#also opening the floor if anyone else wants to try and help out

[darkintothedawn]

ORDER UP? || Stiles Stilinski 'Teen Wolf'

Pairing — Stiles Stilinski x Gender Neutral reader

Summary — Stiles finally gets a chance at a job part time and you have to help through that process.

Memo— IGNORE how long this took and how I literally fell asleep at my computer trying to edit this (I have no time management)(I didn't even know I was tired)(I know I missed things while editing this). This was inspired by a single tiktok edit so if anyone wants to see that just ask. Also, turns out there's a 1k block limit so this is blocked out really weirdly here and there, I apologise. Oh, also, I did write some of this scenes out originally with a gendered reader so if I left anything in please just comment the line or something, I'd appreciate it!!!

Warnings — Smut. Lots of fluff though. Buzz cut Stiles. Idk how to describe this lmao. This does include cannon divergent headcanons. Yes I did also continuously bring up cheap soap/detergent. My boy does not have any life skills and I didn't know what else to put :(

Word Count — 30k~

Masterlist | Stiles' Adventures

The first time Stiles bursts through your bedroom door that week, he’s vibrating with so much nervous energy it feels like he’s about to physically lift off the floor.

He’s still got his Converse on (muddy, of course), hoodie half-zipped, hair an absolute disaster even though it’s buzzed short now—like somehow the universe decided that even if there was less hair, it would still find a way to look chaotic—and his eyes, wide and sparkling, instantly lock on yours like he’s about to drop the most important news of the century. His backpack falls off his shoulder and hits the floor with a thump loud enough to make you jump a little.

"Guess who just nailed a preliminary interview at McDonald’s?" he blurts out without even saying hello, voice high-pitched with excitement.

You blink up at him from where you’re sprawled on the bed, textbook open across your chest, headphones around your neck. You grin. "Uh, President of the United States?"

He snorts, practically bouncing in place, legs jittering like he’s vibrating at a molecular level. "Close! Me! Me, babe! I’m the President! Of—of like, Quarter Pounders and french fries and Happy Meals!"

He’s pacing now, wild hands moving as he talks, his body too full of restless energy to stay still, rambling so fast his words trip over each other like they’re racing to get out first. His hoodie sleeves are pushed halfway up his skinny forearms, and he's tugging them up further with jerky movements every time they slip down, like even his clothes can't keep up with him.

"I went in just to grab a Coke, right? And the manager was there—like, the manager, not just some shift lead who’s like seventeen and already dead inside, but the guy who wears the tie and has a clipboard and everything—and he saw me looking at the Help Wanted sign and we started talking and he was like, 'Hey, you seem like a personable kid,' and I am personable, right, you think I’m personable—?"

"You're the most personable person alive," you say without missing a beat, biting back a laugh as he whirls around to beam at you like you just handed him the Nobel Prize.

"Right?! Right, exactly! Anyway, he said they were short-staffed and he could squeeze me in for an interview next week, and like, I’ve never had a real interview before, not unless you count Scott’s mom asking me if I could babysit Scott, which doesn’t count because she literally knew I’d already snuck beers into the house twice—like, twice, and she still trusted me, can you believe that—?"

He finally pauses to breathe, chest heaving slightly, cheeks pink, buzzed hair sticking up in tiny tufts like static shock got him. You sit up fully, setting your book aside, and open your arms wordlessly. Stiles practically dives onto the bed without hesitation, collapsing into your chest with a dramatic oof like you’re the softest thing he’s ever touched. His hoodie smells faintly like fries, Coca-Cola syrup, and fresh laundry detergent—the cheap kind his dad buys in bulk. You wrap your arms around his back, feeling the way his whole body buzzes under your hands, a livewire of pent-up excitement and nerves.

"Hey," you murmur into his hair, smiling against the soft bristles of his buzzcut, "I’m proud of you."

He makes a small, pleased noise against your chest, burrowing closer like a cat finally settling after climbing the curtains. His fingers fidget restlessly against your side, drumming little random rhythms, and you can feel the way his brain is still moving a thousand miles an hour even if his body’s trying to stay still.

"You really think I’ll get it?" he mumbles after a minute, quieter now, voice a little rougher, like he's admitting something he doesn’t quite know how to say out loud. "I mean… I know it’s not like… a career career. But it'd be cool to have my own money for once. I could help my dad with groceries. Buy you stuff. Not be the guy who always shows up with lint and IOUs in his wallet like some kind of sad Dickensian orphan—"

You squeeze him tighter, running your fingers slowly up and down his spine in long, calming strokes until you feel his muscles finally start to melt under your hands. His breathing evens out a little, less frantic.

"Baby," you say, kissing the crown of his head, "they’re gonna be lucky to have you. Seriously. You’re like… pure human serotonin. Plus you’re cute as hell. You’ll charm the pants off them."

He snickers, tilting his head up just enough to give you one of those lopsided, slightly crooked smiles that make your heart ache in the best way. His buzzcut looks ridiculous and perfect at the same time, little whorls of hair you want to rub your face into like some lovesick idiot. You lean in and kiss the tip of his nose, making him wrinkle it adorably.

"I love you," you admit softly against his skin, heart thudding a little harder because he’s so him, so alive and twitchy and perfect. "Guess you'll have to get the job and find out."

He hums happily, finally still in your arms, his heartbeat slow and steady against your chest now. You card your fingers gently through the short buzzed hair, untangling the imaginary knots, feeling the way he relaxes completely under your touch like you flipped a switch labeled Safe.

"Interview’s Monday after school," he says into your hoodie, voice muffled but somehow clearer than anything else in the whole world. "Will you help me pick out what to wear? I know it’s just McDonald’s, but I don’t wanna look like I just rolled out of bed. Even though, let’s be real, that’s kinda my brand." You chuckle and squeeze his hip lightly, thumb brushing over the waistband of his jeans where his hoodie had ridden up a little.

"Yeah, babe. I'll help you. We’ll make you look devastatingly hireable."

Stiles lets out a deep, long-suffering sigh like the weight of the world has finally been lifted off his scrawny, restless shoulders, and he melts even further into you, his entire body draped over you like a too-warm, buzzing blanket. You hold him there for as long as he wants, your fingers still gently stroking the back of his neck, whispering stupid sweet nothings into the fading golden light leaking through your window, the two of you tangled up in each other in the easiest, softest way imaginable.

You shift a little under him, feeling your legs start to go numb, but there’s no way in hell you’re moving him off you. Not when he’s finally calmed down, weight pressed against you like he’s trying to merge the two of you together at a cellular level. Stiles hums contentedly, nuzzling his face against your chest, the short bristle of his buzzcut scraping lightly through your hoodie. It’s clumsy and awkward and somehow still the sweetest thing you've ever felt.

You press a kiss to the top of his head and whisper, "You're ridiculous, you know that?"

He lets out a muffled noise that sounds suspiciously like, "Takes one to know one," but it’s mostly just him breathing you in like you’re his oxygen tank.

The room is heavy with the golden kind of quiet — the type that feels full, not empty. Your fingers find the hem of his hoodie and start tracing random patterns along the exposed skin of his lower back, drawing lazy shapes like invisible constellations. Every now and then, he shivers slightly but doesn’t move away, just burrows closer, if that’s even physically possible.

Minutes pass like that, warm and tangled and safe. Then, because it’s Stiles and he can't let a single second of peace pass without filling it, he stirs and lifts his head just enough to meet your eyes. His cheeks are flushed, and his lips are kiss-bitten pink from where he’d been pressing them against your hoodie.

"So uh," he starts, and you can already hear the wheels in his head spinning out of control, "think you could, y'know, help me practice answering questions?"

You blink down at him. "Interview questions?"

"No, Jeopardy questions," he deadpans, eyes wide and innocent for about two seconds before he dissolves into a little snorting laugh against your chest. "Yes, interview questions, genius."

You grin and play along, tapping your chin like you're thinking very hard. "I don't know, Mr. Stilinski. What’s in it for me?"

He narrows his eyes dramatically, propping himself up on his elbows now, body hovering over yours awkwardly because he’s not sure how to balance himself without crushing you. His knees dig into the mattress on either side of your hips, and you get a very distracting view of the way his oversized hoodie bunches around his waist, exposing the smallest sliver of pale, freckled skin above his jeans.

"I'll pay you," he says seriously, like he’s negotiating a hostage situation.

"You don't have any money," you remind him, poking his side and making him squirm and laugh.

"Fine," he grumbles, cheeks pink, but there’s a mischievous glint in his eye. "I'll pay you in… unlimited Stiles cuddles. Lifetime subscription. You can cash 'em in whenever you want."

You make a show of pretending to consider it, tapping your chin again, while he wiggles impatiently above you.

"Throw in a forehead kiss," you say finally, "and you’ve got a deal."

Without hesitation, Stiles leans down and plants the sloppiest, most obnoxious kiss right in the middle of your forehead, complete with an exaggerated mwah sound that has you dissolving into helpless laughter beneath him. "Sealed with a kiss," he says smugly.

"Alright, alright," you say once you manage to catch your breath, "you ready?"

He sits up a little straighter, doing his best impression of Serious Adult Stiles, folding his hands primly in his lap like he's about to sit for a Harvard admissions panel.

"So, Mr. Stilinski," you say in your best fake-interviewer voice, trying not to laugh at how seriously he’s taking this, "why do you want to work for McDonald's?"

He opens his mouth immediately, panic flashing across his face because apparently he hadn't thought that far ahead. "Uh—uh, because—because I believe in providing people with delicious food at reasonable prices, and also I need to fund my insatiable addiction to Nerds Rope and energy drinks?"

You burst out laughing, grabbing at his sides to pull him back down on top of you. He lets out a dramatic, wounded noise but collapses willingly, landing half-off center across your body in a tangle of elbows and knees.

"Terrible answer," you tease, carding your fingers through the soft buzz of his hair.

"Hey!" he protests, voice muffled against your shoulder. "It's honest! Don't they want honesty?"

"Maybe leave out the Nerds Rope part," you advise, laughing so hard now that your ribs ache. "Go with something like, 'I want to build valuable work experience and learn about customer service.' Y'know. Boring adult words." He groans loudly, rolling his face into your hoodie like he can somehow disappear into it.

"Boring adult words are hard," he whines dramatically, kicking his feet behind him like a toddler.

You’re still laughing when he lifts his head again, brown eyes huge and stupidly fond, looking at you like you hung the damn moon. He shifts so he’s straddling your waist fully now, legs on either side, leaning down until his forehead bumps yours. And he just… stays there.

Forehead to forehead, nose to nose, your breaths mingling in the tiny space between you. His eyes flutter shut, and he rubs your noses together in a soft, clumsy little eskimo kiss, the tip of his nose brushing yours back and forth like he’s memorizing you through touch alone.

You close your eyes too, heart thudding so loud you’re sure he can feel it through your chest. He smells like cheap soap and detergent and something distinctly Stiles — sharp and sweet and a little bit wild, like he’s never stood still long enough for the world to catch up to him until now.

You stay like that for a long, long time, barely breathing, barely moving, wrapped up in the kind of warm, stupid, dizzy feeling that makes your hands ache to hold him tighter and never, ever let go. And somewhere, deep down, you think: if he asked you to spend the rest of your life doing stupid mock interviews and getting bribed with forehead kisses, you'd say yes without even thinking.

And then, with a soft, shuddering little breath, Stiles leans down and kisses you.

It’s not rushed or desperate, not messy or hungry the way some kisses get when he’s vibrating with too much energy. No, this one is slow and tender, his mouth brushing yours like he’s scared you might disappear if he presses too hard. His lips are a little dry, a little chapped, but he tastes like soda and the faint lingering sugar of something sweet (probably candy), and the way he sighs against your mouth makes your chest ache in the best, most stupidly overwhelming way.

You kiss him back just as softly, hands sliding up the sides of his face, thumbs brushing over his freckled cheeks, holding him there like you could anchor him with just your touch. Stiles hums low in his throat, content, tilting his head to deepen the kiss slightly, nose bumping yours as he shifts again.

Except when he shifts, he rocks forward a little too much, grinding his hips down against yours just by accident, and he immediately lets out this tiny, wounded whine, pulling back just enough that his forehead stays pressed to yours but your mouths part. He’s breathing a little harder now, cheeks flushed red, and he mutters in a rapid, slightly panicked tumble, "Sorry, sorry, sorry, I swear, I'm not trying to — like, I'm not— I mean, I am, I want to—God, I really want to, but I’m not, like, ready-ready yet and I know you’re being super patient and amazing and literally the best person to ever exist on the planet, maybe the galaxy, maybe the universe, but I promise I’ll get there, I swear, it’s just my brain is like, you know, kinda stupid sometimes and—"

You cut him off by squeezing his hips gently, grounding him, giving him the softest, most adoring smile you can manage. "I know, baby," you whisper, brushing your thumb over his flushed cheek. "You’re perfect. No rush. We’re exactly where we’re supposed to be."

But Stiles is still frowning, his whole face scrunching up like he’s deeply offended by his own body’s betrayal. His eyebrows knit together and his mouth twists downward, and he looks about two seconds away from either punching a pillow or launching into another thousand-word apology that would only tangle him up more.

You can't help yourself. You lean up and start peppering kisses all over his face, little quick ones like you're trying to cover every single freckle. One on his forehead, one on his temple, one on each cheekbone, a bunch right across the bridge of his nose. He jerks in surprise, letting out a startled bark of laughter that melts the scowl right off his face.

You kiss both corners of his mouth, feeling the way he starts smiling underneath the touch, soft and helpless, and then kiss his actual lips properly — once, twice, three times — until he’s giggling breathlessly against you, the tension draining out of him like a popped balloon.

"There’s my boyfriend," you murmur against his skin, kissing the dimple that appears when he grins. "There’s my Stiles Stilinski."

You pull back just enough to look at him, eyes sparkling, before adding with a wicked little grin, "My cutie with a buzz." Stiles groans, rolling his eyes like he’s too cool to be called cute, but the way he’s blushing all the way to his ears says otherwise. And because you can never resist when he looks like that — all red-cheeked and soft and pretending to be annoyed — you lean forward, open your mouth slightly, and bite the tip of his nose, gently but firmly.

"Ah—hey!" he yelps, scrunching up his face, but he's laughing now, breathless and loose and so beautifully alive.

You grin, wicked, and without giving him a second to recover, you drag your tongue up the length of his nose in one long, slow, ridiculous lick. Stiles makes a noise that’s somewhere between a shriek and a moan, jerking back a little and then just staring at you, eyes wide and blown and full of disbelief and something else that’s hot and sweet and so much.

"You are," he says, voice low and a little wrecked, "the worst. The absolute worst."

You just shrug, smirking up at him, fingers curling into the waistband of his jeans again to keep him close.

"And you love it," you say simply.

Stiles opens his mouth like he’s going to argue, but then he just slumps forward until he’s lying fully on top of you again, wrapping his arms around you like a starfish, burying his face against your neck.

"Yeah," he mumbles, words muffled but clear enough. "I really, really do."

~~

The afternoon sunlight spills lazy and golden across Stiles' room, painting warm streaks over the mess he’s creating as he rifles through his closet. You’re sat cross-legged on his bed, the mattress squeaking every time you shift, idly plucking at a loose thread on the hem of his comforter, just watching him with a dopey smile you’re not even trying to hide anymore.

Clothes are flying out of the closet at random — a wrinkled plaid shirt, a hoodie that might’ve once been white but now looks vaguely gray, a pair of jeans that hit the floor with a defeated plop. Every few seconds, Stiles lets out an annoyed grunt, muttering to himself under his breath as he digs deeper into the disaster zone that is his side of the closet.

"I have nothing," he whines dramatically, tugging a random sweatshirt off a hanger and holding it up, only to scowl at it before tossing it into a growing pile. "I can't show up looking like some degenerate who just rolled out of a dumpster."

You snort. "You'd still be the hottest dumpster rat in the whole world."

Stiles freezes for a second, like the words hit him straight between the shoulder blades, then whips his head around to glare at you — but he’s blushing already, the tips of his ears turning a deep, furious red. "You are legally obligated to say that," he says weakly, pointing an accusing finger at you.

"Nope," you say casually, leaning back on your hands, grinning at him like you’ve got all the time in the world to admire the way his buzzcut catches the sunlight, the way his cheeks pink up so easily for you. "I just speak the truth, baby. You're stupid hot. Even buried under half your wardrobe." Stiles grumbles something unintelligible, his face so red now you’re actually concerned he might combust. He turns back to the closet in a huff, arms flailing as he yanks a pair of khakis off a hanger and tosses them over his shoulder.

"You are objectively wrong," he declares, voice high and cracking just a little, and you have to bite your lip to keep from laughing because he’s just — he’s so stupidly cute when he’s flustered like this. "I am a mess. A chaotic, anxious, hopeless mess. You’re just — you’re biased! You’ve got the Stiles-tinted glasses on."

You hum thoughtfully, pretending to consider that, tapping a finger against your chin. "Or," you say slowly, dragging the word out, "maybe you're just insanely attractive, and you don't even know it yet. Maybe you're a whole-ass snack and I’m the only one smart enough to have noticed."

Stiles lets out a strangled sound, half laugh, half horrified whimper, as he throws another hoodie into the air like it personally offended him. "Stop! You're literally gonna give me an aneurysm before my interview!"

You laugh softly, heart squeezing painfully tight with how much you love him. "Just saying, if you show up in, like, a potato sack, they'd still hire you. 'Cause you’re charming. And smart. And so damn handsome it’s honestly unfair to the rest of the applicant pool."

He mutters something about "biased lovers" and "rampant slander" under his breath, still facing the closet because he clearly can't deal with you looking at him while he’s this pink and flustered and adorable. You watch him with nothing but awe, feeling like you’re seeing something secret and sacred — the way he fidgets, the way he talks to himself under his breath when he’s overwhelmed, the way he still doesn't seem to realize how magnetic he is. You could watch him like this forever and never get bored.

Another shirt flies out — this one a faded Batman tee that you know he secretly loves but would never wear to a job interview. "No Batman shirt?" you tease gently.

He spins to face you, wide-eyed. "It’s McDonald's, not Comic-Con! I have to look, y'know, professional! Adult! Hireable!"

"You are hireable," you say immediately, voice softening because you can see the way his shoulders are starting to creep up around his ears, the way he's working himself up again. "You’re smart and funny and you work hard. Anyone would be lucky to have you. Seriously, babe."

Stiles looks down at his feet like maybe if he doesn't make eye contact, he won’t spontaneously combust from the praise. His fingers fidget with the hem of the Batman shirt, twisting it up, and you swear you see the tiniest hint of a proud, shy little smile twitching at the corner of his mouth before he quickly hides it.

"You're such a sap," he mumbles, kicking at a hoodie on the floor.

"And you're not?" You fire back instantly. He huffs out a laugh, still not meeting your eyes, rummaging blindly into the back of his closet now like he might find a magic outfit back there if he digs hard enough.

More clothes get flung into the air, a pair of khakis hitting the side of your leg. You don’t even flinch, too busy watching him with your heart practically glowing out of your chest. Watching the way he bites his lip when he’s thinking, the way he pushes up on the balls of his feet and back down again like his body just can’t stay still. Every movement is so Stiles — chaotic and beautiful and real.

He doesn't find anything yet, but honestly? You wouldn't trade this moment — this stupid, messy, hilarious moment of him throwing half his wardrobe around while blushing like mad — for anything else in the world. Then another shirt — something nondescript and beige — flies through the air and hits the lamp on his nightstand with a dull whump. You watch with a lazy, fond grin as Stiles curses under his breath and digs even deeper into the abyss of his closet, muttering nonsense about "business casual" and "life or death situations" like the stakes couldn't be any higher.

