growled in your ear, “Let ‘em see what happens when you walk in smellin’ like my cum.” You moaned, shuddering, knees almost giving in.

Toji was too old for this. Too grizzled, too tired to understand your generation’s brain rot. But that didn’t mean he didn’t fuck like he was born for it. Didn’t mean he didn’t leave you twitching and trembling and ruined by the end of it.

And when he finally collapsed next to you, panting, sweat-slick and sore, he rolled over just enough to look at your hair again.

“…It is a nice color,” he muttered reluctantly.

You smiled against his chest. “I'll get the matching lipstick next.”

He groaned again, reaching over to slap your ass, hard. 

“Despicable.”

“Yep.”

“…Fuck, I love you.”

“You'd better.”

CHOSO KAMO

Choso is agitated.

Not angry—no, that would’ve been easier to deal with. Choso doesn’t really do anger the way others do. He just gets… tense. Quiet. Eyes narrowed, arms crossed, head tilted slightly like he’s watching a very slow train wreck he’s emotionally invested in. He's standing at the edge of the bathroom now, shoulders stiff, gaze locked on your hair like it personally offended him. 

“You didn’t tell me it would be permanent,” he says, voice calm but too calm.

You blink. “It's not?”

His whole body jerks like you just threw a bucket of ice water at him.

“...What?”

You laugh, a little confused, a little charmed. “Baby. It’s not permanent. It's semi-permanent. It’ll fade in, like, six weeks.”

He's silent. Comically silent. His eyes dart back to your hair. 

Then to your face. 

Then to your hair again.

“…Oh,” he says softly.

And then—

“Oh.”

He sounds heartbroken.

You watch him slowly sit down on the edge of the tub like you just told him you were dying.

“It’ll… fade?”

You nod.

“But—" he gestures vaguely at your head. “You did it for me.”

“I can touch it up,” you assure him, walking over, hands light on his shoulders. “You can even help.”

He brightens subtly. Barely. But it’s there.

“…Okay. Okay. But I wanna be there when you do it.”

You raise an eyebrow. “To help?”

“To supervise.”

“Supervise what?”

His voice drops to a mutter. “The accuracy.”

Which is how you end up here, two weeks later, with a towel around your neck, gloves on, dye ready—and Choso already pantless, sitting obediently on the closed toilet seat with his dick in his lap like a willing participant in some sort of medical study.

“You sure you’re okay like that?” you ask, flicking open the dye tube.

He nods. Quickly. “I don't wanna interfere with the process.”

He's already a little hard. You try not to giggle. Try.

You crouch, squinting, face inches away from his flushed, semi-erect cock. 

“Hmm. Looks a little warmer in tone today.”

He shivers.

“C-could be the lighting,” he says, voice pitched slightly higher than normal.

You tilt your head. “Or blood flow.”

He inhales through his nose, thighs twitching. “Possible,” he says weakly.

You bring your face even closer, inspecting from another angle. Your breath ghosts over the tip and he whimpers, hands flying to his thighs like he’s trying to pin them down from shaking.

“Stop me if this is too much,” you murmur, not moving away at all. He nods quickly. Too quickly. “No, n-no, ’m good. I'm—I'm fine. I wanna help.”

You hum, pressing a kiss to the underside, featherlight. Then lick a slooow, curious stripe up the length.

He chokes. “N-not during the dye,” he says, voice paper-thin and trembling. “I-it’s not safe—what if the chemicals—”

“I'm careful,” you murmur, already taking him in. He breaks. Visibly. One hand reaches for your shoulder, but he doesn’t push, doesn’t pull—just holds, clinging like he’s about to float away.

“Oh—fuck,” he breathes, already leaking, already shaking. “Fuck, you can’t—you c-can’t focus on the color like this—”

“I don't have to,” you whisper against the head, lips slick with him now. “I already got it memorized.”

He lets out a noise so soft, so pathetic, it makes you suck harder just to hear it again.

By the time the dye’s halfway through processing in your hair, he’s slumped back, completely undone, flushed all over and breathing like he just got resuscitated. His thighs are twitching, his hands are useless, and his eyes are glassy, blinking at you like you just changed his worldview.

“That wasn’t supervising,” he mumbles, dazed.

“It was quality control,” you reply, deadpan.

He groans.

“...When’s the next touch-up?”

You grin, leaning forward to press a sloppy kiss to his lips.

“Four weeks. Mark your calendar.”

RYOMEN SUKUNA

Sukuna is, at first, appreciative.

He’s lounging on his throne, fingers lazily tapping against the armrest as he watches you strut in with that smug look on your face and new hair on your head. The color hits him first. Soft, almost sugary—like the inside of a bleeding peach. Not quite natural, not quite real. A pink that seems too whimsical to exist in his world of blood and ash. He hums, raising an eyebrow as he gestures vaguely in your direction. 

“An offering, is it?”

You grin. “More like a tribute.”

“Hmm,” he muses, and you can see the faintest curve of amusement on his lips. “A show of worship. How very devoted of you.”

But then he really looks at it, tilting his head as he squints. 

“…What the fuck kind of color is that.”

You blink.

“It’s the color of your cock.”

The silence is immediate and violently loud. Sukuna stares at you like you just announced your intention to marry Gojo Satoru instead of him. His eye twitches, something deep and ancient inside him glitching. And then:

“What the everloving fuck does that mean, you insolent little—”

“You’re loud for someone whose tip looks like a cherry blossom, Suku.”

“It does NOT—”

He's on his feet now, pacing, hands in his hair, swearing in languages the Earth has long since forgotten. The sheer rageful fluster radiating off him is so intense, the walls tremble. He points at you, points at your hair, then points at his own crotch like he’s about to hold it up as exhibit A.

“What part of me—what part of that—makes you think it looks like that color?! Have you lost your mind?! Are you blind? Are you mocking me?!”

You’re nearly doubled over, wheezing with laughter, half in awe and half terrified that you’ve managed to turn the King of Curses into an angry little ball of embarrassment. He growls, bare-chested and barefoot and furious, stomping back to his throne with his arms crossed.

“You’re never allowed to speak again,” he grumbles, sulking. “Blasphemy. Absolute heresy. You should be punished—”

“Say less,” you chirp, tossing him a wink.

He sputters.

Later that night, the punishment is you straddling him on his throne, bouncing on his cock with your pink-stained hair swinging wildly around your face—and it turns out, for all his complaints, he has not stopped staring at it. His head’s tipped back against the throne, jaw clenched, trying to focus on anything else but the way your hair bounces perfectly with each slam of your hips.

“Fuck—quit movin’ like that,” he rasps, voice strained.

“You mean riding you?” you ask sweetly, snapping your hips a little harder, watching his hands twitch at his sides like he’s barely holding back.

“No—the hair. Your fucking hair.”

You grin.

He grabs your waist suddenly, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, and slams up into you, making you squeal.

“You gonna do it again?” he huffs against your throat, panting. “You gonna keep it that color just to drive me mad, you little slut?”

“Yup,” you whisper, biting your lip, rolling your hips just right. His hands shake as his head drops to your shoulder. You feel the smallest, most pitiful groan leave his chest.

He’s losing it. Completely. Eyes hazy, body shuddering under yours, trying desperately to focus on the feel of your cunt and not the goddamn glow of your cursed hair in the dark.

“Never been more disrespected in my life,” he groans, dragging his tongue across your throat. “I hate you. Fuck, I hate you—”

“You’re gonna cum inside me again, aren’t you?”

He whimpers.

And it’s the prettiest little sound you’ve ever heard him make.

NANAMI KENTO

Nanami is speechless.

Not the stunned, dazed, jaw-dropped kind. No—this is the quietly judging, emotionally restrained, deep sigh echoing from the depths of his tired soul kind of speechless. Glasses pushed up the bridge of his nose, brow twitching, card bill in hand.

“You spent how much on what?”

You sit innocently on the couch, hair freshly dyed and glowing with that faded, strangely warm blush-pink hue, scrolling on your phone with the nonchalance of a criminal who thinks they've pulled off the perfect heist.

“...I had to match it perfectly.”

He rubs his temples. 

“With my—?”

“Yup.”

He closes his eyes, breathing through his nose as he reconsiders every life decision that led him to this moment. Not that it’s entirely surprising. You’ve always had the most questionable taste in financially irresponsible love languages. This isn’t even the worst of it. 

No, the worst was that one time you used the card to commission a hand-stitched, button-eyed plushie of him from a niche artist in another country. He found it tucked under your pillow one night, arms outstretched like it missed him. He didn’t say a word. Just...sat down and took a long sip of his whiskey.

But this? This has his hands in your hair more often than he consciously intends. Long fingers carding through it when you're curled up in bed beside him. Resting on your shoulders while he's driving, letting his knuckles brush the strands of your hair absently as he shifts gears. Sometimes even during mundane moments—while you’re reading, eating, brushing your teeth. He's obsessed in spite of himself.

The problem is, he notices the fading.

“Have you not been using the sulfate-free shampoo I bought you?”

You pause mid-bite of your snack. 

“...There’s special shampoo?”

His eye twitches.

And now you’re here—kneeling on the bedroom floor, blinking up at him as he stands tall, sleeves rolled, belt long forgotten somewhere on the bed. His cock is heavy in his palm, leaking against the curve of your cheek, and he’s dragging the tip slowly across your flushed skin like he’s painting strokes on a blank canvas.

“Hm,” he muses, low and annoyed. “The pink’s uneven.”

You whine, shifting closer, trying to suck him in—but his other hand tightens in your hair and pulls.

“Ah-ah. Not yet. I'm still inspecting.”

“‘Nami,” you whimper, thighs pressed together. “Please—”

He swipes the tip across your cheek again, purposefully slow. “I give you a card. I tell you to be responsible. And you blow hundreds on a dye job you didn’t even bother maintaining.”

You’re panting now, needy, humiliated, as you try to squirm closer for a taste. But he’s holding you exactly where he wants you—on your knees, burning up, mouth open and empty.

“You know,” he mutters, voice dropping lower, “Maybe if you showed me how sorry you are… I'd consider booking the touch-up appointment myself.”

Your eyes sparkle. He scoffs. “Not for free, sweetheart.”

And then finally, finally, he slides the head past your lips, slow and deliberate, watching your lashes flutter and jaw slacken like you’ve just taken communion. He doesn’t fuck your mouth—no, not yet. He holds you there, just the tip resting on your tongue, sighing deeply like he's indulging your little obsession only out of obligation.

“If the color’s still uneven tomorrow,” he mutters, stroking the crown of your head with firm, possessive care, “We're going back to the salon.”

His hips shift just enough to press deeper, and you moan around him.

“After you shampoo. Twice. With what I tell you to use.”

He smiles faintly as your eyes roll back.

Finally. Some accountability.

GETO SUGURU

Geto is trying. Really, truly trying not to laugh.

He walks in, drops his keys in the bowl by the door like always, and greets you with that same low, warm “I’m home” he always does—but then he sees you. Sees the way you’re standing there, all proud and glowing, doing a little turn in your socks like you’re unveiling a whole new self.

And then he sees the hair.

He freezes.

You beam. “Surprise!”

He stares, tilting his head a little as he walks a bit closer, slow and deliberate, like he’s analyzing a cursed object.

“…You dyed your hair,” he says eventually, in that careful, measured tone he uses when he’s trying to piece together a truly confusing curse puzzle.

You nod enthusiastically. “Guess what the color is?”

He squints. Then he blinks.

Then he looks you straight in the eye and says, completely flat:

“My dick?”

Your smile turns so wide that he groans immediately and drags a hand down his face.

“Baby…”

“Don’t you love it?”

“It’s not that I don’t—I mean, the color’s nice, but… that’s what you chose to color-match?”

You puff your cheeks out. “It’s a soft, warm tone with pink undertones! It's romantic!”

“It's the color of my tip.”

“Yes!!”

And that’s when it hits him—just how absurdly hilarious this is. And how absolutely you. He tries to keep it together, he really does, but a smile breaks across his face, tired but amused, and he’s shaking his head like he’s going to lose it. “Oh my god,” he mumbles, wiping at his eyes. “I can't believe you spent money on this. I can't believe I'm involved.”

“You’re the inspiration!” you say defensively, fisting your hands by your sides like you’re presenting a noble act of sacrifice.

He loses it again.

But hours later, when he’s on his knees between your legs, the teasing is far from over. His tongue drags up your thigh slow and indulgent, and he hums like he’s appraising a piece of art. “So... she got the full treatment, huh?”

You moan softly, head falling back. “Mhmm.”

But then he pauses, finger resting just above your mound as he raises a single brow.

“Then why was she left out?”

You blink, dazed. “...What?”

He leans in closer, kisses just above your clit, right at the edge of your bush, and whispers, “She didn’t get a dye job too.”

You slap his shoulder.

“Stop calling it that!”

“Why not? She’s the one who got snubbed,” he says with an exaggerated pout, kissing lower now, slow and taunting. “All that love for my tip, and poor baby down here didn’t get a single brush of attention.”

Your thighs twitch as your face burns. You’re whining now, hips shifting, trying to chase his mouth, but he pulls back just enough to keep you squirming.

“Don’t worry, baby,” he coos, dragging a finger along your slit. “I'll make sure she gets a little pampering tonight.”

“Sugu—”

But you’re cut off by your own gasp when he licks a stripe up your folds, groaning like he’s tasting a five-star meal. His grip tightens around your thighs, spreading you wide, burying himself between your legs like he’s trying to eat the embarrassment right off of you. You’re squealing now, every moan mixed with some mortified whimper as he talks to your pussy like she’s got her own name, her own needs, her own complex about being left out.

“Mmm, she’s being shy,” he murmurs, flicking his tongue with practiced precision, “but I know what she needs.”

You buck against his face, legs shaking, trying and failing to close them around his head.

“Stop making me blush you—fuck—”

“You’re the one who dyed your whole head the color of my cock,” he says, eyes glinting as he looks up, mouth shiny and smug. “You don’t get to be shy now.”

And that’s how your plan to be sweet and romantic ends with your legs thrown over his shoulders, his tongue fucking you open while you babble apologies and try not to die from the sheer secondhand shame of being verbally roasted by your own pussy. And Geto? He’s never been more in love.

a/n: hello !! it has been many a moon since i have written smut....i even pulled out the fancy layout i used to use back in the day :PP (i post smut panels/headers on @cuntpress if you're a writer btw <3) be nice please

[vunblr]

Plump & Ripe

Pairing: Chubby!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+ only. Smut. Unprotected Sex. Some fluff. Slight Angst. A Pinch of Body Insecurity. Size kink. Use of pet names.

Summary: On a routine visit to the fruit shop, Bucky ends up with more than his usual goodies.

Word Count: 7.4k.

note: This is one of the works I'm submitting for the @avengers-assemble-bingo event for Bucky's 108th birthday, running throughout March. The prompt was "Plums". It was supposed to be a cute and fluffy fic, but it turned into pure filth instead. I'm sorry -not-

She looked up from the counter, and a welcoming smile instantly spread across her lips when she saw who had made the doorbell chime.

“You’re late. You’re lucky I set this bag aside when the distributor came this morning because they’re all sold out now.” She lifted a small paper bag from the shelf behind her, placing it on the counter between them. The deep violet of the plums peeked through the crinkled opening, and their smooth skins caught the golden light that filtered through the shop’s front windows.

Bucky stood just inside the doorway, a little tense as his fingers fidgeted with the zipper of his jacket. “Sorry. Something came up and... couldn’t make it earlier.” He mumbled.

That ‘something’ had been him forcing himself out of bed after three days of avoiding the world. Everything felt heavier these days, his body, his thoughts, even some goddamn things that weren’t so before. But he was here now, and that was better than nothing.

She leaned her elbows on the counter. “No worries. I know you’d never miss plum day on purpose.” She tried to tease warmly.

Right. One of the rare occasions he’d missed plum day was when he went on that stupid mission, the so-called ‘walk in the park’ that turned into a bloodbath of agents and ended with him being taken again by the same people who’d tormented him for nearly 80 years. Only this time, they didn’t just want their precious pet back, they wanted it better.

In five days of captivity, they not only just strapped him to a modernized version of that damned chair. Oh no, they’d injected him with a cocktail of drugs that messed up his body in ways he was still discovering, even a year later. Like his fucked-up metabolism.

His eyes flicked to the bag, and his mouth twitched just slightly. “You know me too well on that aspect,” he muttered, reaching out to grab the bag.

She watched him carefully. “Do you need anything else?”

He hesitated, shifting his gaze to the baskets of apples lined up near the wall. “Yeah… green apples.”

She nodded, moving around the counter to grab a paper bag. As she started picking the crisp, bright green apples, she spoke over her shoulder. “I got a new kind in this week. They’re a mix of green and red, still sour but with a sweet twist. Figured you might like them, so I’m throwing one in for you to try.” She dropped a smaller, two-toned apple into the bag, the colors blending in a swirl of muted red and pale green. “No charge.”

His lips quirked, just for a moment, the closest thing to a smile she’d seen from him in weeks. “Thanks.” He said gruffly.

She twisted the top of the bag, folding it neatly before placing it on the counter beside the plums. But she didn’t step back, and her fingers lingered on the edge as if debating something. Her teeth caught her bottom lip, worrying the skin.

Always perceptive, Bucky narrowed his eyes. “What is it?”

Her head jerked up, eyes widening. “Huh?”

“You look like you’re trying to decide whether to say something or not.” He crossed his arms, leaning his weight on one leg. “Tell me.”

She huffed a laugh, embarrassed. “It’s... not very appropriate.”

One eyebrow shot up. “I’ve heard worse.”

She bit her lip again before glancing toward the back room. “I was just wondering if you could help me with a couple of crates. The distributor was in a hurry, and he just tossed the merchandise back there. It’s kind of a mess... hard to move around.” She gave a half-shrug, sheepish. I’d do it myself, but they’re actually pretty heavy.”

He followed her gaze, and his expression softened. “That all?”

“Well... yeah,” she admitted, heat creeping up her neck. “You already helped with the shelves last week... and the cooler the week before. I just... I don’t want you to feel like I’m taking advantage or something.”

His features softened even more, as he huffed, twitching his lips in a half-smile. “I wouldn’t help if I didn’t want to. Show the way.”

She gestured to the door behind the counter -the only door, really- and he shot her a look. She shrugged, grinning. “I know, I know. Real hard to find.”

He followed her through the doorway, ducking his head slightly as they entered the cramped back room. His steps faltered as his eyes took in the scene. Stacks of boxes and wooden crates were scattered haphazardly across the floor, some leaning precariously against each other. It was like the distributor had been in a damn race to get out of there.

His mouth pulled into a deep scowl. How the hell did that asshole expect her to move this on her own? Where were the manners nowadays? He grumbled under his breath, weaving between the clutter as he started rearranging the crates into a more orderly stack. He made sure to place the heavier boxes at the bottom, the lighter ones on top, within easy reach for her.

She leaned against the doorframe, watching as the chaos turned into something more manageable. “God, I’ll kidnap you and put you on my bedside table.”

His head snapped up, brows drawing together. “Uh?”

She blinked, a faint heat creeping up her neck. “Oh, it’s just... a saying we have. You know, to cherish something.” She waved a hand, brushing off her embarrassment. “Forget it. Thank you, really for always helping.”

He chuckled. “Pretty sure your poor bedside table can’t handle me anyway.” His tone was dry, self-deprecating, like he was almost daring her to argue.

But her brain had short-circuited somewhere around ‘bedside,’ and before she could think better of it, the words just tumbled out: “But my bed sure can.”

He froze, fingers clenching around the edge of a crate. For a second, he didn’t even breathe. “What?”

She cursed inwardly. Did she… did she actually say that aloud? Oh my god. She could feel her soul leaving her body, and her eyes darted down as her brain scrambled for something -anything- that could sound similar. She fumbled, words tripping over themselves. “I- I said... I wondered if... if you can open a can.”

Bucky blinked, his expression shifting from shock to confusion. “A can?”

She nodded furiously, feeling her face burn. “Yeah. A big one. I have... with peaches. And I don’t have an opener, so I thought maybe...” Her eyes flicked to his metal hand, then back to his face.

They stared at each other, the silence was thick and heavy. “You want me to open... a can of peaches.”

Her chin lifted defiantly, even as her face burned. “Yes. A big one.”

He looked at her, then tilted his head, and his lips twitched slightly. “That so?”

“Yup. I figured you’re more than capable and I... really wanted to try them.” Her voice was firmer now, though her face was still in flames.

Bucky watched her for another moment, narrowing his eyes like he was trying to figure her out. Finally, he huffed, low and almost amused. “Alright then. Bring it over.”

She nodded quickly, grateful for the excuse to turn away from his piercing gaze. Her heart was still hammering against her ribs, and her hands trembled as she rummaged through a cluttered shelf. Eventually, she found the can half-buried behind a jar of jam, with its bright label slightly faded. Two forks were grabbed from a drawer without much thought, and her fingers clenched around them as she tried to calm herself. When she turned back, Bucky was stacking the last of the boxes, his back to her.

Her eyes lingered on his body for a beat too long, and her mind flashed back to her stupid, impulsive words. But my bed sure can. She almost groaned out loud, the embarrassment creeping over her anew. She was never going to live this down.

Clearing her throat, she approached him, holding out the can. “Here. I... uh... figured we could share. Since you’re helping me out and all.”

He turned, and his gaze dropped to the can before lifting to meet hers. His expression was neutral, but his eyes held a glint of something she couldn’t quite place. “Peaches, huh?”

She swallowed, nodding. “Yeah. They should be good. Sweet. Soft, too... uh, juicy” The words tumbled out before she could stop them, and her face burned all over again. God, why did she have to say it like that?

Bucky just stared at her for a second, flicking his eyes to her lips before his mouth twitched. “Alright.” His voice was a little rougher, a little lower. He took the can from her, popping a metal finger through the lid and curling it, crumpling the metal until it popped off.

He handed it back, licking his finger for a brief moment and she could swear she could have a stroke. “There you go. Good thing at least I’m good as a can opener.”

She furrowed her brow, and the playful glint in her eyes faded. “Don’t do that.”

His shoulders went rigid. What did he do to upset her? “Do what?”

“That,” she said, “Sell yourself short. That... self-deprecation thing you always pull.”

His jaw clenched, and his eyes drifted away from hers. “Just saying the truth.” Almost unconsciously, his gaze dropped to his midsection, to the slight curve that hadn’t been there before. To the proof that his body was failing him, that even with all the enhancements, he was broken.

“Bucky,” she said, with a softer tone but no less resolute. “You’re a damn Avenger. Half the days you come in here, you’re bruised and battered because you fight for people who can’t fight for themselves. You protect them. That’s incredible.” Her hand gestured to the neatly stacked crates behind him. “You’re kind... and good. Don’t diminish yourself.”

His eyes snapped back to hers, a flicker of surprise breaking through his usual calm but hard expression. He wanted to deflect, to brush it off with a sarcastic remark. It was easier to joke than to acknowledge the weight of her words. But the way she looked at him, made the words stick in his throat. His fingers tightened around the can, and the metal creaked under his grip. “Yeah, well... sometimes it doesn’t feel that way.”

She stepped closer, her eyes never leaving his. “Our own perceptions sometimes lie. Doesn’t make it less true.”

He stared at her, and his defenses faltered. The familiar cynicism was there, clawing at him, but her words were louder. His mouth twitched, the ghost of a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You always this stubborn?”

She crossed her arms, lifting her chin defiantly. “Only when someone I care about is being stupid.”

The air grew still. She seemed to realize what she’d said a second too late, eyes widening before she looked away. “I mean... you know... as a customer. And a... friend.”

He cocked an eyebrow, tilting his head just slightly as if he was trying to get a better read on her. “A friend to put on your nightstand.”

Her eyes snapped to his, caught off guard by the teasing lilt in his voice. “Sure.”

He leaned against the stacked crates, crossing his arms over his chest. His jaw worked, like he was chewing over his next words. For a heartbeat, he thought about letting it slide, about keeping his mouth shut and pretending he hadn’t heard. But the thought of not knowing twisted his gut in a way that made him reckless. “Did you mean it?”

Her heart skipped, the peach suddenly feeling too heavy on her tongue. She forced herself to chew slowly, buying time. “What?”

“The... bed.” His gaze pierced in that way that made her feel stripped bare. “Did you mean it?”

Oh. So he had heard her.

Her mind raced, instincts screaming at her to laugh it off, to deflect with a joke or change the subject. But he just stood there, watching her, waiting. It was infuriating how still he could be, how his silence demanded more than words ever could. His eyes didn’t waver, his face was impassive, but there was something tight in his stance, something almost vulnerable in the way his fingers tapped once against his arm before he caught himself, stilling the movement.

She paused mid-chew, the peach now a lump in her throat. The hell with all. “What if I did?”

His expression didn’t change, but his posture did: his shoulders straightened, and his arms uncrossed just slightly. He took a step closer, and the room suddenly felt a lot smaller. “Then I’d say... you’d better be sure.”

She swallowed, heat blooming up her neck. “I don’t say things I don’t mean.”

His lips twitched, the ghost of a smile as he closed the space between them. “I figured.”

His hand came up slowly, hesitantly, like he was giving her every chance to pull away. But she didn’t move as his fingers brushed her cheek, rough callouses skimming her skin. His touch was gentle, almost reverent, and she couldn’t help but lean into it, never breaking the eye contact.

His thumb traced her cheekbone, and his gaze softened as his fingers curled on the back of her neck. Her pulse quickened, and she could feel her heartbeats echoing in her ears, but she didn’t dare look away. Not when his eyes were so impossibly blue, locked on hers with a focus that stole her breath.

She parted her lips, in a silent invitation, while her hand found its way to his chest, curling her fingers into the fabric of his jacket.

For a moment, he just looked at her, his face so close she could feel his breath on her lips. His gaze dropped to her mouth, and his eyes darkened, “Tell me to stop if this is not what you want.” he murmured, but his hand didn’t move.

She shook her head, tightening her fingers on his jacket. “Not a chance.”

A muscle in his jaw twitched, and his lips crashed into hers, firm and demanding, as he fisted her hair and pulled her closer.

She responded instinctively, pressing her body into his as her hands slid up his chest, wrapping around his neck. He groaned against her mouth, circling his vibranium arm on her waist.

The world around her faded, the cluttered storeroom, the lingering scent of the peaches, everything disappeared until there was only him. His warmth, his strength, his mouth moving against hers with a hunger that made her knees weak.

She sighed, threading her fingers through his hair, and he responded by deepening the kiss. When they finally broke apart, both breathless, she ran a hand along his slightly rounded cheek, tracing its curve with her thumb with a tenderness that made something clench on his chest.

“You are so damn handsome.”

His gaze widened slightly, surprise flickering across his features before something else settled in. Cocky 40s Sergeant Barnes wouldn’t have agreed. In fact, he wouldn’t have dreamed of seeing himself like this, heavier, slower, tired.

He swallowed, as the weight of her words pressed against years of ingrained self-doubt. She exhaled, shaking her head with a small, knowing smile. “I can see the gears turning inside your head, you know?” Her fingers lingered against his skin, warm and sure. “And, in a courageous and embarrassing -but it seems necessary-confession, I must say that I like this version of you. A lot.”

His body tensed beneath her touch. Of all the things he expected, this wasn’t one of them. People -some- admired him for what he could do. No one ever said they liked him like this.

He searched her face, looking for doubt, for anything that suggested she was just saying it to make him feel better. His throat felt tight. “You don’t have to say that.”

Her brows furrowed, and her fingers pressed just slightly into his skin. “I told you earlier that I mean what I say. You’re a soft wall of muscle.” She bit her lip, as her eyes drifted over his shoulders, his chest, lingering just long enough to make his pulse quicken. “And I like big men, so...”

He opened his mouth, then closed it, utterly at a loss. That... wasn’t what he expected. Not at all.