You’re about to make another teasing comment when something different flutters out of the closet — a flash of maroon and white — and lands in a soft heap right by your feet. Curious, you reach down and grab it, the familiar weight and smell of it hitting you instantly. It’s Stiles’ old lacrosse jersey — the one from when he was still trying to figure out how to run without tripping over his own feet. His last name, STILINSKI, is bold across the back in thick white lettering paired with a large nupber 24, and the fabric is worn thin in places, soft from so many washes.

You glance over at Stiles, but he’s completely oblivious, still buried halfway in the closet, arms stretched overhead as he tries to wrestle a rogue pair of khakis off a hanger. His back is to you, totally vulnerable, totally unaware. You smirk to yourself, a wicked little idea sparking in your brain. Quickly — quietly — you peel off your own shirt, tossing it into the chaos on the floor without a second thought. The room’s a little chilly, goosebumps pebbling your skin, but you barely notice because you’re too busy pulling Stiles’ jersey over your head.

It’s way too big on you — hangs off one shoulder, the hem brushing the tops of your thighs — but it smells like him, like detergent and grass and something sharp and boyish and Stiles, and it’s the softest thing you��ve ever touched. You pad across the room, silent on your bare feet, and come up right behind him, wrapping your arms loosely around his waist. He stiffens for a second, startled, before relaxing into the touch with a little hum, one of his hands instinctively coming up to rest over yours.

"Find anything yet?" you murmur against the nape of his neck, smiling into his skin.

"Nooope," he says miserably, leaning his weight back against you a little. "I’m a lost cause. Just bury me in a hoodie and call it a day."

You laugh, and he turns around to face you — and freezes. Like, completely freezes. Eyes wide, mouth falling open slightly, his entire body going rigid as he stares at you like he’s seeing a ghost or maybe the hottest thing his teenage brain has ever processed. You blink up at him innocently, trying — and failing — to suppress the smug little tilt of your mouth. "What?" you ask sweetly, tugging lightly on the hem of the jersey. "This old thing?"

Stiles makes a noise that sounds like he’s choking on air, his hands flailing uselessly in front of him like he doesn’t know whether to touch you or not. His eyes are glued to the sight of his name stretched across your chest, the way the loose fabric hangs off your bare skin, the peek of your hip where the hem rides up. He visibly swallows. His hands twitch.

"I — you — holy — what are you doing?" he sputters, voice climbing about three octaves.

You bat your lashes at him, playing it up. "What, you don’t like it?" Stiles looks like he’s about to die on the spot. His cheeks go crimson almost instantly, his ears burning bright pink, and when you shift your weight slightly — the jersey riding a little higher on your thighs — he actually whimpers under his breath.

"I — it's not — I mean, yes, but — fuck," he mutters, squeezing his eyes shut like that’ll somehow make the image of you in his jersey disappear. It doesn't. It only makes it worse. When he opens his eyes again, they drop instinctively to the way the fabric clings to you, the way his name looks against your body, and you see it happen in real-time: the way his breath catches, the way his hips shift forward just a little without meaning to.

And then? The telltale bulge tenting the front of his jeans. Stiles makes a panicked, horrified noise, hands flying down to cover himself instinctively, as if you hadn’t already noticed. His face is a whole new shade of red now, somewhere between embarrassed and ready to fake his own death and start a new life in Alaska.

"Stiles," you say, voice low and fond, stepping even closer. He stumbles back a step, bumping into the edge of the bed, his hands still hovering awkwardly in front of his crotch like that’ll do anything to hide the very obvious way his dick is straining against his jeans now.

"I swear to God, you're evil," he gasps out, eyes wide and panicked and impossibly turned on. "You’re, like, a demon. A hot demon. A sex demon. Sent to destroy me."

You can't help the laugh that bubbles out of you, wild and bright and so full of affection it makes your chest ache. You close the distance again, hands sliding up the sides of his waist, feeling the way he shivers under your touch, his whole body buzzing with nervous, giddy energy.

"You’re so cute when you’re flustered," you murmur, leaning in to nuzzle your nose against his.

Stiles lets out another helpless little whimper, frozen in place, heart pounding so hard you can practically feel it against your own chest.

"You're evil," he repeats weakly, but he's already leaning into you, already chasing your warmth without even thinking about it.

You just smile, brushing your lips lightly over his jaw, feeling the way he shudders under you, his hands finally coming up to grab at your hips like he can't not touch you anymore.

And God, if this is what happens just from you wearing his jersey, you can't wait to see what happens when you show up to one of his lacrosse practices in it.

You chuckle low in your throat, feeling the way Stiles grips your hips a little tighter, like he’s grounding himself — or maybe like he’s trying to stop himself from completely losing control. His forehead drops onto your shoulder, and he lets out this soft, desperate whine when you run your hands up under the jersey, dragging your fingers lightly across the bare skin of his sides.

You tilt your head so you can press a kiss to the crown of his buzzed head, breathing him in. He smells like cheap detergent and boy and sweat and Stiles, and it’s perfect, and you’re so head over heels stupid for him it actually aches a little.

"You still need clothes for your interview, baby," you remind him sweetly, dragging your nails lightly down his spine. "Can't have you showing up in just your boner."

He lets out a strangled noise — half-laugh, half-moan — and rocks his hips against you without thinking. The hard press of his cock against your hip is so obvious now, and he doesn’t even try to hide it, just lets himself rut into you slow and helpless, like he can’t even help himself.

It’s so Stiles. It’s so stupidly adorable you might actually combust.

"M' working on it," he mumbles, voice muffled against your shoulder. His hips rock again, a slow, desperate little grind, like maybe if he moves slow enough it won’t count.

You smirk, sliding one hand up to tangle in the soft baby fuzz at the back of his head, gently scratching at his scalp the way you know he loves.

"You won't fuck me," you tease, voice low and fond, "but you'll hump me like you’re in heat?"

Stiles lets out the most wounded, scandalized little noise and lifts his head just enough to glare at you — his cheeks red, his mouth a little open, his whole body practically vibrating with how overwhelmed he is.

"It’s different," he huffs indignantly, grinding against you again like he can’t help himself even while he’s trying to argue. "This is — this is safe! This is, like, non-penetrative! No fluids crossing borders! It’s basically the sexual equivalent of a handshake."

You bark out a startled laugh, leaning back enough to catch his flushed, wrecked face in your hands. You kiss his nose, his cheeks, his forehead, anywhere you can reach, worshipping him with soft, silly affection until he’s whining and squirming and smiling despite himself.

"You're insane," you tell him, grinning so hard your cheeks hurt. "My beautiful, genius, absolutely insane boyfriend."

He pouts, grinding into you harder now, a little desperate, a little frantic. His cock is leaking precome already, dampening the front of his jeans, and the friction must be just this side of painful, but he’s chasing it anyway, burying his face against your neck and whimpering softly under his breath.

"You feel so good," he mumbles, like he can’t help himself. "You're so warm — smells so good — fuck."

You keep running your hands all over him, up and down his back, squeezing his waist, praising him in low, soft murmurs that have him shivering against you.

"So good for me, Stiles," you whisper, letting your lips brush his ear. "So handsome. So smart. Gonna kill your interview. Gonna blow them all away."

He whines again, grinding harder, his breath hot and panting against your throat. His hands flex against your hips, holding you in place like you might disappear if he lets go.

"Gotta — m'gonna —" he stammers helplessly, rutting faster, his whole body trembling.

"You gonna come for me, baby?" you murmur, sweet and coaxing. "Just from humping me like a needy little thing?"

He nods frantically, too far gone for words now, his face flushed and sweaty, his body straining against yours as he chases his orgasm.

You keep whispering to him, nothing but praise and love, telling him how proud you are, how beautiful he is, how good he feels against you.

And when he finally stiffens and gasps and grinds one last desperate time against your hip, coming in his jeans with a soft, wrecked little sob, you hold him through it, kissing his forehead and stroking his back, loving him so much it feels like your heart might actually break from it.

Stiles clings to you, panting, his body trembling with the aftershocks. He doesn't move for a long minute, just lets himself be held, lets himself be loved.

Eventually, he lifts his head, eyes glazed and dopey, a crooked, embarrassed little smile tugging at his mouth.

"You are," he pants, "the worst."

You laugh, kissing his temple. "And you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me."

He groans, hiding his face against your neck again, but you can feel the way he’s smiling, the way he’s still trembling with leftover pleasure, and you know he’s soaking up every word, every touch, every bit of love you pour into him.

You’re never gonna get tired of this — of him — of the way he gives himself to you so completely, even when he’s overwhelmed and messy and a little bit ridiculous.

Especially then.

You press one last kiss into his sweaty hair, breathing him in, before pulling back just enough to catch his eyes. They're big and brown and still a little hazy, all soft edges and vulnerable in a way he only ever lets himself be with you.

"You gotta strip, baby," you say, voice warm and teasing but still soft, coaxing. "Can’t pick out a clean outfit if you're still covered in…" — you smirk, flicking your eyes down pointedly — "…evidence."

Stiles groans like he wants the earth to swallow him whole, his hands clamping protectively over his crotch, his whole body curling inward. His ears are so red they could probably catch fire.

"I — you — you can't just —" he stammers helplessly, voice cracking halfway through.

You smile, all fondness, and nudge him gently toward the bed. "C’mon, babe. Clothes off. Nothing I haven’t seen before."

He grumbles under his breath — something about "emotional terrorism" — but he shuffles a few steps back, still moving like his joints have been replaced with overcooked spaghetti. His fingers twitch nervously at the waistband of his jeans, and you watch him fight an internal battle for a second before he finally, finally undoes the button.

The denim clings stubbornly to his hips, and it takes a ridiculous amount of wiggling and cursing to get them down his thighs and off his legs. You bite your lip to keep from laughing, not wanting to make him more self-conscious than he already is.

Then he's left standing there in nothing but his damp, sticky boxers, looking utterly wrecked and so stupidly beautiful it actually steals your breath for a second.

"Boxers too, Stiles," you say gently, crouching down by the pile of rejected clothes to start sifting through them. "They're dirty. Can't put clean clothes over that."

He lets out this pitiful whine, face scrunching up in embarrassment, but he knows you're right. He hesitates for one agonizing moment longer before yanking them down in one quick, desperate motion, stepping out of them and kicking them behind him without looking.

Immediately, both of his hands fly to cover his dick again, arms crossed awkwardly in front of himself, chest heaving a little from nerves.

You glance up at him from where you're sitting and feel your heart absolutely shatter at the sight.

Bright red chest, trembling thighs, ears so pink they’re practically glowing — and that twitchy, twitchy need to bolt, even though he’s staying right where you asked him to. For you.

You set the clothes down gently and get to your feet, moving slow and careful, like you’re approaching a skittish baby deer.

"Hey, hey," you murmur, stepping close enough that your chest almost brushes his crossed arms. "You’re perfect, Stiles. So good. So handsome."

He ducks his head, a strangled little noise clawing its way out of his throat, but he doesn’t pull away.

"You're — you’re just saying that," he mutters, voice cracking at the edges.

"Nope," you say simply, reaching up to trace your fingers lightly along his jaw. "I mean it. Every inch of you. From your ridiculous brain to your stupidly perfect legs."

He twitches visibly at the praise, his hips jerking slightly like he wants to squirm but won't let himself. His hands tighten over himself, but you can still see the way he’s shaking — this trembling, earnest need to believe you, even though he doesn't know how yet.

You lean in and press a kiss to the center of his forehead, lingering there.

"My gorgeous, brilliant, sweet boy," you whisper against his skin. "My Stiles."

A tiny, broken little sound escapes him, and when you pull back just enough to look at his face, you catch it — the tiny smile twitching at the corners of his mouth, like he’s trying to hold it back and failing miserably.

"There’s my cutie," you tease gently, tapping the tip of his nose with your finger. "Still bashful even after grinding all over me like you're in heat."

He lets out this spluttering, indignant noise — but it’s weak, and you can tell he’s fighting a grin now, his chest still burning red but his whole body vibrating with this silly, overwhelmed happiness.

"You’re—" he starts, but he can’t even get the words out. He just shakes his head, helpless and fond and so stupidly beautiful you could die.

You turn back to the bed, forcing yourself to focus — because otherwise you will just end up kissing him senseless again — and start sorting through the chaos of clothes he threw everywhere.

"Okay," you say, half to yourself, "we’re thinking something casual but clean. Like you didn’t try too hard but you’re still employable."

"That’s… an impossible standard," Stiles mutters from behind you, his voice muffled by his hands and embarrassment.

You laugh, glancing over your shoulder at him.

"Good thing you have me, then, huh?"

And God, the way he looks at you right then — naked, flushed, trembling, but looking at you like you hung the damn moon — it nearly knocks the air right out of your lungs.

Yeah.

You’re so gone for this boy.

You hear him shuffling around behind you while you’re elbow-deep in the explosion of his closet. When you glance back, Stiles is hastily tugging on a pair of clean boxers, nearly falling over in the process because his coordination goes straight out the window when he’s nervous — or naked — or, well, both.

You snort quietly and turn back to your mission, rifling through the mess until you pull out a pair of khaki shorts. They’re a little wrinkled but otherwise clean, and more importantly, they look like something that could pass for trying without looking like he’s been dressed by his dad.

"Found shorts!" you announce triumphantly, waving them over your shoulder. "Now, we need a shirt that doesn’t scream 'help, my dad still dresses me.'"

"That’s a very specific ask," Stiles grumbles from where he’s now sitting on the edge of the bed, tugging his boxers into place with an awkward little hop. He crosses his legs at the ankles and starts fidgeting immediately, picking at a thread on the comforter like it’s personally offended him.

You shoot him a grin over your shoulder. "Good thing I’m a miracle worker."

It takes a minute — and several sarcastic comments from Stiles about the black hole that is his closet — but eventually, you strike gold: a simple navy blue polo that’s still somehow unmistakably Stiles but definitely says "I’m hireable and won’t burn the restaurant down on day one."

You toss it at him and he catches it against his chest with a soft oof, peeking at it like it might explode.

"You’re seriously a genius," he says, awe and relief mixing in his voice like he can’t quite believe you actually found something.

You wipe fake sweat off your brow and shoot him a wink. "All in a day's work, babe."

You’re about to declare the outfit mission complete when you spot something poking out from under his bed — something distinctly familiar. You crouch down and snag it, and sure enough, it’s one of your jackets. One you’d been wondering about for weeks. The one Stiles had definitely "borrowed" and then conveniently "forgotten" to return.

You stand up and hold it out with a smirk. "And look what we have here. You thief."

Stiles flushes immediately, tugging the polo over his head like maybe if he moves fast enough you won’t see how red his ears are turning again.

"I was gonna give it back," he mutters, voice all high-pitched and defensive. "I just — it smells like you, okay? And — and it’s comfy. And —" he waves his hands like he’s trying to physically bat the embarrassment away "— you're not using it! Sharing is caring! You love me!"

You laugh, heart feeling ridiculously full, and step closer, draping the jacket over his shoulders and smoothing it down. It swallows him a little, hangs long on his arms, but he just tucks himself into it like it’s armor, beaming at you from under the too-big collar.

"You’re right," you say, nudging his chin up with a gentle finger. "I do love you."

And it’s so true — so blindingly, obviously true — that it makes him freeze for a second, all wide brown eyes and parted lips like he can’t quite process the enormity of it.

You don’t make him sit in it too long. You just lean in and press a kiss to his forehead, then one to his nose, then another to the corner of his mouth until he’s giggling helplessly, wriggling in his stolen jacket and khaki shorts and looking like the best thing that’s ever happened to you.

"Okay, okay!" he squeaks, batting at you half-heartedly. "Save the mushy stuff for after I nail my interview later!"

"You’re gonna kill it," you promise, pressing one last kiss to his temple. "You’re gonna be the best McDonald's employee they’ve ever seen."

He beams at you, buzzing with that uncontainable energy he always gets when he’s excited, practically vibrating out of his skin.

"You really think so?" he asks, voice cracking just a little with how badly he wants to believe it.

"I know so," you say, tugging him into a hug and squeezing him tight enough that he squeaks again.

He hugs you back immediately, fiercely, burying his face against your chest and swaying you both back and forth like he can’t quite stay still. And you let him, because there’s nowhere else in the world you’d rather be than right here — holding your boy, wrapped up in the mess and warmth and ridiculousness that is Stiles Stilinski.

Eventually, he pulls back just enough to look up at you, grinning that big, ridiculous grin that shows all his teeth and crinkles the corners of his eyes.

"I’m gonna get the job," he says, full of conviction now, bouncing on the balls of his feet like he’s ready to charge out the door and start work tonight.

You laugh and kiss him again, quick and breathless.

"You’re gonna get the job," you echo, heart so full it feels like you might actually float away.

And in that moment, watching him buzz and shine and look at you like you’re the whole damn universe — you know that no matter what, you’ll always be right here, cheering for him, loving him, catching him whenever he needs it.

Because he’s yours. And you’re his. And it’s everything.

~~

You sat in the passenger seat of the Jeep, the afternoon sun beating lazily against the windshield. The outfit you picked out yesterday — khaki shorts, navy polo, your borrowed jacket — was folded neatly in a bag on your lap. You were early, of course. You’d gotten out of school a few hours ago for a check-up and figured you’d surprise him, beat the crowd, and maybe calm him down before his big moment. Plus, sitting here in his beloved Jeep, keys jangling against your thigh, it almost felt like you were soaking in a piece of him even while he was still inside.

The keys had been a quiet, shy Christmas gift two years ago, just after you'd confessed to him— and you hadn’t taken the responsibility lightly. Especially not now, watching the doors of the school burst open and a gaggle of students pour out, loud and chaotic and alive.

~~

It was Christmas Eve, and Beacon Hills was cold enough to bite.

The little pop-up ice rink downtown was buzzing with sound — Christmas music blaring tinny through cheap speakers, kids screaming with laughter and occasional terror as they slid on the slick surface, parents huddled at the edges with hot cocoa clutched in gloved hands. String lights arched over the rink, glowing soft yellow against the deepening blue of the sky, casting the whole place in a warm sort of magic that tried to make up for the freezing wind that bit through every layer of your clothes.

You were sitting on a cold bench just outside the rink, bent forward and yanking tight the laces on the rental skates that pinched slightly at your ankles. Your fingers were numb, but the sting didn’t really register — not when you looked up and caught sight of him. Stiles.

Already on the rink with Scott, sliding gracelessly across the ice, arms flailing just a little too wide to be confident. Scott, bless him, was skating backwards like he was born on ice, goading Stiles with bright eyes and loud laughter as he gestured wildly for his best friend to pick up the pace. Stiles was trying, you could see that — teeth bared in concentration, tongue peeking out the corner of his mouth, fists clenched in his sleeves like if he just focused hard enough, he could become someone who didn’t look like a baby deer learning to walk for the first time.

He wasn’t bad, though. Not really. He’d been worse the last time you all went skating. He was keeping up now. Wobbling, sure, but moving. There was still that tightness around his shoulders, the faint flicker of worry in his eyes whenever someone passed too close or when he caught you looking and flushed like you’d seen something embarrassing. But then Scott would laugh, shout something dumb over his shoulder, and Stiles would grin wide and too sharp, skating harder like he had something to prove.

And you were just… watching. Watching like you always did when it came to Stiles. Heart full to the brim with him. You’d shown up late, dragging your body through the cold and into a cab you could barely afford because your mom had bailed at the last second. It wasn’t her thing, the holidays — not since the divorce. But Stiles? Stiles was your thing. Had been for a while now.