She felt the heat on her face but didn’t look away, just kept caressing his cheek. “In my eyes, you’re better than when I first knew you.”

His heart skipped, the words settling heavy and warm somewhere behind his ribs. “Better?” His voice was low, rough, like he was forcing the word out. “How?”

Her thumb traced his cheekbone, and she felt all the heat in her body rush to her face again. She looked away, sensing her bravado faltering. “God, you’re going to make me say it. This is so embarrassing.” She took a breath, meeting his gaze again. “Sexier, Bucky. You look better to me because I find your bigger body more than appealing. Manlier. Is that enough clarification for y-”

She didn’t get to finish. His mouth crashed again against hers, more heated and demanding than before, as his fingers tightened at her waist, pulling her flush against his body.

A low growl vibrated in his chest, his lips moving hungrily over hers, and she barely had time to gasp before his tongue slid past her lips, tasting, claiming. Her back hit the wall as his body crowded hers, and she didn’t care, didn’t want space, didn’t want air, didn’t want anything that wasn’t him.

His heart pounded in his chest, blood roaring in his ears. Her words echoed in his mind, looping over and over again. Sexier. Manlier. More than appealing.

A rush of masculine pride coursed his body, fierce and hot, like lightning in his veins. She wanted him like this, wanted him bigger, broader. He hadn’t realized how badly he needed to hear that, how deeply her praise soothed the bruised ego he hadn’t even admitted having.

She felt his growing erection pressing against her hip, and she gripped his shoulders, feeling him beneath. There was nothing soft about him, not in the way he kissed her, fierce and unrelenting, not in the way his body surrounded hers, hard and unyielding.

He tore his mouth from hers, with ragged breathing, eyes dark and wild as they bore into hers. “You like this?” His voice was rough, deeper than before, and his words dripped with hunger. “You like me like this?”

She swallowed, her pulse fluttering wildly. “Yes. God, yes.”

His lips curved into a grin, that old cocky sergeant slipping through the cracks of his armor. “Good,” he growled, as his mouth descended on hers again, sliding down his hand to grip her thigh with bruising force as he hitched her leg up around his waist, pressing himself against her. His mouth was at her ear, his voice a low, gravelly murmur that sent shivers down her spine. “Because I’d be lying if I told you I didn’t think about fucking you raw under this slutty green apron every damn time you hand me my plums.”

Her brain stuttered, eyes widening as she processed his words.

His hips rolled, grinding his hardon against her tummy, and she felt every inch of his cock, hard and wanting, and god, she couldn’t help it, she whined. A desperate, needy sound that escaped her throat before she could bite it back.

His eyes darkened, his pupils blown wide as his lips curled again into that smirk. “Always with a little extra product, always checking on me.” His teeth scraped her jaw, flicking out his tongue to taste her skin. “Thought you were just sweet, just nice. Turns out you were trying to fatten me up for yourself, huh?” His words were teasing, but his tone was rough and possessive.

He rocked his hips again, a slow, deliberate grind that had her gasping, her fingers digging into his shoulders as heat coiled tighter and tighter in her belly.

“Bucky-” Her voice was a breathless plea, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she tried to find words, tried to get a grip on herself, but his mouth was on her neck, sucking a hot, wet mark just above her collarbone, and she was gone, utterly, completely gone.

“You like that, huh?” His teeth grazed her skin again, his metal fingers tightening on her thigh, holding her in place as he ground against her. “Like knowing you drive me crazy? That every time I leave, all I can think about is coming back here, bending you over that counter, and fuck you right there, maybe squishing a fucking orange just to watch the juice dripping down your ass?”

Another whine slipped out, her body arching into his as her hips rolled instinctively to meet his. His words wrapped around her, filthy and raw, and she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything but feel.

His lips trailed up to her ear, his breath hot and ragged. “So tell me, sweetheart... how long have you been thinking about me ruining you right here in your little shop?”

“If... if we’re about to speak on hard numbers...” She tried to tease, but the words came out ragged, crumbling under the hard suck he planted just behind her ear. Her body shuddered, another whimper escaping before she could stop it. “I’d say... the first time you came here. You’d just moved in and didn’t... didn’t even have pans to cook. Remember?”

His mouth paused on her skin, lips curved against her neck. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Came looking for fruit and you ended up selling me that tray of already cut vegetables to make soup. Lent me that steel jar to boil ’em in.” His tongue flicked over the mark he’d made, soothing the sting before he pulled back just enough to meet her gaze. “I thought you were too damn trusting. What if I didn’t come back?”

She let out a breathless laugh, curling her fingers on his biceps. “I saw your hand. You forgot the gloves that day... and I figured... the Winter Soldier wouldn’t steal a steel jar.” Her lips twitched, and a spark of mischief lit her eyes. “If you did, well, the loss was on me. But if you didn’t...” She trailed off.

His eyes darkened, and his grip tightened on her thigh as he pressed her harder against the wall. “If I didn’t?”

She swallowed, feeling her heart hammering against her ribs. “Then... I would have set some points with a handsome man.”

“Sneaky,” he muttered, brushing her lips, a teasing, fleeting touch. “You were setting a trap for me from the start.”

Her fingers slipped into his hair, tugging just enough to earn her another low, hungry sound from him. “Can you blame me?” she whispered, her lips barely an inch from his. “You were brooding and grumpy... and so damn gorgeous.”

His eyes flashed with something wild and primal sparking in them. “And now?” His voice was low and dangerous, his metal fingers flexing on her thigh, holding her in place. “Now that you’ve got me? This bigger, grumpier version?”

She didn’t hesitate, running her hands over his broad shoulders. “Now?” She leaned in, grazing his bottom lip with her teeth before she pulled back. “I’d say It was a pretty good investment.”

His lips were into hers again, swallowing her gasp as his body pressed into hers, heavy and hard and perfect. He kissed her hard, his mouth rough and hungry while rocking his hips against hers, and she moaned, digging her nails into his scalp as she arched into him. He tore his mouth away, with ragged breathing, his eyes pinning her in place as they locked with hers. “Last chance, sugarplum” His voice felt vulnerable beneath the heat. “You want this?”

She held his gaze and pressed herself against him, rubbing her breasts against his chest enticingly. "I want you to ruin me, papa bear"

He froze. Every muscle in his body went taut. His eyes widened, and his pupils blew wide as her words penetrated his fogged brain. “...What did you just call me?”

Her heart plummeted. Oh god. Why? Why did she have to let that slip out now, of all times? She could feel her face heating up, a wave of mortification crashing over her. “Um... uh...” She looked away, curling her fingers nervously into his shoulders. “Too soon?”

For a heartbeat, he was silent, his jaw tight and his chest heaving as he processed it. But then a low, guttural sound escaped him, somewhere between a groan and a growl. His head dropped to her shoulder, pressing his forehead into her as his body shuddered against hers. “Fuck,”

She let out a shaky breath, her heart pounding so hard she swore he could feel it. “S-sorry. I don’t... I don’t even know where that came from, I-”

He lifted his head, eyes dark, pupils blown. “Don’t.” His voice was rough, firm. “Don’t take it back.”

Her mouth went dry, and her body arched instinctively into him as his grip on her tightened. “You- uh... liked it?”

His lips curled into a feral grin, grazing her earlobe with his teeth before he growled, “You have no idea.” His nose brushed her cheek, his lips a breath away from hers. “Say it again.”

Her heart skipped a beat, face flaming. “I-” She hesitated, but the way his body trembled, the raw need in his eyes, the way he was holding her like he was afraid she’d vanish... it shattered any scruple she had. She leaned in, brushing his lips with hers as she whispered, “Ruin me, Papa Bear.”

He swore under his breath, crashing his mouth into hers again with bruising force. His hands gripped her tighter, possessive, desperate, and she moaned, opening up to him, letting him in. His tongue swept over hers, hungry and demanding, and she melted, her body molding to his as he consumed her.

He broke away just long enough to start tugging at her apron. “Take it off, or I’ll-”

The faint chime of the bell at the front door echoed through the storage room, hitting them like a bucket of cold water. Her eyes widened, and he stilled, with his fingers curled around the knot of her apron. The door to the storage room was wide open, and the front door? Neither of them had bothered to close it since none of this was supposed to happen.

His jaw clenched, and he lifted a finger, pointing at her with a look that could melt steel. “Don’t move.”

She barely had time to blink before he was striding out of the storage room, with his hair slightly mussed and crumpled clothing. He rounded the corner to find an elderly woman standing uncertainly by the counter, clutching her purse tightly in her hands.

His expression softened -just a bit- as he forced a strained smile. “It’s closed.”

The woman’s brows knitted together. “Oh, but I just wanted to-”

“Lemme accompany you out, yes?” He cut in, his voice dripping with forced politeness. “An emergency came up, and she’s... not here. I just stopped by to lock up.” His words were rushed, his body practically blocking the doorway.

“Oh, I see...” The woman glanced around, clearly confused but too polite to question him. “I’ll come back tomorrow then.”

“Good idea,” he agreed, already guiding her toward the door, hovering his hand protectively behind her back as she shuffled out. The door shut with more force than necessary, as the chime echoed sharply in the now-empty store. He twisted the lock, and stood there for a moment, with a rigid back, shoulders rising and falling with each heavy breath.

In a flash, he was back in the storage room, locking his eyes on her with a hunger that made her knees weak. He didn’t say a word as he closed the distance between them, and his fingers went immediately to the buttons of her blouse, his mouth trailing kisses over every newly exposed inch of skin.

He almost groaned when he saw her bra clasp at the front. “You’re a fucking menace,” he muttered, more to himself than to her, before popping the clasp with an impatient flick of his fingers. The fabric fell away, and his mouth and hands were on her before he could think: Palms warm against her bare skin, squeezing just hard enough to make her arch into him, a breathy moan escaping her lips. He latched his mouth to the delicate skin just above her collarbone, swirling his tongue, teeth scraping, tasting the salt of her skin.

She was driving him insane. Every little sound, every shiver, every way her fingers gripped his shoulders and pulled him closer.

Her hands were just as eager, fumbling with the zipper of his jacket, pushing it off his shoulders. She hesitated for a heartbeat when her fingers grazed his belly, flicking her eyes up to his. But there was no discomfort there, only hunger. Her pupils were blown, her lips parted, her breathing ragged. Her fingers splayed over his stomach, and the warmth of her touch sank into his skin even through the fabric of his shirt.

He kissed her harder, deeper, pressing her back against the wall as his body settled heavily against hers, his bigger form pinning her in place. She gasped, hitching her leg around his waist again, pulling him closer, grinding, her hips against his, and he nearly lost it.

His lips trailed lower, over the swell of her breast, and his stubble grazed her sensitive skin as his tongue flicked over an already pert nipple. She cried out, her fingers tangled in his hair, holding him there as her body arched beneath him, desperate, needing more. He was only too happy to oblige, closing his mouth around her, suckling greedily as his hand moved to the other, kneading, teasing.

“Bucky... please...” Her voice was a broken whisper, as her nails dug into his shoulders and scalp, and her body writhed against his.

He dragged his mouth back up to hers, capturing her lips in another bruising kiss, slipping his hand beneath her skirt, teasing the edge of her panties. “Want papa bear to touch you, sugarplum?” he growled, rough and low, “Want me to prep you open nice and deep and then ruin this little pussy?”

His words made her shiver, and her whole body tensed at the need in his voice. She could barely breathe, could barely think, as her mind spun while his fingers danced along the delicate lace of her panties, teasing, taunting.

“Yes,” she breathed, her voice trembling, her hips rolling instinctively toward his touch. “Yes, please.”

A low, satisfied growl rumbled from his chest, “That’s my good girl.” His fingers hooked under the fabric, dragging her panties down slowly, deliberately,  grazing his knuckles on the sensitive skin of her thighs. He wanted to savor this, to watch her come apart for him.

He lifted her easily, her back hitting the wall as her legs wrapped around his waist. The feeling of her pussy against his stomach made him swear under his breath, his head dropping to her shoulder again as he struggled to hold on to the last shreds of his self-control.

His metal fingers pressed her hips into the wall, to accompany his body, pinning her in place as his flesh hand slipped between her thighs. She was already soaked, and he groaned, feeling his cock throbbing painfully against his jeans. “So fucking wet for me... all that from just a little talk?”

Her head tipped back, hitting the wall, lips parting in a breathless gasp as his fingers found her clit, circling lazily, teasing only to dip them lower, slipping them inside her, stretching her, pressing his thumb down on her clit.

He watched her face as he started to move his hand, pumping slowly, deliberately, curling just enough to make her shudder. Her eyes were squeezed shut, her mouth falling open in a silent cry as her hips rocked against his hand, chasing every thrust, every stroke.

“Look at you,” he murmured, his breath hot against her ear. “Such a greedy pussy, taking everything I give you.” His teeth grazed her earlobe. “You’re mine now.”

Her body clenched around his fingers, a whimper escaping her lips, and her nails dug into his shoulders as she held on, tightening her muscles as he pushed her closer to the edge.

“Gonna come for me, sugarplum?” His fingers started to move faster, harder, while his thumb circled her clit mercilessly. “Gonna fall apart on my fingers before I even get to ruin you properly?”

Her whole body tensed and her head snapped forward, pressing her forehead into his as she shattered with a force that stole her breath.

“That’s it... that’s my girl,” he whispered, slowing his fingers, easing her down from the high, brushing his lips against hers in a surprisingly tender kiss.

He adjusted his grip on her body, grinding his clothed erection against her, letting her feel how hard he was, how ready. “And now, I gonna give you what you wanted,” he growled.

He slid his fingers out of her and fumbled with the zipper of his pants "look at the mess you did here, all this cream on my zipper." she just moaned and grind herself against the back of his hand, thrilled by being pinned to the wall by his weight alone and his vibranium hand on her asscheek.

“Bucky... please...” Her voice was breathy, broken, and her body trembled as his metal hand squeezed her ass, holding her exactly where he wanted her.

He hummed, while his fingers continued to play with the wetness she’d left on his pants, dragging her up his length, letting her feel every ridge, every pulse under his denim. “You’re so needy for me, sugarplum,” he murmured, his voice low, rough. “So wet, so… ready.”

She couldn’t speak, couldn’t think, her mind was blank with need as he finally spread his thick thighs squatting a little, and sat her on them, tugging down his zipper, and freeing his heavy, leaking cock. He wrapped his hand around himself, and his eyes never left hers as he stroked once, spreading her slickness all over his length. “You see this?” he growled. “This is what you do to me.”

She bit her lip, her eyes locked down, watching him slowly pump himself, zeroed on the pornographic sight of his cock glistening with a mix of their arousal.

Seeing his heated gaze he leaned in, his voice a low, dangerous whisper. “You made this mess... now you’re gonna take responsibility for it”. It was all the warning he did before hooking the back of her knees on his forearms, and pressing his hands on the wall, surging forward, burying the fat head of his cock in her entrance, pushing himself inside her in one slow, stretching thrust.

Her mouth fell open, and a choked moan escaped her lips as he filled her, inch by agonizing inch. Her back arched against the wall, fingers scrambling for purchase on his arms, nails digging in as her body stretched to accommodate him.

He was relentless, his eyes locked on her face, watching every flicker of pleasure, every gasp, every shudder as he sank into her, slow and merciless. “You feel that?” His voice was a rough whisper, his breath hot against her ear.

She could only nod, as he pressed his hips in even deeper, against hers, burying his cock to the hilt. “Bucky... oh God...” Her legs trembled, thighs spread wide over his forearms, helpless to do anything but take everything he gave her.

He groaned, dropping his head to her shoulder, grazing her skin with his teeth as he fought to keep himself in check, to keep from losing himself in the incredible heat of her body. “Fuck... you feel so damn good... driving me crazy, sugarplum.” His words were rough, and breathless, his control slipping with every second he stayed buried inside her.

Her walls quivered around him, tightening instinctively, pulling him in, holding him close. “Bucky... move... please...” she pleaded, trying to roll her hips to create some friction, to ease the maddening stretch.

He didn’t need any more encouragement. His fingers almost dug into the bricks, and he began to move in slow, heavy thrusts that made her whole body rock against the wall. Each time he withdrew, she felt the loss, felt the emptiness, and each time he filled her again, her world shattered a little more as she felt his cock stretching her, filling her, owning her. “Oh God...”

He could feel himself losing control, as his thrusts grew harder and faster, pinning her like a ragdoll against the wall, relishing the needy moans and whimpers escaping her lips.

A hand flew to his head tugging his locks as he wrecked her.  “Fuck Papa Bear… you feel so good, so heavy, so… fucking… big, you turn me on so much.” 

Her praise wrapped around him, squeezing him just as tight as her body did, and his head spun with primal satisfaction. He groaned, as his cock throbbed and pulsed inside her flooding her with precum, and growing even harder inside her. “Yeah? You like this thick Bear covering you, pinning you, breeding you full?”

Her head thudded back against the wall, as she tried to tighten her legs against his forearms, to arch her body to join his thrusts, digging her nails into his shoulders. “Yes, yes, god, yes... love feeling you like this, love how big you are...”

“Fuck, sugar” his bruised ego drank her words like a man dying of thirst. Each confession went straight to his cock. He could feel her body yielding to him, taking everything he gave, and it made him lose his rhythm, made him rut into her like an animal, making her back slide up and down the wall with every hard thrust.

He lifted his arms to spread her wide to take him deeper. Her cries only grew louder, more desperate, and he couldn’t get enough of it. “You’re mine now, sugar plum. Fuck, ‘m gonna fuck you so good you’ll never look at another man again... gonna make sure you remember this every time you close your eyes.”

She whimpered as he buried his face in her neck, nipping her sensitive skin. “Bucky... Papa... please... don’t stop...” she pleaded, curling her fingers into his hair.

His mouth curved into a half smile against her throat. “Not planning to, sugarplum.” He rolled his hips, grinding deep, making her back arch and her legs quiver. “Not until you’re dripping with me... not until you’re so full of my cum you can’t stand.”

Her body convulsed, one hand remained fisting his hair and the other dragged her nails on his broad back, “Fuck! Yes, I want it so bad...”

He lost whatever thread of control he had left. His thrusts grew brutal, punishing as his cock stretched her, pounding into her with a force that bordered on savage. He watched her face contort with pleasure, as the base of his cock ground deliciously against her swollen clit. Her mouth opened in a silent scream, and her eyes rolled back as he drove into her, harder, faster. “You’re gonna take it all... every drop... you understand?”

She could only nod, her words were lost to the raw, consuming pleasure.

He was so close, muscles tensed to the point of aching, his breath ragged as his cock throbbed, his balls tightened, ready to spill. But he held on, watching her, waiting, needing to see her fall apart first.

“Come on, doll... give it to me... come all over my cock... let me feel it...” he growled, as his wide shoulders caged her in. “Bet you’ve never been this full before. Never had someone this big ruin you like this.”

Her nails raked down his back, desperate, her eyes rolling back as she tried to meet his rhythm but was utterly at his mercy. “F-Fuck, Bucky... so... so big...”

“That’s right,” he rasped, a savage grin flashing across his face. “Too big for this pretty little pussy, huh?” he lifted her higher and marked every word with a harder thrust.

Her entire body seized up before she felt herself shatter, arching against his body and squeezing him, milking him so tight he finally let himself go.

“That’s it... make a mess... make a fucking mess for me, doll... fuck!” his cock jerked, pulsing, as his release came hot and violent, spilling thick ropes of cum inside her. He kept grinding his hips, pressing himself as deep as he could, stirring his load inside her until it was too much to contain. The excess bubbled out around his shaft obscenely, warm and sticky, dripping down her thighs and landing on the floor.

He nipped at her collarbone, a lazy smirk curving his lips as he gently withdrew them from the wall. He eased her thighs down just enough to let her hook them around his waist, and his eyes flicked to an old chair in the corner of the room. Without a word, he began to move with steady steps despite the lingering tremors in his muscles. As he walked them over, each stride pressed him deeper inside her, drawing soft whimpers from her swollen lips.

Reaching the chair, he sank down heavily, the wood creaking beneath their weight. She straddled him, still nesting him deep inside her pussy, arms wrapped tightly around his shoulders, tangling her fingers on his hair. His hands settled on her hips, keeping her pressed close, unwilling to break their connection just yet.

His head fell back against the chair, closing his eyes for a moment as he let himself breathe. “You feel... too damn good. Could stay like this all day...”

Her fingers started to brush his hair gently. “Then don’t move... Just stay. You made sure that no other clients visited today." She slightly pinched his stubbled full cheek. "And... is not fair you didn’t remove any of your clothes besides your jacket in all this ordeal."

He huffed out a low laugh, that rumbled against her chest. “Yeah? That bother you, sugarplum?” His hands slid up her back, splaying wide as he pressed her tighter against him. “You wanna see all of me?”

Her fingers tightened in his hair. “I think it’s only fair,” she murmured, a teasing lilt to her voice. “I wanna see what I’ve been getting my hands on... what I’ve been wanting.” Her eyes dropped pointedly to his still-clothed body, darting her tongue out to wet her lips.

His eyes flicked away for a beat, and his shoulders tensed a little. There was a moment, a fleeting second where his hands stilled on her body, where his fingers dug just a little too hard into her waist. Old doubts echoed in his mind, flashing to his reflection in the mirror, the soft curve of his belly, the heft in his chest that wasn’t just only muscle.

But then she moved, running her hands up his chest, her eyes wide, pupils blown as she whispered. “I want to see you, Bucky.”

His heart thudded hard, but he felt himself relax, the tension ebbing away as he let out a slow, shaky breath. “Alright, sugarplum,” he murmured. “You asked for it.”

In one swift motion, he gripped the hem of his shirt, muscles flexing as he pulled it over his head and tossed it aside. He forced himself to sit there, exposed, waiting for the flicker of judgment, for her gaze to catch on his soft middle, or the faint stretch marks on his hips.

But her eyes were wide with interest as she took him in. Her hands roamed over him, tracing her fingers on his skin, lingering on the scars, the old wounds. She palmed his chest, brushing her thumbs over his hardened nipples, and his muscles jumped under her touch.

“Better?” his voice rough, his eyes heavy-lidded as he watched her explore him.

She bit her lip, as she kept worshipping him. “Better... but I’m not done yet.” She added as she trailed softly the scarred flesh where his prosthesis joined his body with her tongue.

His cock twitched with interest inside her, still hard, still nestled so deep. His hands gripped hard on her waist and his eyes narrowed. “You’re playing with fire, sugarplum.”

She smirked, rolling her hips slowly and deliberately. “Then burn me up, Papa Bear.”

Taglist: @civilbucky @blythesarchives

Dividers by:@/cafekitsune

[nymphaea-blue]

Love and Deepspace boys comforting you through stressful situations.

Info : 3.3k+ word count (about 700-900 per part), hurt/comfort, angst mixed with fluff, talks of periods (Zaynes part), mentions of throwing up (Zaynes part), mentions of harassment (Sylus part), hinted violence/murder (Sylus part).

Note : I had such a hard week I had to write about it, I hope some girlies here will relate because wow I would love to have Rafayel comfort me after I did in fact miss 3 of my trains two days ago 😭 Reqs are open!

Rafayel

The day was hard for you.

Ever since you met Rafayel, you thought your life would only be happy and it worked for a while, whenever he was with you, you were just so happy. No matter if something happened, if you messed something up, he was there to cheer you up.

But not today, since he had an exhibition to attend and one you sadly couldn't come to because of your work schedule. You were assigned a mission in a nearby city, it wasn't extremely far, about an hour away by train, but it was for multiple days which caused you to miss him, phone calls weren't enough.

Earlier that day, you were getting ready to leave to go to the station, but something came up so you had to take care of that first and later on you had to rush to catch your train but about halfway you realised it wasn't worth it. That's fine, just a minor setback, surely you will make it to the next train, right?

Wrong, just as you were getting ready to catch a taxi, you realised you didn't have your wallet so you had to run back to your hotel which took a while and you almost tripped while doing that since your suitcase was full but it didn't matter, you just wanted to make it home back to Rafayel. Well, it took way longer than you thought and you wouldn't be able to make it as you only had a few minutes and you weren't even at the station. That's okay, there is another train, you will just arrive a little later, or so you thought.

As it turned out, the next train was in two hours.

Whopping two hours.

And oh you cried, it was so stressful to miss the first few trains but now that you found it that you will have to sit two hours, in a city away from home, from your boyfriend, out in the cold, with a heavy bag - that was enough to make you break down.

In the middle of the street, you reached for your phone with a shaky hand and pressed the call button. It rang a few times and you felt so bad for interrupting him, because it was his day, but you had no idea what else to do.

He picked it up after a few moments.

“Oh hey cutie! It's so good to hear you, it's boring here without you, you know. What's up?”

You wanted to answer but hearing his cheerful voice somehow made you cry even more and you started sobbing. Clearly, he heard.

“.. Woah, are you crying? What happened? Are you hurt?”

“N-no, it's not that Rafayel…”

“What is it then, talk to me. I'll make you all feel better.”

“It's just… I missed the last few of my trains and now I have to wait two hours.. I'm so so sorry, I tried to make it, but then my coworkers needed something last minute, then later on I forgot a wallet and now it turns out the next train is in damn two hours and I don't know what to do because it's freezing cold, I'm all alone and it's getting dark and I'm scared.” You just sobbed out into the phone all your thoughts as you tightly gripped onto your bag as you did your best to hold yourself upright.

There was silence on the line for a moment as he was hearing you out and processing the information you gave him, then he finally answered.

“Don’t apologize, it happens sometimes cutie. Where are you right now?” Rafayel asked, surprisingly calm as he did his best to soothe you.

“At the train station.. I should be back home in 3 hours. I'm so sorry, I thought I would make it back home before your exhibition ends so I would be able to surprise you or perhaps attend the ending of it but I messed up..”

“Okay, don't apologize, it happens and I don't blame you, you know that right? Stay where you are, transport will be there soon enough.”

“Transport..? What do you mean?”

“I'm going to pick you up, duh. You didn't think I would let you sit out there for two hours, right?”

“No you can't do that, you have your exhibition to attend. I'll do fine on my own, really-” He cut you off. You weren't sure what you were expecting but surely it wasn't that he would pick you up, the city was almost an hour away by car.

“Yeah yeah, an important exhibition or something. Thomas can handle the rest, I sat there for longer than usual anyways, but I can't just sit here and do nothing while my lovely partner sits somewhere and is clearly uncomfortable.”

“You just hang on tight sweetheart, alright? I will be there soon, why don't you stay with me on the line while I drive so you will feel more safe, hm?” He added and you can hear the faint sounds of an engine starting from the other side of the line. He really did just decide to pick you up.

“Yeah, that will be perfect.. thank you Rafayel.” You wiped some of your tears, feeling better now after hearing his reassurance

“No problem. And hey,”

“Hm?”

“You are pretty strong, miss bodyguard, but it's no shame to let some of those tears fall sometimes, yeah?”

Zayne

You were currently crying in Zaynes bedroom as you felt another cramp in your abdomen. It hurt, it hurt so much but worse of all, you weren't expecting your period, it came early so you had to come back from work because you had no pads and practically bled through your hunters uniform, how embarrassing…

For some reason, this period was extremely painful for you. You couldn't eat because you felt nauseous, you had terrible mood swings to the point of overthinking everything, you felt dizzy whenever you moved and you were craving chocolate but you ran out. You ran out of all your supplies actually, which was just great. That was why you were at Zaynes house, he always had things stocked for you and you had the keys to it, so you sometimes went there when you needed comfort, like now.

So, with no one else to call, you decided to reach out to one person you were sure would help you when you felt like you were dying:

Zayne, your boyfriend and a doctor.

“Hello sweetheart, I just finished a surgery, is everything alright?” Your boyfriend asked and it was such a relief to hear his voice.

“No, not really… I feel really bad, Zayne. When do you get off from work?” You asked, trying not to sound desperate and to not make him worry, you felt like crying but you didn't want him to rush out of his job just to help you.

“My shift ends in about 3 hours, but what’s wrong? I can be home quicker if you need me.”

“... It's alright then, it's nothing serious, I can wait.” You tried your best to keep your voice stable as you curled into yourself more at the feeling of another cramp.

Clearly, it didn't work.

After a few moments of silence, Zayne spoke up again.

“I will be home in about 40 minutes. Try to stay calm for now, okay?” He quickly let you know and hung up before you even had the chance to tell him not to.

While you waited for him, you just lied on the bed, the heating bottle doing barely anything at this point as you sobbed at the discomfort. You felt terrible that he was rushing out of his very serious job just to help you, during something as silly as your period, you could handle it on your own after all.

After about 40 minutes, right as expected, he came back home.

“Here you are, I was so worried. What's wrong?” Zayne quickly came up to you and tilted your head gently to look you in the eyes, to try and spot any visible injury on your body and see how you were feeling.

You wanted to answer, you really did, but all that came out were sobs, pitiful, loud, sobs. He really did come home from the hospital just to help you, because he thought that you were seriously injured. He was an amazing boyfriend, you didn't deserve him for calling him for something like this.

“Hey, hey it's alright now. I'm here, calm down. Breathe in and out for me, okay?” He did his best to wipe away the tears coming down your cheeks and help you calm down, he hugged you tight and just held you in his arms until he felt you calm down slightly.

“Tell me what's wrong. I'll help you right away but I need to know what to do. I can't bear to see you cry like that..”

“I'm so so sorry, Zayne… I'm just on period, it came early and it's so goddamn painful for some reason, I was throwing up after everything I ate, I feel dizzy and overall awful and I didn't know what to do so I called you.. and now you are here, handling something stupid instead of saving someone's life, I'm sorry..” You sobbed into his shoulder as he held onto you so tightly as if you would disappear, you really hoped he would forgive you.

He was stunned for a moment, did he hear you right? You were apologising to him for asking for help? While you were sick? And he was a doctor?

Slowly and gently he pulled away from you, just to look you in the eyes as you were still sobbing.

“My love, you know you never need to feel sorry for that, right? I would drop everything even if I was in the middle of surgery if something ever happened to you.” He comforted you softly, patting your head and waving his hand through your hair in an effort to calm you down.

When your sobbing became soft crying instead, he decided to treat you. Zayne went ahead and found some painkillers, ones that should help for period pain and he also brewed some tea for you. After taking the medication, he sat next to you while you laid down on the bed, still all curled up.

“How do you feel? Are your symptoms getting better?” He asked, his voice so tender yet professional and you couldn't help but laugh at that.

“Yes, I feel much better, thanks to you Dr. Zayne.”

“Good, that's what I was hoping to hear. After your nausea goes down, I will make you something light to eat and then I can order some of those fancy desserts you like. How about that? You deserve it after such a hard day.”

Xavier

Okay, everything should be ready. Your briefcase is packed, all the documents are ready, your outfit is perfect and you even managed to wake up early to do some makeup and eat a healthy breakfast, what an amazing start to your day! Well, we won't talk about the fact you spilled coffee on your white shirt and had to change, but it worked out anyways.

You were very nervous, but also hopeful since so far everything was going almost exactly how it should be. Jenna was counting on you that day to deliver a presentation in front of the media about Linkons safety and actions your department would implement in the near future to improve even more and keep Wanderers away. It was a big deal, one that could perhaps also result in you getting a raise or a promotion so you wanted to do good.

As you were on the commute, which was of course packed, you were texting with your partner and boyfriend - Xavier. You woke up earlier than him to prepare so he was still at home as he didn't start his shift for a few more hours, despite that he still woke up early to chat with you and keep your nerves at bay.

During the ride, it was all fine at first but then at the next station even more people rushed in and the space was so tight, you could barely breathe. It was extremely uncomfortable as everyone was pressed against you and it was loud, very loud, too loud to even hear your thoughts. And of course, the commute had some issues, so you were stuck in one place for about 10 minutes.

After a very uncomfortable ride to work, you finally showed up, running quite late but you still had enough time to prepare so it was fine. You sat at your desk to go over the presentation when you realised. You forgot to bring the damn pendrive from home. You thought you saved it on your laptop but no, you searched for it and it wasn't anywhere and Jenna was about to come in and probably ask you about it!

You were ready to cry, honestly. You tried to be positive, not let everything bug you but you were stressed because you worked on the presentation for multiple days now and you were only about 10 minutes away from presenting it in front of the media but you didn't have it!

But there was still hope. You called your boyfriend who was probably napping since he didn't respond to your last text message that you sent him while you were still on your way to work, but hopefully he wouldn't be mad that you woke him up.

“Hm? Are you at work already? What's wrong?” He muttered sleepily.

“Xavier are you still at home?”

“Yes, did you forget something?”

“.. How did you know?”

“Just figured. You were nervous about this, it's only natural for someone to forget something during such a stressful day.”

“Yes, I don't have my pendrive… Could you perhaps get it from my apartment and deliver it to me, please? I'm literally about to present it in a few minutes, I can't mess this up!” You hoped he would be able to do this for you, you were almost crying but you didn't want to ruin your makeup so you held back and you guessed that he heard it.

“Okay calm down starlight. I will be there in a few moments, so take a deep breath, and you will do great. I know it. So don't stress so much and keep that wonderful smile on your face when you present, I will be there in the crowd to cheer you up.

And Xavier did come, in only two minutes he teleported to work with your pendrive and also some of your makeup to fix you up after crying. And he kept his word because he was there, in the crowd, right behind the cameras to keep your spirits up during your presentation. Afterwards, the two of you went to a hot pot spot to celebrate the successful presentation and your pay raise.

Sylus

After work, you decided to go have some fun in the nearby mall. You were working hard lately, so why not reward yourself a little bit?

There was a new movie coming out, you originally wanted to go see it with Sylus but he sadly had some work to do, so you decided to go on your own. It was amazing and you loved it, you had great seats right at the centre and there weren't many ads at the beginning so it felt like it was going to be perfect. However, somewhere in the middle of the film, you noticed two guys that were sitting next to you, they kept laughing and looking over at you, but you didn't think much of it.

After the movie you went to do some shopping. You entered one of your favourite stores and started browsing, there were a few cute things so you picked them and went to another aisle. As you walked around the store, you saw the same guys that sat next to you during the movie, but perhaps it was just a coincidence so you brushed it off. The shop had clothes for males as well after all so it was nothing suspicious, Sylus bought clothes there sometimes whenever he went shopping with you.

After you made your choice, you went ahead and paid at the till. The same two guys stood right behind you and they looked over you and your choice of clothes. There were some shoes, shirts and a few dresses, because who doesn't love a good shopping trip to spice up their wardrobe? Well, they looked at you in a way that you didn't really like, so you just swiped the black card and took your things neatly packed in bags before storming out.

It was fine, you convinced yourself. They perhaps were there looking for something. Maybe they just thought you looked familiar. Maybe they were your coworkers that you didn't recognise.

No matter, you decided to go to a nearby store to buy some makeup that you were running low on. As you peacefully browsed through the isles of products, searching for some face masks and skincare products for you and your boyfriend to enjoy later, you spotted them again. This time, however, they decided to talk to you.

“Hey, I have a question.” One guy dared to say, you decided to try and ignore him, despite how scared you were. What was their business with you? Normally you would know how to handle this but well, you were in public, so you couldn't just get rid of them as much as you wanted to.

“Did you hear me?”

“Are you single, perhaps? Or were all those beautiful clothes for some lame ass boyfriend?” The second man asked.

“Yeah, we can treat you much better, you know. Why don't you give us a show in those clothes?

And you were crying, at that point. Who the hell were these guys? Why were they doing that? And the worst part? The store was packed, so it was loud and no one else heard or paid attention to what was going on in the corner you were in.

Luckily though, someone appeared at the right moment.

It all happened quite quickly, you were crying and shaking while trying your best to ignore the guys or get away and the next moment, a certain black and red mist pulled you closer to the side of your hero, Sylus.

“I'm sure you guys would love to have a show, but that sight is only reserved for me.” He said in his usual tone yet you could see the daggers in his gaze at the guys while they stared in shock. You, however, were very happy to see him as suddenly all your worries disappeared and you hugged him tightly.

“There you are, sweetie. How are you doing? Did you have fun on your spa day?” He asked in a soft tone as his attention switched to you and he lifted your head to see how you were holding up.

“Yeah, I'm all better now… Thank you, Sy.” You smiled warmly at him as you wiped the rest of your tears.

“Wait… where are the guys that were here a minute ago?-” You asked after you looked back in the direction of where the two men stood earlier, but you saw nothing.

“Oh don't worry about it. Why don't we finish up here and then get something nice to eat, hm?”

“For the next time, if someone even dares to do this, just call me. I will always pick up if it's from you and take care of any of those pests that bother you.”

Sure enough, you never found out what happened to them but all you know is Sylus probably didn't let them get away with it alive. He took you to a fancy place to eat afterwards and you stayed the night at his place.

[coquettepascal]

birthday girl

summary: sometimes a girl just needs to cry her way through her birthday; joel makes sure you cry for a good reason this year.

tags: 18+, smut, praise kink, crying, crying during sex but not for bad reasons, fingering, joel has big hands (duh), soft sex, sweet sex, clingy!reader, academic!reader (implied), reader is younger than joel, reader is in college still but no age is discussed, anxious!reader, quiet!reader, soft!joel, dom!joel (a little?), praise kink (again), boyfriend!joel, use of the following nicknames: baby, dove, birthday girl, reader has hair, size difference kind of, happy ending :]

a/n: it's my birthday today !! and i felt like projecting into a fic so here is this thing i wrote in one sitting HAHA <3

(1.4k, not beta read)

“Baby?” Joel calls softly.

He’s knuckle deep in you, stretching you across two of his fingers. You can feel how you’re melting onto him, how you clench onto him in every way possible.

There’s no possible way that this is comfortable for him, not in the slightest. You can tell that his wrist is aching, that the forearm he’s resting on is aching, but he hasn’t said anything yet and you don’t want this to stop.

He’s laid beside you kind of, with one of your legs out on the opposite side of the bed while the other is sandwiched between his own. He always lets you hold yourself open how you want, and tonight you want to be as close to him as you can. 

Your arms are awkwardly hugging his neck down to you, so you can nuzzle into his cheek and tell him how you’re feeling. This kind of attention can feel so anxiety inducing sometimes, this weird pressure to come for him quickly so he can be done with it, even if that isn’t what he wants.

Joel will coax your release from you no matter how long it takes, or how many times you want it. He doesn’t mind, he’s always telling you he doesn’t mind, but he needs you to talk to him through it.

“Hey,” he murmurs softly, curling his fingers in you. It makes your hips twitch slightly, a soft mewl leaving your throat in response.

“How’s my birthday girl doin’? Is this good?” Joel asks. 

You’re stupidly lucky to have him.

He carried you up the stairs after you began bawling into your birthday dinner, salty tears mixing with the pasta that Joel slaved over for the evening. You couldn’t swallow anymore of it, everything was feeling so heavy already and each gulp of food was landing like lumps of grease in your stomach. 

This year has been lonely, painfully so. Somewhere between high school and postsecondary you shrank back into your shell, leaving behind friend groups and growing into your own skin. It felt good for the first little while, but your success and achievements in classes didn’t make up for the sinking feeling in your heart. You have some friends, but not enough for a birthday party, and they aren’t close enough to remember your birthday anyways. 

Going out to dinner felt stupid if it was just you and your boyfriend celebrating, it didn’t feel important enough. Joel fought you on it at first, but gave up when he noticed how upset you were. Instead, he made dinner for you and set up some decorations.

You feel a little guilty, thinking about the birthday banner downstairs, the pasta on the table, and the cake in the fridge, but then he curls his fingers again and your eyes flutter.

“Need your words, dove,” Joel says patiently. He doesn’t thrust his fingers at all, just pushing them against your walls softly to remind you he’s there.

Managing to nod, and find your voice, you murmur a yes, feels good, but your voice is so small. Joel picks up on it right away.

“You wanna talk, baby? S’okay if you don’t, s’okay if you’re feelin’ quiet.”

Tears start to billow and burn in the bags beneath your eyes, stinging as you close your eyes and shake your head into the crook of his neck. Your hands clasp behind his neck, pulling him closer, and he nods. 

You feel so embarrassed and guilty, but also stupid. Here is Joel, giving you all you need, and you can’t even speak up for him. You didn’t finish his dinner, or blow out the candles, and he’s still reassuring you. 

“Is it good slow? Deep and slow right now?” he asks into your ear, scruff scratching your ear.

Your soft nods reassure him and he resumes a slow pace, pushing up against your wall as he presses kisses down the side of your head and in your hair, hushing you. The feeling of his fingers in you is so foreign still, not quite new but not your own either. He’s such a stretch compared to yourself, one that makes your brain fuzz over. 

Joel curls his fingers in you, then strokes the inside of you with the pads of his fingers as he begins to talk.

“It’s okay you’re bein’ quiet, baby, you know I don’t mind. Don’t matter if you can use your voice or not, s’long as you keep bein’ the good girl you are.”

Now the tears spill over, hot and rolling slow down your heated cheeks. There are so many emotions and he’s monopolized this overwhelming feeling into pleasure as he pulls wetness from you and spills it onto his knuckles, into his palm. You’re surprised you’re even this turned on when you’ve had such a shit day, but you know it’s because of him. 

He hasn’t realized you’re crying yet, still fingering you at an easy pace, something he hopes you can handle. 

“Jus’ wanna make you feel good, you deserve it. My strong girl’s been so tough lately, workin’ so hard to make me proud, huh?” 

Your tears pour into the fibers of his tee as you push your head down into his shoulder, nodding as you catch your breath between a quiet sob. This recognition feels so different, so much better. 

“You cryin’?” He asks quietly.

His fingers don't still. You’ve cried a lot tonight, if you wanted it to stop he knows that you’d tell him, or kick him. You have your means of communicating, even if you’re feeling too much to speak. 

Nodding into his shirt, you breathe out a shaky little breath. His neck feels clammy under your hot palms, but you can’t bring yourself to let go.

“S’okay if you’re cryin’, that’s okay, baby. It’s tough bein’ the birthday girl, right? So much stress sometimes, hard to be that pretty and special,” Joel reassures, pulling his fingers almost fully out of you before slowly easing them back into you. There’s a nasty noise coming from you, one that would be lewd if he wasn’t so sweet.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s so hard for you, but you’ve been so good. Best birthday girl I know,” he hums, pushing a little harder into you now. It makes your eyes draw together as tears brim, a little sound pulling itself from your chest.

“M’so proud of you, dove, you know that? I wanna make you feel good, an extra special birthday gift for bein’ so disciplined,” Joel adds.

He drags his face down to yours, shrinking into his own body in a silly way so he can nudge your nose with his. Your eyes are closed but it doesn’t matter, you don’t know if you can handle seeing anything right now. Joel presses a kiss to your forehead, pushing deeper and a little faster into you as his fingers curl, drag, and press into you just right.

“Can I give you that, huh? You want your gift, birthday girl, since you were so good? 

Everything is melting now, the tears down your face and the space between your thighs. Wet is everywhere, from your cheeks to his knuckles. Hot, and sticky, and dripping, all of you being kept together from where he’s plugged himself into you. Trying to speak, you make noises, but just babble aimlessly through a desperate sob.

Somehow, through your orgasm, you drag him closer. He’s nearly collapsed on top of you now, barely able to keep moving his fingers as you clench around him, spilling onto him.

“There you go, dove, there you are,” he shushes softly as your chest heaves with a mixture of gasps and sobs.

He doesn’t pull away from you, just lets you cling and sob as you need, kissing wherever he can. 

It takes awhile for you to come down, but when you have he doesn’t pull away except for sliding his fingers out of you. Your head feels distant from you, eyes soft and chest exhausted.

“Maybe we can try this birthday thing again tomorrow, hm?” Joel asks, adjusting you so he can lay with you in a more comfortable position. Your head rests on the meat of his chest and you nod, eyes half open. Honestly, apart from what happened just now, today sucked. Having two birthdays sounds perfectly appealing to your melted little brain as he holds you close to his warm body.

Tomorrow, tomorrow can be your birthday.

[rafecameronssl4t]

Yours to keep || Frat boy!Rafe Cameron x fem!reader

Summary: At a frat party, Rafe’s jealousy flares when he sees you talking to a new pledge. His possessive nature comes through as he asserts his claim, leaving no doubt about who you belong to.

Warnings: jealous/possesive!rafe 😝

Word count: 1,245

A/n: guys send thru frat boy!rafe requests xx

MASTERLIST (frat boy!rafe x reader au masterlist)

divider by @h-aewo

The party was in full swing, with music booming and laughter echoing through every corner of the frat house. Red cups were scattered across tables, and the place was crowded, the air filled with the energy of people letting loose. Rafe was in his element, the charismatic center of it all, playing the role of frat president to perfection as he laughed with his brothers and kept a watchful eye on the pledges.

You wandered through the crowd, occasionally glancing at Rafe, who seemed to command the entire room with his cocky grin and confident stance. As you made your way around, you ended up talking with Jamie, one of the new pledges, who seemed a bit overwhelmed by the night’s intensity.

He held his drink a little awkwardly, but his shy smile was endearing, and he seemed genuinely interested in getting to know you. “So, what’s it like dating Rafe Cameron?” Jamie asked, scratching the back of his neck with a sheepish smile. “He’s got… quite the reputation.”

You laughed, raising an eyebrow as you glanced over at Rafe, who was engrossed in a conversation with a couple of his frat brothers across the room. “You make it sound like he’s some kind of terrifying figure,” you teased, rolling your eyes.

Jamie chuckled, though he looked a bit nervous. “Well, he kind of is. I mean, he’s intense. People talk about him like he’s not someone you want to mess with.” Smiling, you shrugged. “Rafe can be a bit… possessive. But he’s not as scary as he seems. He just cares about the house and the people close to him. You’ll get used to him once you’re around him more.”

Jamie nodded, though he still looked a little unsure. “I hope so. He definitely seems… protective.” “He is,” you said, grinning. “But as long as you’re not on his bad side, you’ll be fine.” Just as Jamie was about to respond, you felt a familiar warmth against your back as Rafe slipped his arm around your waist, pulling you close.

He didn’t even look at you—his gaze was fixed on Jamie, his eyes cool and calculating despite the friendly smirk on his face. “Hey, babe,” Rafe murmured, his tone casual, but you could sense the edge in his voice. His attention didn’t waver from Jamie. “Who’s this?” “This is Jamie, one of the new pledges,” you explained, keeping your voice light.

“We were just talking.” “Talking, huh?” Rafe’s arm tightened around you, his fingers pressing into your hip as his gaze swept over Jamie. “Talking about what?” Jamie looked a bit flustered, shifting awkwardly. “I… uh, I was just asking about her classes. And, um… about you, actually,” he admitted, his voice quieter. “You’ve got quite a reputation.”

Rafe’s smirk sharpened, a glint of amusement mixed with challenge in his eyes. “Is that so?” He glanced at you briefly, raising an eyebrow, then looked back at Jamie. “Well, Jamie, reputation or not, this one’s taken.” Jamie chuckled nervously, nodding. “Of course. I, uh… I’ll just go check in with the other brothers.”

He glanced at you, managing a quick smile before practically retreating into the crowd. As Jamie disappeared, you turned to Rafe, giving him a look before walking off, him right beside you. “Rafe, he was just being nice.” Rafe shrugged, his eyes trailing after Jamie until the pledge disappeared into the crowd.

“Yeah, maybe. But the way he was looking at you? Like he thought he had a shot?” His jaw tensed, and he turned his gaze back to you, that familiar possessive glint lighting up his blue eyes. “That doesn’t sit well with me,” he murmured, his hand slipping lower on your back until it landed with a firm slap on your ass.

You shot him a playful glare, swatting his hand back up to your waist, but your laughter betrayed you. “Oh, you’re jealous, aren’t you?” “Jealous?” Rafe scoffed, though the smirk tugging at his lips said otherwise. “Please. I just don’t like the idea of some new kid thinking he can step in and flirt with you.” His fingers tightened on your hip, as if to punctuate his point.

“Flirt?” you echoed, crossing your arms and raising an eyebrow at him. “All we did was talk, Rafe. You really think he was flirting?” Rafe cocked his head, his smirk widening as he stepped closer, the warmth of his body pressing against you. “I know guys, babe. That ‘just talking’ look? That’s him hoping you’d suck him off,”

You rolled your eyes at his possessive streak, but the butterflies in your stomach betrayed you. Despite his bluntness, Rafe’s attention made you feel exhilarated in a way no one else could. “Maybe you’re just overthinking it,” you teased, your tone light. “Not every guy is out to steal your girl, you know.”

Rafe leaned in, his hand gently cradling your jaw, his thumb brushing along your cheek in a way that made your breath hitch. “Yeah,” he murmured, his voice dropping to that low, dangerous tone that made your heart race, “but have you looked at yourself, babe?” You couldn’t help the small chuckle that slipped out, the warmth of his fingers and his intense gaze making you feel giddy.

“You’re impossible, you know that?” He smirked, eyes flicking between yours as if to prove his point. “No one steals what’s mine,” he murmured, the quiet confidence in his voice wrapping around you like a promise. His words sent a thrill down your spine, and for a moment, it felt like the crowded, noisy party faded away, leaving just the two of you in that charged moment.

“Possessive much?” you teased, though your heart raced at his words. “Maybe,” he admitted, his lips quirking up in a wicked smile. “But can you blame me?” His hand slid to the back of your neck, pulling you close until his lips brushed over yours, a gentle but unmistakably claiming kiss.

The sounds of the party disappeared, his attention drowning out everything else. As he pulled away, he kept his forehead pressed against yours, his smirk softening into a smile. “Just keep in mind who you came here with, alright?” “Trust me, I know,” you whispered, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him back into another kiss.

[crushribbons]

thanks, peg J

summary: Dr. Michael Robinavitch needs help building a shelf.

cw: 2.7k words, fluff, my actual husband is an actual doctor i should probably know more/anything about how hospitals work, vague age gap (reader/oc is in her 30's), vague to graphic depictions of injury/illness, fem!OC/reader.

a/n: paging dr. daddy :) <3

(gif cred)

She pulled her stethoscope off her neck. “Oof. Sounds like a ball of a Friday night. Is it from Ikea?”

“The Ivar,” Robby specified with a nod and shrug. He looked back down at the patient list from their shift, which couldn’t have been ending at a more merciful time. The last man she had examined had spat on her. And what else should she expect?; she’d diagnosed his pain as a small kidney stone passing through his urethra and written a prescription that would all but eliminate the discomfort. If that wasn’t deserving of a loogie to the face, she didn’t know what else would be. Robby let out a sigh that sounded exactly like the exhaustion tugging her eyelids down. 

Nurse Dana swept by them, her fleece jacket already three-quarters of the way on. “Don’t take too long on those autographs, kids, or night shift will just let you keep right on rolling.” 

A raspy little laugh slipped past Dr. Robby’s lips and the corners of his eyes crinkled the way they always did on the rare occasions someone could tug a genuine smile out of him. Suddenly, she wasn’t sure if the lack of breakfast and the bag of Ritz crackers she’d scarfed down for lunch were the only things making her light-headed. 

“Yes, ma’am,” he called after Dana. The charge nurse raised her hand without turning around and wiggled her fingers at them while darting out the double doors that led to the waiting room and exit before anyone could stop her. Robby turned back to the doctor next to him and handed her the clipboard he’d just finished signing about two hundred times. 

Her hand grazed his, and the level of attention she paid to how warm and rough his fingers felt made her grit her jaw in frustration. It was her first year as an attending, how could she be letting something as ridiculous as a workplace crush get to her? She realized it had been a while since she’d spoken, and that Robby was pulling his own coat and backpack from underneath his desk. 

“Need any help chasing down the million nuts and bolts that are guaranteed to burst out of the little bag when you open it?” she offered jokingly. Robby’s eyes flicked to her too fast. She felt her hairline heat up, worried she’d overstepped. 

None of the attendings did anything outside of work together; the work hours were long enough to get their fill of each other without feeling the need to add alcohol or food to the mix. Some of the students and residents would occasionally hit bars after their shifts, and though she had no desire to join them, it made her miss the relative lack of responsibility of med school. Dr. Robinavitch, in particular, never broached the topic of his personal life at work, so she tried to do the same. There were too many patients to see and too much to accomplish to bother checking if the attractive ER chief with the puppy-dog eyes had plans for the weekend. No matter how much she wanted to.

He let out another chuckle, though this one was without humor. "Don't tell me you got nothing better to do than that," he said. "On a Friday night."

"I'm, uh, still finding my way around Pittsburgh." It was true. Her residency in California had spoiled her, and she found the stark greyness of Pennsylvania off-putting. She rarely ventured from her apartment for anything other than work and necessary grocery shopping.

He regarded her for a few seconds. His gaze felt heavier than it should have, as if she had some symptom that didn't line up with her lab results. She remembered what Dr. Santos had muttered to her on her first day at the Pitt when she'd caught the new doctor staring a little too long at Robby typing his notes.

"I know. He's crazy hot, right?" Trinity had pinched her elbow and embarrassment had made her stutter nonsensically. Then, to top off the humiliation, Trinity had started swaying her shoulders side to side and singing under her breath, "I will be your father figure, put your tiny hand in mine..." The younger woman was known for being abrasive, but, shit, she was a perceptive little fucker, too.

"I'd be a fool to turn down help wrangling Ivar. Ikea furniture is my Achilles heel," Robby was saying when she snapped back to the present. He seemed hesitant. He couldn't tell whether she'd been joking or not, and, frankly, she couldn't either. "But I couldn't ask you to–"

"You'd be doing me a favor," she cut in quickly. He would, in more ways than one. "If I sit on my couch with my cat for one more weekend, I think they're gonna start letting me collect Social Security."

A genuine laugh! Her stomach flipped upside down at the sight and the sound. Both were warm and inviting and made her want to kiss each of the individual lines on his weathered face. "Then by all means, please."

Oh, wait. Was this happening? Was it, actually? Nerves gnawed at her while she finished handing off the patient list to the night shift. What was it? A date? A friend helping another friend put a shelf together? A coworker helping another, older and more senior coworker who intimidated the hell out of her put a shelf together?

As Robby departed through the same double doors Dana had dashed through, he turned and pointed significantly at his phone, and she pulled hers from her pocket to see that he had texted her his address. Nothing else, just the address, dashed out in Robby’s usual efficient and minimalistic tone. He hadn’t even included the city and zip, but he didn’t need to. Living further than 15 minutes away from the hospital seemed like something a less dedicated physician might consider, but she knew that Robby didn’t really live at the address he’d sent her, anyway. He lived in all the exam rooms and hallways surrounding her, their sanitized scent pricking at her nose one last time before she stepped into the waiting room and the few remaining rays of sunlight waiting to greet her outside.

The door opened on her second knock, or, more accurately, before she could even finish it. Goddammit. She should have taken more time to consider what an off-duty Dr. Robby might look like. 

“Hey,” he said, a genial smile lighting up his tired face.

“H–mm, hi,” she replied. She tried to hide a swallow.

Robby stood aside and let her pass through the front door of the aged but charming brownstone. The long hallway was lined with dark wooden panels that creaked when she walked over them. She tried not to feel him following behind her, the scent of some musky shampoo or body wash drifting off him. She also showered directly after a shift. Too much hospital.

A line of hooks held various jackets and sling bags, and a haphazard pile of worn sneakers sat beneath them. “I gotta get a rack for those, or something,” Robby muttered from behind her, noticing her sightline.

“You should see mine. The floor of my closet is a nightmare.”