You’d barely hesitated when you saw the time. The cab ate the last of what you had saved in your wallet. Christmas presents be damned. All you could think about was how he’d light up when he saw you — how his ears would go pink and he’d do that fidgety thing with his hands like he couldn’t decide whether to hug you or punch you in the shoulder. You would’ve walked across the whole damn county barefoot if it meant seeing him smile like that.

And now, sitting there on the bench, lacing up your skates, you were already grinning without meaning to — not just at him on the ice, not just at how Scott caught him by the wrist to steady him when he wobbled — but at everything that shimmered just under your ribs when you looked at Stiles Stilinski and thought this. Him. Always.

You flexed your fingers once to bring some feeling back into them, tugged the laces one last time, and stood. The cold hit you all at once, and the wind cut deep, but you didn’t care. You were already stepping toward the ice. You weren’t late anymore.

Your blades hit the ice with a sharp little scrape, and for a second, you wobbled—just enough to make you stumble forward a step and throw your arms out. The cold shot straight up through the soles of the rentals, settling in your knees, your spine. But then balance returned, muscle memory catching up, and you pushed forward with one foot, gliding out toward the center.

Stiles saw you before you could call out. His head whipped up so fast it was a wonder his neck didn’t snap, and he immediately started flailing his way toward you, half-skating, half-praying to the friction gods that he didn’t go down in front of everyone. His cheeks were already pink from the cold, but they deepened into something bright and blooming the second you met his eyes.

“You made it!” he called, way too loud, like the music and noise and chaos had vanished and he just needed to fill the space between you with his voice.

You grinned. “You sound surprised.”

“I was surprised!” he said as he skidded up next to you, arms wheeling a little before he caught his balance. “I—I thought you weren’t coming. You weren’t answering your phone, and I thought maybe—maybe your mom bailed or like, you got kidnapped on the way here or something or I don’t know, fell into a Christmas tree lot and froze to death because that happens, and—”

“Dude,” Scott’s voice came from somewhere behind him, amused and exasperated in equal measure. “You’ve been doing this for the last twenty minutes. Let 'em' say hi.”

You caught Scott looping around with a smooth turn, skating backwards effortlessly like he was auditioning for the Olympics. He winked at you and then made a face at Stiles, mimicking the nonstop motion of his mouth with one hand. Stiles looked back at him, scowled, then whipped around to face you again.

“I’m just saying, okay?” he huffed, arms crossed now, chin tucked down defensively. “You didn’t answer your phone and I know you said you’d try, but like, you never just not text, and I thought maybe—well. Never mind.” His voice dropped at the end, losing steam.

You softened immediately, reaching out to gently tug on the hem of his sleeve. “Hey. I had to catch a cab last minute. Spent the last of my allowance on it, too.”

Stiles’ eyes went wide. “You did not.”

You shrugged. “You guys are worth it.”

That shut him up. At least, for a beat. His mouth opened, then closed, then opened again—but nothing came out.

Scott skated by in a tight circle, doing a ridiculous spin that earned him a loud “Show-off!” from a random teen nearby.

“Let me guess,” you said, watching him skate off with mock suspicion. “He’s been doing that since you got here.”

“Ugh, yes,” Stiles groaned. “The second he realized he was good at skating, he’s been all ‘look at me, I’m a majestic deer’ or whatever.”

You barked a laugh and leaned in slightly, bumping your shoulder into Stiles. “You’re not doing so bad yourself, Stilinski.”

He flushed deeper, and for a second he looked like he was going to say something cocky—but then he caught the slight curve of your smirk, and all the wind left his sails.

“I missed you,” he blurted instead. “Like. A lot.”

You smiled, and it must’ve shown in your eyes, because his ears went red. “I missed you too,” you said, your voice a little quieter now.

He blinked rapidly and then made a weird noise that was probably meant to be a casual laugh but sounded more like he was choking on his own tongue. You giggled, skating around him once in a loose circle, and then held out your hand.

“Come on,” you teased. “Before Scott starts spinning so fast he creates a vortex and takes out a bunch of third graders.”

“You’re assuming that wouldn’t be hilarious,” Stiles muttered, but he took your hand anyway, fingers clumsy in his gloves, grip tight like he was worried he’d fall right through the ice if he didn’t hold on.

You tugged him forward, and he followed without resistance, grinning and unsteady and full of energy like he didn’t know how to hold it all in. He slipped once or twice, cursed loudly, clutched your arm, then laughed so hard he nearly dragged you down with him. And through it all, you just kept your hand in his and skated a little slower, steady and solid, just enough to keep him upright.

Scott whooped somewhere across the rink, executing a wobbly jump that made a kid scream and his mom glare.

“See?” you said, laughing. “Vortex. I warned you.”

Stiles rolled his eyes, cheeks pink and glowing. “Whatever. If we get pulled into a black hole of Christmas-themed ice death, I’m glad it’s with you.”

You tightened your grip on his hand and squeezed. “Same, Stilinski.”

Stiles squeezed back without even realizing it, fingers twitching like he wanted to say more with his hands than he could get out of his mouth. Which tracked — you knew by now that when his brain got too loud, sometimes his body took over, jittery and awkward and honest in all the ways he didn’t know how to be out loud.

You kept skating, slow and easy, letting him find his rhythm beside you. It wasn’t really about the skating, though. Not anymore. Not with the way he kept leaning just a little too hard into your side every time he wobbled, like it was less about losing his balance and more about making sure you didn’t float too far away.

At one point, a particularly sharp turn had him yelping and practically throwing himself into you with both arms, his chest thumping against your side as you laughed and caught him with both hands at his waist. “You good?” you asked, biting back a grin.

“Define ‘good,’” he muttered, eyes wide, clinging to you like a particularly cold and clumsy koala. “Because if ‘good’ means ‘one sneeze away from death,’ then sure, I’m awesome.”

You laughed, heart tripping a little over itself because now you had your hands on him, and he didn’t seem to mind. If anything, he leaned in more.

“I’ve got you,” you said quietly, mostly because it felt true.

And he froze for just a second. Not in the panicked, ‘oh no, I’m about to fall and break every bone in my body’ way, but in a way that felt… smaller. Like something soft had just unfolded inside him, and he didn’t know what to do with it yet. He looked at you then — really looked. Not the usual wild-eyed panic or the half-distracted ADHD tunnel vision that came with everything Stiles did. Just him, here, eyes bright and unguarded under the glow of the string lights, cheeks pink from the cold, and lips slightly parted like you’d surprised him.

“I know,” he said finally.

Your breath hitched, and you weren’t sure if it was from the cold or from the way he said it — so quiet, like a secret. Then, of course, Scott ruined it. He came rocketing past at warp speed, hoodie flapping behind him like a cape, arms outstretched in what could only be described as an attempt at “figure skating Superman,” yelling, “WATCH ME, LOSERS!”

A second later he slipped spectacularly, flailed for balance, and somehow managed to grab a traffic cone from the rink’s edge on his way down — dragging it with him as he skidded twenty feet across the ice like an orange-and-gray torpedo.

Stiles snorted so hard he choked on his own breath, doubling over against you in laughter, the earlier tension melting away instantly. “Oh my god—did he just—was that intentional?!”

“Does anything Scott does ever look intentional?” you said through a wheeze.

“I—” Stiles shook his head, beaming now. “No. No, but like, respect.”

Scott popped up from the ice, grinning like a maniac with wet knees and no dignity left. “That was so cool!”

“Lies!” Stiles called back.

“You’re just jealous,” Scott hollered, spinning in a way that almost worked before his right foot betrayed him and sent him crashing down again. “I’m evolving!” Stiles laughed so hard he had to clutch at your arms for support again, and this time, you let him lean. Fully. His weight was solid against you, warm even through your coats, and he stayed there longer than necessary, his head tilted just enough that you could smell the faint traces of whatever shampoo he used — something clean and sharp, like pine and laundry detergent.

Your heart was doing acrobatics in your chest now. You should’ve said it right then. Hey, Stiles. I like you. Simple. Honest. The words had been sitting on your tongue for weeks now, waiting for a moment like this. But you're young, and your heart was a shaky thing. So instead, you stayed quiet, letting the warmth of him at your side fill in the words you couldn’t say yet.

He pulled back after a second, still grinning. “Okay, okay, one more lap and then I need hot chocolate or I will actually die.”

You nodded, but didn’t let go of his hand. “Deal. But if you fall again, I’m not catching you this time.”

“Rude,” he said, mock-offended, but his fingers tightened on yours all the same. “What happened to ‘I’ve got you’?”

“That was before you tried to use me as a human anchor.”

“You love it.” You didn’t say I love you, because even for you, that felt a little too real, too raw for now. But your smile said enough, and his did too — wide and a little shy and full of something that made your stomach flip.

“Come on,” you said, tugging him gently toward the edge of the rink. “Let’s get you that hot chocolate before Scott starts trying to do triple axels.”

“Too late,” Stiles muttered, glancing over his shoulder at the absolute chaos Scott was currently spinning himself into. “God, I’m gonna have to explain a head injury to his mom again, aren’t I?”

“Probably,” you said.

“But at least I’ll have backup,” he added, voice a little quieter again, eyes on yours.

And you nodded. “Always.”

You squeezed his hand once more, then gently tugged him forward, back into motion. The final lap around the rink wasn’t exactly graceful — Stiles was still more chaos than control, and he kept muttering curses under his breath whenever his skates hit a rough patch — but it was yours. Yours and his, side by side, hand in hand, cheeks red from cold and smiles, and Scott yelling about physics behind you somewhere like the world’s loudest Christmas ghost.

You didn’t rush it. The loop around the rink was slow, unhurried. You both knew the cocoa stand would still be there. That eventually your feet would start to ache and the cold would creep back into your fingers. But for now, the wind bit a little less. The lights twinkled just a little softer. And Stiles didn’t let go. Halfway around the last curve, where the crowd thinned out and the lights arched low enough that everything felt a little more private, Stiles suddenly spoke again.

“I really did miss you,” he said, unprompted, voice gentler this time. “Not just, like… you know, ‘my friend didn’t come to a thing’ kind of missing. I mean, like… it felt weird. You not being here right away.”

You glanced at him out of the corner of your eye. He wasn’t looking at you this time — just staring straight ahead, brows drawn like he was trying to get the words right before they ran off without him.

“I was gonna wait out front,” he said. “Like, just sit there and see if maybe you showed up. But Scott dragged me onto the ice, said if I didn’t move, I’d freeze my ass to the bench and he’d leave me there till spring.”

You laughed softly.

“But I kept checking,” he went on, kicking at the ice. “Every couple minutes. Looking around like an idiot. Pretending I wasn’t. But I was.”

You didn’t know what to say. Not yet. Your chest felt tight in that warm way — the way it always did when Stiles got a little too real without meaning to, when the things he said hit closer than you expected.

“I just…” He shrugged, still not looking at you. “I dunno. Things feel better when you’re around.”

And there it was. That thump in your chest again. You turned your head slowly, eyes tracing the shape of him — the slope of his shoulders in his oversized coat, the pink curve of his ear poking out from under his beanie, the way his mouth tugged down at the corners like he hated every word he was admitting but couldn’t stop himself anyway.

You let the silence stretch a little longer than you probably should have, then smiled and bumped his arm with yours again.

“I’ll buy your hot chocolate,” you said, light and teasing, like that could somehow contain everything you felt. “Y’know. To make up for missing the start.”

That finally got him to look over, eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Dude, you literally said you spent the last of your money getting here. The cab, remember?”

You shrugged, lips twitching with something just a little too close to guilt. “Yeah. Well. I… made sure I had enough for this, too.”

He narrowed his eyes at you like he didn’t quite believe it. “How?”

You leaned in, close enough that your breath fogged warm between you. Close enough that your noses almost bumped. You could count the freckles on his cheek from here.

“I got some from my mom,” you whispered.

He blinked. “Your mom who doesn’t even like Christmas?”

You didn’t answer. Not really. Just held his gaze and let the question hang there, unanswered. The truth was complicated — a short, sharp fight in the kitchen before you left, voices raised and then dropped into cold, brittle quiet. A slammed door. You asking, Just twenty bucks, please, and her sighing like it was more than she could afford to give, even if it wasn’t.

Stiles stared at you for a beat, like he wanted to press — wanted to ask. But he didn’t. He just gave a small nod, almost imperceptible, and something in his expression softened. “…Okay,” he said quietly. “Thanks. For… y’know. Coming. And this.”

You gave him a tiny smile. “What, the skating? The chaos? The part where Scott nearly wiped out a toddler?”

“The part where I didn’t freeze my ass to a bench alone,” he said, mouth twitching like he was trying to be funny but couldn’t quite pull it off. “The part where you held my hand.”

Your stomach flipped again.

You reached out, adjusted his glove where it had slipped slightly at the wrist, and said, “I’d do it again.”

“I hope so,” he said, way too fast, then froze like he regretted it immediately.

You just smiled wider, heartbeat pounding, eyes locked on his like you were braver than you felt. The edge of the rink loomed ahead now — the little opening in the rail where people stepped off the ice, where the real world started up again. You guided him toward it, careful and slow.

He turned his head, a little breathless, a little pink. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s get that cocoa. But I’m getting extra marshmallows. Like. A dumb amount. Enough to make it a choking hazard.”

You grinned. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

And you meant it. Every dumb marshmallow. Every weird joke. Every clumsy fall and wide-eyed smile and tangled word that Stiles threw your way. You wanted all of it. And later — maybe after the cocoa, when the wind wasn’t so sharp and your nerves had settled — maybe then, you’d tell him.

Stiles, I like you. Like, really like you.

But for now, you just walked side by side toward the little stand with the peeling paint and the smell of cinnamon sugar in the air, his hand bumping yours like he didn’t want to let go just yet.

Your fingers brushed again as you and Stiles edged your way closer toward the rink’s exit, skates clicking awkwardly on the ice beneath you. You were both flushed — from the cold, from the skating, from the hand-holding and the something that neither of you had said out loud yet. It sat thick and electric in the space between you, quiet but impossible to ignore.

You glanced over at him. He was chewing on the inside of his cheek, trying not to look like he was watching you out of the corner of his eye, but he totally was. His gloves were still slightly damp at the fingertips, and his scarf was crooked in a way you wanted to fix — gently, like in the movies, with fingers grazing skin and—

“LOOK OUT!” The voice tore through the night air like a cannon blast. You barely had a second to react — a flash of movement in the corner of your eye, the sound of blades carving across ice like a freight train, and then suddenly—

WHAM.

Scott McCall, future Lacrosse captain and current menace, came hurtling toward you like a human snowplow, arms flailing, knees buckling, half-screaming half-laughing as a blur of pink puff — a tiny girl in a sparkly coat — darted past him after tripped him up without even noticing. There was no time to step out of the way.

Scott slammed into the both of you like a meteorite, and all three of you staggered backwards — you, Stiles, Scott, in a tangled knot of limbs, ice, and chaos. Stiles yelped something halfway between “OH MY GOD” and “MY SPLEEN,” while Scott’s foot kicked back and hooked around your shin, nearly taking you down for good. You were sure you were going down. Except — somehow — you didn’t.

You, Stiles, and Scott staggered and shuffled like an uncoordinated circus act, spinning in a desperate half-circle, arms wrapped around each other’s shoulders and jackets and whatever else you could grab. Scott had one hand fisted in the collar of your coat, and the other braced against Stiles’ chest. Stiles had his elbow hooked around your neck in a way that felt like a one-armed headlock, and you were clinging to both of them with a death grip around their waists like some kind of three-headed, cold, confused creature.

For a horrifying moment, the world tilted sideways. But then — balance. Somehow, miraculously, you all managed to stay up. Silence fell. Breaths heaved. Arms untangled slowly, cautiously. You all blinked at each other — a foot here, a scarf twisted around a wrist there, Scott’s beanie now sitting askew on top of Stiles’ head, as if it had been transferred in the chaos like a crown of idiocy.

No one said anything for a full five seconds. Then, without a word, you each took a cautious step back. Straightened your coats. Adjusted scarves. Cleared throats. Stiles carefully handed Scott back his beanie like it was a delicate diplomatic exchange.

No one made eye contact. No one mentioned a thing. You all stood there — weirdly still, ridiculously composed now — like three people who had absolutely not just been part of the most awkward three-person crash in the history of winter sports.

Finally, Scott nodded, completely serious. “So. Uh. Cocoa?”

“Yes,” you and Stiles said at the exact same time.

And just like that, you all turned and walked off toward the cocoa stand like nothing had happened.

Except for the fact that Scott’s hair was sticking up at the back, and Stiles had somehow acquired glitter on his jacket (from the sparkly pink puff girl, you were guessing), and your left skate was untied and flapping slightly as you walked — none of which anyone addressed. Because of course you weren’t going to talk about it. You were teenagers. You had dignity. Sort of.

As the three of you approached the little wooden stand tucked near the far corner of the rink, the smell of cinnamon, sugar, and warm chocolate grew stronger, comforting in a way that settled under your ribs. Scott peeled off first, already waving a five-dollar bill and declaring he was buying “the biggest one they had,” like this was some sort of hot beverage competition.

Stiles lingered beside you. “You okay?” he asked, his voice soft and close, still a little breathless from the collision.

“Yeah,” you said, half-smiling. “I think we survived.”

He glanced over his shoulder at Scott, who was currently trying to convince the cocoa vendor to put a fourth scoop of whipped cream on his drink. “I’m not sure he did,” he muttered.

You snorted. Then reached out, brushing some of the glitter off his jacket. Stiles blinked down at you. “I—uh,” he started, but then you just smiled and stepped up to the counter beside him.

“Two hot chocolates,” you told the vendor. Leaning in to whisper, “Extra marshmallows on one.”

Stiles’ ears went red again. But he didn’t argue. He just stood beside you, hands stuffed in his pockets, mouth twitching like he didn’t know whether to grin or hide behind the cocoa stand. He chose the grin. You handed over a crumpled bill from your pocket, the mystery of where it came from still lingering between you both like fog on a winter window. But Stiles didn’t ask. Not yet. And maybe that was the nicest thing about him.

The cocoa stand vendor handed over the two steaming paper cups, both topped with a generous heap of mini marshmallows that had already started to melt at the edges, sticky and soft. One cup had a crooked candy cane poking out of it like a flag of victory. You took both drinks carefully, balancing them like precious artifacts, and turned back toward the matting where Scott had already taken off.

Well—collapsed was probably the more accurate word. He was sprawled across one of the rubber-matted benches just outside the rink, legs still stretched out in his skates, cocoa cup crumpled and empty beside him like the aftermath of a sugar-induced war. “I think he inhaled it,” you muttered to Stiles as the two of you approached.

“Did not,” Scott said from his position, though it sounded garbled—his head was tilted back like he might actually fall asleep right there in the open cold.

“You absolutely did,” Stiles said, plopping down on the bench beside him. “I saw it. There were like, three sips, maximum.”

“That’s a subjective opinion,” Scott mumbled.

“I don’t think that’s how opinions work,” you said, lowering yourself carefully onto the bench beside Stiles, handing him the cocoa without even looking.

“Thank you,” he said automatically, then added, “Wait—extra marshmallows?”

“Of course extra marshmallows,” you replied. “You need to replace all the sugar you burned trying not to die on the ice.”

He huffed out a laugh and nudged your knee with his. “I’m a natural talent, actually. Scott said so.”

“Scott lies all the time,” you said. “Especially when he’s full of sugar and ego.”

“I heard that,” Scott said without moving.

The three of you burst out laughing.