She walked into the living room and couldn’t help the grin that spread across her face. It was sparsely but cozily finished, an overstuffed couch and matching loveseat positioned atop a plush rug that hugged her feet taking up most of the space. And, of course, a veritable disaster of boards, planks, plastic bags, and ripped cardboard in the middle of all of it.

“Yikes.”

“Thank you, again, for helping me with this,” he said, and came to stand beside her. “Why is it that I can perform a trach in my sleep, but the assembly of Swedish furniture is my downfall?” He scratched the back of his neck, the white t-shirt he was wearing showing off far too much of what was usually hidden beneath a few layers of thermals, scrubs, and hoodies. Her hairline started to feel hot again. 

She cleared her throat and made her way over to the pile of shelf. “For what med school costs, they really should be teaching us the essentials like this stuff, too!” He didn’t respond, making her look up at him. He was watching her again, with that sort-of-absent-but-always-thoughtful x-ray vision. She wished he’d stop.

“You really got none of the cynicism and all of the optimism out of your residency, didn’t you?”

She flushed and looked back down at the ground, unsure if he was making fun of her. “It being basically on the ocean didn’t hurt. Lots to be optimistic about in northern Cali, it’s so beautiful.”

Robby shook his Midwest-born-and-bred head. “Damn hippy.” His voice was gruff, but his dark eyes were sparkling and she felt some of the tension in her shoulders dissipate in a giggle. He crossed the room and through an arch that led to the kitchen. “I ordered some Chinese for dinner, hope that’s alright,” he called back to her.

The tension returned tenfold and her heart began doing somersaults in her chest. Dinner? This included dinner now? Sure, it was time for dinner, but she hadn’t wanted to be so presumptuous as to suggest adding food to this friendly favor she was performing. Robby returned laden with white paper takeout boxes and a handful of napkins and chopsticks. “Like lo mein?” he asked. She nodded.

“Yes, but you really didn’t have to get anything for me! That’s so nice,” she gushed, trying to reign in the attraction to this man and behave as if he was just any other rugged, kind, intelligent guy she might come in contact with. She was so screwed. 

He pressed the box of lo mein into her hand with a pair of chopsticks. “It’s the least I can do to thank you for helping with this,” he shrugged. “Hopefully, you still have an appetite after that bike accident from this morning.” The memory of the young man’s torso torn open and spilling out onto the operating table sent a nauseous wave from her head to her stomach, but she quickly compartmentalized it, as she’d learned to do long ago.

“Why do people even buy motorcycles,” she muttered rhetorically.

“Uh, because they love visiting you so very much,” he returned with a wink that made her miss her mouth with the chopsticks.

Two hours later, the shelf was only two-feet tall and missing three of the nine screws it had required so far.

“Peg L, peg L, peg L,” Robby said through gritted teeth, “where the fuck is peg L?”

She held the instructions centimeters away from her face, hoping the proximity would illuminate its solutions somehow. “Peg L goes into plank K. We just placed plank H.” He stopped running his hands along the carpet to search for the missing peg L and looked up at her with a speck of encroaching insanity peeking through. 

“I’m out of order?”

“Miiiike,” she laugh-groaned. “Did you already use peg G? We need J right now!” When he didn’t answer, she glanced up from the “simple” instruction packet. A sleepy kind of flush appeared on his face, and he pulled the reading glasses off to massage the bridge of his nose and–hide it? Then, he sighed.

“God, no one’s called me just…Mike in forever.” It was a complete sentence, a complete statement, a complete story, and he was done talking about it, but it made a million questions bubble up in the back of her throat. She ignored them.

“You’re at work too much,” she almost whispered. Why she was no longer scared of stepping over some professional, coworker boundary, she wasn’t sure. Maybe it was the way he had accepted her help with such a domestic task, or the fact that they were seeing each other in something other than scrubs for the first time (the loose, perfectly worn-in jeans he was wearing would surely be appearing in her dreams that night), or maybe it was because their legs had been pressed together for the last half hour as they tried to decipher the mysteries of Ivar. Whatever it was, Robby–Mike, felt it, too. He stared into her eyes before averting them to the floor and mumbling,

“Yeah. I know.” He put the glasses back on. “So, peg J.”

“C’mere, ya little Swedish asshole,” she agreed, and they resumed pawing around the rug to try and find the screws that, as predicted, had spilled from the package as soon as Robby had ripped it. She tried to avoid brushing against his hand as well as she could, until her fingers bumped into a tiny piece of metal, and she snatched the screw from the ground. Carefully consulting the instructions, she looked from the page, to the screw, to the page, before shouting, “Oh my God, I found it!” 

His hands were cradling either side of her face in a second, and then he was kissing her. The part of her brain that handled compartmentalization clocked in at lightning speed and swept all her confusion into the bin so she could focus on nothing except his beard scratching her, his warm hands cupping her jaw. Well, well before she had gotten her fill of him, he pulled back and blurted, “Awesome! Good job, let’s put it in.” He plucked the screw out of her hand like the conversation had just been on pause, scooting over on his knees to the feeble half-shelf.

She sat in complete shock until Robby, without turning to face her, said, “I shouldn’t have done that. I’m sorry.”

“Mike.”

“You just looked–and I, it’s been…I’m really sorry.”

“Mike.”

He was attempting to twist the screw into place with his fingers so he didn’t have to come get the screwdriver from beside her. “I overstepped. It won’t happen again. If you want to take it to HR…”

That was enough to jumpstart her brain again, and she burst into laughter, forcing him to finally spin around.

“HR? Really?” She made a phone out of her pinky, fist, and thumb and held it to her ear. “Hello, Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center Department of Human Resources? Yes, I’d like to file a report against one of your doctors.” She was having a hard time stifling her laughter. “Dr. Michael Robinavitch. Yes, the hottie from the ER, that’s correct. He really laid one on me—"

It was Robby's turn to cut her off, and he did so by rolling his eyes and snatching the instructions out of her other hand. "Hey!" She dove after them but decided instead to drag him in by the collar of his shirt for another kiss. They both held each other tightly, Robby's hands wandering, respectfully, under the hem of her shirt. When she tugged a handful of his hair, he grunted in annoyance.

"Watch it. Don't have much of that left."

"You've got a lot for an old man." She regretted it as soon as she said it, even though he had already alluded to it. His head dropped and apologies bubbled up and out of her lips, assurances that that's not how she'd meant it, that he was the most attractive man she'd met at the Pitt, but he waved them off.

His glasses were sliding down his nose again. He cleared his throat and pushed them back up. "Are you okay with it, then? I mean, I know I'm not..." Her heart ached when he trailed off, nervously scratching the back of his neck again.

"Very ok," she whispered. She reached for his hand and took it. He was fiddling with a screw that she plucked out and tossed to the side. "I'm 31, you know, Senior Elder Doctor Robinavitch."

Robby smiled, clearly in spite of himself. He tucked a piece of hair that had fallen into her eyes behind her ear. For a minute, they just sat and looked at each other, matching each other's lazy smiles. "That's it. Didn't want to have to do this, but you're fired."

"Okay now I want to take this to HR."

masterlist

[dollishmehrayan]

BATBOYS GENERAL HCS DURING DATING ── .✦

a/n: my posts are barely getting engagement so it would be nice to reblog + like + cmmt tysm! Also

I’m so tired because I don’t know what I want to do with myself when like writing because I don’t have much ideas yk, (I do have a lottt of ideas just don’t want to like spam and idk how to like execute it correctly so ya) but I’m so grateful I’m back!

(Tags: batboys general hcs + fem!reader)

DICK GRAYSON ── .✦

Compliments: Dick will compliment you constantly, but they’re the slightly extra kind. “You look like you just walked off the cover of a magazine… Or like you’re about to rob a bank with your style, and I’m here for it.”

Date Nights: Dick is a hopeless romantic mixed a romantic flirty person. He'll plan elaborate date nights that are almost too perfect. You're having a candlelit dinner on a rooftop... until a mosquito swoops by, and you both spend 20 minutes trying to catch it.

Awkwardly Adorable: Dick tries so hard to be smooth, but when it’s just the two of you, he ends up tripping over his words, saying things like “I love you… like… in a non-creepy way… I mean, I know that sounds creepy but—“, “you know dick, you could’ve just told me you loved me no need for all that extra yapping.”

Sharing Food: He can’t resist sharing his food with you but will dramatically defend his fries. “No, you can't have any. This is the last one. You’ll be fine. It’s called 'the sacrifice of love.'”

JASON TODD ── .✦

Grumpy But Cute: Jason might be brooding and grumpy on the outside, but once he gets comfortable with you, he’s a sucker for giving you the best hugs. They’re just not as soft as you expect, because, well, he’s Red Hood and that’s not very 'soft' in his book.

Love Language: He definitely has a love language of throwing sarcastic remarks at you to show affection. “I’m just saying, you look so good, I might actually let you live longer than five minutes without me.”

Meme Sharing: Jason will share the funniest memes with you, and he will laugh harder than anyone else when you send him a reaction meme. You two could spend hours going through meme after meme while ignoring his patrol responsibilities.

Late Night Conversations: He’s always the first to text at 3 am just to say, “I’m not okay. Also, I think I might’ve made pasta in the Batcave, but it’s 80% burnt and half of the 20% is missing on the ground in other words, it’s fully burnt. You in?”

TIM DRAKE ── .✦

Puns & Dad Jokes: Tim is the king of puns. You might be mid-sentence talking about something serious, and he’ll sneak in, “Well, that’s egg-sactly what I was thinking.”

Organizing Everything: Tim will have a notebook just for your relationship. He organizes things like "future plans," "annoying habits to change," and “how we can both pretend to be normal in public.”

Overthinking: Tim might send you long, thoughtful texts about nothing and everything, then panic and delete them. Later, you get a short text that says, “Hey, I like you. It’s cool. Let’s go save Gotham.”

Netflix & Research: On date nights, Tim is all about watching a documentary on some obscure topic. You wanted to watch a rom-com? Nope. Tim says, “Let’s learn about the history of ancient pizza ovens.”

DAMIAN WAYNE ── .✦

Fiercely Protective: Damian will go full boss mode in a relationship. If someone even looks at you wrong, he’s ready to challenge them to a duel. You’ve never seen someone challenge a guy at the coffee shop to a sword fight over a latte until you met him.

Literally Shakespeare: He has this bizarre habit of reciting random Shakespeare quotes when trying to express his feelings. “My love for you is like a tempest, crashing and relentless. Also, I think you forgot to add sugar in my coffee.”

Jealousy: He’ll get jealous of even the smallest things. That random guy who offered to help you with your grocery bags? Damian’s glaring at them from across the parking lot, preparing his “You’re not worthy” speech.

Tenderness: Don’t be fooled by his brooding exterior. Damian will get you flowers (in his own way) — like a very dramatic single red rose that he purchased with the least amount of emotion possible, but you know he spent an hour picking the perfect one.

BRUCE WAYNE ── .✦

Grumpy But Loyal: Bruce is that partner who takes a long time to warm up to things, but once he’s in, he’s in 100%. He’ll still be grumpy, though. If you show up in a bat-themed shirt, you’ll get a raised eyebrow and a grunt that could probably level an entire building.

Affectionate In His Own Way: Bruce will bring you your favorite coffee without asking because he’s been paying attention to your usual order for the past six months. But if you say anything about it, he’ll act like he’s annoyed. “I’m Batman. I don’t do things for people.”

Overprotective: He’ll put the Batcomputer between the two of you if he’s feeling protective, even if it’s completely unnecessary. Someone bumps into you? Bruce is already three steps ahead, tracking their life history and figuring out their deepest secrets, just in case.

Romantic, But Quiet About It: Bruce can’t show his love through words, but the way he gives you his jacket when it’s cold speaks volumes. Of course, he acts like it was an accident. “I didn’t want you to catch a cold, that’s all. I’m not a softy, don’t read into it.”

GENERAL TRAITS FOUND IN THEM ── .✦

Matching Outfits: They’ll all pretend like they’re too cool for matching outfits, but one day they’ll catch themselves accidentally twinning with you, and neither of you can ever act normal again.

In Public: They’ll all act like they don’t care if you hold their hand in public, but if anyone tries to grab your hand instead, they’ll give them a glare that could freeze a person in place.

Batman’s Turtleneck: Every Batboy secretly loves when Bruce wears his iconic black turtleneck and glasses. They all think Bruce looks like a mysterious intellectual, and they might just start commenting on it to mess with him. Bruce is too focused on Gotham to care.

[alinathinkstoomuch]

WILL YOU BE MY FAKE FIANCÉ?

pairing: aaron hotchner x reader summary: you find yourself in a sticky situation - you need a fiancé asap and the stern looking man at the bar seems to suffice. warnings: um reader thinks hotch is serial killer at one point, reader is actually really funny (LOL i was giggling so bad writing her dialogue), readers friends suck, the usual banter and chem word count: 3.8k

✧ masterlist | second part can be found here

lemme know if y'all would want this as a mini series?? pls say yes because i had too much fun writing this!!!

It was silly, really. Actually, it was downright stupid. You had imagined a hundred different ways this conversation could go, each one more cringe-inducing than the last. And yet, here you were, en route to dinner with a group of women you still, for some inexplicable reason, referred to as your ‘friends.’

Except they weren’t friends. Not really. More like a collection of high school mean girls who had swapped lockers for brunch reservations, but still thrived on competition and thinly veiled judgment. Why you had continued to entertain their company remained one of life’s greatest mysteries. Maybe it was because some tiny, stubborn part of you still felt the need to prove yourself to them.

Old habits die hard.

Which was absurd, considering you had everything you’d ever wanted. A career you were proud of, a gorgeous apartment and a dog so beautiful he could model for Ralph Lauren. And yet, none of it mattered because you were missing one thing.

A love life.

Or rather, you had the start of one – an engagement, even. But much like a designer bag left too close to a lit candle, it went up in flames almost immediately.

And because self-preservation was clearly not your strong suit, you had told your ‘friends’ about the engagement… conveniently omitting the part where it had ended as quickly as it began.

No love lost there. He was a dick anyway.

Which brought you to now – marching toward an intimate jazz bar, running through all the ways you could break the news.

“Hey, ladies! So fun fact I am actually not engaged! But you were all right, turns out I’m just a walking red flag with great hair. Cheers!”

Yeah. That would go over well.

You pushed open the door to the jazz bar, smoothing your dress down and forcing your most dazzling, I totally have my life together smile. The inside was dimly lit, the hum of conversation mixing with the smooth sound of a saxophone in the background.

“Hi! There should be a reservation for under Veronica?” you told the hostess, who checked the list before glancing up apologetically.

“There’s no one here from your party yet, but I can show you to your table?”

Perfect. Just perfect. You nodded, following her to a sleek little table near the bar. You pulled out your phone, scrolling through texts until one popped up.

Veronica: Can’t wait to meet the fiancé! We’re running late. Be there soon! Xo.

Oh. No. No, no, no.

Your stomach did a dramatic, Oscar-worthy drop as panic set in. Your palms went clammy. Your perfectly planned exit strategies all disintegrated like cheap mascara in the rain.

You needed a fiancé. Now.

Your eyes darted wildly around the room, scanning the clientele for anyone remotely stupid – or kind – enough to rope into your plan. But instead, your gaze landed on someone who definitely didn’t look stupid. He looked serious, almost too serious. But he was alone, and that was good enough.

You shot up from your seat, heels clacking as you made a beeline toward him with the determination of a woman with everything on the line.

“Hi, hello,” you blurted out, earning a slow, assessing glance from deep brown eyes. “I need a favour. A huge, ridiculous, I-will-owe-you-my-soul kind of favour.”

“Sorry?”

“I just – I know this is insane, but I need you to pretend to be my fiancé for like, one hour. Maybe two. It’s a long story, and there is an actual pack of wolves arriving here any second, and if they smell fear, I am done for.” You clasped your hands together. “Please, please, please. I will do anything.”

He stared at you like he was debating calling security. Or possibly the nearest psychiatric facility.

“Everything alright?” Another voice joined. An older man, dressed impeccably clapped your very reluctant target on the back.

“I just need to borrow your friend, pretty please?” you said, turning to the newcomer with the kind of desperate charm that had gotten you out of speeding tickets before. “I promise I will buy you the most expensive bottle of scotch this bar serves. You drink scotch, right?”

The older man’s eyes gleamed with mischief. “Oh, I love her,” he announced, before turning to his friend. “Take him. I was just leaving.”

Your supposed fiancé-to-be let out a slow breath, clearly reconsidering every choice that led him to this moment.

You beamed. “See? It’s fate.”

“This is – I –”

The man looked genuinely at a loss for words, which based on the suit he was wearing, was not a common occurrence.

“Come on, Hotch,” the older man grinned, clapping him on the back again. “Help the lady out. And I cannot wait to hear all about it on Monday.” He turned to you, extending a hand. “David Rossi.”

You shook his hand, relieved that at least one of them was enjoying this. “Nice to meet you, David. And I am really sorry for ruining your evening with your friend.”

“Oh, sweetheart, are you kidding? This is better than my evening. This is entertainment.” He winked at you before tossing a final smirk at Hotch. “Be good to your fiancée.”

With that, he strolled off, leaving you alone with the man you had just kidnapped into romance fraud.

You turned back to him. “So,” you said brightly. “Fiancé.”

He stared at you, face unreadable. “This is insane.”

“Yes, well, so is spending two-thousand dollars on a handbag, and I do that regularly. Now, come on.” You reached for his wrist and pulled him toward the table. “So Hotch is your name? Kind of… odd, don’t you think? Or is it a nickname? I don’t really have many nicknames – well, aside from what my ex-fiancé used to call me, but I’ll save you the details.”

Hotch exhaled through his nose, looking like he was already regretting this. “Do you do this often?”

“Fake engagements? No, not really. Actual engagements? Also no, considering how the last one went.” You sighed dramatically. “But you’d think after everything, I’d have at least one decent dating story. Instead, I have an ex who took our wedding fund and bought a motorcycle. A motorcycle, Hotch. Like, what exactly am I supposed to do with that?”

“He took your money?”

“And my sanity, which gives me the right to act this way in public.”

Before he could respond, a chorus of excited squeals erupted from the entrance.

“Oh my God! There she is!”

You moved to stand in front of Hotch. “I will do whatever you want me to. If you need me to kill someone and hide the body, I will literally be your girl – just please go with this.” You tugged at his tie, smoothing it down in a rush. “I’ll take the lead, you just look pretty.”

“That’s not usually how this works –”

“Well, Hotch, welcome to the world of desperate women. Now smile like you love me.”

He didn’t have the chance to argue as Veronica and her entourage descended upon you like a pack of well-dressed hyenas, eyes dancing with curiosity and suspicion.

“Finally! We were starting to think you made him up,” Veronica teased, her eyes scanning Hotch with an intensity that made even you nervous. “So? Introduce us!”

You plastered on your most graciously fake smile and looped an arm through Hotch’s, feeling the tension in his muscles as he clearly contemplated whether this was his personal hell. “Alright here he is! Meet H–”

“Aaron,” he cut you off smoothly, extending a hand toward Veronica.

She barely glanced at it before swatting it away. She then took a step forward, pulling him into a hug which he stiffly endured like someone who had never been voluntarily embraced in his life.

���Oh, honey, we don’t do handshakes here,” she purred, clinging for a second too long before releasing him. “You’re so handsome.”

You jumped in before Veronica could try something ridiculous like feeling his biceps.

“Right?” you grinned, linking your arm through his again. “Total catch. It’s why I snatched him up so fast.”

“And how did that happen?” one of the other girls asked as the group drifted toward the table.

Hotch, mercifully, was quick on the uptake. “She quite literally crashed into me – spilled her coffee all over my suit.”

“Oh my God, that’s so her,” another girl gasped, and you nodded rapidly.

“It was tragic,” you added, dramatically placing a hand on his arm. “The suit did not make it.”

As you neared the table, you reached for the seat, but before you could pull it out, Hotch’s hand brushed yours, stopping you. Instead, he pulled the chair out for you before you could protest.

Was he… really committing to the bit? Or was this just ingrained in his perfect gentleman DNA?

Before you could process it, the table erupted into ooohs and ahhhs like a live studio audience.

Thankfully, you caught a reprieve as the girls turned their attention to the wine list, debating the merits of a bold red versus a crisp white. Taking advantage of the moment, you lifted your own menu to shield your face and glanced at Hotch through the gap.

“I am so sorry,” you mouthed.

“You should be,” he murmured back, just low enough for only you to hear. But there was no bite to his words – if anything, you swore you caught the ghost of a smirk.

“So, don’t keep us waiting in suspense,” Veronica chirped. “Tell us about the engagement! How did it happen? All we got was a text saying you were engaged and a picture of your ring –” She paused, eyes narrowing as they moved to your hand. You followed her line of sight instinctively, cursing internally when you realised the problem.

Your fingers were adorned with rings – statement pieces, dainty bands – but notably none of them were an engagement ring.

Hotch, of course, noticed immediately. He exhaled lightly through his nose, like he was already preparing to clean up your mess.

“Oh,” you laughed, waving a dismissive hand, “I took it off to get it resized, you know how it is.”

Veronica’s brow lifted. “Resized?”

“Yeah, it was a little loose,” you rushed out, the lie forming faster than you could think it through. “Didn’t want to risk it falling down the sink or –”

“It wasn’t loose,” Hotch interjected once more and you froze.

Every pair of eyes at the table snapped to him.

“It wasn’t?” you echoed, unsure if he was about to throw you under the bus or save you from getting flattened by it.

Hotch leaned back, one arm casually draping over the back of your chair as if this was just another Friday night for him. “No,” he mused, tilting his head slightly. “She just can’t stand the feeling of something on her finger when she sleeps. She takes it off every night, leaves it on the nightstand.”

Oh.

Oh.

You stared at him, dumbfounded. Not only had he just handed you an ironclad excuse, but he had done it so effortlessly that even you almost believed it.

The table collectively melted.

“That is so sweet,” one of the girls sighed.

“That makes sense,” Veronica finally conceded, though her eyes lingered on Hotch. She didn’t seem completely sold yet. “So, how did you propose? Give us all the details.”

Another reprieve – just as the waitress arrived to take your drink and appetizer orders. You had never been so grateful for a poorly timed interruption, hoping that maybe, just maybe, the question would be forgotten by the time she walked away.

It wasn’t.

The second the waitress disappeared, Veronica’s eyes flicked right back to you and Hotch, expectant.

 “You tell it better, sweetheart,” he encouraged, that same miniscule smirk making an appearance.

Oh, he was enjoying this too much.

“Well,” you started, buying yourself a second. “It was…unexpected.”

Hotch nodded solemnly, as if recalling a life-changing event. “Completely.”

You shot him a look before continuing. “We were on a trip –”

“A weekend getaway,” Hotch supplied easily.

“Right, exactly,” you said, catching on. “And it was… romantic?”

“Cold,” he corrected. “Snow everywhere.”

You blinked at him. Snow? Was this man just winging it?

“It was freezing,” you emphasized, rolling with it. “And I remember thinking, God, this would be the worst time to propose, because my fingers are so cold, I might drop the ring.”

The table giggled in delight, completely enthralled, hanging onto every word.

Hotch exhaled through his nose like this was all very serious business. “Which you nearly did.”

Your brows shot up. “Right! Yes, because I was so shocked.”

“You cried,” Hotch added.

You nearly choked. “I – what?”

He turned to you, gaze softening ever so slightly, voice dipping just enough to sell the sincerity. “You cried.”

And just like that, the table melted again.

“Oh my God,” one of the girls whispered, clutching her chest.

“Like, happy tears?” another asked, eyes wide with wonder.

Hotch’s lips quirked at the corner, and damn it, you had never wanted to throw your drink at someone so badly. “Of course.”

You forced a dreamy sigh, resisting the urge to stomp on his foot under the table. “I mean… obviously.”

Veronica tapped a manicured nail against her glass, eyes narrowing. “And what did he say?”

Hotch turned to you, expression a mystery, before casually resting his hand over yours. The move was so smooth, so convincing, that it had the exact opposite effect – it made your heeled foot find his shoe under the table, pressing down with just enough force to say don’t even think about it.

“I think I said something along the lines of…” He paused, eyes fixed on you. “If you need me to kill anyone and bury the body, I’m your man. Marry me, sweetheart.’”

You stiffened, your foot pressing down harder, while the table erupted in delighted gasps and squeals.

“Oh my God,” Veronica practically screamed.

“That is so romantic,” one of the girls swooned, gripping the arm of the woman next to her.

“I cannot with you two,” another giggled, fanning herself like this was the greatest love story ever told.

Meanwhile, you were trying very hard not to commit an actual murder.

You ripped your hand free from his grasp and covered your mouth with it, forcing what looked like a lovesick reaction but was actually a barely contained threat.

“What the hell?” you whispered between your teeth, smiling like the perfect doting fiancée.

Hotch, infuriatingly unbothered, leaned in. “You said to go with it.”

Your foot pressed down again. “I meant like a normal person, not a psychopath,” you hissed.

“Ugh,” Veronica sighed dreamily. “This is disgustingly adorable.”

You turned back to the group, still smiling, but if looks could kill, your fiancé wouldn’t have made it out of this dinner alive.

For the rest of the evening, you definitely had too much wine, and as the night stretched on, the conversation finally drifted away from you.

Instead, your so-called friends delved into their usual habits – gossiping about people they hadn’t seen since college, subtly competing over whose husband had the most prestigious job and complaining about their high-maintenance lives.

You nodded, smiled, threw in a well-timed oh, totally where necessary, but mostly, you just kept drinking. Hotch, meanwhile, remained the picture of polite disinterest, responding when needed as he sipped his bourbon. If he was suffering, he didn’t show it – except for the occasional glance in your direction, as if silently asking are you sure these are your friends?

By the time dessert rolled around, you were exhausted from the performance. Thankfully, your friends were equally buzzed, giggling and snapping selfies before finally, finally deciding it was time to call it a night.

Outside the restaurant, the group exchanged dramatic goodbyes, air-kissing and promising to “do this again soon” (lies, all of them), before disappearing into cabs and sleek black cars.

And just like that, you and Hotch were alone.

“You know,” you sighed, rifling through your purse in search of your phone. “I would apologize again for this, but I think if anyone owes an apology, it’s you.”

Hotch, standing beside you, hands in his pockets, merely raised a brow. “Me?”

You looked up at him with a glare. “Yes, you. You didn’t make this awful evening any easier. Snow? Really? I hate the snow.”

“I might be way out of line saying this, but you seem too good to consider that group of women your friends. Especially ones you feel you have to impress.”

“Impress them? That’s not what I was doing. I just –” You huffed, crossing your arms. “I grew up with them, and they’ve managed to make my life –” You stopped yourself, pressing your lips together before shaking your head. “You know what? It doesn’t matter.”

Hotch studied you for a moment, like he was picking apart every little detail. “I think it matters more than you’re willing to admit.”

You forced a laugh, throwing a hand in the air. “Well, lucky for you, you don’t have to care about it. You’re free. No more fake engagement, no more ridiculous stories, no more Marry me, sweetheart nonsense.”

His lips twitched slightly, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he tilted his head toward the street. “Come on. I’ll drive you home.”

You didn’t protest, abandoning the search for your phone and following your former fake fiancé back to his car.

Once inside, you rattled off your address as Hotch pulled it up on the satnav. Settling into the seat, you flipped down the visor mirror, swiping at the smudged mascara under your eyes.

“Do you have any tissues?” you asked, glancing over as Hotch reversed out of the parking lot.

“Check the glovebox.”

You reached over, popping it open and immediately froze. Because nestled between some paperwork and an actual box of tissues, sat a gun.

You yanked your hand back so fast you nearly dislocated your shoulder. “Uh. What the hell, Hotch?”

He barely spared you a glance. “Relax.”

“Relax?” you repeated, voice pitching higher. “There’s a gun in your glovebox! Oh my God. Are you – are you a criminal? Did I just spend an entire evening pretending to be engaged to a mobster? Jesus Christ, I really know how to pick them – I mean, you’re making my actual ex-fiancé look like a saint!”

“Check under the gun,” Hotch instructed, voice impossibly calm.

“Oh no, no, no, mister.” You flailed a hand in his direction. “You are not fooling me into touching your murder weapon so you can get my fingerprints on it and frame me for whatever crime you have committed using it! Please stop the car before I jump out of it. I swear to God, I will tuck and roll.”

Hotch exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his face like he was deeply reconsidering his life choices. Then, with no ceremony, he flicked on the turn signal and pulled over to the curb.

Your heart plummeted. “Oh my God,” you whispered, pressing yourself back against the seat. “You are a criminal. You’re going to kill me. This is how I die.”

Hotch shot you a look, utterly unimpressed. Then, without a word, he leaned over –

You squeaked, pressing yourself further into the seat. “Oh my God – please don’t kill me –I haven’t been to Paris yet, and I still haven’t figured out how to fold a fitted sheet –”

His hand bypassed you completely, reaching into the glove box. With a flick of his wrist, he pulled something from beneath the gun and held it up to your face.

An FBI badge.

You stared at it. Then at him. Then back at the badge.

“Oh.” A pause. “Well, this is awkward.”

Hotch dropped the badge into your lap, but you immediately picked it up, flipping it over, holding it up to the light, just in case it was fake. There had to be fakes out there. You had gotten a police outfit that came with a badge for Halloween once.

Hotch watched your scrutiny with the patience of a saint. “Are you done?”

You cleared your throat, shifting in your seat. “Okay, so in my defence, you could’ve led with that instead of just telling me to dig under a loaded firearm.”

“I assumed you were capable of following basic instructions.”

“That was your first mistake,” you muttered, still recovering from the emotional rollercoaster that was the last five minutes. You inhaled deeply, pressing a hand to your chest. “Well. This has been a night.”

Hotch shook his head, pulling back onto the road as you snapped closed his badge and placed it back in the glovebox, avoiding the gun like poison.

“So, FBI, huh?” you finally said, breaking the quiet.

“That’s what the badge says.”

You couldn’t help it – you laughed. A real, actual laugh for the first time this entire ridiculous, chaotic evening. And once you started, you couldn’t stop. It bubbled out of you, unrestrained, until you were clutching your stomach, gasping for breath, sure your mascara was completely smudged from the tears streaking down your face.

“Are you alright?”

You wheezed, waving a hand in his direction. “No! No, I am not! Because I just spent an entire evening fake-engaged to an FBI agent, and the first thing I said to you was – and I quote – ‘If you ever need to kill someone and bury the body, I’m your girl.’”

“Yeah, I don’t think I’ve ever had that kind of proposition in my entire career.”

You snorted, barely containing another wave of laughter. “That’s comforting. Truly.”

He smirked, eyes still on the road. “Though, I’ll admit—it’s one of the more memorable introductions I’ve had.”

“Oh, great. So I’m going to be a story you tell people?”

“Most definitely.”

You groaned, covering your face with your hands. “Fantastic. Just what I needed, to be the punchline of an FBI dinner party.”

“Don’t worry,” Hotch said dryly. “I’ll leave out the part where you almost jumped out of a moving vehicle.”

You peeked at him between your fingers. “Gee, thanks.”

A silence settled over the car and eventually Hotch slowed to a stop in front of your building shifting into park. His fingers drummed against the steering wheel before he glanced at you.

“Well… this has been… a very unique experience.” Your hand found the door handle, but you didn’t move. You weren’t quite ready to step back into reality just yet.

Hotch nodded. “It has.”

“You sure you don’t want to keep up the act? I think Veronica was in love with you.”

“Do you want to keep up the act? Ten minutes ago, you were convinced I was a serial killer.”

“Well, technically, I thought you were a mobster. There’s a difference.”

Hotch tilted his head. “And now?”

You let out a dramatic sigh, leaning back against the seat. “Now? I think you might actually be worse.”

“Worse?”

You turned toward him, deadpan. “You’re FBI. Which means you probably know every loophole in the legal system. You could absolutely commit crimes and get away with it.”

Hotch let out a laugh, shaking his head. “And yet here I am, still just giving you a ride home.”

You placed a hand over your heart. “I appreciate that. Really.”

He smiled, his fingers still drumming lightly against the steering wheel. Another moment of silence passed before he nodded toward your building. “You should go before your neighbours start wondering why you’re sitting in a car with a strange man.”

You gasped, placing a hand on your chest. “How dare you? We’re engaged, remember?”

Hotch chuckled. “Not anymore.”

You clicked your tongue, reaching for the door handle again. “Shame. I was really looking forward to planning the wedding.”

“We’d have to agree on a season first. You hate the snow.”

You groaned. “I knew that was going to come back to haunt me.” Shaking your head, you pushed the door open and stepped out, turning back one last time before shutting it. “Well, Aaron Hotchner, thank you for entertaining my craziness.”

“Anytime.”

You gave him a small wave before shutting the door and making your way toward your apartment building. At the top of the steps, you hesitated, glancing back just in time to see his taillights disappearing down the street. And in that moment, you weren’t sure what you felt.

Was he someone you’d spend the rest of your life hoping never to run into again?

Or someone you’d regret not giving your number to?

[hoshifighting]

— Synopsis: After a series of graffiti attacks on your bakery, you find out Jihoon is the vandal behind it, frustrated because your shop's success has outshone his grandma's bakery. — WC: 13k — WARNINGS: enemies to lovers, angst, smut, fluff, physical violence (reader hits jihoon with a mop, vandalism), jealousy, emotional conflict, fingering, blowjob, hair pulling, semi-public sex, cock riding, overwhelming, body fluids (cum), no protection, fetish elements—being painted with grafitty during sex, claiming, mention of an enormous cock on the bakery's wall.

Your arms are crossed in a tight clutch as you stare at the front door of the bakery, the black, fresh tags sprayed across the pastel walls like an ugly bruise. It’s the same crap, just a new day. The pink and white of your shop—the delicate aesthetic that drew people in—was constantly being smeared by some low-life with a spray can. Months of this, and all the cameras ever caught was a faceless guy in a black hoodie. Useless.

With a frustrated sigh, you unlock the door, pushing it open with more force than necessary. The day needed to start, vandalism or not. You open the windows, letting the fresh morning air in. At least the floors were clean, thanks to the obsessive mopping you’d done last night. That had become a habit lately, one of the few things you could control.

You grab a bowl, dumping the ingredients for cake batter in with a bit too much force. Your arm flexes as you whip the fouet through the mix, your irritation guiding every furious stroke. It’s therapeutic, in a way—until Mingyu walks in.

“Are you... trying to murder the batter?” he asks, amusement clear in his voice as he sets his stuff in the locker. “You’re about to crack the bowl in half.”

You glance up, still scowling, but the comment catches you off guard. “Shu’up, Mingyu. You would be mixing like this too if someone graffitied your walls for the hundredth time.”

“Yeah, but I wouldn’t be so dramatic about it,” he teases, walking over to grab his apron. “It’s just a little paint. You act like the world’s ending.”

“It’s not just paint! It’s every day with this. And it’s not even good graffiti. It’s just some bullshit tags that don’t mean anything.”

Mingyu laughs, shaking his head. “I don’t know, some people might say you’re overthinking it. Maybe the artist is just misunderstood. Maybe there’s a deeper meaning.”

“‘Eat shit’ has no deeper meaning,” you deadpan, pushing the bowl to the side. “And I’ve got a cake due at 3 p.m. Can you please help me with the fondant? I need to leave on time for class.”

“Gastronomy waits for no one,” he quips, moving to help you.

You sigh, rubbing your forehead with the back of your hand. “Exactly. And if I’m late, I’m fucked. So let's get this done.”

Mingyu chuckles, but he gets to work, his hands already busy with rolling out the fondant. “You ever think of just... catching the guy yourself? Stake out the place or something?”

“Yeah, because that’s a great use of my time,” you mutter. “I’ve got school, work, and now this mystery asshole. Besides, what am I supposed to do? Sit outside all night and wait to get jumped?”

“Hey, you might scare him off with your mixing technique alone.”

You snort. “At this point, I’d rather beat him over the head with the bowl.”

— // NEXT DAY // —

You’re bent over the counter, carefully arranging the pies and cupcakes in the vitrine, when the bell above the door jingles. The sound makes you straighten up automatically, pasting on your best “welcome to my bakery” smile.

“Good morning! What can I get you today?” you ask, looking up to see Mrs. Yang, one of your more... particular customers. She smiles politely, her bag clutched in one hand, and takes her time approaching the counter.

“Good morning, dear,” she says, her voice too sweet for whatever she’s about to say next. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about... the situation outside.”

Here we go.

You nod, still smiling like your life depends on it. “Yes, we’ve been dealing with some, uh... graffiti issues lately.”

Her lips purse. “It’s quite the eyesore, don’t you think? Having that sort of thing on the storefront isn’t good for business, especially with such a nice bakery like yours. People might get the wrong impression. I wouldn’t want to bring my friends here if it continues.”

You feel Mingyu’s eyes on you from the back, wide and alarmed like he’s bracing himself for whatever smartass remark is about to leave your mouth. You can almost hear him holding his breath.

But instead of snapping, you swallow it down. Barely.

“I understand, Mrs. Yang. We’re working on getting it removed as soon as possible,” you say, your voice calm and professional, even though your brain is screaming, What the hell do you want me to do? Hand-paint the walls every night?

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll handle it,” she replies with a thin smile, “You always do such a lovely job here. I’ll have two of the lemon tarts, please.”

“Of course,” you say, grabbing the tarts and ringing her up, every muscle in your body tense as you try not to explode. “That’ll be $8.50.”

As she leaves, Mingyu sidles up behind you. “You alright? That looked painful.”

You shoot him a glare. “Shut up before I throw a tart at you.”

He just laughs. “Hey, props for not biting her head off. That’s growth.”

Your day only goes downhill from there.

An order comes in last-minute, right when you're about to head out for a cake delivery, forcing you to juggle too many tasks at once. The fondant on the cake cracks just as you’re trying to finish it, and you nearly drop the entire thing when you’re loading it into the car. By the time you deliver it, you're ten minutes late, and the client is tapping her foot like you ruined her wedding or something.

As you drive away, you notice that some idiot in the parking lot nicked the side of your car with their door. The scrape is fresh, ugly, and just another thing you don’t have time to deal with.

By the time you make it to the university, you’re on edge. Every little thing is pissing you off—the late delivery, the car, Mrs. Yang’s passive-aggressive comments replaying in your head.

You stomp into the classroom, tossing your bag on the desk as you take your seat. Your friend, Jiyeon, looks up from her notes, immediately catching the “I’m about to lose it” vibe radiating from you.

“Woah, woah... Don’t talk to me,” you say, waving her off before she even opens her mouth.

She raises her hands in mock surrender, exasperated. “Okay, okay, damn. I wasn’t even gonna say anything!”

From the corner of your eye, you catch the guy sitting next to you glancing over. He’s half-smirking, like he’s amused by your bad mood. You roll your eyes as you pull your utensils from your bag.

“The hell you lookin’ at?” you snap, not really in the mood for whatever attitude he’s giving you.

He just raises an eyebrow, unfazed. “Nothing. Chill.”

You huff, biting your tongue. “Whatever, man.”

As class starts, you try to focus on the lecture, but it feels like everything is stacking up, one annoying thing after another. You’re counting down the hours until you can get out of here and back to the bakery, where at least you can take your frustrations out on some dough.

[...]

The bakery is finally quiet. You’ve set the doughs to rest for tomorrow, turned off the colorful lights, and now it’s just you, the mop, and the hum of the radio. There’s something peaceful about the dark bakery—like it’s resting, too, after a long, chaotic day. The floor’s slick beneath the mop as you drag it in lazy strokes, the apron around your neck, always too tight, was finally off.

It’s quiet out there too. Rush hour’s over, people are strolling by in pretty scarves, leaving their cubicles for the day. Not that you’d ever want that life. That could never be you—this was your space, your bakery. You’d rather be here, mopping your own floors than stuck in some windowless office.

Even if your apron’s been digging into your neck all damn day. You rub at the sore spot, sighing, when—

Wait.

What the fuck? You squint, eyes narrowing as some guy steps right up to your bakery window, a paint can in hand. You watch in disbelief as he starts spraying. Right on your wall. Again.

You don’t even think. You just move. The front glass door slams open so hard the bell almost flies off, the aggressive clatter echoing behind you as you stomp out, mop still in hand.

“YA! WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?”

The guy barely turns, but it’s too late. You’re already swinging. The wooden handle of your mop cracks across his back with a satisfying thud, and he lets out this startled grunt, almost tripping over his own feet. You swing again, harder this time, and it echoes across the empty street. Even the homeless guy across the road—the one you always give leftover tarts to—jumps in his spot, startled.

“What the fuck, you asshole! You think this is funny?!” you yell, swinging the mop at him again as he ducks, letting out an “ouch” with each hit. “You keep tagging my walls, and I’m the one paying for this shit! Do you even know how much it costs to get this cleaned? Huh?!”

“Ouch, fuck! Stop, STOP!” he stammers, arms up, trying to shield himself.

You don’t stop. You’re done with this day, done with this week, done with this punk-ass artist ruining your bakery’s vibe. “You piece of shit! You’re dead! I’m gonna shove this can so far up your—”

“What the hell?!” the guy stumbles, trying to dodge your swings, but you’re relentless.

“You think you can just waltz in and spray whatever dumb shit you want? You’re gonna clean this up with your tongue, you little—”

Before you can deliver another hit, the guy turns around, and his hood falls back. Your breath catches.

“Jihoon?!”

The guy grimaces, rubbing his back where you’ve practically beat the soul out of him, but it’s definitely him. The same Jihoon you snapped at in class today, the same Jihoon you barely tolerate during group projects. The fucker who’s been defacing your bakery.

You blink, still holding the mop in a death grip. “So it was you, you fucking idiot?! You’ve been doing this the whole time?!”

He wipes the back of his hand across his mouth, still smirking like this is some kind of joke. “Well... I wouldn’t say the whole time.”

“You—” You jab the mop handle at him again, making him flinch. “You’re going to clean this up. I don’t care how. Hell, you can start with your tongue if you’re so attached to your damn art.”

“Woah, woah.” He holds his hands up in surrender, backing up a step. “I didn’t think you’d take it so personally. I mean, it’s just paint.”

“Just paint?” you repeat, incredulous. “I’ve had customers complain, the city’s sent me notices, and you’re out here calling it just paint? Are you fucking insane?”

“Come on, the tags aren’t that bad.”

“Oh, no. They’re shit. Like, the worst shit I’ve ever seen,” you bite out. 

You cross your arms, staring Jihoon down as he leans awkwardly against the wall. 

“You know what? I should call the police on you.”

His eyes go wide, his posture straightening instantly. “No, no, no! Come on, don’t do that!”

You slowly pull your phone from your back pocket, waving it in front of him as you point a finger at his chest. “I think it’s about time you get what’s coming to you.”

Panic flashes across his face, and he lunges forward, trying to grab your phone, but you thrust the mop at his chest, pressing it against him to keep him at bay. “Back off!”

He stumbles back, frowning, his lips jutting out in a sulk. “I don’t wanna go to jail! I don’t wanna sleep in the cold!” His feet stomp on the ground like a child throwing a tantrum, the whole thing looking ridiculous enough that anyone watching might think this was an opening scene from The Office.

You ignore his whining and start dialing, but he won’t shut up. “Please! You can’t let me go to jail over some paint!”

“You should’ve thought about that before tagging my bakery again.” You cut him off, giving him a pointed look. “Why the hell have you been doing this? And don’t think I didn’t notice the enormous dick spray-painted on the back of my shop either.”

Jihoon stays quiet for a moment, avoiding your eyes as he shifts on his feet. His hands fidget with the hem of his sweatshirt, and you narrow your eyes, sensing something off.

“Well? Spit it out,” you demand.

He mumbles something, so low you can barely hear. 

You raise an eyebrow, stepping closer. “What?”

His face goes red, and he mutters again, “Only if... you let me try one of your tarts.”

You blink, leaning in closer. “What was that? Speak up, punk.”

Jihoon sighs, cheeks practically glowing. “I said... I want to try one of your tarts, okay?!”

For a second, you just stare at him, completely dumbfounded. Then, you scoff, rolling your eyes. “Are you serious right now?”

He nods, keeping his head down, looking smaller and more pathetic than you ever imagined he could.

“You’re telling me... you come here, paint my walls like a little delinquent, and now you want a fucking tart? You—”

You breathe in, trying to summon every ounce of patience you have left. The tarts are your best sellers—the buttery crust, fresh fruit, and creamy filling that made your bakery famous not just in the neighborhood but all over town. People raved about them, coming from across the city just to get their hands on one. Hell, students from your college made regular stops just to bring some back to class.

Your shoulders sag in exasperation, but you eventually gesture toward the door. “Fine. Get inside.”

Jihoon looks up, surprised but not daring to push his luck. You flip the lights back on, the bakery coming to life once more. Heading to the back, you grab a fresh tart from the display, muttering curses under your breath as you shout, “Which one do you want?”

“Strawberry!” he calls out.

You grab a pink plate and set the tart delicately in the center, placing it on the counter with one of your signature gold-colored forks and a neatly folded napkin. When you walk over to the table Jihoon picked, nestled in a corner, you notice him glancing around the bakery with a curious expression, taking in the space like he’s never seen it properly before.

He sits down, eyeing the tart suspiciously at first. You cross your arms and sit across from him, your foot bouncing impatiently under the table. You can’t help but suppress an inner smile—every customer had the same reaction to their first bite, and you’re secretly waiting for it.

Jihoon picks up the fork, hesitantly cutting into the tart. As soon as the buttery crust gives way, the scent of fresh strawberries and sweet cream fills the air. He takes a bite, and his eyes widen almost immediately. He chews slowly, like he’s processing the taste, his expression changing from sulky to... amazed.

“Holy shit,” he murmurs under his breath, glancing up at you, eyes wide. “This is... really good.”

You lean back, crossing your arms tighter. “Yeah. That’s what people keep saying.”

He takes another bite, and then another, clearly trying not to devour the whole thing in two seconds. His face softens, the usual smugness gone, replaced by genuine awe. He looks around the bakery again, understanding slowly sinking in. The care you put into every detail—the soft lighting, the warmth, the way the scent of fresh-baked goods fills the air. It’s no wonder other bakeries in the area couldn’t compete.

No wonder people kept coming back.

Jihoon finally looks up, sheepish but impressed. 

You shift in your seat, arms still crossed, and stare at Jihoon as he wipes his mouth with the napkin, setting it down with a quiet sigh. He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table, his posture heavy with something unsaid.

“So… you gonna tell me why you’ve been punking my bakery?” you ask, your voice less biting than before, though the edge is still there.

Jihoon hesitates, glancing out the window for a moment like he’s trying to gather his thoughts. Finally, he sighs again. “We had a bakery, me and my grandma. It was right across the street.”

You frown, your head tilting slightly as you turn to glance outside through the window. Yeah, you remembered that place. It had that old-school charm, the kind of bakery that felt like a cozy throwback to the 60s, with its wooden benches and rustic signage. It had been there before you moved into the neighborhood. You even remembered the old lady that used to work there, always with a smile, though her hands were slow and her voice even slower. The front of the bakery had been boarded up for months now, closed and forgotten by most.

Jihoon continues, his voice lower. “Before you opened up, we did well. My grandma’s tarts were, like, the thing around here. People came from all over to buy them.” He pauses, and you see his shoulders drop slightly. “But after your tarts took off… we started losing customers. A lot of them.”

You don’t say anything, but the tension in the air thickens. You swallow, suddenly feeling an uncomfortable weight in your chest. You remember seeing them sitting outside their shop, the once-busy bakery now quiet as yours boomed with success.

“We tried to keep up,” Jihoon says, his voice a little shaky. “But no one came in anymore. People stopped buying our stuff. My grandma and I used to just sit there on the bench, watching people line up outside your place while we were lucky to sell a couple tarts.” He laughs, but it’s hollow, like he’s mocking the memory. “She’d pretend it didn’t bother her, but I knew. I knew it killed her inside.”

You feel a knot form in your stomach, guilt creeping in even though you know it wasn’t really your fault. Still, hearing it from him, the weight of their loss, makes you look down at the table, feeling suddenly small.

“What was I supposed to do?” you ask softly, the words barely escaping your mouth. “This was my dream too.”

Jihoon nods, almost like he understands, though there’s still bitterness in his tone. “I know. And it’s not like you did anything wrong. Your bakery is… well, people love it. They loved your tarts. And I guess, after a while, I just got so… mad.”

He looks down at his hands, twisting his fingers together. “We had to close the bakery. We couldn’t keep up. And I started working in the city, doing graffiti, whatever I could to make ends meet.” He shakes his head, laughing without humor again. “And when I saw people still lining up here, day after day, it just… pissed me off. So I started tagging your walls. Stupid, I know.”

You feel a lump in your throat, the weight of his words hitting you harder than you expected. You glance back out the window, seeing the boarded-up bakery in the distance, and it stirs something deep inside. His frustration, his anger… it all makes sense now.

“I didn’t understand,” Jihoon says, his voice softer now, almost defeated. “I couldn’t figure out how your tarts were better than my grandma’s. It didn’t make sense to me. We’d been here for years. How could people just forget about us?” He pauses, rubbing the back of his neck, his expression sad. “But now I get it. I guess… your tarts really are better.”

The way he says it, with that empty laugh, hits you right in the chest. There’s no joy in his voice, no real acceptance, just this sad realization that his family’s legacy had been outdone by you.

You lower your gaze, feeling awful. “Jihoon…” You want to say something, anything, to ease the guilt gnawing at you, but what could you even say? You worked hard for this. It wasn’t like you meant to destroy his bakery. But it’s clear now that, in a way, you did.

“I never meant for this to happen,” you mumble, your voice quieter than you intended. “It’s not like I wanted to take business away from you guys.”

He waves it off, but his eyes don’t meet yours. “I know. It’s just how it worked out. You did what you had to do. I just… I didn’t know what else to do but get mad at you for it.”

The silence between you is thick, heavy with unsaid things. Jihoon keeps his gaze on the table, his fingers playing with the edges of the napkin, while you try to process the weight of everything he just said.

And as much as you want to feel justified—after all, you didn’t do anything wrong—there’s a part of you that can’t shake the sadness settling deep in your chest. You glance out the window again, at the closed shop across the street, and for the first time, you wonder what it must’ve been like for them, watching your bakery rise while theirs fell apart.

Jihoon’s voice pulls you out of your thoughts. “I don’t know… it’s dumb. You didn’t mean to screw us over. I just… I just miss the way things used to be.”

You breathe in deeply, trying to push down the growing lump in your throat. 

The silence between you two lingers, stretching out like the stillness of the night outside. You can hear the faint hum of the refrigerator behind the counter, the quiet ticking of the clock on the wall. You breathe in, thinking of something to say, and for a moment, Jihoon glances up at you, expectant. But when you close your mouth again, he looks away, fingers fidgeting with the napkin.

Finally, you place your hand on the wooden table between you, the sound of your fingers brushing the grain breaking the silence. "What kind of tarts did your grandma sell?" you ask, voice steady but curious.

Jihoon frowns, clearly taken off guard by the question. "Savory ones," he says after a beat, as if testing the waters of the conversation.

Your brow lifts in surprise. Savory tarts weren’t really your thing—you specialized in the sweet stuff. "Savory?" you lean in a bit, curiosity piqued. "Like what?"

Jihoon seems to hesitate, unsure of where you’re going with this, but then he starts listing them off, voice soft at first but growing stronger. "Palm heart or olives, ham, and cheese, sometimes we’d do quiches with bacon and caramelized onions, even some seasonal ones with pumpkin or sweet potato… Stuff like that."

You sit back, letting the list of flavors settle in your mind, gears turning. You’d never considered offering savory tarts before—your bakery was known for its sweets. But maybe that was part of the problem. There was a whole side of the tart game you hadn’t even touched.

"You think you could make some of those flavors and bring them tomorrow?" you ask, your tone casual as you rest your chin in your hand.

Jihoon frowns deeper, confused, his head tilting to the side. "Yeah, I think so. Why?"

You chew your lip for a second, glancing around your bakery, imagining it filled with the rich, hearty smells of savory tarts instead of the usual sugar and cream. "I was thinking maybe we could try something… an experiment," you say, eyes lighting up as you lean forward. "You bring the savory ones, I’ll sell them in the display, right alongside the sweet ones. See how people like them."

Jihoon blinks at you, processing your words, and for a moment, you see a flicker of disbelief in his eyes, like he can’t quite wrap his head around what you’re suggesting. "You… you wanna sell my grandma’s tarts here?"

You nod, the idea already snowballing in your mind. "Yeah, why not? People around here are crazy for the sweets, but maybe they’ve just never had the chance to try something savory. And you know I don’t do that kind of thing, so… it’d be different." You pause, watching his face, which is slowly starting to shift from confusion to something brighter. "We’ll call it a collab or something. Give them a taste of what your bakery used to offer."

His eyes light up, sparkling with excitement as the idea sinks in. The hesitation that was there before vanishes, replaced with genuine enthusiasm. "Really?" He leans forward, hands gripping the edge of the table. "You think… people would like them?"

"If they’re as good as you say they are," you grin, tapping your fingers on the table, "then yeah, I think they will."

Jihoon’s face softens, and for the first time tonight, a real smile spreads across his lips. It’s small at first, but there’s something genuine and almost childlike about it, like you just handed him a lifeline he wasn’t expecting. "They’re really, really good," he says earnestly, nodding. "My grandma used to get people coming back for them all the time. They were, like, her specialty."

"Then bring enough for tomorrow," you say, feeling a small smile tugging at the corners of your mouth despite yourself. "We’ll put them out, see what happens. Maybe it’ll bring some of her old customers back."

He looks at you like you’ve just flipped the entire script on him. The guy who’d been tagging your bakery out of spite now suddenly has a shot at redemption, and it’s written all over his face. You can see the wheels turning in his head, his excitement barely contained.

"How many do you need?" he asks, voice filled with an eagerness you hadn’t seen in him before.

You pause, thinking for a second. "Start small—maybe a couple dozen to test the waters. If they sell out, we’ll know we’re onto something."

Jihoon nods rapidly, his excitement bubbling over. "I can do that. I can bring, like, the spinach and feta ones. Those were super popular. And maybe the mushroom ones too. People loved those." He’s rambling now, his hands gesturing wildly as he talks. "You think they’ll like them? I mean, people around here are kinda obsessed with sweet stuff, but these… these are different."

You laugh softly, watching him get more and more animated. "I think if they’re as good as you say, people are gonna be lining up for them. And who knows? Maybe savory tarts will be the next big thing."

Jihoon sits back, grinning like he can’t believe this is real. "I can’t believe you’re actually doing this." His eyes flicker over the bakery, taking in the pink and white décor, the polished countertops, the faint smell of sugar still lingering in the air. "I thought you’d just tell me to fuck off, honestly."

You shrug, smiling slightly. "Well, I did wanna hit you with a mop earlier. But… I don’t know. It seems like the least I can do after everything."

He stares at you, his grin softening into something more serious, more genuine. "Thanks," he says quietly, and you can tell that he means it. "I… I really judged you wrong."

You wave him off, but inside, there’s a warmth spreading, something that feels almost like… relief? Like maybe this little experiment could be more than just business—it could be a way to right some wrongs.

"Just bring your best game tomorrow," you say, standing up from the table. "If your grandma’s tarts are half as good as you say, I’m sure people will love them."