It wasn’t a huge thing—just a quick crack of sound, breath in the cold night air—but it felt good. The kind of laugh that cracked open your ribs a little and let something warm in. The kind you could only have with people who knew you inside and out, who didn’t need to be told when to laugh or when you were joking. The kind that filled all the empty spaces that the holidays left sometimes.

Stiles took a sip of his cocoa and made a face like he’d just touched hot lava.

“Too hot,” he hissed, fanning his tongue like it was on fire.

You grinned into your cup. “You’re supposed to wait.”

“I never wait,” he said dramatically, eyes a little wide and watery from the burn. “I live on the edge.”

“You nearly fell off the edge earlier,” Scott muttered.

“I was pushed,” Stiles said, glaring down at him.

“By a child.”

“A very fast child!” You were giggling so hard your drink almost sloshed over the rim.

“Anyway,” Stiles said, turning back to you, trying to look dignified and not like he’d just been tackled by a kindergartener and then lost a fight to cocoa, “you made it.”

You looked at him, really looked—his eyes a little brighter now, cheeks red from the cold, scarf still not sitting right. And you thought: he has no idea. No idea how many times you’d imagined this. Sitting here. Right here. With him. Just like this.

“I did,” you said softly, sipping your drink. “Worth it.”

He stared at you for a second, like he wanted to say something else—but then Scott groaned loudly and sat up like a zombie rising from the grave.

“My spine is frozen,” he announced. “I think I need surgery.”

“Or a blanket,” you offered.

“Or a less dramatic personality,” Stiles added.

Scott waved a hand, unconcerned. “Nope. Definitely surgery.” You all laughed again. The cold didn’t seem so sharp anymore.

Around you, the rink sparkled with lights strung between poles, kids still shrieking with joy as they slipped across the ice, parents chatting and sipping drinks of their own. It was warm and golden here, in your little circle on the bench, even if your toes were going numb. Stiles shifted slightly closer to you, shoulders brushing. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to.

Scott stood up dramatically, swaying like he’d just returned from war. “I’m going back in,” he declared. “For glory. For honor.”

“For more glitter to attach itself to you,” Stiles mumbled under his breath.

“I heard that,” Scott said again, but he was already wobbling back toward the rink.

You and Stiles watched him go, sipping cocoa side by side.

“You think he’s gonna fall again?” you asked.

“Oh, definitely,” Stiles said. “Like, within minutes.”

You clinked your paper cups together gently. “To gravity.”

Stiles grinned. “To gravity.”

The cocoa steamed steadily between your gloved hands, warming the space between your palms like a tiny furnace, and beside you, Stiles was still blowing cautiously at his cup, squinting down into it like he was trying to solve a physics problem with marshmallows. Scott, meanwhile, had become an entire event on the ice.

At first, he was doing those smooth backward glides again, one hand behind his back like he was posing for a skating magazine cover, hair bouncing, eyes focused, just so full of himself. It was honestly a little majestic—like, if deer could have egos and wear sneakers and be fifteen-year-old boys.

But then—like the universe remembered Scott had the attention span of a fruit fly and a tragic lack of spacial awareness—he clipped the corner of the rink on a turn and went tumbling sideways into a teen girl trying to take a selfie. The two of them spun in a chaotic, flailing blur before separating, Scott landing flat on his back while the girl stood above him blinking with her phone somehow still upright, still filming.

You snorted into your drink. “Oh my God,” you said through a giggle, “he’s both. He’s like… the Swan Princess and Wile E. Coyote had a baby.”

Stiles burst out laughing beside you, nearly sloshing cocoa all over his jeans. “Why is that so accurate?” he wheezed, clutching his cup like it was the only thing keeping him from full collapse.

Out on the rink, Scott picked himself up with all the dignity of someone who definitely knew he’d just been recorded falling. He brushed off his jacket, gave a thumbs-up to the girl (who was still laughing), and then promptly slid straight into the wall, arms spread like a starfish.

You wheezed. “We should help him.”

“No,” Stiles said immediately, sipping again. “We should absolutely not help him.”

Another burst of laughter passed between you like static—crackling and easy. The cold had settled into your cheeks now, numbing them into a constant tingle, but the sound of Stiles next to you, warm and close and here, melted straight through it. You turned your head slightly to look at him just as he tilted his drink back for another sip—and immediately ended up with a stripe of foam across the corner of his mouth.

He didn’t seem to notice. Still talking. Still going on about how if Scott fell one more time he was going to nominate him for some kind of honorary physics award for redefining “trajectory.” But you didn’t really hear all of it. Not past the way your eyes got stuck on that little line of marshmallow foam just sitting there. Without thinking, you leaned over.

“Hold still,” you said softly.

“What—”

But you were already reaching out, one gloved hand steadying his cheek as the fingers of the other found that smudge of foam and swiped it gently away. It came off easy, but you didn’t move right away. His skin was cold where you touched it, a little pink from the wind. His mouth had gone still. Stiles blinked. Looked at you. His breath was caught halfway in his chest, like he hadn’t decided if he was supposed to inhale or just freeze entirely.

Your thumb hovered for a second longer before you pulled back. “You had… something.”

“Oh,” he said, like he’d forgotten how words worked. “Thanks.”

You gave a tiny nod and returned to your cocoa like nothing had happened, like your heart hadn’t just leapt out of your chest and sprinted halfway to the parking lot. Out on the ice, Scott tripped over his own foot again, let out a strangled yelp, and crashed shoulder-first into a stack of foam barriers. A small child clapped in appreciation.

You and Stiles sat there in silence, watching him. After a beat, Stiles coughed into his drink. “Okay but seriously. If he breaks his nose again, you have to explain it to Melissa.”

You smiled down at your cup. “Deal.”

Your leg brushed his again, and this time neither of you moved away. The silence between you wasn’t awkward. Not really. It was the kind that came with knowing someone so long that you didn’t always need to talk. The kind that filled up with tiny sounds—the scrape of a skate blade nearby, Scott shrieking faintly in the distance as he probably collided with yet another civilian, the crunch of marshmallows melting into cocoa. It was soft. Comfortable.

Which was horrifying. Because you were about to ruin it.

You were about to take this stupid warm thing—this perfectly untouchable, safe friendship—and set it on fire with the words that had been stuck behind your teeth for months. Maybe longer. Words that might make him laugh, or freak out, or go quiet and never look at you the same again. You sipped your cocoa like it might delay your entire future by a few seconds.

He was still beside you, still watching the rink like Scott might spontaneously grow wings and ascend. His knee bumped yours again. He didn’t move it away. Your hands tightened a little on your cup.

“Hey,” you said suddenly, before you could stop yourself.

He turned to look at you, brows raised. “Yeah?” Too late. Too late, abort, abort— You swallowed. Tried to play it casual, like your heart wasn’t rattling in your chest like a pair of dice in a Yahtzee cup.

“Just…” You shrugged. “Thanks. For, y’know. Being here.”

Stiles blinked. “You don’t have to thank me for that.”

“No, I do,” you insisted, forcing a smile you hoped didn’t look like a grimace. “I kinda showed up last-minute, basically hijacked your Christmas Eve.”

He snorted. “Hijacked? You made my Christmas Eve.” Your heart stuttered.

He looked away then, like he hadn’t realized what he just said, like it slipped out before he could shove it back in. A breeze blew past and fluttered the edge of his scarf into your arm. Neither of you fixed it. He cleared his throat. “I mean, not that Scott’s not fun. But if I had to spend another two hours watching him reenact Swan Lake on ice I might’ve walked into traffic.”

You laughed—really laughed this time, because the image was too strong. Stiles grinned, proud of himself, basking in the glow of making you laugh like he’d just won a prize. And for a second, you almost chickened out again. But then he looked at you, all bright-eyed and ridiculous, cheeks pink from cold and cocoa and something else—and you thought, I can’t keep this a secret anymore.

So you took a breath. Then another. And then, in a voice that felt way too small to carry something this heavy:

“Hey. Stiles?”

“Yeah?”

You looked down at your cup. The marshmallows had mostly melted now, turning the top of the drink into a frothy mess. “I gotta tell you something,” you said. “And if I don’t say it now, I’m never gonna.” He stilled. Just a little. But you felt it. Like he braced for something. Like he knew. You didn’t look at him. You couldn’t. “I, um. I like you.” There. You’d said it. Your heart didn’t stop. The world didn’t end. Nobody screamed. The rink didn’t split open and swallow you whole.

But the silence was deafening.

You forced yourself to keep going, to fill the gap before it could echo too loud.

“Not like… just friend-like. I mean—I do like you like that, obviously, because you’re my best friend and you’re the funniest person I know and you always do this weird twitchy thing when you’re trying to lie, and your brain is like, terrifyingly fast but also completely chaotic, and you make me laugh even when I don’t want to, and—and I think I’ve liked you for a while now, like, a while, and—”

“Hey.”

You stopped. His voice was soft. Not shaky. Just… quiet.

You finally looked up.

Stiles was staring at you like you’d just told him the moon belonged to him. Like he couldn’t believe it was real. Like someone had switched the language on his entire life and he was just now learning how to read again.

“Seriously?” he asked.

Your heart dropped. “I—yeah. I mean, unless that’s, like, terrible news to you. In which case—"

“No! No. It’s not. It’s not terrible,” he said quickly, cup forgotten in his lap. “It’s just… wow. Okay. I need a second.”

You winced. “That bad, huh?”

He barked out a laugh—not the reaction you expected.

“No, it’s just—” He ran a hand through his buzzed hair. “You’ve been living rent-free in my brain for months and I thought I was the one being a total disaster about it.”

Your eyes widened. “Wait—what?”

Stiles looked straight at you then, cheeks flaming, mouth twitching with a smile that didn’t quite know where to go. “Yeah. I like you too. A lot. Always kinda have. I just thought… I dunno. That I’d ruin everything if I said something.”

Your laugh came out more like a breath of relief. “Oh my God.”

He grinned, leaning a little closer. “So, uh… you wanna ruin everything together?”

You looked at him, cheeks aching from smiling, heart still hammering, but lighter now. Way lighter.

“Yeah,” you said, bumping your knee against his. “Let’s be disasters. Together.”

Just then, a distant “I’M OKAY!” rang out from the rink as Scott collided, once again, with the barrier wall.

Stiles tilted his head. “You think we should tell him?”

You both watched as Scott dramatically rolled over and then gave a double thumbs-up to a nearby toddler.

“Nah,” you said, sipping your cocoa again. “Let’s let him figure it out the hard way.”

It took a few more minutes, and a lot more laughing, before the cold finally crept in enough that sitting still wasn’t really an option. Your fingers were starting to go numb around your cocoa cup, and Stiles had started doing this little bounce in his seat like he was trying to stay warm without actually moving from the comfort of the bench. Scott was back on the rink by now, doing an exaggerated slow-motion routine for the benefit of a group of giggling kids at the other end. One of them threw a snowball at him. It missed, but he dramatically clutched his chest like he’d been shot and went down like a tree.

Stiles elbowed you. “Okay, we can’t leave him out there unsupervised.”

You smirked. “He’s a danger to himself and others.”

“Exactly,” Stiles said, standing up and offering you his hand with mock gallantry. “Come on, partner in crime.”

You took it, grinning as he hauled you up and nearly overbalanced in the process.

“Whoa—easy!” you laughed as you both stumbled forward a step, ice skates catching awkwardly on the mat.

“I have the grace of a gazelle,” he insisted. “A very confused, gangly gazelle.”

“Noted,” you said, still holding his hand as you both made your way back to the rink entrance. “Lead the way, Bambi.”

“Rude.”

But he was smiling. You were both smiling. There was a lot of that happening now.

The cold slapped your cheeks again the second you stepped onto the ice, but it didn’t feel so sharp anymore. Maybe it was the cocoa. Maybe it was the laughter still stuck in your chest. Or maybe it was the way Stiles squeezed your hand once before letting go—only to nearly eat it on his next step and immediately grab for you again.

“Okay, nope, no letting go,” he muttered, clutching your sleeve like his life depended on it.

“You’ve skated before,” you reminded him, already adjusting your stance so you could steady the both of you.

“Yeah, and it went badly. Remember the bruised tailbone of ‘07? I do. It haunts me.”

You were too busy laughing to answer.

Scott spotted you both right away and made a beeline over, which would’ve been fine if he hadn’t decided to zoom toward you like he was reenacting the final scene of an ice-dancing drama. His scarf flapped behind him like a cape. His arms were outstretched.

You saw it coming too late.

“GUYS—CATCH ME—”

“Scott, no—!”

It was like watching a car crash in slow motion.

He hit you both at once, crashing into your side while also managing to trip over Stiles’ skate and somehow launch himself into a half-spin that would’ve been kind of impressive if he hadn’t slammed into you like a human wrecking ball.

But somehow—somehow—nobody fell.

You were tangled. Arms everywhere. Stiles clutching your waist, your hand wrapped around Scott’s elbow, Scott gripping both of your shoulders like he was on a lifeboat and you were the last bit of floating debris in the ocean.

Silence.

Then Scott, very solemnly, said: “I think I saw the face of God.”

Stiles groaned. “Get off me, dude.”

“Hey! I saved us from falling!”

“You caused the near-fall!”

“I added dramatic tension!”

You snorted, finally managing to extract your arm from between their shoulders and stand upright. “Okay, okay, reset. Everyone alive? No broken ribs?”

Scott patted himself down. “Only my pride.”

“I think you left that behind five minutes ago when you tried to do a twirl and crashed into that trash can,” you said.

“I was trying to dodge a kid!”

“She was five feet away.”

“She had a look in her eye! She was coming for me!”

You and Stiles both cracked up at that, and then the three of you started skating again—slower this time, more huddled together, like a three-person train of barely-functioning limbs and wheezing laughter. You held onto each other shamelessly, drifting around the rink in ungraceful loops, feet sliding out at odd angles, scarves flapping, cheeks pink and sore from smiling too hard.

Scott kept breaking off to attempt weird spins or finger-gun the other skaters, and each time he slipped, he’d flail wildly until one of you caught him. At one point, he accidentally pulled Stiles into a clumsy spin and then tripped over his own feet, dragging Stiles with him into what could only be described as a tangle of limbs and swear words.

You skated over, breathless from laughing. “You guys good?”

“Define good,” Stiles groaned from where he was half-sprawled on Scott’s back.

“We’re excellent,” Scott mumbled into the ice.

Eventually, you all got moving again, more careful this time, more about sticking close and bumping shoulders and being together than actually skating. The lights above glowed golden against the navy sky, and every now and then a puff of snow would catch the breeze and swirl past like glitter. Someone’s Bluetooth speaker crackled, switching to some poppy remix of a Christmas song none of you liked, and yet Stiles started singing under his breath anyway—off-key and dramatic—and Scott joined in with harmonies that almost worked.

And you?

You just skated beside them, cheeks aching, chest full, one hand occasionally brushing against Stiles’ as you looped around the rink again and again, like maybe if you just stayed in motion long enough, you could hold onto this night forever.

You didn’t realize how many laps you'd done until your legs started to ache in that warm, satisfying kind of way that meant you'd used muscles that hadn't been awake in weeks. Your cheeks hurt from grinning, and your throat was a little raw from laughing. Stiles had been at your side almost the whole time—sometimes clinging, sometimes gliding, always making some comment that bordered on brilliant or deeply dumb with no in-between.

Scott had finally gone off to test his “aerodynamic technique” one last time (which meant he was probably going to fall flat on his back again), so it was just the two of you coasting in a slow, lazy circle, close enough to bump shoulders every so often, not quite speaking.

You liked the silence. It wasn’t awkward. It was easy. It was warm.

And then—like a well-timed holiday movie cliché—someone cleared their throat nearby.

You turned just as one of the employees—a teenage girl in a puffer vest and a beanie that had seen better days—skated slowly past, holding a dangling piece of mistletoe above her head. She was grinning like she knew exactly what she was doing.

“Merry Christmas,” she sang, and then, with all the enthusiasm of someone getting paid minimum wage but absolutely living for teen drama, she added, “Rink’s closing, lovebirds. Last lap.”

You opened your mouth to correct her—lovebirds? Please—only to realize the mistletoe was hanging right over your heads.

Stiles noticed it at the same time you did.

He froze.

Actually, you froze too.

The music had dipped into something softer now, bells chiming under strings, that slow orchestral swell that felt like a quiet end rather than a loud finish. Around you, the other skaters were slowly making their way toward the exits, a murmur of chatter and tired laughter following them. But for just a second, it was like the rink had stilled around the two of you.

You looked at Stiles.

He looked at you.

The employee, watching from a safe distance now, covered her mouth and giggled.

“I mean—” Stiles started.

You beat him to it. “It’s tradition,” you said, breath coming a little faster now. “Right?”

His voice cracked just slightly when he said, “Yeah. It—it totally is.”

You didn’t know who leaned in first.

It might’ve been both of you.

The kiss wasn’t perfect. Your noses bumped a little. His breath was cold against your cheek. One of your skates slipped just slightly and he had to steady you with a hand at your waist. But when your lips met, everything else—the cold, the awkwardness, the crowd—went quiet.

It was soft. Careful.

Warm in a way that had nothing to do with the cocoa or the bundled-up coats or the string lights still twinkling overhead.

It only lasted a second. Maybe two.

But it was enough.

You both pulled back slowly, eyes still locked. Stiles' cheeks were flaming, and your heart was pounding, but neither of you moved away. Not really. Not even when you heard the unmistakable sound of someone gliding toward you at full, uncoordinated speed.

Scott.

“Merry Christmas, suckers!” he announced at full volume, slamming to a stop and throwing one arm around each of your shoulders in a dramatic half-hug.

Before either of you could react, he leaned in and kissed both your cheeks—yours first, then Stiles’—and then grinned like he’d just delivered a diplomatic victory.

“What just happened?” he asked brightly. “Do I need to pretend I didn’t see anything, or are we already naming your future kids?”

“Scott,” Stiles said, voice strangled.

You groaned, covering your face.

“Wait, wait, let me guess,” Scott added, pulling back with a mock-thoughtful expression. “Merry Crisp-mas, right? Because the tension was crispy as hell.”

Stiles made a sound that might’ve been a laugh or a slow collapse of all his social defenses.

You bumped Scott with your shoulder. “You’re the worst.”

He beamed. “And yet you love me.”

But Stiles turned back to you then, still a little pink, eyes soft in the glow of the lights. He wasn’t smiling now—not the way he usually did when he was trying to cover how big his emotions could get.

He just looked at you like you’d knocked the wind out of him in the best way.

“Merry Christmas,” he said quietly.

You smiled back, heart full and breathless. “Merry Christmas, Stilinski.”

And even as Scott started singing off-key next to you and the rink lights began to dim, that warm, fluttery feeling stayed tucked behind your ribs, steady and real.

Because this? This was yours.

~~

You spotted Scott first, predictably a mess of flailing limbs and big energy, backpack sliding off one shoulder. Stiles wasn’t far behind, chasing after him with wild, exaggerated steps, his voice carrying across the parking lot even though you couldn’t make out the words.

They were laughing, tripping over each other like puppies, Scott tossing something (a crumpled piece of paper?) at Stiles and Stiles catching it against his chest with a dramatic stumble. He fired back with a wad of notebook paper so hard Scott yelped and ducked behind a very confused girl. You could hear Stiles' cackling even from the car.

You leaned your head against the back of the seat, a dopey grin pulling at your mouth. God, he was so him — ridiculous, chaotic, pure Stiles Stilinski energy. It filled the whole parking lot, the way he lit up any room without even trying.

Like he felt you watching — because he always did — his head snapped toward the Jeep mid-giggle. The second his eyes found you through the windshield, he froze like a deer in headlights.