Jihoon stands too, still grinning like a kid on Christmas. "Oh, they will. Trust me." His eyes sparkle with that confidence again, and for the first time, it feels like you’re seeing the real him, not the guy who’s been tagging your bakery out of anger.

As you walk him to the door, you glance back at the kitchen, already imagining the savory tarts lining the shelves next to your usual sweets. This could be something big, something new—something that might even help mend the bridge between you two.

Jihoon pauses at the door, turning back to you with a grin. "Tomorrow, then. You won’t regret this."

The next morning, Jihoon arrives at your bakery with a box, the warmth of the tarts and quiches radiating from inside. You grin as you lift the lid, the smellof the buttery crust wafting out. Carefully, you place them in the display, arranging them neatly beside your sweets.

Jihoon moves towards the door without saying a word, but before he can leave, you raise your voice, “Where are you going?”

He pauses and steps back in, bending down to pick up a bucket of paint remover and a brush from outside. “Gonna get rid of the mess,” he says with a shrug, shaking the supplies in his hand.

You scoff, leaning against the counter. “Looks like hitting you with the mop actually worked.” You raise an eyebrow, arms crossed.

He freezes, his eyes widening a little, like he just remembered something. “Hey! You!” he protests, gesturing to his back. “I’m my back its black and blue thanks to you! My back its ruined.”

You roll your eyes, a smirk tugging at your lips. “Serves you right,” you shoot back, and Jihoon huffs, but there’s a playful glint in his eyes as he heads outside to scrub off the tags.

As the morning rush starts, a couple of your regulars approach the counter, eyeing the new items. One of them, Mrs. Park, furrows her brow. "What’s all this?" she asks, nodding to the savory tarts.

You flash her a smile, "We’re doing a little collab with Jihoon’s family bakery. They used to sell these savory tarts, and we thought we'd give them a try here. You should taste them, they’re amazing."

Mrs. Park raises an eyebrow but picks up one of the tarts anyway. Within minutes, word spreads, and before you know it, the dozen savory tarts you put out are gone—people even leaving with extras for home. You lean against the counter, watching the buzz, satisfaction building in your chest.

As the rush dies down, you step outside where Jihoon is wiping down the wall, now tag-free. You smirk. "Sold everything," you say, watching his reaction.

His eyebrows shoot up, eyes wide. “Really?!”

You nod. “Yeah, they went faster than I thought. Even Mingyu couldn’t keep his hands off them,” you say, pointing through the window where Mingyu is, mid-bite, munching happily on a tart behind the counter.

Jihoon laughs, shaking his head as he looks at Mingyu, then back at you. "I’ve got more ready at my grandma’s place. I can go grab them now."

"Do it," you say with a grin, waving him off. “Bring a lot. I don’t think these’ll last long.”

An hour later, Jihoon returns, but this time he’s not alone. His grandma, the sweet old lady you remember from the bakery across the street, is with him. You light up when you see her.

"Mrs. Lee!" you greet her warmly. 

She smiles, her eyes crinkling as she gives you a gentle hug. "You’ve done so well with this place," she says, looking around the bakery.

As you help unload the box of fresh tarts, you see Mingyu’s eyes widen as he watches you set them out again, his mouth practically watering. He reaches for one, but you swat his hand away.

"Those are to sell," you scold playfully, but before you can follow up, Mrs. Lee reaches up and pats Mingyu on the head.

"Eat, eat, you’re a big boy. You need it," she says, and Mingyu, towering over her, grins sheepishly as he lowers his head.

"Yes, ma’am," he says with a boyish smile, clearly charmed.

With the tarts restocked, the afternoon turns out to be just as busy as the morning. People are coming in and out, curious about the new savory options, and before you know it, they’re sold out again.

After the rush dies down and the shift ends, you pull out the cash notes, counting how much you’ve made for the day. You walk over to Jihoon, handing him a stack of money.

"Here, this is how much we sold, minus the cost of ingredients," you say, but Jihoon waves his hand, shaking his head.

"Nah, don’t do that," he says, clearly uncomfortable. "It’s your bakery. I’m just helping out."

You raise an eyebrow, folding your arms. "You think I’m not gonna pay you for your grandma’s recipes? Don’t be stupid."

He fidgets, glancing down. “I don’t deserve it,” he mumbles, but you cut him off.

"Come on. You think of reopening your grandma’s bakery again?"

He hesitates, then nods slowly. "I’ve been thinking about it. But there’s a lot to clean up, fix…"

You lean back, thinking for a moment. “Well, while you figure it out, how about you use my bakery to sell your savory stuff? We can split the profits and see how it goes. Maybe that way, you’ll get enough to fix it.”

Jihoon’s eyes widen, gratitude spreading across his face. "You… you’d let me do that?"

You shrug. "Why not? People love your stuff, and I’ve got space. Plus, this way, we both win."

His lips part, disbelief still etched on his face, but then his shoulders relax, and a small smile forms. "I don’t know what to say. Thank you."

"Don’t thank me yet," you say, grinning. "We still gotta get through tomorrow."

He laughs, the tension that had been hanging between you since the whole graffiti incident finally easing. "I guess I’ll be back here early with more tarts, then."

"Bright and early," you reply, with a playful nod. "And don’t forget to bring your grandma too. Mingyu might cry if she doesn’t show up."

Jihoon chuckles, glancing at Mingyu who’s in the back, still wiping tart crumbs from his face. "I think you’re right about that."

As Jihoon and his grandma leave, you’re left standing in your bakery, the warm glow of the lights reflecting off the now pristine windows. 

The next morning, Jihoon shows up right on time, his grandma’s small hand wrapped around his arm as they step into the bakery. There’s something heartwarming about the sight—the way she leans on him, and how he effortlessly balances the heavy box of tarts in his other hand. You catch a glimpse of the pure affection between them, the kind only grandparents seem to have for their grandkids, and it makes you feel... softer.

Jihoon flashes you a quick, almost shy smile as he sets the box on the counter, the warmth of the freshly baked tarts instantly filling the room. You move to help him, opening the glass case of the vitrine. As you lean in to arrange the tarts, his arm brushes against yours, just barely. It’s nothing, really—just a quick touch—but you bite back a smile anyway. The warmth of it, the quiet ease, feels nice. Comfortable.

Outside, the rain begins to pour, pattering against the windows. It's not the gloomy kind of rain, though—it’s the kind that makes people crave warm spaces, a place to settle into with a coffee in hand. Your bakery, with its soft yellow lighting and the sweet smell of tarts mingling in the air, feels like the perfect refuge. You can already see a few people huddling under umbrellas as they make their way inside, the little bell above the door chiming each time.

Jihoon steps back, his eyes following yours as you arrange the tarts in perfect rows. “Looks good,” he murmurs, glancing over at you.

“Yeah,” you agree, trying to sound casual, though your voice is a bit quieter than usual. You clear your throat. “Rain’s gonna bring people in. They’ll want something warm.”

Almost as if on cue, the door swings open with a gust of wet air, and your best friend stumbles inside, panting, her umbrella flung into the holder by the door. She shakes the rain off her coat and makes a beeline for the counter, eyes wide.

“I heard you’re selling savory tarts now,” she exclaims, nearly breathless.

You shoot her a look, half-amused. “Word spreads fast around here, hm?”

She leans on the counter, eyes scanning the new additions in the vitrine like she’s sizing them up. “You know me. I’ve got my ear to the ground,” she says, grinning. Her gaze shifts to Jihoon, who’s still standing behind you. “And you,” she says, her tone turning teasing, “finally decided to be useful, huh?”

Jihoon just rolls his eyes, but you can see a flicker of amusement there. “I’m useful in ways you don’t even know,” he mutters under his breath, barely loud enough for you to hear, but it makes you smirk.

Your friend raises an eyebrow. “Oh, I’m sure,” she quips, pulling out her wallet. “Alright, give me one of those tarts. Let’s see if they’re worth the hype.”

You grab a tart—spinach and cheese, her favorite—and hand it to her on a small plate. She takes one bite, her eyes widening dramatically. “Oh my god,” she says, mouth half full. “Okay, this… this is dangerous. You can’t sell these, I’ll be here every day.”

You laugh, watching her devour the tart. Jihoon leans against the counter next to you, arms crossed, a little smug. “Told you they were good,” he murmurs.

The steady rain outside only adds to the cozy vibe, making the bakery feel like a warm little haven. More customers trickle in, shaking off their umbrellas and ordering coffees to go with the new savory tarts. Some regulars ask about the new addition, and you tell them about the collaboration with Jihoon and his grandma. It’s casual, like you’re letting them in on a little secret, and soon enough, people are lining up to try them.

As you work, you can feel Jihoon’s presence behind you, quietly helping out where he can—refilling the display, wiping down tables, clearing plates. It’s kind of funny, actually. Not long ago, this same guy was spray-painting the walls of your bakery like a punk, and now here he is, setting tarts in your vitrine, his arm brushing against yours, acting like part of the team.

Your friend finishes her tart and slides the plate back toward you, wiping her mouth with a napkin. “Okay, I gotta go before I eat the whole case,” she says, shooting you a wink. She glances at Jihoon as she grabs her umbrella. “You better keep bringing these, or we’ll have problems.”

Jihoon smirks, giving her a mock salute. “I’ll keep ‘em coming.”

As she leaves, you watch the bakery fill with warmth, laughter, and the soft hum of conversations. The rain taps against the windows, the outside world grey and wet, while the inside is alive with comfort. You lean against the counter, watching Jihoon’s grandma chatting with a customer. It’s kind of perfect, in a way—everything just falling into place.

After the lunch rush, Jihoon catches your eye, his expression a little sheepish. "They’re really selling, huh?"

You smile, a little proud. "Yeah. Told you they’d be a hit."

He chuckles, shaking his head. "Guess I underestimated this place."

“It’s kinda nice having you around... even if you are a pain in the ass.”

He snorts, rolling his eyes but not disagreeing. “You just like bossing me around.”

“I do,” you admit with a grin. “And you’re getting pretty good at following orders.”

Jihoon laughs, shaking his head as he picks up a rag to wipe down the counter. "Yeah, yeah. I’ll bring more tomorrow."

The evening was quiet, just the hum of the fridge and the faint swoosh of the mop gliding across the floor. You were halfway through cleaning when your foot nudged something under the counter. Frowning, you crouched down and pulled out a box—heavy, clinking inside—and when you opened it, there they were. Paint cans.

You tilted your head, staring at them, then shouted, "Jihoon! What the hell is this?"

He popped out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel. “Uh... well, I was thinking... maybe the bakery could use a little—art,” he said hesitantly, his eyes darting from the cans to you.

"Art?" you raised an eyebrow, hands resting on your hips. "You're not gonna draw a dick on the front door, are you? 'Cause if that's your plan, Jihoon, I swear—"

He scoffed, rolling his eyes. “No! It wasn’t me, alright? That was one of my friends.”

Your eyebrow shot up even higher. "So you had your friends tag my bakery too?"

He suppressed a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “I yelled sorry, like, a million times already.”

You shook your head, though a small smile tugged at your lips. “Unbelievable.”

Jihoon stepped closer, eyes scanning your expression carefully. “Look, I promise—no dicks. I was thinking... something different. Something that matches the vibe here. I could paint something... that looks like you.” His gaze lingered on you, analyzing your features like he was already sketching you out in his mind.

You sat back, considering it. The idea of graffiti on your pristine bakery wasn’t exactly appealing, but there was something about Jihoon’s offer... the way he was looking at you, not like a cocky vandal but like someone who wanted to create something for you.

You frowned, arms crossed, skeptical. “You? Graffiti something that looks like me? You’re kidding.”

He shrugged, stepping back slightly. “Let me show you. I’ll do it on the back wall. Something pastel, something sweet—like your bakery.”

You huffed, but curiosity got the better of you. “Fine. But if it looks like shit, you’re cleaning it up, Jihoon.”

Outside, the air was crisp, and the dim lights of the street barely reached the back alley behind your bakery. Jihoon grabbed the cans, setting them down with a focused energy, his jaw tight. He was different when he worked on something—serious, quiet. You watched as he started to shake one of the cans, the metallic rattle filling the space. 

He started to sweat after a few strokes of the spray, his arm flexing each time he pressed the nozzle. The light from the back door illuminated his face, and when he flicked his hair to the side, it reminded you of those boys from high school, the ones who all had that Justin Bieber haircut. You couldn’t help but smirk at the thought.

He stepped back, turning toward you, his eyes searching your face. “So... what do you think?”

You tilted your head, focusing on the paint. It was a pastel-colored slice of cake, detailed with delicate swirls and shadows that made it look almost real. “The... strawberry looks a little weird,” you pointed out, walking closer.

Jihoon let out a soft laugh, stepping aside. “Come help me then. You fix it.”

You scoffed, shaking your head. "Me? I don’t know how to spray paint, Jihoon. It’s gonna look like a five-year-old did it."

He waved it off, walking toward you with the can in hand. “Nah, you can do it. C’mere.”

Before you could protest, he was already pulling you out of the chair, placing the can in your hand. “Just like this,” he murmured, stepping behind you. His chest pressed lightly against your back, close enough that you could feel his breath on your ear. His hand moved to yours, guiding your fingers to press down on the nozzle, and the paint sprayed out in a clean line. "Here," he murmured, his voice low. "Press gently... just like that."

“See?” he whispered, his voice right in your ear, and you could feel the concentration in his breath, how calm it was. “Not so hard, is it?”

You were too aware of everything—his breath, his hand on yours, the way his body pressed just slightly against yours, not enough to feel too much, but enough to make your pulse pick up.

His hand, now on your waist, gave you the faintest squeeze, right where your skin showed between your top and your jeans, right where your shirt had ridden up a little. It was an absent touch, almost like he didn’t even realize he was doing it. But you did. His fingers were warm, the pressure light but there. Your breath caught in your throat for a second.

You bit your lip, feeling the heat rise in your cheeks. His hand never moved, just stayed resting on your waist, a quiet but steady reminder of how close he was. The paint kept flowing, and you realized you were barely focused on the mural anymore. It was all Jihoon. The way his body moved with yours, the brush of his breath against your ear.

“Jihoon,” you whispered, voice low, just to see what kind of reaction you’d get. "You sure you're not just getting handsy with me to avoid doing the work?"

He huffed a small laugh, right in your ear, his breath warm. “You think this is me being handsy? I’m just trying to teach you something.”

You raised an eyebrow, leaning back a little more, just enough to feel him tense up. His hips were snug against yours, and you could feel the smallest reaction in his body, the way his chest rose sharply as you pressed back into him.

"Uh-huh,” you said, feigning innocence. “So that’s why you sound like you’re having the best time of your life right now? Not exactly subtle, Jihoon.”

He scoffed, his mouth so close to your ear that you flinched a bit. "Says the one who's shivering under my arm like I’m doing more than just helping you paint.”

You let out a soft chuckle, your head leaning back just a little, the movement making his face brush against your shoulder. You could feel his breath catch again as your body pressed back.

“Jihoon…” you said, voice dropping an octave. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re trying real hard not to moan in my ear.”

His breath hitched, and this time, you felt it. His body tensed, the can in his hand wavering slightly as he pressed the nozzle. He was trying—trying so damn hard to stay focused on the paint, but your words were getting to him. His grip tightened on the can.

He lowered your arm, stopping the spray of paint, and you could feel the tension crackling between you both. His hand lingered on yours for a moment, and then he turned his head slightly, his lips brushing the edge of your jaw as he whispered, “You keep teasing me like that, I’ll forget the painting and pin you to this wall.”

Your heart skipped a beat at the low rumble in his voice, letting your ass push against him again. You give him a slow, teasing smile, turning your head just enough to look at him out of the corner of your eye. “And if I told you I wouldn’t mind?”

Jihoon’s eyes flicked down to your lips, then back to your eyes, in a blink, he turned you around, the paint can clattering to the floor as his hand slid to your waist, pulling you flush against him.

His lips hovered over yours for just a second, his breath mingling with yours, tension thick in the air. “You're playing with fire, you know that?” he murmured, his voice low and rough.

You smirked, your hands resting on his chest, feeling the heat of him through his shirt. “Then burn me.”

His lips crashed against yours in a starved kiss, his hands gripped your waist tighter, pulling you closer, and you could feel the heat radiating off him, his body pressed so close it felt like there wasn’t an inch between you.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging him down harder into the kiss, feeling the tension melt away from his shoulders. His hands roamed over your back, slipping under your shirt, his touch burning your skin as he kissed you deeper, rougher, like he couldn’t get enough. 

His body pressed you against the wall, his hips fitting perfectly against yours, and you could feel his cock coming to life. The slight tremor in his hands as they roamed your sides, the way his breath hitched when you kissed him harder—it was all there, barely restrained.

His lips were warm, tasting faintly like the strawberries and honey from earlier, and every time you tried to pull back for air, he chased you, his lips crashing back against yours like he couldn’t stand the space between you for even a second. 

Finally, when you both pulled away for breath, your foreheads resting together, you smirked, your breath still uneven. “You okay there, Jihoon? You look like you’re about to lose it.”

He chuckled, his hand still gripping your waist, but there was no humor in his eyes. “You talk too much,” he muttered, pulling you back in for another kiss before you could even think of another comeback.

You could feel the wetness of his tongue against yours, slick with saliva that started to pool at the corners of your mouth as you sucked it in deeper. Jihoon’s hand was firm, gripping the curve of your ass, his other arm wrapped tight around your waist as if he couldn’t let go even if he tried.

You stumbled backward in a tangle of steps, the two of you moving like you were magnetized to each other, lips fused together, completely unwilling to separate. His hand squeezed your ass hard, making you gasp into his mouth. That sound—the desperate little moan you couldn’t hold back—had him groaning too, swallowing the noise like it fueled him, pressing you harder against the door to the back of the store.

Jihoon fumbled for the handle, blindly opening it while keeping his mouth glued to yours. You barely noticed when he shoved you through the threshold, into the bakery’s quiet salon. He didn’t break the kiss, not even for a second, not until your back hit the counter and he pressed himself against you again, trapping you between him and the cold wood.

You were breathless, desperate to kiss him harder, to get more of those sweet, low moans he made when your lips connected just right. It wasn’t until you felt his hand slipping between you that you realized what he was doing. Somehow, in the heat of it all, he had already undone your jeans, his fingers deftly sliding the button free, his hand dipping lower, teasing the waistband of your panties.

"Fuck, Jihoon," you panted, head thrown back as his lips trailed along your jaw. You shivered when you felt his hand slipping under the lace, fingers ghosting over the sensitive skin. You felt your sink boiling, the warm air from the bakery making you sweat down your neck. 

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” he murmured, more like moaning. 

The jeans you still had on were tight, too tight, and it made it impossible for you to spread your legs the way you wanted. The friction of his hand between you was good, but not nearly enough.

You shifted against him, trying to spread your legs wider, your breath coming out in frustrated little pants. "Jihoon," you managed, voice almost pleading, "jeans... get them off."

His lips curled into a smug grin against your skin, and you could feel him smirk before he pulled back slightly. "So bossy," he murmured, but he didn’t hesitate. His hands went straight to your jeans, tugging them down with quick, rough movements, the denim catching awkwardly on your thighs before he yanked them free.

With your jeans finally gone, he spread your legs wide, his eyes dark and hungry as they trailed over you. His hands gripped your thighs, positioning you exactly how he wanted before slipping his fingers right back under the waistband of your panties, but this time, there was no hesitation.

He slid one finger through your slick folds, groaning low when he felt how wet you were for him. "God, you're soaked," he breathed, almost like he was in disbelief. His thumb found your clit, rubbing slow circles that had your hips bucking against his hand, desperate for more.

You couldn’t help the whimper that escaped your lips. "Just... please, Jihoon—more."

He slid a finger inside you, the sensation making you gasp, your legs instinctively spreading wider for him. You wanted more of him, needed it, and when he curled his finger just right—not even forcing it, he felt the spongy spot, you couldn’t stop the moan that tore from your throat.

"Like that?" he whispered, voice hoarse as he added another finger, filling you up and making your whole body arch into him. His other hand gripped your thigh, holding you steady as he worked his fingers inside you, each thrust deeper, more insistent.

"Fuck, yes," you gasped, barely able to form words as he sped up, his thumb still rubbing circles over your clit, making you see fireballs with closed eyes. "Just... just like that."

His hand moved faster, fingers curling and stroking deep inside you, the wet sounds of your arousal filling the quiet room. Your hips bucked against him, chasing the sensation, wanting him to take you higher, needing him to push you over the edge.

He leaned in, lips brushing your ear, his breath hot as he whispered, "I could do this all night... but I think you want me to make you come, don’t you?"

You whimpered. "Please, Jihoon," you breathed, voice shaky. "I need it."

His fingers quickened their pace, thrusting deep, hitting that spot over and over until your whole body trembled. He could feel how close you were, could see it in the way your thighs quivered, the way your breath came in short, desperate gasps.

"Cum for me," he murmured, thumb pressing harder against your clit, feeling the nerve throb as his fingers worked inside you. "Cum all over my fingers."

You rest your elbow on the counter, arching your back in a way that makes the slick sound between your thighs almost obscene. It’s impossible to ignore. You know exactly how wet you are, and palm, right there pressing down the mound of your pussy—god, you can feel it, burning hot. Your breath hitches, and you throw a hazy glance in his direction, catching his smirk, that cocky look on his face. His lip is trapped between his teeth, eyes dark and full of heat, and that’s all it takes before you come apart.

Your orgasm hits hard, ripping through you. Eyes squeezing shut, your body tenses, thighs trembling as your hips jerk involuntarily against his hand. You hear him coaxing you through it, his voice a low murmur, his fingers keeping steady pressure, coaxing every last wave of pleasure out of you.

“There you go… good fuckin' girl. Just like that, keep comin’ for me… shit, so fuckin’ good,” he mutters, fingers slowing just enough to keep you riding the high.

Your chest heaves, your breaths coming in short, ragged bursts as you slowly open your eyes again. He’s staring at you—taking in every inch of you. The smirk on his face hasn't faltered, only deepened. There’s something dangerous about the way he looks at you, like he's already planning his next move.

“You think you can turn around for me?” he asks.

You shake your head, still catching your breath, but a wicked grin spreads on your lips. “Nah. I’ll fall to my knees and suck you off instead.” Your voice is steady despite the way your legs still tremble. His eyes widen just for a second before he sharpens a breath, a harsh inhale that lets you know you’ve hit the right nerve.

You don’t give him time to respond before you’re on your knees, fingers already undoing his belt, pulling his jeans down just enough to free him. You look up through your lashes, watching his jaw tighten as his cock springs free, already hard and leaking at the tip. His breathing’s heavy, uneven.

You run your tongue along his length slowly, collecting the sticky precum, teasing the underside before wrapping your lips around the head. He moans immediately, one hand gripping the edge of the counter so tight his knuckles turn white.

“Fuck,” he hisses through his teeth, hips jerking forward as your lips slide further down his cock. The sound he makes is a whiny moan, almost of frustration as you take him deeper, hollowing your cheeks. You can feel the pulse of him on your tongue, the way his body reacts to every little move you make.

He grips your hair, tugging gently as you bob your head, setting a slow rhythm that has him panting. His hips start to move, barely restrained, thrusting shallowly into your mouth. “Goddamn… ngh—fuck! From hittin’ me with a mop to this?” His voice cracks on a laugh, but it’s breathless, shaky. “Didn’t think you’d… suck me off like this…”

You pull back just enough to swirl your tongue around the head, lips slick, before looking up at him, smirking. “Better than the mop, right?”

His laugh turns into a groan, the sound vibrating through his chest as you take him deep again. “Fuck yeah… way better than the fuckin' mop.” He’s losing his composure now, hips moving a little more desperately, the hand in your hair tightening, guiding you as you work him harder, faster.

His moans grow louder, less restrained, and you can feel the tension building in his body, the way his muscles tighten as he gets closer. You hollow your cheeks one last time, sucking him in deeper, tongue working every inch of him until you hear him curse under his breath, his head falling back as his body shudders.

“Shit—” His moan is drawn out, almost too much for him to handle, as he loses himself in your mouth, his hips bucking forward uncontrollably. You keep going, pushing him right to the edge, savoring every last sound he makes until he finally pulls you off, breathless and wrecked.

“Fuck... you’re gonna kill me with that pretty mouth,” he pants, grinning down at you, still catching his breath. 

You pull back for a second, lips slick with spit, catching your breath before you go back in, this time with a wicked grin. His cock twitches in your hand as you stroke him slowly, teasing, just enough to keep him on the edge.

“So…” you start, voice low, looking up at him with a dangerous gleam in your eyes. “How are you gonna fuck me, huh? Gonna be good to me, or…” You drag your tongue along the underside of his shaft, making him gasp before taking him back into your mouth, sucking harder, wanting to hear him stutter. “… or you gonna fuck me like you mean it?”

His breath hitches, and he swears under his breath. “I—fuck, I—” His hips jerking toward your mouth, but he’s not quite there. The pressure is building, you can feel it, the way his muscles tense, the way his grip in your hair tightens.

But before you can push him too far, he suddenly pulls you off with a gasp, his cock red and leaking at the tip, his body shaking from the almost-orgasm. “Stop, stop, fuck—”

You raise an eyebrow, lips swollen as you sit back on your heels, panting, teasing. “Could’ve just let me finish you off,” you murmur, licking your lips slowly as you watch him struggle to catch his breath.

He grins, though his expression is tight, like he’s holding onto control by a thread. “Not gonna let you win that easy,” he mutters. He helps you up, hands firm but delicate as he lifts you to your feet. Your knees wobble a little from the discomfort of kneeling on the hard wooden floor, and he notices, his thumb brushing gently across the soft skin.

“They hurt?” he asks, glancing down at your knees, frowning just a little.

You shake your head, smirking. “I’ll live. But you owe me a good fuck for that.”

“Don’t worry. I’m gonna make it up to you.”

You let him guide you back against the counter, his hands already sliding down to the waistband of your panties, hooking his fingers into the fabric and pulling them down tossing it on the floor. He pauses just for a second, eyes flicking between your bare pussy and your face, his breathing heavy.

He leans in close, lips brushing against your ear as he whispers, “Gonna make you scream.”

You shiver, feeling his cock press against your thigh as his hands move to grip your waist. His fingers are rough, impatient. You can barely think straight when he turns you around, pushing your chest flat against the cold countertop. The contrast of the cool surface and his hot skin makes your breath hitch, your body already aching for him.

He groans softly, positioning himself at your entrance, teasing you with the tip of his cock, rubbing it along your slick folds as you grind back against him, impatient.

“Fuck—please, just—” You barely get the words out before he thrusts into you, filling you up completely in one swift movement. The stretch is intense, but it’s exactly what you needed, the delicious burn making you gasp as your fingers dig into the counter.

He groans, his hands gripping your hips tightly as he pulls back and thrusts again, setting a relentless pace. “That good enough for you, hm?”

You can barely answer, the only sounds leaving your lips are desperate moans as he fucks into you, hard and fast, just like he promised. “F-fuck, Jihoon… yes—just like that.”

He leans down, his chest pressing against your back as his lips brush your ear. “You feel so fuckin’ good… so tight, fuck.” 

Your body trembles under his, the pleasure building so quickly that you can barely keep up. "Jihoon—" His name leaves your lips in a broken moan as you start to lose control.

Your breath is ragged, chest heaving as you lick your fingers, letting them trail down your slick body. The moment your fingers find your clit, Jihoon freezes. His cock still buried deep inside you, but it’s like he's hypnotized by the way you touch yourself. You know he’s watching, eyes dark with hunger as you start to circle your clit, finding that perfect rhythm that makes your legs weak. There’s something so intoxicating about him just watching you, letting you take control of your own pleasure while he stays inside, keeping you full.

"Fuck, that’s hot," he mutters, his voice husky and rough as he leans over you, his lips grazing your ear. "You look so fucking good like this."

You can feel the heat rising in your cheeks, his words fueling the fire burning low in your belly. Your mind flashes back to everything between you two, from the first time he tagged your bakery walls, scowling like you were the enemy, graffiti cans in his bag, the way he barely looked at you when he spoke. 

Now look at him, look at you—sweat-slicked bodies moving together, his fingers pulling your hair. The teasing exchanges that turned into this—tangled limbs in the very place you swore you'd kill him if he ever touched.  Now, all you can think about is how good he feels inside you, how much you crave more.

His hips start to move again, slow, smooth rolls that make your whole body tingle, but he keeps his hands steady on your hips, letting you keep that perfect rhythm on your clit. The sound of your wet fingers moving in time with his thrusts fills the room, and it’s obscene, but fuck, it’s so good.

“What do you want me to do?” he murmurs against your ear, his voice vibrating through you, sending shivers down your spine.

God. Hot. So fucking hot.

You could ask for anything. Him fucking you against every surface in the bakery, bending you over the counter, the tables, hell, maybe even hanging from the goddamn chandelier if it were possible. But right now, with the way his cock fills you and your fingers work your clit, you only want one thing.

“Pull my hair.”

His hand slides up your back, fingers tangling in your hair, and he gives it a firm tug. The sharp pleasure shoots you, and your body arches against him, hips pressing back to meet his next thrust. The way body rollsl, smooth, matches the pace you’ve set with your fingers. It’s perfect, it’s so fucking good.

His hips snap against you harder now, and you can feel his restraint slipping. He’s getting close, the way his moans get rougher, the way he’s tugging your hair a little more desperately. You know he’s just as on edge as you are.

“Jihoon…”

He moans sly. He knows exactly what he's doing to you.

You hum, breathless. Something so ridiculous comes to mind, and you can’t believe you’re going to say it, but fuck it. 

“Can you… paint me?” You’re not sure where the words come from, but once they’re out, you can’t help but smirk.

He hesitates for a second, his hips stuttering before he recovers. “What?”

You bite your lip, half-laughing through your moans. “You heard me. Paint me. Grafitti me. Whatever. Do it.”

He’s still chuckling, his chest pressed against your back as he slows down, but you can feel the horniness in the way his cock twitches inside you. He is very into it. “You’re fucking crazy, you know that?”

You laugh, but it’s breathless. “You’ve been tagging my bakery for weeks. Might as well make it official.”

He groans, biting his lip as he slides out of you for a moment, leaving you feeling suddenly empty, needy. You turn your head, watching as he reaches for one of the paint cans you knocked over earlier, shaking it a few times. The sound of the metal ball rattling inside echoes through the small space, making your heart race faster.

“You sure about this?” he asks, but there’s a grin on his face, his cock still hard and wet, glistening in the dim light.

You arch your back, pushing your ass out toward him, wiggling a little for good measure. “You scared?”

He shakes his head, biting down on his lower lip. “Not even a little.”

Then, with one hand steady on your lower back, he leans in, the cold metal of the spray can grazing your skin. You hear the hiss of the paint as he presses down on the nozzle, feeling the cold spray hit your skin. It’s not the same as the heat between your legs, but it sends a thrill through your body nonetheless.

“Hold still,” he mutters, focused, but you can hear the grin in his voice. He’s enjoying this—maybe a little too much.

You laugh, a shaky sound as the paint settles on your skin, the smell of it filling the room. “What are you even writing?”

“You’ll see,” he says, voice teasing. The spray continues, and then, after a moment, he steps back. “There. Perfect.”

When he’s done, he pulls you back onto his cock all in once, making you gasp as the pleasure returns full force. “Red suits you,” he says, his voice whiny. You can feel his eyes on you, taking in the sight of you painted, fucked, completely his in this moment.

You look over your shoulder at him, breathless. “What did you write?”

He smirks, thrusting hard enough to make you cry out. “My name,” he says simply. “Right across your ass.”

The sound that leaves your throat is half-laugh, half-moan. “Cocky bastard,” you mutter, but you can’t deny how fucking hot it is, the thought of his name on you, like a claim.

He watches the paint dry quickly, the faint sheen of it on your skin as you move against him. The thought of cleaning it off flickers in his mind, but fuck, the idea of you walking around with his name stamped across your ass, hidden inside your jeans as you go about your day—a part of him wants it permanent, a tattoo maybe, to mark you in a way no one else could see but him. His. Completely.

His hand slides up your body, fingers sneaking under your shirt and bra until they’re squeezing your tit, pinching your nipple hard enough to make you yelp and splatter your hand onto the counter for balance. Your legs are shaking as his thrusts get rougher, messier, the slick sound of him filling you echoing in the quiet bakery.

You moan out his name, “Jihoonie…” and he fucking loses it. Every time you call him that, it gets to him. The way you say it, needy and teasing, like it was meant to wreck him.

He grunts in response, pulling your hair again to tilt your head back against his chest. Your eyes roll, pleasure coursing through you like fire, and your pussy clenches tight around his cock, sucking him in deeper.

You try to hold yourself up, but your legs are jelly, barely able to stand. “I’m gonna… fuck, Jihoon,” you gasp, your body trembling. You’re on the edge, the pleasure coiling tight in your belly, ready to snap at any second.

He pulls you back harder, his chest flush against your back, his mouth right at your ear as he growls, “Cum for me, baby. Fuckin’ do it. I wanna feel you.”

His words, the rough sound of his voice, the way he’s completely owning you—it pushes you over the edge. You shatter around him, your body convulsing as your orgasm slams into you. Your pussy clenches tight, milking his cock, and you scream his name, your voice echoing through the empty bakery.

He groans deep in his chest, thrusting through your orgasm, chasing his own orgasm. The way you squeeze him, the way you moan and tremble in his arms, it’s too much. He pulls out at the last second, just barely, his hand jerking his cock as he cums, thick ropes spilling onto your ass, painting over his name in red.

You’re a mess, both of you—paint, cum, sweat sticking to your skin—but you can’t bring yourself to care.

His hand slides gently down your back, soothing the tremors that still ripple through your body. “Fuck,” he mutters, voice still shaky. He leans down, pressing a soft kiss to the back of your neck, completely different from how rough he was just moments ago.

You breathe out a laugh, still catching your breath. “Think we’re gonna need more than a mop to clean this up.”

Jihoon chuckles, pulling back slightly to admire the mess he made. “Yeah,” he says, “But I gotta say… seeing you with my name on your ass? Kinda want it permanent.”

You tilt your head back to look at him, a lazy smirk on your lips. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

His smirk matches yours as he tugs you closer, his hands still resting on your hips. “Maybe,” he murmurs, brushing his lips against yours. “Maybe more than I should.”

Jihoon sulks, his face twisted in irritation as he presses the paper towel against your ass, muttering under his breath about how he ruined it. You can hear him grumbling, the cum smudging the once-clear letters of his graffiti like some kind of art project gone wrong. He’s so focused on trying to clean it up, but all he’s doing is making a bigger mess, the red paint mixing with the white streaks, swirling into a chaotic, almost laughable design.

You, on the other hand, can’t stop the grin that spreads across your face. The whole situation is just too ridiculous—the great Woozi, all serious and brooding, now pouting like a kid who messed up his school project. You rest your arms on the counter, the cool surface grounding you after everything, and glance over your shoulder, still half-naked from the waist down, shaking your head.

“Hey,” you snicker, pushing up onto the counter, bare skin still tingling from what just went down, “come on, take a picture for me.”

He glances up, narrowing his eyes in that grumpy way of his, but he’s not about to argue. With a sigh, he reaches out to take your phone, swiping it from your hand like it was a burden. He shakes his head, but there's the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.

You prop yourself up on your elbows, waiting as he squats a little to get the right angle. His breath is still slightly ragged, cheeks flushed pink, but he’s focused now, swiping a thumb across the screen before lifting the phone to snap a pic. You hear the click, followed by his low mutter. “Fuckin’ smudged.”

“Let me see,” you laugh, reaching out for the phone. He hands it over with a huff, standing there, arms crossed, while you inspect the damage.

There it is. Bold, bright red, smeared all over your ass. “Woozi,” right there in the middle, smudged but still totally readable. The first “W” is clear, but by the time you get to the “zi,” it’s a messy blur of paint and cum, like he tried to rush through it at the end. You burst out laughing, the sound bouncing off the walls of the empty bakery.

“Woozi?” you choke out between laughs, glancing up at him. “You really went with that?”

Jihoon rolls his eyes, cheeks burning a bit now. “What? It’s better than my actual name, isn’t it?”

You squint at the screen again, biting your lip to stop the next wave of laughter from spilling out. The smudge really does make it funnier. It's like his little alter ego tried to make a grand appearance but ended up getting dragged through a mess of his own creation.

“Woozi,” you repeat, grinning as you shake your head. “So now I’m walking around with your vandal name on my ass?”

He shrugs, still pretending to sulk, though you can see he’s fighting back a smile too. “Thought it’d be… symbolic or something. Besides, no one’s gonna know what it says. It’s all smudged now.”

“Oh, they’ll know,” you tease, lifting the phone to show him the picture again. “It’s clear enough, trust me. Woozi’s gonna be famous for something else entirely after this.”

He lets out a breathy chuckle, scratching the back of his head. “Yeah, great. Exactly what I need. My name on your ass, and you showing it off to the world.”

“Not showing it off to the world,” you smirk, leaning back on the counter. “Just, you know, keeping it for personal reasons.” You give him a cheeky look, watching as his eyebrows raise in mild curiosity.

Jihoon moves closer, sliding his hands over your hips again, thumbs brushing the sides of your thighs. “Personal reasons, hm?” 

“Yup,” you say, biting the inside of your cheek to keep from grinning too wide. “Might just stare at it whenever I need a good laugh. Or maybe when I need to remember how well you… fuck.”

He scoffs, rolling his eyes again, but there’s a smirk pulling at his lips now. “You’re real funny, you know that?”

You nod, still grinning like an idiot. “Yeah, but you love it.”

“Mm,” he hums, stepping even closer, so close that your legs naturally part to let him stand between them. “Love it, huh?”

You raise a brow, tilting your head. “Yeah, love it. You, though?” You press your palms to his chest, fingers curling into his shirt just a bit. “You’re sulking because you didn’t get the masterpiece you wanted.”

His hands grip your waist, and he leans down, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “I’m not sulking,” he whispers, voice dripping with faux irritation. “I just didn’t expect my art to get ruined by…” He pauses, pulling back slightly to give you a teasing look. “…circumstances.”

You snort. “Circumstances? Jihoon, you came on it.”

He tries to hold back a laugh, but it slips out anyway, his chest vibrating against your hands. “Yeah, well, you didn’t exactly help the situation. You’re the one who—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head as if he’s trying to erase the memory of what just happened.

You grin, tugging him even closer by his shirt. “Say it. I’m the one who what?”

He chuckles. “You’re the one who kept calling me ‘Jihoonie’ like you were trying to kill me.”

“Oh, that’s on me?” you laugh, giving him a playful shove. “You loved it, don’t even lie.”

“I did baby girl, I did.”

You hold on to him, tired from working the whole day and from… fucking in the workplace too.

“But don’t think this makes us even. You still hit me with that damn mop.”

The next few days were nothing short of chaos—an exhilarating rush of sweet and savory tarts flying off the shelves, and new recipes you and Mrs. Lee concocted together, bringing fresh buzz to the bakery. The scent of freshly baked goods filled the air every morning, pulling in crowds, while the constant hum of the oven working overtime had become your new normal.

One morning, Jihoon arrives early, the sun barely peeking over the rooftops, casting a soft golden hue over the quiet streets. He strolls in, wiping the sleep from his eyes, hair a little mussed but looking determined to work.

As soon as he steps inside, he spots you standing near the counter with Mingyu. You're talking animatedly, your hands gesturing as Mingyu grins at something you said. His big frame blocks most of your view, so Jihoon immediately veers toward the vitrines to see how the tarts are doing. He doesn’t want to interrupt whatever you’re saying to Mingyu, but he's definitely curious.

He gets to the counter and freezes. The vitrines… they’re empty. Not a single tart left. Not even the little label card for the savory tarts, the one that proudly displayed the flavors he’d worked so hard to perfect.

His brows furrow, and he turns to you, half in disbelief. “Hey, where’s all the savory tarts?” he asks, trying not to sound like he’s panicking a little.

You and Mingyu exchange a quick glance before you turn to Jihoon, biting back a smirk. “Oh, yeah... about that,” you say, crossing your arms and leaning against the counter. “We had to stop selling them here.”

Jihoon blinks, caught off guard. “What?” He steps closer, eyebrows knitting together. “Stop selling them? What are you talking about?”

You sigh dramatically, playing it up. “They were just taking up too much space, you know? Not enough room for the sweets and everything else. Figured we’d move on to other things.”

Jihoon stares at you, his eyes flicking between your face and the empty case. You can see the gears turning in his head, confusion, then frustration. “But… they were selling well. Why would you—?”

Mingyu pipes up, poorly holding back a laugh. “Yeah, dude, it was wild. People just stopped caring about them, I guess.”

Jihoon’s eyes widen. “No way. They were doing so well just yesterday—” He stops, eyes narrowing at Mingyu's grin. Then he looks back at you, finally sensing something’s up. “Wait… what’s going on?”

You can’t help it. The corners of your lips twitch, and then you crack, bursting into laughter. “Come on, Jihoon. Just follow me.”

He follows you, still a little skeptical, his pace hurried as he tries to keep up with your sudden excitement. When you lead him out of the main bakery, his confusion only grows. You guide him around the corner to a neighboring shop space you’d kept quiet about.

Jihoon stops dead in his tracks the moment he sees the sign hanging above the door: Lee’s Tarts. His eyes go wide, scanning the large windows where people are already lined up outside, some chatting excitedly while others peek through the glass to get a look at the new place. And right inside, behind the counter, Mrs. Lee is standing tall, her hands expertly working as she serves up savory tarts to eager customers. The place is buzzing, the line practically spilling out onto the street.

“What the hell...” Jihoon mutters, blinking in disbelief.

You nudge his arm playfully. “Surprise.”

He turns to look at you, his expression still caught in shock. “You opened a shop?”

“Well, technically, Mrs. Lee opened the shop,” you grin. “I just helped.”

Jihoon shakes his head, still processing. “This… this is for her?”

“Yeah, for both of you,” you say, folding your arms, satisfied with the look on his face. “Your tarts were way too good to just stay in one little display case. Now they’ve got their own home.”

Then, without warning, he turns to you, arms wrapping around your waist as he pulls you into a tight hug.

“Holy shit,” he mutters into your hair, squeezing you so hard it almost knocks the wind out of you. “I can’t believe you did this.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes sparkling warmly, something that you rarely see from him. 

“You deserve it, Jihoon. It was all you.”

His lips curl into that soft, genuine smile that’s rare but so worth it when you see it. “Guess we’re gonna be pretty busy, huh?”

“Guess so,” you say, leaning your head on his shoulder. “Better get used to it, Woozi.”

You and Mingyu handle the morning crowd in your bakery, but every now and then, you steal glances through the window at the new Lee’s Savory Tart shop next door. The line of people doesn’t seem to stop; every time you look, it’s like there are more. Jihoon’s name is already making waves, and it’s only been a few hours since the doors opened.

Someone at the counter clears their throat, and you turn back, wiping your hands on your apron. A woman leans over the display case, eyes scanning the rows of sweets. “Hey, don’t you have those savory tarts? The ones with the spinach and cheese?”

You nod, smiling. “Not here anymore, actually. We’ve got something even better now.” You motion with your thumb toward the window. “Just next door. The savory tarts have their own shop now, Lee’s Tarts. You’ll find all the flavors there—probably even a few new ones.”

The woman’s eyes widen, eyebrows shooting up. “Oh! I didn’t know they moved! I was looking forward to trying them again.”

Mingyu, wiping down the counter behind you, pipes in with a grin, “Yeah, you’re gonna want to head over there before the line gets longer. Trust me, it’s worth it.”

The woman glances outside, spots the line, and her face shifts to one of mild panic. “Oh god, it’s already long.”

You chuckle. “Better get in there while you can. They’re selling out fast.”

She nods quickly, a little flustered, and rushes out the door, making a beeline for the shop next door. As the door closes behind her, you share a look with Mingyu. He’s smirking, arms crossed, leaning casually against the counter like he owns the place.

“You’re really sending our customers away like that, huh?” he teases, shaking his head. “What are we gonna do when everyone’s over there?”

You roll your eyes, nudging him with your elbow. “Oh please, you know people will still come for the sweets. Besides, Jihoon’s shop is practically ours. Same team, right?”

Mingyu grins wider. “Yeah, I guess. But damn, the guy’s getting popular fast. Never thought I'd see the day where Jihoon had groupies for tarts.”

You laugh, glancing out the window again, and sure enough, more people are queuing up outside the Lee’s Tarts storefront. “I know, right? It’s kinda surreal.”

Another customer steps up to the counter, a man in a suit, adjusting his tie as he peers at the empty spot where the savory tarts used to sit. “Excuse me, do you still have those mushroom and leek tarts?”

You shake your head, smiling. 

[...]

You lean against the counter, crossing your arms and watching through the glass again. There’s something deeply satisfying about seeing people excited for Jihoon’s tarts—almost like watching a small victory unfold before your eyes. It’s hard not to feel proud.

Mingyu glances at you, brow quirked. “You think he knows how big this is yet?”

You shrug, still watching the customers flow in and out of the shop next door. “Maybe. He’s probably too busy to even think about it right now.”

Mingyu snorts, pushing off the counter. “Yeah, well, let’s just hope he doesn’t get all cocky now that he’s got his own place.”

You smile softly, shaking your head. “Nah. That’s not him. If anything, he’s probably stressing about making sure everything’s perfect.”

As if on cue, the door to the bakery next door opens, and Jihoon steps out for a quick breath of air. He’s in his apron, hair falling into his eyes, looking a little sweaty but in control. 

He glances over to your shop and catches your eye through the window. For a second, his expression softens, and he gives you a small, appreciative nod.

You wave back, a knowing smile tugging at your lips. Then, before he can get too sentimental, he’s back inside, ready to tackle the next wave of customers.

As the day wears on, the steady flow of customers in both shops never really stops. You keep handling the orders, but every once in a while, someone comes in asking for the savory tarts, and you point them next door, grinning every time at how fast Jihoon’s new shop is becoming the talk of the town.

By the end of the day, when the last customer has left and the door finally swings closed, you take a deep breath, leaning against the counter, watching the lights flicker off in Lee’s Tarts through the window. Jihoon steps out again, this time wiping his hands on his apron as he locks up for the night.

He crosses the sidewalk and steps into your bakery, looking utterly exhausted but somehow content. “Busy day?”

You smile. “You could say that. You?”

Jihoon lets out a low laugh, shaking his head. “Never thought tarts could be this stressful.”

You step forward, wrapping your arms around his waist in a brief hug. “Well, looks like you’re stuck with it now.”

He smiles down at you, that soft look back in his eyes as he pulls you in for a kiss—quick and sweet this time, just a little stolen moment before the work starts all over again tomorrow.

From behind the counter, Mingyu makes a gagging sound, dramatically covering his eyes. “God, you two are disgusting.”

As you roll your eyes, Jihoon leans in close, his lips brushing your ear with a low murmur. “Maybe we should celebrate... you know, properly. You, me, that freaky side you try to keep in check—let’s see if I survive tonight.”

Your eyes flick up to meet his, a smirk pulling at the corner of your lips. “Is that a challenge, Jihoon?”

He chuckles, breath hot against your skin, his hand squeezing your hip suggestively. “Only if you’re up for it. I might not walk straight after, but I’m willing to take that risk.”

[...]

The next thing you know, you're in a motel room, Jihoon having insisted that the best way to celebrate was somewhere far away from work, where neither of you had to think about baking for once.

You’re on top of him, straddling his hips, thighs caging him, riding him so hard it’s like you’ve forgotten how to go slow. The bed creaks beneath you, the headboard knocking softly against the wall with every thrust, but all you can hear is Jihoon’s moans—loud and desperate. 

His pale skin is already flushed pink, beads of sweat forming on his forehead.

"Fuck... you're gonna break me," he gasps out, voice strained, eyes half-lidded and desperate. His head falls back against the pillow as you ride him harder, his lips parted in a silent moan. "I can't... shit, you're too good."

You lean down, your hair falling around your faces, your lips brushing his ear as you tease, “You’re not tapping out already, are you?”

His chest heaves with each ragged breath, his hands slipping down to grip your ass, trying to hold you still for a moment, but you don’t let him. You push back against him, harder, faster, and his groan rips through the small motel room. “Fuck, I’m serious... gonna fucking break...”

“You’re the one who wanted to celebrate, remember?” You dig your nails into his shoulders, moving with an intentional grinding roll of your hips, making you two shiver at the same time. "Now take it."

He almost sobs at that, his hands tightening on your waist, his head falling back as his hips buck up into you. The noises spilling from him—those choked-off moans and heavy breaths—made your lower belly boil, making you even bolder. You grind down, angling just right, and Jihoon lets out a sound that's more a whimper than anything.

You bite your lip, holding back a laugh as you grind down harder, feeling his cock twitch inside you. “Look at you. Jihoonie, you're so fucked out. What was that about me breaking you?”

He groans loudly, squeezing his eyes shut as his hands grip your thighs tighter, knuckles white from the pressure. “Shit—”

You lean down, your mouth brushing against his ear, your voice a sultry whisper. “Maybe you’ll survive if you’re lucky.”

That’s all it takes for Jihoon to melt completely. His hands slide down your body, clenching desperately as his entire body tenses beneath you. His hips stutter, a long, ragged moan tearing from his throat as he finally cums, body trembling as he cums hard, buried deep inside you.

For a moment, you just let him ride it out, watching the way his chest heaves, eyes fluttering shut in pure bliss, his body still twitching from the orgasm. You slow your movements, giving him time to catch his breath.

When he finally opens his eyes again, they’re hazy, half-lidded with exhaustion. He looks up at you like you’ve completely destroyed him, which, to be fair, you kind of have.

“Fuck,” he breathes out. “You really are going to break me.”

You smile, leaning down to kiss him softly on the lips, your hips still gently rocking against his. “Can’t break my Jihoonie.”

He covers his face, whimpering, cheeks flushing up as if they couldnt get more red. 

“If you call me that again, I'll paint your face.”

“At least it's not my bakery.”

[...]

You leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching through the window as Jihoon crouched outside, focused, the spray can in his hand hissing with each stroke of paint. The tart he was working on looked almost surreal—like it could pop right out of the wall, the pastry perfectly golden, the filling a burst of deep reds and oranges, with olives vibrantly on top. It was almost too pretty for a bakery wall, but it was Jihoon, and somehow, it worked.

"You're staring again," Mingyu's voice broke through your thoughts, and you barely turned your head as he leaned against the counter beside you, his stupid teasing grin stretching across his face.

“Shut up, i'm not,” you muttered, but even you could hear the weakness in your voice. Your eyes stayed glued to Jihoon, his hands moving quickly, confidently, as he added more details to the tart. a few people stopped to admire it, heads turning as they passed by, and you could see them whispering to each other, clearly impressed. he really was talented.

“Uh-huh," Mingyu’s voice showing that he was doubting everything you say, “You know, if you’re gonna stand there drooling, you might as well just go out there and sit on his lap while he paints.”

You shot him a glare, cheeks heating up. “Mingyu, fuck off.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “Oh come on, just admit it. You’ve been staring at him all week. It’s obvious. The way you look at him? Please.”

You bit your lip, eyes sliding back to Jihoon outside. He had stood up now, switching cans, his fingers stained with vibrant shades of pink and yellow. There was something about watching him work, about how focused he got—His brows furrowed, bottom lip tucked between his teeth as he leaned in close to get the details just right.

And, god, after yesterday when he finished the cake on the front of your shop… you were pretty much done for. You hadn’t even realized how long you'd been staring until he'd caught your eye, giving you that little smirk that made your stomach flip. And yeah, the way he insisted on going around the whole damn city to find the perfect pastel colors to match your aesthetic? It was sweet. Way sweeter than you wanted to admit.

Mingyu raised an eyebrow, waiting, and you let out a long, frustrated sigh, finally caving. “Fine. okay, Yes. I fucking like him. Happy now?”

His eyes widened in mock surprise, but he was clearly pleased with himself. “Oh my god, really? Who would’ve guessed?”

“Oh, shut up,” you sulked, crossing your arms tighter across your chest and turning your gaze back to Jihoon, who was now adding some final touches to the tart's crust. The sunlight hit him just right, highlighting the sharp angle of his jaw, the veins in his forearms as he shook the can. “I don’t even know how it happened. One second I was annoyed as hell with him, and then… Yeah. Here we are.”

Mingyu chuckled, clearly enjoying every second of this. “I think it was when he convinced you to let him spray that cake on your wall. You looked like you were about to strangle him, but then you didn’t. You just stared at him like he’d hung the moon or some shit.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t deny it. “Yeah, well… I guess it was kinda cute. He really went all out with that cake. You know he circled the whole damn city for those colors?”

“Yeah, he told me,” Mingyu said, smirking. “And now look at you, all whipped for him.”

You groaned, running a hand through your hair, trying to push down the feelings that were bubbling up again. “God, why am I even telling you this? I don’t need you making it worse.”

ou sighed, glancing out the window one more time, watching Jihoon wipe his hands on his jeans, the drawing complete. He took a step back, admiring his work, and for a second, he glanced your way, catching your eye. He raised his hand in a casual wave, a soft smile playing on his lips. Your heart skipped a beat, and you quickly turned away, feeling like you’d been caught.

Mingyu raised an eyebrow at you. “You’re blushing.”

“I am not.” You groaned, pushing past Mingyu to head back behind the counter. “Whatever. You’re just jealous he didn’t paint something for your store.”

Mingyu’s laughter followed you as you walked away, but as you leaned against the counter, arms still crossed, you found yourself glancing back out the window, one last time. There was no denying it anymore. You were definitely into him—his art, his focus, the way he just fit into your world without even trying.

You let out a small sigh, content, but your peaceful moment was interrupted when the door swung open hard enough to make the bell jingle a little too loudly. A group of boys walked in, street-worn and loud, carrying backpacks that were half-open, revealing cans of spray paint inside. A couple of them had skates hanging off their shoulders, and their clothes were loose, baggy, clearly not from around here—or at least, not part of the usual clientele.

You blinked, taking in the sight of them as they strolled in like they owned the place, heads bobbing to whatever beat they had going in their heads. One of them, tall with a beanie pulled low over his eyes, spotted you behind the counter and immediately grinned. “Yo, is this the spot where Jihoon’s lil' girlfriend works?”

You froze, mid-wipe, blinking silently at the question. Girlfriend? Lil’ girlfriend? Your face flushed, and you could feel the heat crawling up your neck. You quickly tried to play it cool, clearing your throat. “Uh... I don’t—what?”

The guy chuckled, his crew falling in behind him, all of them eyeing the bakery like it was some kind of alien planet. “Nah, nah, don’t play like that. We know. Jihoon said his girl runs this bakery. This is it, right?”

One of the other boys, wearing a hoodie that was about three sizes too big, pointed to the display case, leaning over the counter a bit. “Damn, y’all got those fancy-ass tarts here. Hey, you think we could get a discount? You know, 'cause we know your man and all.”

You blinked again, gulping, still processing the whole “girlfriend” thing. Flour clung to your apron and dusted your arms, and you suddenly felt a little out of place, standing there dirty from baking while these guys—who clearly rolled with Jihoon—looked way too comfortable.

“You, uh, want some tarts?” you asked, trying to change the subject, wiping your hands on your apron.

The beanie guy grinned again, leaning an elbow on the counter. “Yeah, yeah, we’ll take some. Heard you got some sweet shit in here. Hook us up, Jihoon’s girl.”