You could see it happen: the realization creeping in, the way his face went from bright and open to pink and startled in less than a second. His laughter stuttered to a halt, his fingers twitching at his sides like he wanted to run but couldn’t decide whether it should be toward you or the other way.

You just smiled wider, soft and patient and warm in a way reserved only for him.

His ears turned a violent shade of red.

Scott, oblivious as always, threw an arm around Stiles’ shoulders and tried to tug him along toward the parking lot, still babbling about something you couldn’t hear. Stiles stumbled after him, but his gaze kept flickering back to you, the corners of his mouth twitching like he wanted to smile and hide at the same time.

He nudged Scott with his elbow a little harder than necessary, muttering something that made Scott peel away with a loud groan and an exaggerated gagging sound, waving his arms like he was being attacked by secondhand embarrassment.

Stiles jogged awkwardly toward the Jeep after that, still pink in the face, still fiddling with the hem of his shirt like it might save him from combusting.

You didn’t move, didn’t say a word, just watched him with that same stupid, smitten grin.

By the time he yanked the door open and slid into the driver's seat beside you, his blush had reached critical levels. He couldn't meet your eyes, staring determinedly at the steering wheel instead.

"Hey, babe," you said softly, still smiling so much it hurt.

He made a noise — something between a huff and a whimper — and finally risked a glance at you, biting his lower lip hard enough to turn it white.

"Hi," he said, voice cracking, wrecked and breathless like just looking at you had fried all his brain cells at once.

And you swear to God, you’d never been more in love with anything in your life.

Stiles sits there for a second, all awkward limbs and red ears, gripping the steering wheel like it might help him hold onto the moment. His mouth is twitching at the corners, like he’s trying really hard not to smile too much, but failing miserably.

“Hi,” he repeats, quieter this time, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye.

You lean a little closer across the console, resting your chin in your palm. “Hi.”

He huffs out a laugh, finally letting himself look at you full-on. His whole face softens, like the tension in his shoulders just gives up the fight the second your eyes meet his.

“You’ve been waiting long?” he asks, fiddling with a loose thread on his sleeve.

You shake your head. “Nah. Figured I’d get comfy while I had the Jeep all to myself. Smells like you in here. Kinda miss it sometimes.”

Stiles snorts. “It’s probably just a mix of Axe, fast food fries, and my dad’s coffee spill from last week.”

“Still smells like you,” you say with a soft shrug, your voice going all gooey, and his face practically combusts again.

He laughs, flustered, and rubs the back of his buzzed head with one hand, cheeks glowing. “You are literally the worst. And by worst, I mean the best, which is so unfair.”

You lean in and steal a quick kiss, just a soft press of lips, lingering for half a second longer than necessary. When you pull back, he’s blinking at you like his brain has short-circuited.

“Hi again,” you whisper, and he giggles helplessly.

“You are such a menace,” he mutters, but there’s no heat behind it. He looks like he could float right out of his seat.

You reach down into your lap and lift the bag up. “Here, Stiles. Your lucky outfit. You’re gonna crush it.”

He takes it reverently, holding the handles like it might disintegrate if he’s not gentle enough. “You brought it,” he says, like he still can’t believe you’re real.

You nod, smiling. “Told you I’d help. You’re gonna look sharp. Hirable. Like the charming, competent, adorably chaotic employee of the month you’re destined to be.”

He barks out a laugh. “Adorably chaotic, huh?”

“Like a golden retriever in khaki shorts.”

“You’re so lucky I’m into you,” he mumbles, shaking his head as he unzips the bag and peeks inside. “God, this is perfect.”

You lean over and kiss his cheek, lingering just a moment too long before nudging his shoulder. “Go get changed, Stilinski. Interviewer awaits.”

He clutches the bag tighter, nodding with a deep breath. “Okay. Okay, yeah. I’ve got this. I have got this.”

“Damn right you do.”

He opens the door, then pauses, turning back with that look — the one that’s half soft panic, half warm affection. “Wait here?”

You smile like it’s the easiest answer in the world. “Always.”

He beams at you, full teeth, eyes crinkling at the corners, and then he’s off — all long legs and awkward enthusiasm, jogging back toward the school doors with the bag bouncing against his hip, calling something at Scott as he vanishes inside.

And all you can do is watch him go, heart full to bursting.

You watch the doors like you’ve got tunnel vision, elbows resting on the open window, fingers curled just under your chin as the sun starts to shift. It casts long, soft shadows across the dashboard, and you catch yourself tracing little patterns in the dust on the glove compartment—absently, aimlessly, in that warm, fizzy sort of headspace that only ever seems to hit when you’re thinking about him.

It’s not even five minutes before Stiles bursts back out of the building, practically skipping steps down the front stairs with the outfit you picked clinging to him in the best way possible. The khaki shorts are a little wrinkled from the bag, but he’s tugged the polo shirt into place like it matters, and he’s even wearing your jacket — a little big on him in the shoulders, the sleeves tugged over his hands, the hem swishing as he jogs.

He looks nervous and shiny with effort, his backpack bouncing on one shoulder like he didn’t take the time to shove it into a locker, which tracks. His face is pink again — probably from rushing, but maybe also from the fact that you’re still sitting there, exactly where he left you, smiling at him like he’s the whole damn sun.

He doesn’t even stop to greet you. Just throws the driver’s side door open, tosses his backpack into the backseat, and slides in with a breathless, “Okay, okay, let’s go, let’s go.”

You blink, brows raising. “Wow. That was fast. You break land-speed records getting changed?”

“I didn’t even fully button the fly until I was halfway down the hallway,” he mutters, fumbling with the keys. “I can’t be late. They’ll think I’m irresponsible. What if I’m late and they’re like ‘Wow, classic, look at this clown, total liability, can’t even show up on time, hope he doesn’t burn the fries’—”

“Stiles,” you say, laughing as the Jeep jerks into motion and he throws it into reverse with more aggression than necessary. “Deep breaths. You’re fine. We’re early. Like, extra early.”

“Which means we won’t get stuck behind a tractor or a school bus or a pack of angry geese or whatever Beacon Hills decides to throw at us today, thankfully,” he says, eyes darting between mirrors.

You reach over without thinking, smoothing down the edge of his collar. “You look good,” you murmur, fingers brushing under the collarbone seam and fixing where it folded awkwardly at the dip of his neck. “Really good.”

He makes a strangled sound. “No, I don’t. I look like I’m cosplaying ‘acceptable teenage employee number four.’”

You shift a little closer in your seat, hand drifting down to press flat against his chest for a second. “Stiles, you’re literally the cutest thing on the road right now. If you got pulled over, it’d be for excessive handsomeness.”

He snorts, cheeks flushing red again. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You’re adorable.”

“That’s not gonna help me grill nuggets.”

“Grill nuggets?”

“I’m stressed, don’t correct me.”

You laugh again and gently tug his sleeve, straightening the edge of your jacket where it’s bunched at his elbow. “You’re gonna do great. You’re gonna be charming and fidgety and enthusiastic and they’ll see how much you wanna do a good job and they’ll love you for it.”

He goes quiet for a second, hands tightening on the wheel. The streets are calm, the sun low enough now that it’s turning everything gold. You glance at his profile — the way his buzzed hair still manages to stick up in the wrong places, how the tip of his tongue pokes out when he’s trying not to smile.

“I’m really glad you’re here,” he mumbles after a beat, so quiet it’s nearly lost under the hum of the engine.

You reach over and lace your fingers through his, guiding one hand off the wheel just for a second. “I wouldn’t be anywhere else.” He squeezes your hand and, for a second, he stops fidgeting.

As the Jeep rumbles down the quiet street, the tires humming over the asphalt, Stiles finally settles into a more consistent rhythm. His shoulders are still high with tension, though, and you can practically feel the little storms of anxious energy swirling in his head. He drums his thumbs on the steering wheel, bouncing his knee and glancing between the rearview and side mirrors like they're going to start whispering judgments at him.

"Okay, okay, okay,” he mutters under his breath, barely audible. “What if they ask me why I want to work there and I freeze? What if I forget the name of the manager? What if I—"

“Stiles,” you say gently, your voice soft as you lean against the passenger-side door, watching him with warm amusement, “you’ve rehearsed this interview in the mirror, like, seventeen times. I watched you rehearse it. Twice. In accents.”

“I blacked out for both of those,” he replies, half-serious, glancing at you with wide eyes. “You ever watch your own reflection and feel like it’s judging you in real time?”

“Only when I'm not with you.”

He snorts, finally cracking a smile, and his fingers twitch against the steering wheel like maybe he wants to reach for your hand again.

“You don’t have to be perfect, babe,” you say, tone light but sincere. “They just wanna see you. And you’re—y’know—you. You’re energetic, and smart, and you care. You’re gonna do great. And if you trip over your words a little? You’ll still be the most lovable thing in that whole building.”

Stiles makes a noise somewhere between a laugh and a wheeze. “You’re gonna make me crash.”

“You won’t. Your panic reflexes are too strong.”

“Okay, yeah, fair,” he admits, breathing out hard through his nose. “I once dodged a deer with my dad’s cruiser going forty.”

“Exactly. A job interview’s nothing compared to a rogue woodland creature.”

The golden arches come into view up ahead, glowing faintly against the late afternoon sky. You watch as Stiles swallows hard, his throat bobbing as he pulls into the parking lot. He parks with a little too much force—braking too fast—and then stares out through the windshield like he’s contemplating the meaning of life. You lean over, reaching for his jaw, thumb brushing against the stubble-dotted edge of it before guiding him to face you. His eyes flick to yours, and they’re wide and nervous, but still sparkling with that light only he seems to carry.

“Hey,” you whisper. “Come here.”

He leans across the console and you meet him halfway, pressing a kiss to his lips. It’s slow and warm and grounding. Not rushed, not too deep. Just the kind that says: I see you. I’m proud of you. I’ve got you. When you pull back, his eyes are half-lidded and glassy, like you just knocked every anxious thought out of him in one go.

“You’ve got this,” you murmur. “No matter what happens in there, whether they offer you the job or not, I’m proud of you. So proud.”

He nods, lips twitching. “Yeah?”

“Always.”

He huffs a breath, pushing the car door open with one hand and holding the bag with the other. “Okay. Okay, cool. I’m gonna go. I’m going. Right now.”

“I believe in you, cutie with a buzz.”

He groans under his breath and throws one last look over his shoulder as he closes the door. “You suck.”

You grin. “Love you too.”

He disappears inside, and you’re left alone in the Jeep with the echo of your kiss and the smell of his cologne clinging to the seatbelt, heart full and already counting down the seconds until he comes back out.

The hum of passing cars fades into the background as you sit there, still angled in your seat like he might walk right back out any second. The golden arches above the restaurant cast that familiar neon haze over the lot, and inside the Jeep it’s warm with late sun and the lingering scent of him—fabric softener and cheap shampoo and something sharper, something that's just Stiles. It feels a little like summer, even though it’s barely spring. The kind of day that makes your skin buzz a little, even if nothing’s happening.

You rest your cheek against the seat, watching the front doors where he vanished, and your mind drifts. You think about how far you’ve both come. How, a couple years ago, Stiles couldn’t even make eye contact with a cashier without stammering through six filler words and a small breakdown, and now he’s in there trying to land a job, trying to grow up—choosing to take a step forward. Even if it’s just flipping burgers and wearing a visor, it’s still something he chose.

And that’s kind of the beautiful thing about Stiles. For all the noise, the chaos, the impulsive tangents and nervous energy that feels like it could spark something on fire, underneath all that is someone who cares. So much. Maybe too much. He tries so hard, sometimes he runs himself ragged doing it. He overthinks because he wants to get things right. He spirals because he’s afraid of messing up what matters.

You know, deep down, that he’s probably in there right now talking at warp speed, tripping over his own enthusiasm, voice pitching up with every third sentence, hands moving like he’s explaining a math equation in midair. And yet, despite all that, he’s probably winning them over without even realizing it. Because there’s something impossible not to love about someone who just feels everything that much.

Your fingers toy absentmindedly with the strap of your bag, and you smile softly to yourself. He’ll come out flushed and wired, buzzing from adrenaline and second-guessing every single answer he gave. You’ll talk him down, like always. Tell him he did great. Kiss his forehead or ruffle his hair until he cracks a grin and groans, “You’re so annoying,” like it’s the highest compliment he can give.

It’s strange, how something as small as waiting for him in his car can make you feel so full—like your chest isn’t big enough to hold it all. You love him. You love this. The simplicity of being trusted enough to have a spare key, to sit here and wait, to see him run off into the unknown and know that he’ll come back looking for you.

Your gaze drifts up to the McDonald’s window, wondering if he’s sitting in a hard plastic chair, legs bouncing, fingers knotting together in his lap, doing that thing where he bites his lip until it’s redder than it should be. And maybe he’s thinking about you too. Maybe knowing you’re out here makes it easier.

You rest your head against the window with a small sigh and close your eyes for a second. The world hums on. The sun keeps dipping. And still, there’s nowhere else you’d rather be than right here—waiting for Stiles Stilinski to come back out, heart full of hope and hands ready to hold his.

Time drips by slowly, like honey from the edge of a spoon. The kind of waiting that feels stretched thin, but not in a bad way—just soft around the edges, tinted golden by the sinking sun and heavy with expectation. A breeze rattles the few wrappers in the parking lot, and you adjust your position in the seat, stretching your legs a little as you glance at the dashboard clock again.

It’s been… longer than you expected. Maybe twenty minutes? Twenty-five? You lose count somewhere between checking your phone and daydreaming about the way Stiles' face lights up when he gets excited about things like space documentaries or really obscure facts about wild mushrooms. You’re not worried—just curious. Curious about how he’s doing, what he’s saying, whether he remembered to breathe between sentences.

A kid walks out with a milkshake and slams the door behind him. An older guy in uniform shouts something back at someone inside. You watch it all pass like a quiet movie, until—

There he is.

Stiles bursts out of the doors like a spring wound too tight, full of nervous energy and flushed cheeks and the kind of restless momentum that screams adrenaline. He’s halfway jogging, his arms a little too animated, his mouth already moving even though no one’s with him to hear what he’s saying. His backpack bounces against his side and his shirt is rumpled like he’s been fidgeting with it the whole time.

You’re out of the car before he even makes it to the Jeep, heart tugging you forward because he just looks so Stiles. So alive. So him.

He sees you and immediately lifts his hands like he’s about to start explaining the chemical makeup of nerves themselves.

“I don’t even remember what I said in there, oh my god, I think I blacked out for a minute, again—like, legit blackout, like the kind where you come back and your mouth is still moving but your brain’s playing elevator music—and I definitely used the word ‘synergy’ unironically, and then I tried to make a joke and I don’t even know if it landed, and—”

“Stiles.”

You step in, close the distance, and kiss him. Just once, quick and grounding, your hands coming up to cup his face as you do. He melts instantly, shutting up with a soft “mmf” sound and blinking rapidly as he looks at you like you just stopped time with your mouth.

“Breathe,” you say gently, grinning as you slide your hands to the sides of his neck. “Start with that.”

He does, dragging in a huge inhale like he hasn’t taken one since walking in.

You ruffle his buzzed hair with affection, thumb sweeping across the curve of his warm cheek. “You did it, baby. I’m proud of you.”

He bites his lip, hands fluttering at his sides for a second before he finally lets them land on your waist, gripping tight like he needs to anchor himself. You wrap your arms around him and squeeze, tucking your chin over his shoulder. He’s trembling just a little.

“I—okay, so, like, not to be dramatic or anything,” he starts, muffled into your neck, “but I think I almost puked on the floor in there.”

You laugh softly, rubbing his back. “Sounds about right.”

“But I didn’t! I kept it together. Kinda. I think. And—okay, this is the part I don’t believe myself yet—I got it.”

You pull back.

“What?”

His ears are red. His grin is crooked and sheepish and so insanely proud, like he’s not sure if he should be proud yet but is doing it anyway.

“They offered me the job,” he says, voice half-wheeze, half-laugh. “Like, actual hired me. I start next week. They’re gonna send me the training schedule tonight.”

You blink at him for a beat, stunned—then your face splits into the kind of smile that hurts your cheeks.

“Stiles Stilinski, you beautiful, brilliant, disastrously handsome disaster, you did it!”

He squeaks out something between a laugh and a breathless noise of disbelief as you throw your arms around him again, this time lifting him a little as you hug him tightly. He clutches you back like a lifeline, his grin pressed against your shoulder, and when you let him go just enough to look at him again, he’s glowing.

“I got a job,” he says, like he needs to hear it out loud to believe it. “I actually got a freaking job.”

You kiss his nose. “You deserve that job.”

“And they said they liked how enthusiastic I was, which—what? What? I was literally vibrating. I think I saluted at one point. Oh god, I did, didn’t I—”

“You did great. You’re perfect,” you say, punctuating each word with a peck to his cheek, his forehead, the corner of his mouth.

He’s laughing now, eyes crinkling with joy, and you hold him close again, grounding him with warmth and kisses and soft affirmations. And for a moment, it’s just the two of you in a parking lot under a fading sun—future coworkers and schedules and burgers be damned.

You’re proud of him. You’re in love with him. And right now, the whole world feels like it’s turning in the exact direction it’s supposed to.

~~

He’s got that look again—like he’s going to vibrate straight out of his own skin.

You’re leaning in the doorway of his bedroom, arms crossed, watching the chaos unfold like it’s a personal performance just for you. Stiles is moving like a man possessed, frantic energy spilling from every clumsy motion. His black McDonald’s polo is half-tucked, half-wrinkled, like it fought him this morning and almost won. He’s hopping in uneven circles while trying to get one sock over his ankle, breath coming fast, mumbling nonsense to himself.

You’re trying really hard not to smile, but it’s impossible. He’s too much. In the best way.

“Okay, okay,” he mutters, not even looking at you, “I have my ID, I have my schedule, I have deodorant, I think. Did I put on deodorant? Shit—smell me real quick—wait, no, that’s weird. Don’t smell me. I’ll reapply. I can reapply. It’s fine. I’ll just—oh my God, I’m going to die in a vat of fryer oil and be buried in a McNugget box.”

“You’re gonna be great, babe.”

He stops mid-rant, finally looking at you. “You have to say that. You’re contractually obligated as my lover to say stuff like that.”

“I’m not under contract. I’m under the influence.” You grin, stepping into the room and catching his face between your hands. “Of how cute you look in that ridiculous uniform.”

Stiles flushes immediately, the buzzcut doing nothing to hide the red creeping all the way to the tips of his ears. “Don’t do that. Don’t do that. I already feel like an overcooked mozzarella stick, you can’t just flirt at me like that.”

“I can and I will,” you murmur, brushing your thumb over his jaw. It’s smooth—baby soft, freshly shaven, still carrying the faint scent of the generic foam he insists on using. You lean in a little, close enough to feel his breath stutter against your lips.

“Oh God, do you think they’ll make me do drive-thru on my first day? I don’t even know how to work a headset. What if I mess up someone’s order and they throw hot coffee at me through the window? What if I drop a McFlurry and slip on it and fall directly into the fryer like some tragic fast-food final destination moment? What if I get arrested for involuntary food manslaughter?!”

You blink. “That’s not a real thing.”

“It could be!”

“Stiles.”

His name in your voice quiets him a little. Just a little. He stops and meets your eyes, hairline damp with nerves and his chest rising too fast. His lips part like he’s going to start again, another tumble of fear and overthinking about fryer grease and minimum wage and what the hell a Filet-O-Fish even is, but you just gently frame his face in your hands.

His skin’s warm. You can feel his heartbeat jumping under your fingers, fast and uncertain.

“Hey,” you say, quiet. “You’re okay.”