You cringed at the nickname but forced a smile, grabbing a few plates and serving up some of the sweet tarts you had left. They all watched you work, curiosity in their eyes, and you couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched watched.

As you handed them their plates, another one of the boys spoke up. “Damn, I thought bakers were like... supposed to be all old and shit. You’re cute, though.”

You almost dropped the plate. “Thanks,” you muttered, cheeks turning pink as you slid the tart towards them. “Enjoy.”

“Yo, speak of the devil,” one of them interrupted, nodding toward the door as it swung open. You turned around, relieved, and there was Jihoon—sweaty, paint splattered across his arms and hands, still holding a spray can. He froze for a second, taking in the scene, his eyes narrowing at the sight of his crew huddled around the counter.

“The fuck you guys doin’ here?” Jihoon grumbled, walking in with that same grumpy look he always wore when he was caught off guard.

You could see Jihoon’s jaw clench as he approached the counter, shaking his head. “She’s not—why the fuck are you even here?”

Another one chimed in, chuckling. “We just wanted to see the spot, man! Heard it was dope.”

Jihoon stepped up next to you, placing a hand on your lower back in a subtle, protective gesture. “Get outta here, you dumbasses. This isn’t a playground.”

 “Bro, why didn’t you tell us she makes shit this good?”

Jihoon sighed, rubbing the back of his neck as he walked up to the counter. “They’re not here to cause trouble, are they?” he asked, giving you a look that was half-apologetic, half-amused.

“They’re just hungry,” you said, shaking your head, trying not to laugh at how out of place they all looked in your pastel-colored bakery. “Let them eat. I think they like the tarts.”

“They’re pretty good, right?” you teased, handing Jihoon a tart too.

One of the guys pointed his finger between you and Jihoon, a sly grin spreading across his face. “Man, your kids are gonna be so well-fed. Tarts for breakfast, lunch, and dinner!”

Jihoon almost choked on his tart, coughing as he shot the guy a glare. “Shut up,” he muttered, but there was no denying the redness creeping up his neck.

You burst out laughing, the absurdity of the situation too much to handle. “You really bring these guys everywhere, huh?”

Jihoon shook his head, embarrassed but smiling too. “I didn’t bring ‘em. They follow me like strays.”

One of the guys grinned, shoving another tart into his mouth. “Hell yeah, we do. And we gonna keep comin’ back if these tarts are free.”

You gave Jihoon a look, shaking your head with a laugh. “Let ‘em eat. They’re harmless… mostly.”

“That one,” Jihoon said, jabbing his thumb toward the high guy. “He’s the asshole who drew the giant cock on your wall.”

Your eyes widened, immediately zeroing in on the guy who was now trying to pretend he wasn’t the subject of conversation. He suddenly found the tarts very interesting, stuffing another one into his mouth to avoid your glare.

“No way,” you deadpanned, your voice dripping with disbelief. “You did that?”

The guy, mouth still full of tart, shrugged sheepishly. “Uh, it was… kinda funny though, right?”

You raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms as you leaned against the counter. “Oh, hilarious,” you said, your voice thick with sarcasm. “Do you know how many old ladies came in here and gave me looks?”

He swallowed hard, looking around at his friends for backup, but they all just laughed, clearly enjoying the fact that he was getting called out. “I, uh… I’ll clean it up?” he offered, scratching the back of his head.

Jihoon snorted, shaking his head. “Too late for that, man. She already scrubbed it off.”

You shot Jihoon a look. “I scrubbed it off. With bleach. In the middle of a freakin’ heatwave.”

The guy looked genuinely guilty for a second, rubbing his neck awkwardly. “My bad, yo. Didn’t think it’d be that big of a deal…”

Jihoon laughed under his breath, clearly amused by the whole situation. “You owe her, dude.”

The guy shrugged again, looking at you with a half-apologetic, half-amused grin. “Aight, aight. My bad, lil’ bakery girl. I’ll make it up to you.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “Yeah, you better,” you teased. 

“We’re definitely talking about the ‘girlfriend’ thing later.” Jihoon gave you a squeeze on your ass behind the counter, where nobody could see it.

You smirked, raising an eyebrow at him, not missing the way his eyes lingered on you just a second too long. “Oh, are we?”

“Yeah,” he whispered, his breath warm and teasing against your ear. “After I get these idiots outta here.”

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Still You Want Me

Main Masterlist - Dean Masterlist

Read on A03!

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, tooth-rotting fluff, pregnancy, a little angst if you squint, pre-established relationship.

Summary/Warnings: Dean's fought the worst evil in the world, but only one thing has really managed to scare him. His pregnant wife.

Author's Note: Request from an anon!! I got emotional with it, and I'm very sorry about that but I couldn't help myself. Enjoy!

Word Count: 2.9k

“We got three hours left.” Dean returned to the parked Impala, sorting through the bags in his hands. “But we can make it back in two if I-“

Sam shook his head, taking his bag of bird feed—trail mix, but the pointless kind without any M&Ms—from Dean with a frown. “Two’s a bit stretch, don’t you think? I mean even for you, Dean, and it’s not like we’re in a rush-“

“You’re not in a rush, Sammy.” Dean muttered, dumping the rest of the snacks in the backseat. “I got a pregnant wife who’s left me three voicemails about how she’s either gonna castrate me or give me head, and-“

“Gross, dude.” Sam walked around the car, making a scrunched bitch-face of disgusting. “All you needed to say was that’s she’s got mood swings-“

“Don’t call them mood swings.” Dean dropped behind Baby’s wheel, saying Her name with a sigh. “She hates that. And you can’t charm your way out of like I can.”

“I think I could.” Sam shrugged. “She likes me more.”

“She’s my freakin’ wife-“

“She loves you.” Sam grabbed his phone as they pulled out of the lot. “She likes me. I’ve never been threatened with castration-“

“Yet.” Dean muttered. “Cas thought he was safe until he got a shade of yellow that was too red for the nursery. I mean, yellow is yellow, Sammy, but she threatened to cut off his wings-“

Sam frowned. “I don’t think she could do that-“

“Trust me, man.” Dean sighed, running a hand over his face. “She’d find a way.”

Sam just nodded, because they both knew Dean was right. He was pretty goddamn sure that, if She wanted—or if Dean pissed Her off enough—She’d figure out how to send him somewhere worse than the Empty, bring him back, then start sobbing and apologizing on Her knees all within a ten-minute span. Then She’d probably give him a blowjob, he’d saying the exact wrong dirty talk, and she’d bite off Little Dean. Shit, he’d only been gone four days for the hunt, but half that time had been spent on the phone, reassuring Her he was being safe, the hunt wasn’t a part of any world-ending scheme from a new big bad, and he’d be home soon. The time that Dean wasn’t on the phone, Sam was, promising he wouldn’t let anything happen, that Dean was sleeping well and looking at the baby names list She’d sent, and that he’d called Eileen so she wouldn’t worry either.

Annoyingly, Sam had been keeping his promises to Her. Dean read the baby names list because Sam wouldn’t let him leave the table until he did, Eileen had gotten two calls, and Dean was being safer than he’d ever been in his freaking life. At this point, he was pretty sure the pregnancy was just one long scam to make him take care of himself. He was drinking and hunting less after Her breakdown that she’d lose him, driving a little slower—just a little, he wasn’t a blind old lady—after the ice incident got him the silent treatment for three days, and he’d even tried some of Sam’s rabbit food. He’d spat it out, but he’d tried it. For Her, for the baby, and because he was terrified for his life.

Dean loved Her more than every pie in the freaking universe, but She was freaking terrifying right now. She might be the only thing he’d ever really been afraid of. Planes he could avoid. Ghosts and monster he could kill. Hell, even Lucifer had been better. At least the son of a bitch hadn’t begged to give Dean a hand job, then started sobbing because Dean tried to move it to sex and they didn’t feel pretty enough for sex. And if Lucifer had done that, Dean wouldn’t have cared. He didn’t give a shit about Lucifer. 

But he gave a shit about Her. Every time She cried it felt like someone was stabbing him, but he had less and less of a damn clue for how to help her the more pregnant She got. She’d said she felt ugly, he’d told Her she was beautiful, and that her tits looked better than ever, and She’d started accusing him of not loving her tits before. He’d missed one phone call and She’d sent Cas to teleport him home. He’d gotten the wrong candy bar and She’d had a breakdown about him not loving her enough to get the right one.

That last one was why the gas station had taken so long. Dean had triple checked every single snack he’d bought, and added a few extras just in case she changed Her mind. He’d even had Cas text him a second list after She’d told him all her requests over the phone, out of fear that he’d missed even a single one. Even now, on the road, he was running through everything one last time, because he’d gotten five different Gatorade colors, but maybe She’d want a sixth, or two of the same color, or only one color and he’d get yelled at because She didn’t even like orange-

“Hey!” Sam pulled Dean out of his thoughts with a shout. “Phone!”

“Wha-“

Sam said Her name, holding Dean’s phone in front of his face. “She’s calling you-“

“I got that.” Dean snatched the phone, shooting Sam a glare. “And that’s not safe, Sammy. Gonna get us fuckin’ killed-“

“Yeah, sure, Dean.” Sam just shrugged—even though Dean was right, that was dangerous—and nodded to the phone. “I’d pick up if I were you-“

“Shut up.” Dean muttered, ignoring Sam’s laugh as he answered the call. “Hey, baby, we’re-“

“Dean!” Her voice was a half-shriek through the phone, and Dean winced. “Holy shit, you’re alive, that’s good-“

“Course I’m alive, I promised I would be-“

“But it’s not up to you!” She was pacing. Her voice had grown frantic and high, so She was pacing. “Monsters don’t ask before they kill you, and they’d defiantly want to kill you, and Sam told me he’d take that bullet but I don’t want him to die either, and you’re both amazing hunters but if you die now, you can’t come back, and I’d miss you, I miss you now, why aren’t you home, you dick, I fucking hate you-“

Dean swallowed, saying Her name slowly as Sam snickered at his side. Asshole. “Take a breath-“

“Don’t tell me how to breathe, Winchester, I’ve been breathing my whole fucking life-“

“I know, sweetheart, I have too-“

“You’ve never had to breathe while pregnant-“

“And I’m not planning to, ever, but- just listen-“

“We should get you pregnant, it’s only fair-“

Sam started to cackle, Her voice loud enough he could obviously hear every word. It wasn’t really helpful. 

“That’s not gonna happen,” Dean muttered, giving Sam a death glare that just made him laugh more. “Sweetheart, we’ll be there soon. I promise.“

“Okay, but don’t go too fast, if you’re far, because you promised me you’d drive carefully, and you need to be safer. I don’t want to lose you.” She started to sniffle. Shit. “I can’t lose you, De, I need you, the baby needs you, and Sam and Cas are cool but they’re not you and I want you and the baby wants you. It wants you more, it hates when your gone, it just keeps kicking me and if you die I’ll be a terrible mother with a baby who hates me-“

Dean snapped Her name, pressing the Impala’s pedal to the floor. He needed to be home soon. “Listen to me. I’m not gonna do anything stupid like die, and you’re never gonna lose me. Plus, our baby won’t hate you. It’s half me. It can’t.”

There was a slightly static hum from the other side, and Dean sighed.

“I know you miss me, baby, and we can get you whatever you’re craving, but-“

“I do miss you, De.” Her voice was soft and pleading through the phone. 

But it wasn’t Her crying voice. That was her-

“I miss your cock, too. I miss touching you, and why is your bed so stupid and big-“

Dean chuckled, shaking off the whiplash. “Because I’m stupid and big-“

He could hear Her pout through the phone. “Don’t say that. You’re not stupid, and our baby’s gonna be a genius-“

“Because they’ll get their brains from you, pretty girl.”

“Shut up.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Dean leaned slightly forward, checking a highway sign. “Hour and a half, okay? Then I’ll be home.”

“Fine.” She mumbled. “I love you. Be careful.”

“I love you too, baby. And I’m always safe.” Dean waited for Her sigh, letting her hang up first. He’d learned to do that the hard way. “Not a word, Sammy, or I’ll shoot you.”

Sam raised his hands, palms up. “I didn’t even open my- got it.”

Dean turned his scowl back to the road, and he could be safe and get home in an hour. Both could be possible, and She’d never have to know that he’d been going 15 over the speed limit. And if She started to catch on, Dean could distract Her with his hands and dick and mouth, because—as hot as she was when she was pissed—Sam said stress wasn’t good for the baby.

They made it forty-five minutes of mostly safe driving—Dean’s hands gripping the wheel and listening to the music at a deafening volume, Sam texting Eileen and pretending he wasn’t bothered by the deafening music—before another incident.

Cas appeared in the back seat, said Her name instead of hello, Dean—already a bad sign—and looked almost genuinely scared. Dean had never seen his face do that before—red and sheepish like a child being scolded by a dinosaur—and it was a little off-putting.

He was used to Cas doing this enough to not swerve off the road, but he was still pissed. “Fucking hell, Cas, a warning would be nice-“

Cas frowned, then leaned forward, turning down the music. “Did you not hear what I said.”

“No, the music was on, I know you said-“

Cas said Her name again with Dean. “It was her message. I would, ah, prefer not to repeat it.”

Sam blinked, turning in his seat. “Why, is she-“

“She is well.” Cas’ eyes stayed on Dean in the rearview mirror. “She is feeling some very… confusing emotions. Towards Dean.”

Sam frowned. “Confusing? How-“

“She told me to relay to Dean that she hates him, and she hates hunting, and if he’s not home in forty-five minutes she’ll leave him, but she can’t leave him because she loves him more than life and she cannot live without him. Specifically his smile, voice, hands, stupid flirting that did this in the first place, and,” Cas swallowed, his voice dropping slightly as his face grew red. “Big cock.”

Dean smirked slightly—she was a menace, but damn it if he didn’t love his girl—as Sam paled next to him.

“By this,” Cas mumbled. “I assume she was referring to the baby. Which is in good health. I checked this morning.”

“Good. Thanks, Cas, but,” Dean sighed. “This could’ve been a phone call-“

“I was instructed to deliver it in person. To make sure you were safe, and driving carefully.” Cas leaned forward with a frown. “The speed limit on this highway is meant to be-“

“I know what the speed limit is.” Dean grumbled, refusing to ease his foot off the gas. “I’m tryin’ to get home, Cas.”

“I believe she would prefer you get home slower, rather than sacrificing your safety.” Cas let out a long sigh. “Although, I will admit I’d prefer you return quickly. I am not equipped to handle a pregnant woman alone, despite reading all of the books on the subject I could find. And, uh,” Cas said Her name with a red face. “Is frightening in this state.” 

Dean sighed. “Thirty minutes, dude, can you hold down the fort-“

“He could take you now?” Sam cut in with a small frown. “Cas could zap you back to the bunker, and I could drive Baby home.”

“Sammy-“

Cas nodded. “I agree with Sam’s plan. If you could pull over, Dean-“

“I’m not gonna pull over!” Dean snapped. “I can get back just fine myself!”

“But I could-“

“You won’t always be there, Cas.” Dean grunted through his teeth. “I gotta be able to take care of my family by myself. Shit, I’m doing all the safety bullcrap for it, and I’m hunting less.” He said Her name, his grip on the wheel painful. “She’s gotta know I can take care of her, and the baby. I said I’d drive home, so-“

Sam cut Dean off a sigh. “Dude, she’s gonna care way more that you’re home with her.”

“Sam is correct.” Cas said, and Dean could feel his gaze through the mirror. “I attempted to make her breakfast this morning, and she started crying. When asked, she told me that you make it better.” Cas frowned. “It was cereal.”

“C’mon, man. Let Cas take you home.”

Dean glanced over to find Sam giving him puppy eyes—the bitch—and groaned. “Fine. But if I see one scratch on Baby-“

“You’ll kill me, yeah, I know.” Sam unbuckled as Dean pulled over, not sounding nearly threatened enough. “Let’s move.”

It took a minute for Dean to get all the snacks, but the moment the last bag was in his arms Cas grabbed him by the shoulder, the world because a spinning rush, and he was home.”

“Dean!” 

He was barely on steady legs when She slammed into him, sending him stumbling slightly back as his arms wrapped around her, careful not to push too far into the baby bump.

“Hey, Sweetheart. I heard you missed me-“

“Of course I missed you, you asshole!” She pushed off of him, shoving his chest slightly. “Do you have any idea how many pies are just rotting in the fridge for you! You said the hunt would be fast, Dean, but I was stuck alone for four fucking days-“

Dean frowned. “Wasn’t Cas-“

“Cas doesn’t count!” She screamed, and over her shoulder, Cas didn’t look that offended. He’d probably gotten this outburst—and the following, tearful apology—at least twice already. “Cas isn’t you! He didn’t knock me up and then leave me-“

Dean thought about pointing out that he had not left Her, but thought better of it and let her keep shouting. She usually calmed herself down. 

Usually.

“And Cas is an angel, and he’s been okay, and I feel so bad because I was such a bitch to him, but he deserved it! He wasn’t you! And I missed you and I hate you, Dean, I fucking hate you, why weren’t you home-“

Dean caught Her hands in his, pressing a gentle kiss to Her knuckles. “I’m home now, baby-“

“I know.” She whispered, crumbling in half a second into Dean, clinging to him like a koala. “And I missed you so much, De. I can’t do the laundry with this stupid bump, I can’t do anything, I’m useless and I’m a bitch and I think made Cas cry-“

“I’d pay to see you make Cas cry,” Dean muttered Her name, running a slow hand through her hair. “And you’re not useless. You’re growing a person, that freaking awesome and insane-“

She tilted her head back, pretty eyes glossy and wide on Dean’s. “But what if I mess it up? What if I fuck the baby up and you leave me-“

“I’m never gonna leave you.”

“But I’ve been mean-“

“You’re always mean, baby.” Dean grinned at her, letting his affection show in his voice. “And it’s always pretty freakin’ hot. And you aren’t gonna fuck up the baby, and I’m not gonna leave you, but,” he leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to her lips. “If you wanna make Sammy cry a little more, I think he’ll deserve it.”

She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling again. “I’m not making Sam cry-“

“He said you had mood swings.”

She gasped, hitting Dean’s chest.  “You’re a snitch-“

“Gotta spread the love somehow.” Dean shrugged, squeezing his hands on Her as he dropped his voice down. “But I can think of a few other ways, just you and me, to spread some better love.”

She flushed—already putty in Dean’s arms—and almost dragged him back to their room. 

And this made it worth it. All the screaming and flying objects and threats, all the living in cautious fear in his own damn home, was more than worth it for this. Not just the awesome sex—sex was always awesome, sex with Her was better than almost anything, and sex with pregnant Her was what Dean imagined crack was like—but the way that, in the end, She smiled at him no matter what. She smiled and giggled and moaned, proving to Dean in a million ways both between the sheets and after that she didn’t really hate him, and he got to rest his head on her stomach and feel a small kick near his brow. Her fingers combed through his hair peacefully, all her noises made of content, and everything was more than worth it.

Worth pushing through the worst of the screaming and moods—just like She’d pushed through all of his world-saving bullshit—to see Her peaceful face as she slept by his side. Worth letting Sam drive the Impala just once, so Dean could get home faster.

Worth the family he was finally getting to have, and being here with them. 

End Note: Sam Winchester once again being a true trooper in my stories.

Title from Next to Me by Imagine Dragons

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[blissfullsvn]

wish you were sober

pairing. kim leehan x reader genre. best friends to lovers (?), fluff, a sprinkle of angst, mutual pining word count. 1.8k warnings. reader is drunk and attempts to kiss leehan in this state (+ reader is shorter than leehan and wears makeup) masterlist

all it takes is one call from you, calling out his name with a voice that’s poutier than normal, before leehan’s striding out the door with his car keys in his hands.

when he sees you, you’re leaning against an electric pole, hugging it like it’s your lifeline. your other friends are around you, trying to pry you off, but you only push them away. from where he parks, he vaguely catches his name falling from your lips before he marches towards you and calls out your name himself.

you look up, eyes widened like saucers. instantly, as if you’re electrocuted, you pull away from the pole and glare at it, reprimanding. “you’re not leehan.”

the group around you bursts into laughter, and leehan can’t help the small chuckle that escapes him either. when he walks closer to you, you immediately cling onto him the same way you did to the pole, your cheek squished against his chest.

“my leehan is here,” you mumble.

he would have melted—no, dissolved—if not for the fact that he’s wholly supporting your weight and that all your friends are eyeing the two of you giddily. hence, his legs are forced to hold up straight, even though his heart is nothing but putty in your hands. he translates this through his expression instead, softening as he looks down at you and gently pats your head.

after thanking your friends for taking care of you, he walks off with you in tow. with one hand placed securely on the small of your back, he opens the car door with the other and attempts to seat you in the passenger’s seat. it takes a bit, because you’re reluctant to leave your hold on him, but he eventually gets you inside the car.

still leaning over, he easily fastens your seatbelt with a click. when he tries to pull away, however, you immediately snake your arms around his neck, holding him in place. it’s so sudden that he drops his hand onto your thigh for balance, but he quickly moves it before the touch can linger.

you’re staring at him, eyelashes fluttering. unlike your previous demeanour, your eyes seem to have more clarity in them now. you’re looking at him as if you’re searching for something beyond, while he’s looking at you as if he’s searching for a way out.

it’s too much. the blasting music down the street, the whirs of engines on the road, the mix of breaths between you, the ghost of your fingers on his nape, the weight of your eyes on him, the beat of his heart against his chest.

he feels too much, and yet, he can’t take his eyes off you.

slowly, you drag one hand from his nape, your fingers brushing past his ears and sending shivers down his spine, until it settles on his jaw. you cradle it gently, your thumb caressing his cheek. then, for a sliver of a moment, you drop your gaze.

it’s just a split second, but he catches it all the same. without realising, he finds himself flickering his eyes as well, and it’s all the indication you need to pull him closer.

that’s when leehan smiles, and then removes your arms around him easily. “get some rest. i’ll wake you up when we arrive.” he pats your head before shutting the car door.

when he climbs in the car from the opposite side, you’re facing the front and blinking blankly as if you’ve been slapped. he resists the urge to hold your hand like he always does on car rides, and forces his eyes to the front before driving off.

you do end up falling asleep, and when he gets you out of the car, he has to hoist you up against him snugly because you’re leaning your entire weight on him again. he doesn't mind, never when it comes to you, so he keeps his arm around your waist the entire time he’s bringing you up to your apartment. even when he reaches your door and has to fish out the spare key you gave him from his bag, he makes sure his hold on you is secure and that you’re resting your head on him.

when he unlocks the door, it seems to have briefly snapped you out of your delirium, because you’re removing yourself from him and staggering towards the sofa, much to his concern. he swiftly moves next to you, guiding you to the soft cushions and gently laying you down.

you immediately shut your eyes, quick to fall asleep again. at this, leehan sighs as he brushes the hair away from your face. “don’t wanna wash up first?” he asks softly. when you scrunch your nose in displeasure, he lets out a small smile. “not even your makeup?” he prods, and you respond with a quiet groan before you fall silent again.

his smile increases and he nods. “okay. just rest.”

truth be told, the alcohol in your system has already started to dissipate bit by bit, so even if you wanted to sleep—and never wake up again after what happened in the car—you couldn’t help but register all the stimuli around you, effectively reconnecting your consciousness to the world. this includes the ruffles of leehan’s clothes as he stands up and the fading of his footsteps as he opens the door to a room, prompting a series of noises from within, before the footsteps are fading back in until they cease right next to you.

the shuffles are heard again as he sits down, then the light sound of bottles hitting the floor. you furrow your eyebrows, finally opening your eyes just in time to see leehan place a soaked cotton pad on your face.

leehan immediately smiles when he meets your gaze, and he wordlessly prompts you to close your eyes so he can place two cotton pads on them. you do so without a fight, though your insides are practically fighting.

“let me know if i’m too rough,” he says, then begins swiping a cotton pad across your skin. he lets the ones on your eyes sit for just a little longer before he gently wipes off your eye makeup. “i’m sorry,” he lets out meekly when he has to apply more pressure on a stubborn area.

you remain silent the entire time, but you open your eyes again when you feel a warm towel on your face. he meets your eyes and smiles, as softly as how he’s dabbing the towel on your skin, wiping away the residue of your makeup remover. he does this a few times; washing the towel in the bowl of water and squeezing out the excess; and you keep your eyes on him all the while.

when he thinks he’s successfully cleaned your makeup, he adjusts his position, ready to stand up, but your voice immediately halts him.

“leehan,” you call, quiet and almost vulnerable.

he places your skincare back on the floor and faces you completely. “yeah?” he responds, round eyes staring at you softly… and fondly.

“you just took off my makeup,” you state matter-of-factly, ignoring your astute observation which has only added to the whirlwind inside you.

leehan blinks, then nods. “did i do it wrong?” he asks. “but i did it like this last time too… and the youtube videos….” he trails off, talking more to himself than anything.

“leehan,” you begin, your eyebrows furrowing. “do you do this for your other friends?”

he looks almost scandalized at your question. “no?” he lets out in incredulity. “you know i only do this for you.”

recollections of all the times you had been drunk and all the times he had taken care of you without any complaints, including taking off your makeup, flash across your head.

you suck in a sharp breath, looking him in the eyes directly. “then why?”

leehan tilts his head. “what do you mean?”

you avert your gaze, suddenly feeling too seen by him. silence encompasses you for a while and he allows it, waiting for you but not urging you—it’s little things like this that made you realise you never stood a chance against the line that threatens to be crossed in your friendship.

you hope he feels the same when you ask, “why did you reject me?”

the air feels heavy when you drop the question, and the silence that follows is even more so. you don’t dare to look at him, especially after the prolonged hesitance from him. still, you wait, even though you’re already close to withering inside. but when he finally speaks, the last bit of hope you’ve futilely held onto escapes like a droplet of water from a broken pipe.

“you’re drunk,” he says, but he instantly realises the gravity of his words when he sees the way you falter, the way he can hear a crack from you—and he feels himself shatter as well.

“no, y/n, i didn’t mean it like that,” he coaxes, getting up on his knees and placing a hand on your arm when you turn away from him.

“what other meaning is there?”

he pats your arm, prompting you to turn around. “look at me, y/n, please,” his tone is so sincere that you waver, glancing back at him.

“i said you’re drunk not because i’m trying to dismiss what you said,” he says firmly, needing to be as clear as possible. “but because it’s just not right for me to accept any gesture like that in your state,” he starts, then adds softly; hesitantly, “as much as i wanted to.”

the tears prickling at your eyes had been so close to falling until you caught what he said at the end. suddenly, your tears are gone and all you’re left with is confusion.

“hold on,” you turn to face him fully, momentarily surprised by the lack of proximity between you before you focus again. “did i hear that correctly?”

leehan’s ears turn an evident cerise, but he doesn’t move his eyes that are blinking up at you roundly. “i don’t want to talk about this when you’re drunk,” he laments, almost petulantly.

“i’m not drunk,” you refute firmly, and while you know it’s not entirely false, you also know your best friend wouldn’t fall for it.

“i’d rather spill my heart out when you’re not seconds away from passing out.” he attempts a joke, one corner of his lips quirking weakly, even though he feels like his heart is actually about to spill out his chest with the way it’s rattling his rib cage in anxiety.

you don’t have the energy to entertain him, so you remain tight-lipped as you stare at him.

leehan breathes out, deflating as he opens his mouth again. “instead,” he says, all traces of playfulness gone. “please… remember this moment.” he looks at you through his lashes, suddenly seeming so small, and his tone is too solemn, too desperate. “i’m not sure if i can handle another seven years.”

a/n. i just wanted to write abt leehan taking off ur makeup when ure drunk idk why it turned into a word vomit 😭 but i hope it was enjoyable to read!

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