He tries to scoff, but it comes out more like a breathy wheeze. “I’m a wreck.”

“You’re adorable.”

“You’re biased.”

“Of course I am. I have taste.”

He groans and tilts his head back like he’s praying for patience. “You are impossibly unhelpful.”

“I’m helping you chill out. With my charm. And my devastating good looks.”

“You are a menace.” But his lips twitch—fighting a smile, always fighting the smile when you do this to him. It’s like he wants to stay panicked, like it gives him structure. But then you’re this—soft and steady and smirking at him like he’s already won—and the panic slips sideways into something warmer, something gentler.

You slide your thumbs across his cheekbones, grounding him. “You’re gonna go in there, clock in, and prove everyone wrong. You’re smart, you’re quick, and you care way too much about doing everything perfectly.”

“I’m also clumsy, awkward, and prone to catastrophic thought spirals about dipping sauces.”

You kiss him. Not hard. Just soft, slow, lips pressing into his until he stops talking. Until he exhales against you. He always melts like this when you kiss him first—like his brain short-circuits and everything in his head hushes for one goddamn second. You feel his hands curl into the hem of your shirt, not gripping, just holding, like he needs something to keep him grounded.

You pull back just far enough to whisper against his lips, “You’re gonna do amazing.”

He breathes you in like oxygen, and when he opens his eyes again, they’re a little glassy.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say. “And if anyone gives you shit, just remember you’ve got a personal cutie who’s more than willing to show up at 10 p.m. and commit a light felony on your behalf.”

That gets a real laugh out of him. Quick and embarrassed and full of fondness. He steps back with a shake of his head and drags a hand over his buzzed hair. “God, you’re ridiculous.”

You shrug. “You love me.”

“I do. Unfortunately.”

You watch him double-check his bag for the fifth time, patting pockets, muttering about gum and his schedule and wondering if it’s weird to bring his own pen. And then he stands there in the doorway, still and awkward, like he’s not sure what comes next.

So you step forward, wrap your arms around his middle, and hold him close.

He exhales into your shoulder, all the tension in his body pulling tight and then slowly unraveling, piece by piece.

“I’m proud of you,” you murmur into his ear. “For real.”

He squeezes you back. Quietly. No more rambling, no more jokes. Just him, holding on a second longer than necessary, until he finally pulls back.

“Okay,” he says softly, voice steadier now. “Okay. I’m gonna go.”

“You’ve got this.”

“I do.” A breath. “I do, right?”

You give him a smile he can hang on to. “You do.”

And then he’s gone, jogging down the stairs, fumbling with his keys, and yelling something to his dad that you can’t quite make out. And you stand there in the empty doorway, listening to the door shut, heart full and warm and already counting down the hours until he calls you again—nervous and breathless and needing you all over again.

Just the way you like him.

Honestly, The house felt hollow without him.

You hadn't realized how much noise Stiles carried until it was gone—like a trail of clutter and muttering and half-baked theories that usually followed him around. Now the silence was oppressive. You’d tried to distract yourself. Laundry. Scrolling. A game on mute. Even watched half an episode of some random show you'd already seen before just to fill the space. But the whole time, your mind kept drifting back to him—wondering if he was okay, if the headset finally stayed on, if his manager was being cool or if that new-kid awkwardness was clinging to him like fryer grease.

You checked your phone too many times. You typed out a couple “how’s it going?” texts and deleted them. You figured he’d let you know if something was wrong.

It turned out you didn’t have to wait long.

Your phone buzzed hard against the arm of the couch around 5:47pm—just late enough into his shift that something had clearly snapped. His name lit up your screen, and you answered before the second ring even hit.

“Hey—”

“Oh my God, I spilled two milkshakes, I slipped—like, full-on slipped—on a wet floor sign next to the wet floor sign, and I think I accidentally rang in fifteen McChickens instead of one and then had to void the whole order but the system froze so I had to get Terri to come over and un-jam it and she gave me this look, like I’d just pissed on the register. I think the new guy saw me trip, and also the headset keeps, like, echoing my own voice into my ear so I sound like a stammering idiot every time I try to say ‘Welcome to McDonald’s,’ and the ice cream machine started beeping and I don’t even know why because I swear I didn’t touch it, and I—I’m so bad at this. I’m—this is the worst idea I’ve ever had, and I once tried to wax my own chest with duct tape—”

“Stiles.”

“—and I burned my wrist because the fry basket thing slipped when I was—”

“Stiles.”

“—and I forgot to punch out for break and then tried to retroactively do it, but apparently you’re not supposed to do that? I didn’t know. I didn’t know. I—”

“Baby.”

He fell silent.

You exhaled softly and sat up straighter on the couch. “First of all, you’re not dying. Second, you didn’t accidentally launch a nuke, you just had a normal shift at a shitty fast-food job. Everyone spills stuff. Everyone trips. Everyone screws up the POS system, and if your manager's not giving you clear training, that’s on them, not you.”

A shaky breath filtered through the line. You could hear the dull, muted chaos behind him—orders being called, grease crackling, the beep-beep-beep of some back timer going off.

“I feel like I’m… I don’t know. Drowning?” he said, his voice smaller now. Not the frantic rant from before, but raw. Close. “Like I’m just—flailing in this ocean of soda syrup and mustard packets and everyone else is just swimming laps around me.”

You closed your eyes, letting his words settle in your chest. “You’re not flailing. You’re learning. That’s what this is. And I promise you, no one there has it all together. They’re just better at faking it.”

There was a pause.

“…I got ketchup on my shoe,” he whispered miserably.

“Tragic.”

“And the floor’s sticky in the breakroom.”

“Call the police.”

He let out a choked laugh that turned into a soft, pathetic sound—somewhere between a whimper and a sigh. “I’m not cut out for this, babe.”

“You’re cut out for everything. You just weren’t born knowing how to operate a headset and scoop fries and decode corporate fast food nonsense all at once. Nobody is. You just need to get through tonight.”

Another pause.

“I kind of want you to come here.”

“I kind of already have my keys in my hand.”

“You—wait, really?”

“Yeah, babe. I’m kinda on my way.”

“You don’t have to—”

“Kinda already locking the door.”

He was quiet for a second. You could picture him there in the tiny backroom, curled in on himself, hoodie bunched up under his stupid uniform, hair flattened under that dumb visor, mouth red from chewing his lip.

“Thanks,” he said quietly. “You’re… I mean. You’re kind of everything.”

“I know,” you teased, shouldering your hoodie and stepping out into the night.

And when you climbed into the car and started the engine, there was already a plan forming in the back of your mind—a slow burn of want curling through your gut. He’d sounded so fragile, so wound up, so wreckable. And if he thought you were just coming there to talk him down…

Well, he was in for a hell of a comfort shift.

The drive felt longer than it actually was.

Beacon Hills wasn’t big, but when someone you loved sounded like they were hanging on by a thread—frantic, flushed, tangled up in his own nerves—every red light was a personal insult. You drummed your fingers against the wheel, headlights bouncing over familiar signs and sleepy storefronts, your chest buzzing with a mix of protectiveness and low-simmering heat.

Stiles always wore his anxiety on the surface. He didn't hide it; he couldn't. It lived in his fingers, the way they twitched or drummed or curled into sleeves. It lived in his breath—fast, shallow, rushed like it might forget how to come back in. You’d seen it a hundred times: when he was late to class, when his dad got called out on a tough case, when his shoelace snapped and he thought it meant the whole day was cursed.

But this was different.

This wasn’t school nerves. This wasn’t test-taking panic or awkward social tension. This was him trying to step into something new, trying to be an adult, trying to not mess it all up—and every little bump was hitting harder because he cared. Because he wanted to do well. Because he wanted someone—anyone—to look at him and say, you’re doing okay, kid. You’ve got this.

And tonight, that someone was going to be you.

You reached over and turned the heat up a notch, like it might hold you over until you got your hands on him.You were going to wrap your arms around him, hold him against your chest until he remembered how to breathe, kiss his stupid little visor right off his head if that’s what it took.

The McDonald’s lights were visible before you even turned into the parking lot—neon yellows and reds casting long, tired shadows across the asphalt. It wasn’t busy anymore. Just a few cars in the drive-thru. Most of the windows were dark except for the glow behind the counter and the dull blue light leaking out from the back hallway where staff came and went.

You pulled in slow, parking just off to the side where employees usually stood during breaks. The air smelled like fryer oil and half-burnt coffee, and it clung to everything. Even from here, you could see someone mopping through the front—a blur of motion and yellow “CAUTION” signs—and your stomach tugged.

Because you knew he was in there.

You knew he was somewhere in that building, buzzing out of his skin, twisting his fingers into his hoodie sleeves, probably pacing a line into the tile, telling himself he was messing everything up.

And you were about to walk in and make him feel like the most wanted, seen, safe person on Earth.

Your phone buzzed in the cupholder. One new message from Stiles:

Backroom. Please don’t laugh when you see me. I look like a gremlin.

You stared at the screen for a second, smiling gently.

Then you sent back:

You’re my favorite gremlin. On my way in. Don’t melt.

You grabbed your hoodie from the passenger seat, tugged it on over your tee, and stepped into the night.

You were about to give him the only kind of relief that actually mattered—more than touching, more than teasing.

Love that wraps around you and doesn’t let go. Love that whispers: You’re safe. I’ve got you. You’re enough.

And you were going to remind him of that until he believed it. Until every last crack in him had been kissed quiet.

The moment you stepped through the double doors, the greasy hum of fluorescent lights and the low hiss of fryer oil hit you like a wave. It smelled like salt and stress and plastic-wrapped baked apple pies, and the tile squeaked under your shoes like it didn’t want you there.

You didn’t care.

You made a beeline for the counter, eyes scanning the inside with practiced calm, like you belonged there. And technically? You did. Your boyfriend was in the back losing his mind, and you were here to fix it.

There was a girl wiping down the milkshake station, blonde braid hanging over one shoulder, her visor crooked at a charming angle of not-giving-a-damn. She glanced up when she saw you, blinking at first—then pausing, looking you up and down like she was trying to place something. Her eyes widened slightly, and she let out this soft little, ohhh, under her breath.

“I’m here to see Stiles,” you said, not even bothering to lower your voice, your hands planted casually in your hoodie pocket. “He called me.”

Her whole face lit up like a rom-com meet-cute just exploded in her brain. “Oh, you’re his?”

You blinked. “Yeah?”

She grinned, eyes sparkling now, tossing her cleaning rag on the counter like it no longer mattered. “Dude’s been pacing in the backroom like it’s a damn telenovela. Full-on muttering, pulling at his sleeves, acting like he just set fire to the kitchen or something. I figured he was talking to someone important, but this is cute.”

She didn’t wait for you to respond—just jerked her thumb toward the back like she was already halfway invested in your love story. “Come on. He’s all freaked out and pink in the face. It’s either endearing or tragic, I haven’t decided.”

You followed her past the registers, the overhead menu screens still glowing like hollow billboards in the dark. The kitchen smelled stronger back here—more oil, more cleaner, more burnt starch—and the sound of timers ticking down and headset chatter fuzzing in the background wrapped around everything.

“Just back here,” she said, pushing open the swinging door labeled “STAFF ONLY.” “Try not to break him.”

You huffed a laugh. “I’ll do my best.”

As soon as you stepped through the backroom door, the difference was immediate. It was quieter—still buzzing faintly with the building’s hum, the occasional ding from a timer—but otherwise dim, cramped, and a little too warm. Boxes stacked along the walls. Wire shelves full of paper cups and ketchup packets. A narrow bench pressed up under a mounted coat rack, someone’s half-finished soda sweating onto the floor.

And there—curled into himself like a stormcloud in human form—was Stiles.

He was standing in the far corner, hoodie sleeves shoved halfway up his forearms and his McDonald’s polo bunching awkwardly around his waist like it didn’t quite know how to sit on his frame. His head was down, visor casting a shadow across his buzzed hair, one hand raking through the stubble like he was trying to find an escape hatch in his own scalp. His mouth was moving—talking to himself, still going—and you could catch the faint edges of it:

“Okay. Okay, it’s fine. It’s just a job, it’s just a job, nobody died—unless I gave someone the wrong order and now they’re allergic to pickles and—fuck, no, no, Stiles, stop—just breathe, just—okay but the fries were overcooked and now they think I don’t care—God, I probably look like I’m high or something—”

You stepped into the room, quiet but deliberate.

“Hey.”

He spun so fast he nearly knocked over a crate of straws. His eyes were wide, frantic, and when they landed on you—real, present, warm and solid—his whole expression cracked.

“You came.”

You stepped forward slowly, hands still in your hoodie pocket, voice gentle like you were trying not to spook a wild animal. “Of course I came. You sounded like you were about to collapse in on yourself like a dying star.”

“I—okay, yes, that’s probably accurate,” he said in a half-laugh, half-wheeze. “I just—I didn’t expect you to actually—like, you had your night. You were doing your stuff. And now you’re in here, and I look like the end of a stress PSA.”

You tilted your head and smiled, soft and full of something warmer than just affection. You stepped closer, close enough that he had to tilt his head back a little to keep eye contact.

“You’re the best part of my night, Stiles,” you said, voice low. “Of course I came.”

He looked like he didn’t know what to do with that. Like his brain short-circuited on kindness alone. His hands twitched like he wanted to reach for you but didn’t think he was allowed.

So you closed the space yourself.

One hand reached up, curled around the back of his neck, thumb brushing gently under the edge of his dumb drive-thru headset. The other slid to his waist, fingers hooking into the hem of his polo like it was a lifeline. His breath caught. His shoulders dropped, just a little.

And then, finally, he exhaled. Like your presence was permission to let go.

“Hey,” you murmured, brushing your thumb along his jaw. “I got you. You’re okay. I’m here.”

He nodded once, just barely.

Then he leaned into your chest and whispered, voice breaking, “I missed you so bad.”

You held him tighter.

“Yeah, baby. I missed you too.”

He sank into you like he’d been waiting to fall.

Every muscle in his body let go the second your arms wrapped around him—like all the tension that had been knotting up in his chest since his shift started suddenly had somewhere to go. His breath hitched again, not like panic this time, but like relief—like he was holding back a sound he didn’t know if he was allowed to make.

You pressed your face into his hair, the faintest whiff of fryer grease clinging to the buzzed strands, and held him closer.

“Deep breath, baby,” you whispered against his temple. “Come on. Just one. In through your nose.”

He followed you, a shaky inhale filling his chest where it was pressed against yours.

“Good. Now out.”

Another breath, this one steadier. His hands finally unclenched from the bottom hem of his hoodie and crept around your back, squeezing tightly like he was scared you’d vanish if he let go.

“You’ve been doing so good,” you murmured, peppering soft, featherlight kisses along the top of his head, his temple, the curve of his cheekbone. “You’ve only been working here a few hours and you already care this much. That’s not failure, Stiles. That’s you giving a shit. And it’s beautiful.”

He let out a choked little laugh. “It’s a literal minimum wage job. I shouldn’t be this stressed about deep-frying potato product.”

“That doesn’t make your feelings less real,” you said, pressing a kiss under his ear. “You can be overwhelmed and still be doing amazing.”

You felt him shiver.

Maybe it was the kisses. Maybe it was your voice low and soft and warm in his ear. Maybe it was the pressure of your hands sliding slow and firm up his back, grounding him.

Or maybe—just maybe—it was the way he’d been shaking apart in private for hours, alone in this shitty, overlit fast-food hellscape, and now here you were: solid, warm, steady. A break in the noise. A safe place to land.

Your fingers trailed down his arms, thumbs sweeping softly along his wrists. He’d rolled his hoodie sleeves halfway up, and there was a red mark blooming near the inside of one. You kissed it gently.

“This the burn?” you murmured against his skin.

He nodded sheepishly. “Yeah. Fryer tray. It hissed like a demon.”

You kissed the mark again, even softer. “Well, you survived. My brave little grease warrior.”

He let out another breath, this one a little more laugh than sigh. He tilted his head up, and you finally got a good look at his face.

Cheeks still flushed. Mouth bitten pink. Eyes wide and glassy, lashes clumped slightly from the heat in the backroom. The black visor was tilted too far forward again, casting a shadow over his buzzed head, and for a brief second—just a flicker—you had the thought again:

He looks so goddamn good like this.

Tense. Overworked. Pink in the face from stress and stubbornness. That ugly polo stretched tight over his chest. The fabric of his khaki pants tugged in all the wrong places. And that visor, crooked and dumb and so Stiles, sitting low over those big, frantic eyes.

God, he wore chaos like no one else.

You pressed your forehead to his, nose brushing his, breath warm between you.

“You’ve done nothing wrong tonight, okay?” you said softly. “Spilling milkshakes? That’s human. Frying things too long? Literally everyone does that. You didn’t burn the place down. You didn’t punch the headset. You’re still standing. You’re doing great.”

His lips trembled like he was trying not to cry—not really out of sadness, but just relief.

“I kept thinking I was gonna get fired,” he whispered, voice raw. “Like they were gonna realize I don’t know what I’m doing.”

You leaned in and kissed the corner of his mouth. “You don’t know what you’re doing. No one does in their first week. That’s why training exists. You’re not failing, baby. You’re learning.”

Another kiss, this time to the center of his forehead.

“And even if you were failing—newsflash, you’re not—but if you were? I’d still be right here. I'd still show up the second you call. I’d still wrap you up like this and tell you how proud I am of you.”

His breath hitched again, and his grip on you tightened like he was worried he might float away otherwise.

You let the silence sit between you for a beat, thick and full of held emotion. You brushed your knuckles over his cheek, catching the tiniest sheen of sweat. He must’ve been running around for hours.

“You need a drink?” you asked gently. “Water? Or like… four gallons of Sprite?”

He sniffed a little and laughed, small but real. “I think I just need you.”

“Good,” you said, kissing the tip of his nose. “Because you’ve got me.”

You hugged him tighter, slow and full-bodied, and he melted again—like your chest was the only place he could breathe right.

You didn’t mind staying there a while.

You were going to hold him until every shaky inhale evened out. Until he remembered what it felt like to be steady. Until that dumb little visor wasn’t a symbol of failure, but something you could tease him about later, probably while pulling it off his head and kissing him breathless on a couch.

But not yet.

Now was for softness. For presence. For steady love in the middle of a fluorescent storm.

You stood there in the backroom, arms looped tight around each other, the low buzz of a distant fryer and the occasional squawk of the drive-thru headset fading into nothing. The moment had narrowed down to just you and him, caught in a quiet little pocket of warmth tucked behind crates of ketchup packets and stacks of napkin sleeves. The world didn’t reach here. Not right now.

Stiles was still pressed against you like gravity wasn’t enough. His breath had evened out a little, but you could still feel it—the lingering tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers twitched against the fabric of your hoodie like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to fully relax yet.

You weren’t about to rush him.

You kept your movements slow, soft. One hand rubbed lazy circles at the base of his spine, the other brushing up and down his arm. His skin was warm under your touch, slightly sticky from the heat of the kitchen, and still tinged pink across the cheeks and ears. That dumb visor hadn’t moved—it still sat just a little too low on his forehead, shadowing his buzzed hair and making him look like the overworked, underpaid, stupidly beautiful mess he swore he wasn’t.

“Y’know,” you murmured, brushing your nose just beneath his jawline, “I think the visor’s growing on me.”

He snorted against your chest, the sound muffled. “You are such a liar.”

“No, I’m serious.” You tipped your head just slightly, enough to rest your chin on his shoulder as you nuzzled closer. “I think it really brings out your exhausted, end-of-the-world aesthetic. Like a sexy drive-thru apocalypse survivor.”

He huffed a breath, shoulders jerking with barely-contained laughter. “That’s not a thing.”

“It is now.” You kissed the curve where his neck met his collar. “I should’ve worn a matching one. We’d be unstoppable. Like, emotionally unavailable but aesthetically devastating.”

He finally looked up at you, blinking through lashes still clumped from sweat, eyes clearer now. Still soft around the edges, still vulnerable, but no longer braced for the world to shatter. Just Stiles—your Stiles—tired and wrung-out and still looking like the best thing you’d ever held.

“I must look like hell,” he murmured, almost shy.

You reached up and gently ran your knuckles along his cheekbone. “You look real. Honest. Hot, actually.”

He flushed immediately, jerking back a little with a disbelieving laugh. “Okay, now you’re just being mean.”

You stepped in again, closing that tiny bit of space, your hands finding his waist, your mouth tugged into a crooked grin. “I don’t lie about what turns me on, babe.”

His breath caught again—but this time, it was with a smile. A real one. Small. Lopsided. But his.

You leaned forward, slowly, deliberately, your forehead brushing against his until you felt the soft press of skin meeting skin. He let out a little sound, barely a noise, like all the air in his lungs had just gone sweet instead of sharp.

You rubbed the tip of your nose against his.

Stiles blinked, confused for half a second—then his face broke into this ridiculous, perfect smile.

“Are you trying to Eskimo kiss me right now?” he whispered, incredulous.

You nodded, noses still pressed, and whispered back, “Maybe.”

His shoulders shook as he laughed, warm and breathy, and he bumped his nose against yours in return.

It was clumsy. Uncoordinated. You both accidentally headbutted each other a little, and Stiles let out a tiny, high-pitched ow, even though it clearly didn’t hurt. And then you both just stood there—foreheads pressed, noses brushing, giggling like idiots in a supply room surrounded by cardboard boxes and the ghost of burned fries.

Your chest shook with laughter, and you watched him through blurry eyes as he tried to get his breath back, still grinning, still flushed.

“God,” he said, leaning into you again, the visor almost bumping you in the face this time, “you’re, like, obscenely good at this.”

“At what?” you teased, rubbing your nose against his again, gently this time.

“This,” he said, voice a little softer now. “Making me feel… safe. Like I’m not screwing everything up just by existing.”

You pulled him in tighter, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of his head. Your lips brushed the corner of his mouth again—tender, quiet, grounding.

“You’re not screwing anything up,” you said. “You’re figuring it out. And I’m right here with you.”

He looked at you, and for a second it was all there in his eyes—everything he couldn’t say without crying again. You saw it. You held it.

And then, still smiling, you bumped his nose with yours again, quick and mischievous.

He squeaked.

You grinned.

And then you were giggling again, together, wrapped in this quiet little hurricane of affection and cheap polyester and the kind of love that makes all the fluorescent hum and grease-slicked chaos feel small.

You could’ve stayed like that forever.

The hum of the freezer, the faint buzz of fluorescent lights, and Stiles’s breathing—still a little shaky, but steadying—are all that fill the space. He’s in your arms, pressed soft and warm against your chest, his stupid little McDonald’s visor tilted askew, cheeks still red from crying and adrenaline and embarrassment, but his smile—God, that smile—is back. Small. Real.

He giggles, just barely, and his nose crinkles in that way that should be illegal.

You should keep things sweet. Just hold him. Tell him again that he’s okay, that he’s good. But something shifts in your chest when he looks up at you through those lashes, smiling like you hung the moon, and you feel it—low, deep, needy. Like gravity pulling you forward, body reacting before your brain has the words for it.

You tilt your head. Your lips brush the corner of his mouth. His breath catches again.

“Can I…?” you whisper, your voice quieter than it’s been all night.

He nods, the barest movement, and that’s all the permission you need.

You lean in, slow, kissing him softly—once, twice—before deepening it just a little. Enough to let him feel the edge under your sweetness. Your hands smooth down his back, fingertips catching on the hem of that ridiculous polo, and he lets out a sound so soft it barely registers.

He melts into it.

When you kiss him harder, you feel him gasp into your mouth, his hands fisting your hoodie again like he needs something to anchor him. You keep it slow, deliberate—your lips sliding over his, teasing, coaxing. You suck his bottom lip gently between yours, letting your teeth graze it before pulling back just enough to see his eyes, heavy-lidded and glassy with something that’s not quite stress anymore.

You’re not letting go.

You guide him gently, one step at a time, until his back bumps the wall. The steel of the shelf rattles faintly behind him. His breath hitches.

“God,” you whisper, brushing your thumb along his cheek, “you’re so fucking cute.”

He flushes instantly, shaking his head like he doesn’t believe you, like the words don’t fit in his ears right. “Shut up,” he mumbles, biting back a smile, “I look like the damn Hamburglar had a mental breakdown.”

You kiss him again, firmer this time, your hand sliding up into his buzzed hair, tugging just enough to make him shiver.

“No. You look like someone who's mine.”

That stuns him for a second. He just stares at you, lips parted, chest rising and falling fast, and then he grabs your face and kisses you like he means it. Messy, eager, all tongue and heat and teeth bumping because neither of you cares about finesse anymore. You’re holding him against the wall now, one hand gripping his hip, the other cradling the back of his head, and he’s clinging to you like he’s scared the moment will end too soon.

When you finally slow, mouths parting just barely, noses still brushing, he exhales shakily against your lips.

“I’m gonna die if you keep kissing me like that,” he breathes.

You grin. “Then I guess I better keep going. Just to make sure.”

He snorts and buries his face in your neck. “You’re a menace.”

“You love it.”

He nods. “Yeah. I really do.”

Your heart stutters when he says it—Yeah. I really do.

So soft. So honest. It hits you right in the fucking chest.

You pull back just enough to see his face again, still partially hidden in the crook of your neck, and tilt his chin up with two fingers. He looks up at you, all wide eyes and flushed cheeks, and you swear to God he doesn’t even know what he does to you. He’s breathing through parted lips, that messy little visor still cocked sideways, and the way his buzzed hair feels under your hand—it’s dangerous. He’s dangerous. Or maybe you are.

You lean in, kiss him again, slow and purposeful. He melts like warm butter against the wall, fingers still gripping the front of your hoodie, hips just barely twitching toward yours like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

“You’re so fucking cute,” you whisper again, lips brushing his as you speak. “You don’t even know, do you?”

He lets out this strangled little noise, half-laugh, half-groan. “I—I don’t. You say stuff like that and my brain just… crashes. Like a Windows 98 shutdown sound.”

You chuckle softly, kissing the corner of his mouth, then his cheek, then that little spot right below his ear that makes him shiver. “Yeah? Poor baby. Can’t handle compliments?”

He whimpers, actually whimpers, and it goes straight through you.

Your hands slide down slowly, over the cheap polyester polo that’s clinging to his torso with the faintest sheen of sweat, down to where his khaki shorts sit too snug on his hips. You toy with the waistband, just brushing your knuckles beneath his shirt, and he squirms a little—nervous, but not stopping you.

“You okay?” you murmur, kissing down his jaw, your breath hot against his skin.

He nods quickly, voice barely a breath. “Y-Yeah. Just… no one’s ever…” He swallows. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

You smile against his neck, nuzzling there, soft and sweet even as your fingers work the top button of his shorts. “You don’t have to do anything. Just let me take care of you.”

He exhales hard, his head thunking softly back against the wall. “Holy shit.”

You pop the button and unzip him slowly, deliberately, your knuckles brushing the soft cotton of his boxers. He’s hard. Not fully—yet—but getting there, thick and warm under your touch, twitching when your fingers graze him through the fabric.

“See?” you murmur against his lips as you kiss him again. “You are turned on. Told you you were hot.”

He groans and tries to hide his face again, but you’re quicker, cupping his jaw and forcing him to look at you.

“Don’t hide from me,” you whisper. “You look so good like this. You’ve been working so hard all night, being so sweet, and now you’re letting me touch you? Letting me make you feel good?” You slip your hand into his boxers, and he gasps, hips jerking.

“You’re so perfect, Stiles. So fucking good.”

He looks wrecked already, just from a hand on his cock. His lashes flutter, mouth hanging open, cheeks impossibly red. “I—I think I’m gonna short circuit,” he breathes, voice cracking. “Like I can hear the dial-up tone in my brain.”

You kiss him again, deep and slow, while your hand strokes him lazily—fingers wrapped around the base, thumb teasing the slit. He twitches in your palm, moaning softly against your mouth. His cock is hot and leaking now, and his boxers are damp with it.

“You’re doing so good for me, baby,” you murmur. “Look how hard you are. Just from some kissing and a little praise. God, you’re so responsive.”

“Th-that’s a word,” he whimpers, voice going high and sweet. “Jesus. You’re like… you’re like a fucking sex wizard or something.”

You laugh against his mouth, so fond it makes your chest ache. “Just for you, baby.”

And then you kiss him again, because if you don’t, you’re going to say something like I think I might love you—and neither of you is ready for that while your hand’s still down his pants.

You stay like that for a breath—a heartbeat—lips barely apart, your hand wrapped around him warm and slow inside his boxers, his cock twitching with every soft stroke. Stiles is flushed all the way to his ears, breathing like he just ran a mile, his eyes half-lidded and overwhelmed, but still looking at you like you hung the damn stars.

You shift your mouth down, slowly, kissing along his jaw. He tips his head back instinctively, giving you space, trust spilling from him like it’s the easiest thing in the world. You mouth at his skin just under his jaw, just above his collar—soft, wet kisses that make him sigh—and when your teeth scrape lightly across the bend of his throat, he makes a sound. A sharp little gasp that melts into a moan as his hands grab at your hoodie again, grounding himself.

“Fuck,” he breathes, voice wrecked and wobbly, “I don’t—I don’t think I’m gonna survive this. This might be, like, the best and worst way to die.”

You smile against his neck, lips dragging slowly down. “Not dying, baby. Just feeling good. Just letting me take care of you.”

You nose the collar of his polo aside, biting softly at the edge of his shoulder, your tongue flicking over the spot before you kiss it better. His hips rock against your hand, needy now, his cock growing fully hard beneath your touch. It’s beautiful—the way he responds. Like he doesn’t know how to not give you everything.

“You’re doing so well,” you murmur against his skin. “So perfect. Letting me touch you like this. Letting me see you like this.”

He lets out a breathy little “fuck” and whines when you squeeze him gently, thumb brushing over the tip through his boxers, slick with pre-cum. The fabric's damp now, sticking to him, and you can't help it—you need more. Need him.

You sink slowly to your knees, eyes never leaving his flushed face as you ease his shorts and boxers down in one fluid motion. His cock bobs free, thick and hard and so achingly pretty, flushed deep at the head and leaking steadily. You stare for a second—just breathe him in—then press the softest kiss to the tip.

Stiles gasps, hands flying to your shoulders like he’s not sure whether to pull you closer or push you away.

“Oh my god,” he whispers, voice cracking. “That’s—you’re—fuck.”

You press another kiss to the side of his shaft. Then another. And another. Slow and reverent, like you’re memorizing him with your mouth.

“You’re perfect,” you whisper between kisses. “Look at you. All flushed and sweet and hard for me. You’re so fucking good, baby.”

He makes a wounded little noise like he doesn’t know what to do with the praise, thighs tensing under your hands.

“You don’t even get it, do you?” you murmur, kissing along the vein on the underside of his cock. “How good you are. How much I want you.”

You mouth at the base, nuzzle against his skin, press your lips to the crease of his thigh. He’s trembling now, breath coming in little gasps, hips twitching forward, like he can’t decide if he wants more or if it’s already too much.

His voice is barely a whisper: “I’m gonna—gonna break into, like, pixels if you keep saying stuff like that.”

You laugh softly and kiss the tip again, eyes flicking up to meet his. He’s staring down at you, lips parted, completely wrecked—and you haven’t even really started yet.

“Good,” you breathe. “Fall apart for me, Stiles. I’ll catch you.”

You let the words settle between you—I'll catch you—and for a second, Stiles looks like he might cry again, not from panic this time, but from something soft and terrifyingly big. His fingers tighten on your shoulders, and his thighs tremble beneath your palms, and you don’t rush him. You just stay there, on your knees on the cold backroom tile, mouth near his cock, hands splayed gently on the sides of his hips like you’re holding something delicate.

Like he might shatter if you hold him too hard.

He swallows hard. Looks down at you, dazed and flushed and blinking like he doesn’t understand how he got here. “I, uh…” he starts, voice low, trembling, “I don''t…”

“I know,” you murmur, brushing your lips against his hip, “and you don’t have to. You say the word, I stop. But if you want me to… if you want to feel good, I want to take care of you.”

His breath stutters out of him, shaky and tight, and he nods. Slowly. “Yeah. I—I want. Please.”

You smile and press one more kiss to his inner thigh before you lean in again, kissing the base of his cock with the kind of care people usually reserve for sacred things. You drag your lips along the length, slow and soft, feeling every twitch, every slight tremble. He’s so sensitive already, his hips shifting forward and back, but you don’t take him in yet. You just savor it. Savor him.

When you finally part your lips and wrap them around the head, he shudders like a live wire, a low, strangled sound caught in the back of his throat. His hand flies up—then hesitates—hovering over your head like he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to touch.

You pull off slowly, just enough to whisper, “It’s okay. You can guide me. Go slow. Tell me what feels good.”

He nods, shakily, then gently rests his hand on your head—light, careful, like you’re made of glass. You lick the head softly, swirling your tongue around it, and his fingers twitch, not pushing, just holding on.

His other hand slaps over his mouth the second a choked moan slips out.

“F-fuck,” he mumbles against his palm. “We’re in—Jesus—we’re in the backroom. Oh my God. There are—there are, like, fries ten feet from here.”

You hum around him, slow and low, which makes his knees buckle a little. You reach up and grip his hips to keep him steady, then take him in again—deeper this time, just a little. You go slow, wet and warm and gentle, sucking him down a few inches at a time and pulling back just as slowly, letting him feel every inch of it.

Stiles is gasping now, trying desperately to stay silent, his hand gripping your hair like he’ll float away if he doesn’t hold on. He’s so responsive, his cock twitching with every pass of your tongue, every soft moan you let out around him. Every time he almost makes a noise, he clamps his other hand harder over his mouth, eyes wide and wild, like he’s afraid he might scream if he lets go.

You glance up and he’s looking down at you, wrecked and shaking, sweat on his brow and his mouth open just enough that you can see the shape of the vowels he’s biting back.

“You’re doing so good, baby,” you whisper when you pull off again, stroking him slowly with one hand. “So sweet. Letting me take care of you like this. You feel so good in my mouth.”

He whimpers, actually whimpers, and you watch the shame and heat war on his face like he doesn’t know whether to melt into it or run.

You smile gently, licking a stripe up the underside of his cock. “You don’t have to be quiet for me. Just do your best. I know it’s hard.”

“Everything is hard,” he whines under his breath, voice cracking, and you both laugh quietly—because even now, he’s still Stiles—and then he moans again when you take him back into your mouth.

This time, you let him guide the rhythm. Let him roll his hips just a little, slow and hesitant, like he’s scared he’ll hurt you. You keep your hands on his thighs, squeezing gently, encouraging. You hollow your cheeks and moan around him, and he shudders, grip tightening just enough to make your scalp tingle.

He’s shaking now, full-body trembling, holding his breath like that’ll keep the noise in, and you can tell he’s close—but he’s fighting it. Trying to hold back. Trying not to let go too fast, even though it’s his first time, even though he’s barely holding on.

You pull off slowly, kiss the tip one more time, and look up at him with a soft smile, thumb brushing his hip.

“Still with me?”

He nods quickly, chest rising and falling like he’s run a marathon. “Y-yeah. I just. I need a second. Or, like, twenty. You’re gonna kill me.”

You press a kiss to his lower stomach and grin. “Nah, baby. I’m gonna make you feel alive.”

You let that last promise hang in the air for a breath, then you lower your head again—no teasing this time. No slow build. He’s already teetering, already right there, and you want to give it to him. Want to take it from him.

Your lips part and you take him back into your mouth, deeper this time, letting him slide past your tongue inch by inch until he’s pressing against the back of your throat. You breathe slow and steady through your nose, adjusting, eyes fluttering shut for just a second as you savor the feel of him—hot, heavy, pulsing, twitching.

The sound he makes is helpless. Desperate. A strangled, half-choked moan like he doesn’t know whether to sob or scream. His fingers curl hard into your hair now, not to force you down, but to hang on, like he’s barely holding himself together.

You bob your head slowly, rhythm steady, sucking him down and pulling back, letting your tongue work around the head on every upstroke. The taste of him is everywhere—salty, hot, Stiles—and you groan low in your throat just to feel him jump against your tongue. Your hands grip his thighs tight as you feel his muscles strain and shake, and when he gasps again, it’s almost a warning.

“I—fuck, fuck, I’m—” he pants, wild and broken. “I’m gonna—shit—I’m coming—”

And you don’t pull off. You don’t slow down. You suck him deeper, lips sealing tight around him, hand sliding from his thigh to cradle his hip as he jerks, as his whole body locks up and his cock twitches hard once, twice—

Then he’s spilling into your mouth.

He shouts through gritted teeth, trying to muffle it with the back of his hand, but the sound still bursts out of him, rough and wrecked and real. His legs nearly give out, knees buckling under the intensity of it, and you hold him steady as hot spurts of come hit the back of your throat. You swallow immediately—reflexively—your throat working around him as you keep him deep, making sure nothing spills. His cock twitches again and again as he empties himself into you, and you take all of it, not letting up until you feel the pulses start to slow.

Even then, you don’t move right away. You stay there, mouth full of him, holding him safe and snug while he shakes through the aftershocks. His hand is a death grip in your hair now, not rough, just desperate—anchored. You can feel him trembling under your palms, chest heaving, every inch of him overstimulated and twitchy.

Finally, slowly, you ease off him, inch by inch, keeping your lips soft and sealed around him so nothing smears, nothing escapes. He makes a pitiful sound as you pull off, this soft, broken whine like he doesn’t know what to do with himself without your mouth around him.

His cock twitches again when you release him with a soft pop, slick and sensitive and still hard enough that it bobs slightly in the cool air. He hisses through his teeth, hips jerking once, too raw to hide how overwhelmed he is.

You press a gentle kiss to the tip—just a soft touch of your lips—and then another to his thigh, and then lower your head to rest it lightly against his hip.

You can feel the way he’s still trembling. See it, too—his fingers shaking where they hover awkwardly in your hair, his knees visibly wobbling, his chest rising and falling in quick, shallow gasps like he’s still coming down from the high.

And his face—god, his face.

He’s flushed to the ears, eyes half-lidded and glassy, mouth parted and lips swollen from biting back every noise he could. There’s a look there that’s hard to name—part awe, part disbelief, and something else. Something deeper. Like he’s not just undone by the orgasm but by what it meant. By the way you took care of him. Like he doesn’t know how to hold that kind of softness.

You rub slow, soothing circles into his hips with your thumbs, grounding him.

“You okay, baby?” you murmur, voice low and warm.

He nods, fast at first, then slower, like it takes effort. “Yeah. I just—Jesus. I—I died. That was—you killed me.”

You smile, and lean up to press a soft kiss just above his navel. “Nah. Told you, remember? I made you feel alive.”

He laughs—actually laughs—a rough, wrecked little sound that cracks halfway through, and then he sinks down toward you, collapsing half into your lap. You catch him easily, arms sliding around his waist, pulling him close as he curls in.

His breath hitches once. And then he lets it out, long and shaky, as he presses his forehead against your shoulder.

“…I think you broke my knees.”

You laugh quietly and kiss the side of his head. “You loved it.”

“I did,” he groans, voice still hoarse and shaky. “Which is terrifying. Because if your mouth feels that good on me, I don’t even know what the hell’s gonna happen when, uh… when I—y’know… fuck you.”

He winces a little at the last part, cheeks blooming red like he can’t believe he just said that out loud. His eyes widen slightly, flicking away for half a second like he's about to apologize, but when he glances back down at you—on your knees, lips slick, eyes shining—he seems to find something steadier inside himself. Still unsure, still amazed, but holding onto it anyway.

You blink up at him from the floor, hands warm on his thighs, and Stiles swallows thickly like he’s trying to reboot his whole brain just to process you. The look on his face is a jumble of things: shock, awe, deep, unfiltered want—but under it all, this aching kind of gentleness. Like he can’t believe this is happening, and he’s terrified he might mess it up.

His hand’s still hovering near your face, twitching a little like he wants to touch you but doesn’t know if it’s okay. You lean into it, your cheek brushing his knuckles, and the soft exhale he lets out is wrecked.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice rough but quiet, like he’s almost afraid of the answer. “That wasn’t… too much, right? You’re not, like, sore or—God, I didn’t mean to, like, shove myself down your—”

“Hey,” you say softly, and his mouth clamps shut. “I’m fine. More than fine.”

The way relief floods his face—it’s like you flipped a switch. His shoulders sag just a little, like he’d been holding himself tense without realizing, and now he’s trying to come back to earth.

“I just,” he mumbles, scratching the back of his neck with his free hand. “I’ve never… had anyone do that for me. Ever. And especially not like that. It wasn’t—like, it didn’t feel dirty or fast or… y'know, like one of those locker room fantasy things. It felt…” He swallows again. “It felt like you actually wanted to.”

“I did,” you say.

And oh, God, the look that earns you—his whole face goes soft, like he doesn’t know what to do with that kind of honesty. Like maybe he’s not used to being the one someone else wants first. You shift slightly and press a last, warm kiss to the soft skin just below his belly button before gently helping him tuck himself back into his boxers. He hisses a little when the fabric brushes over his still-sensitive cock, and you immediately kiss the crease of his hip, murmuring a quiet “Sorry.”

Stiles just shakes his head quickly, his hand finding your shoulder this time, steadying himself—not because he needs to, but because he wants the contact.

“You’re ridiculous,” he says, a little breathless, a little stunned. “Like, in a good way. A really, really good way.”

You smile as you guide his khaki shorts back up, fingers brushing lightly over his thighs as you do the button. There’s something weirdly intimate in the quiet domesticity of it—like you’re not just helping him get dressed, but grounding him. Letting him stay in this moment. When you glance back up, Stiles is already watching you. Eyes wide, soft, like he doesn’t want to blink in case this all disappears. “You okay to stand?”

“I mean, in theory,” he says with a dazed little laugh. “I can’t feel my knees, so there’s a strong chance I just collapse and die.”

You rise slowly, and the moment you’re up, he pulls you into him—not rough, not demanding, just… close. Like you’re an anchor he’s afraid to lose. His hands settle carefully at your hips, and when your noses bump, you realize he’s leaning in again. The kiss he gives you this time is softer than any of the others. Not rushed. Not frantic. Just real. He lingers there, lips barely moving, like he’s trying to pour every unsaid word into the space between you.

You melt into it, sighing quietly, and slip your hand into the back of his buzzed hair. It’s soft and warm under your fingers, and when you scratch gently at the base of his neck, he exhales against your mouth. He pulls back slowly, his eyes a little clearer now—still wide, still reeling, but more focused. More there. And his expression shifts—like he’s trying to say something important but doesn’t want to scare you with it.

“I—um. I really, really meant what I said,” he mumbles, a bit shy now. “About, like, doing that next time. Being the one who… who gets to—y’know.” He gestures vaguely. “With you. I mean, if you want that. And if it’s not weird. And if I don’t completely mess it up and fall over or hit my head on something.”

You blink, heart stuttering. “You want to top?”

“Y-yeah,” he says quickly. “Not in a, like, ‘alpha male’ way or anything. I just… I wanna take care of you. Like you just took care of me. And I… I want to see you like that. See how you look when I’m—” He stops, turning even redder, then mumbles, “Inside you.”

You stare for a beat. Then: “Stiles…”

“I mean, if you don’t want to—”

“No,” you cut in, smiling. “I do. God, I really do.”

He visibly relaxes, smiling a little—awkward and crooked and impossibly sweet. But there’s a flicker of heat behind it now. A little more grounded. A little more sure.

“I, uh… maybe not here, though,” he says, glancing around sheepishly. “I don’t wanna break your spine over a bag of crinkle fries.”

You laugh, and he beams.

“But like…” He glances down at his hands on your hips, then back up at you. “Later. Somewhere, like, safe. Where I can go slow. Where I can see your face. Take my time.”

Your breath catches, chest suddenly aching in the best way. He leans in again, brushing your nose with his. “Okay?”

You nod. “More than okay.”

“Cool.” He kisses you once more—sweet and lingering—and then rests his forehead against yours, breath warming your skin.

“We should go before someone walks in and I get fired for literally dying happy.” You laugh, heart fluttering. And you both know: this was only the beginning. And next time—when it’s just the two of you, no fry smell, no ticking clock—he’s going to give you everything. Even if he’s still figuring out how.

He’s still holding you close, warm hands settled on your hips like he’s afraid if he lets go, you might disappear. His breath is a little steadier now, brushing soft over your cheek, and the adrenaline’s finally bleeding off, leaving just the afterglow and a fragile sort of awe. You stay quiet for a moment, just breathing together in the back room of a McDonald’s like it’s the most sacred place on earth.

Then, with your lips close to his ear, you murmur, “So. You’re gonna fuck me, huh?”

The sound he makes—it’s somewhere between a gasp and a strangled choke. His face goes from flushed to full-body red, and his eyes shoot wide as he pulls back to look at you, stammering. “I—wh—You—that’s not—I mean, yes, but not like—God.” He scrubs a hand over his face, groaning into his palm. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You grin, leaning in to nip at his jaw. “I think I like you flustered.”

“I’m always flustered,” he mutters helplessly, voice muffled behind his hands.

“Exactly,” you murmur, nuzzling against his cheek. “It’s cute.”

He drops his hands with a sigh and gives you a look—half exasperated, half so stupidly fond it makes your chest ache. “I’m trying to be, like, confident and sexy and a ‘I’m-gonna-fuck-you’ guy. And you’re over here making fun of me.”

“I’m not making fun of you,” you say, smiling. “I’m appreciating you. There’s a difference.”

Stiles huffs, but he’s fighting back a smile. His hands squeeze your waist a little tighter like he doesn’t want to leave this bubble you’ve built. “You know this is the weirdest, best day of my life, right?”

You lean your forehead against his, humming. “Yeah. Same.”

For a while, you just stand there. Tucked into each other, surrounded by the low hum of the freezer unit, the faint smell of fries and fryer oil lingering in the air. It's cold on the tile, harsh fluorescent lights overhead—but none of it matters. Not with his arms around you. Not with his heart thudding steady and slow against your chest, like it’s syncing to yours. Stiles sighs, that same quiet, dazed kind of sound he made when you first kissed his neck. “I don’t wanna move,” he admits, voice low. “Like, at all.”

“Me neither.”

“But if we stay here too long, someone’s gonna come in looking for ketchup packets or something, and I’ll die. Just, like, spontaneously combust. You’ll have to explain to the coroner why my body’s in a pile of ashes next to the mop sink.”

You laugh softly and press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Guess we should get back out there before you turn to dust, then.”

He makes a dramatic groan and buries his face in your shoulder. “Fine. But I’m not letting go.”

“Didn’t ask you to.”

Eventually—reluctantly—he straightens, brushing your hair gently back from your face. His eyes are so warm now. Still wide with disbelief, still a little unsure, but there’s a steady thread of something new behind it: hope.

“You’re really okay?” he asks again, one last time. “With all of this? With me?”

You take his face in your hands, brush your thumbs over his cheeks, and nod. “I want you, Stiles. Nervous, rambling, sweet, brilliant you. Whether we’re making out in a supply closet or you’re trying to figure out how to top without imploding—I’m in.”

He stares at you for a second like he’s memorizing the words. Like he’s filing them away for every bad day, every night he doubts himself. Then he kisses you again. Slow. Sweet. With a kind of reverence that makes your knees go weak.

When he pulls back, he rests his forehead to yours and whispers, “Okay. Then I’m in, too. All in.”

The two of you straighten your clothes and make your way out of the back room, fingers still brushing, hearts still pounding. And later—when it’s dark and quiet and he’s got you alone in a real bed—he’ll finally get to show you what that means. But for now, in the echoing hum of the McDonald’s kitchen, you’ve got each other.

And it’s more than enough.

[smileysuh]

apartment complex

🌙 starring. Johnny Suh x afab!Reader I ft. Haechan & Jaehyun

🔮 preview. So… Johnny works on a rig for long periods of time, Jaehyun is a gym rat with dimples, and Hyuck is a… drug dealer who’s not afraid to be extremely direct and combative? And they’re all your neighbours and also into you? How did you get yourself into this mess? 

tw/cw. Unprotected sex, pent-up sexual tension, shower sex, masturbation, fingering, hand job, thigh riding, praise, dirty talk, breast worship/nipple play, big dick Johnny, pussy stretching, oral (f receiving), overstimulation, multiple reader orgasms, multiple sex positions, size kink (Johnny is big and a slight manhandler), mentions of aftercare, etc… I pet names: (hers) 304, baby, princess. 

👹 rating.18+ explicit I wc. 13.3k

🍭 aus. Love square, slice of life, neighbours to lovers, etc…

☀️ mlist + an. So when Johnny calls her the nickname ‘304,’ we’re not doing full numbers, it’s ‘three-oh-four’ which I actually think is kind of cute haha 

One:

You feel like an absolute mess. Your hair is all over the place, you’re in a full sweats ensemble that is - true to its name - making you perspire like nothing else as you lug boxes upon boxes of your stuff into your building and up to your new apartment.

To make matters worse, you’re exhausted. Moving days have this absolutely draining effect, and you can’t wait for the day to be over. You’re not even sure if you’ll unpack anything- maybe you’ll just fish out a towel and some body wash from one of the many crates you have, shower, then collapse onto your mattress- do you even have the energy to set up your bed frame?

You’re busy trying to plan out how you’re going to even accomplish the day, when the elevator doors open, and you find yourself staring up at one of the hottest men you’ve ever seen.

“Hi,” he grins, stepping next to you in the small space. “Moving in?”

You’re so distracted by the way his biceps look in his muscle shirt that it takes you a moment to speak. “Uh, yeah.”

“I’m Johnny,” he tells you.

“y/n.” The box in your hands is beginning to slip from the sweat on your palms, and you haphazardly readjust it on your hip.

“This might be a little forward,” Johnny chuckles, “but do you need any help?”

“Uh…” You turn once again to look up at this absolute tower of a man. “I’m almost done moving everything-”

“Let me guess, boxes done, just some furniture stuff left?”

You feel your skin flush with heat. “Is it that obvious that I’m struggling right now?” An awkward laugh escapes your lips, and you’re happy to find Johnny return the sound with a soft, understanding smile.

“Usually when cute girls move somewhere, they have a boyfriend, a brother, a dad, a friend- someone to help them do the tough stuff, and since you’re alone, I’m guessing you’re troopering this whole thing out all by yourself.”

“New city,” you explain. “I don’t uh- don’t know anyone here just yet, and my family didn’t want to take time off work to help with any of this.”

“Lucky you bumped into me then,” Johnny grins. “I just finished up at the gym, but I’ve got energy to help a new neighbour.”

The elevator dings to signal you’ve made it to your floor, and Johnny follows you out.

“You’re the new tenant for 304?” he asks.

“Uh huh,” you nod, stopping in front of the unit you now call home.

“We really are neighbours,” Johnny laughs. “I’m 306.”

“Look it was nice to meet you,” you say, “but you really don’t need to help, I’m sure I can manage my bed and a few other things-”

“y/n,” Johnny interrupts you, “I promise I’m not some creep, just a good neighbour offering help. You look tired, let me help you.”

Your pride makes it difficult to accept this sort of thing, but you swallow it, offering Johnny a nod. 

And that’s how you find yourself moving your bed and the last bit of furniture into your new apartment with one of the sexiest guys you’ve ever seen. He’s quite the charmer, and he’s reassuring too- calming you down when things are a little heavy, and slowing his own pace to match your exhaustion.

In no time at all, everything is out of the moving truck, and Johnny leans in your doorway as he watches you slump into a chair. 

“Do you want help making your bedframe or anything?” he enquires.

“Honestly? I think I’m going to call it a day,” you admit. “The drive here was long, I’ve been up since five AM, didn’t sleep well last night due to nerves-”

“Sounds like you should get some rest,” Johnny nods.

“I really appreciate your help though,” you offer. “I’ll uh, have to buy you beers or something.”

Johnny only laughs. “That’s not necessary. Besides, I work on a rig, so I’m only here a week or so every month, you caught me at a good time.”

“Oh.” You can’t help the disappointment that surges through you. Of course this man was too hot to be true- of course he has a job that requires him to be away for long periods or he’d probably have an equally hot girlfriend already.

“But… let me give you my number, and if you ever need anything while I am here, you can just give me a shout.” 

The two of you exchange digits, and with one final smile, Johnny leaves you be. 

You lay on your bed for a while, trying to calm down- from the moving, or from being around a ten out of ten, you’re not sure. 

Two:

It’s your first time doing laundry in the new building, and to your disappointment, you find the shared laundry room to have no available machines.

A sigh escapes you as you stand there momentarily, wondering if you should wait five minutes for a turn over, or just scratch this whole idea and hope there are empty machines tomorrow.

As you’re considering your options, the laundry room door opens, and a tall blonde enters.

“Hi,” he beams.

“Hello.” You watch him carefully, noticing that he heads to a machine to take out his clothes from the washer. “Uh- do you mind if I put my stuff in there once it’s empty?”

“Of course not,” he smiles. “With only six machines for the whole building, it can be a bit rough trying to nab one on busy days.”

“I’ve noticed,” you laugh. “I’m new here, my name is y/n.”

“I’m Jungwoo,” he tells you, moving his clothing into the only empty dryer. He turns on the machine and then steps back, looking over at you again. “So are you new to the building or new to the city?”

“The city,” you admit, beginning to move your stuff into the now empty washer.

“You have that look.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just- a lot of people here are boring, we’re not exactly known for fashion or anything like that-”

You look down at the Stitch onesie you’re wearing that you’d bought for Halloween a few years back but has since become a comfort outfit, then back up at the blonde.

“I just like your style!” he insists. “Not everyone can rock blue pajamas!”

You find yourself laughing at his sincerity, shaking your head as you grab your washer fluid to get the machine going.

“Anyways,” Jungwoo sighs. “Did you move here for work?”

“I actually work online,” you tell him. “I can work from anywhere, and I figured this would be a nice place to get out of the big city for a while- cheaper rent, more nature, that sort of thing.”

“Makes sense,” Jungwoo nods. “I’m a server at a bar just down the road.”

You take a moment, then laugh. “You seem like a server.”

“Because I’m so cute and social?” he grins.

“Definitely,” you nod, enjoying his energy.

“Anyways, I love making friends, and since you’re new to the city, I’m guessing you haven’t met a lot of people yet. If you want to be friends, I’d love to add you to my gossip roster.”

“Your gossip roster?”

“I’m a server, which means I love all things tea- except for when grandmas order actual tea in the middle of a rush, that’s the worst.”

“I’ll take your word on it,” you grin.

“So… friends?” Jungwoo asks.

You nod. “We can be friends.”

Three:

It’s been three weeks since you moved into your new apartment, and in that time, you’ve gotten settled, and even visited Jungwoo at his bar. He’s an interesting friend, and he seems to know everything about everyone.

At first, you’d been worried about any ulterior motives he might have, as you’ve experienced many men try to make a move on you under the guise of just wanting to be your friend. But now, you realize Jungwoo’s intentions towards you are pure- or, as pure as they can be given how much gossip he consumes.

You get the sense that you’re not his type, and that’s a hundred percent okay with you, in fact, it’s a dynamic that makes you finally feel comfortable accepting an invitation to visit his apartment.

It seems all the attractive men in your building live on your floor, and as you enter his unit, you find yet another cute man standing in the kitchen.

“This is Mark,” Jungwoo introduces you. “Mark, this is y/n. Don’t worry, Lee, I’ve told her everything about you.”

“Oh, great,” Mark sighs.

It’s true, Jungwoo has divulged way too deep into his roommate’s history. You know that he’s a content creator and chef, he used to work in a prestigious restaurant, went on one of those reality cooking shows, managed to be the runner up for the first place prize despite his awkward nature, and has now been commissioned to write a cookbook focused solely on burgers (which Jungwoo has assured you is actually a broad topic despite what you might think).

You also know that Mark has a limited dating history, with a high school sweetheart who left him right before his stint on live tv, and a new crush on some barista that he’s too shy to even talk to despite the fact that he goes to her coffee shop every day just to order frothed milk with vanilla since caffeine doesn’t agree with him.

“So what’s on the menu tonight, chef?” Jungwoo asks, coming to stand right behind Mark in the kitchen.

From the way Mark clears his throat and steps back, it’s obvious to you that he’s not as comfortable about being close to people as Jungwoo is, and you find yourself enjoying this roommate dynamic already.

“I’m actually testing some stupid protein burger for muscle heads,” Mark admits.

“Aren’t burgers already high in protein since they’re meat?” you ask.

“Yes, and no,” Mark groans, “it depends. I want to have a few vegetarian and even vegan options in the cookbook I’m writing on burgers- and lots of people want high protein even in their plant based meals.” 

“So… what are your options for this burger you’re trying to create?” you enquire. 

“I’ve tried some black bean patties, chickpea patties, that sort of thing- but I’m considering making an entire two page fold dedicated to dredges and batters that you could use on a variety of burgers, meat or vegetarian. I got everything to make a protein powder infused batter, but I’m just now realizing that the protein powder I have on hand is chocolate flavoured, which really won’t work if I put it on anything, let alone a tofu burger.”

“Call Jae,” Jungwoo says simply. “That man has a collection of protein powder that would make a man on steroids combust.”

“Maybe I should just run to the store,” Mark sighs.

“You only need a small scoop of powder, right?” Jungwoo counters. “Why would you go buy an entire plain jug of protein powder when a protein head lives next door?”

“I’d hate to bother him,” the chef groans again, and you find yourself starting to realize the true depth of his social anxiety. 

“I’ll call Jaehyun,” Jungwoo states, pulling out his phone.

You take a seat at the island counter while Jungwoo makes a deal for some powder with this ‘Jae’ person, and you watch Mark fuss over other ingredients that he adds to a dry mixing bowl.

There’s a knock at the door, and then a man peaks his head inside of the apartment.

Your eyes lock and the wind is knocked from your lungs- is every hot man in the city living in your building?

“Jae!” Jungwoo yells, “come in!”

The man steps into the apartment, offering a smile, and the dimples in his cheeks practically blind you. There’s no way around it, this man looks like a model. He’s handsome, but there’s a slightly feminine softness to the angles of his face, a warmth in his eyes, and it’s absolutely captivating.

“Am I interrupting?” Jae asks as he approaches the kitchen, his eyes continuously meeting your own.

“Not at all, Mark’s just floundering as usual, and I’m hanging out with my new friend. y/n, this is Jaehyun, Jaehyun, this is y/n.” 

“Nice to meet you,” you smile.

“You too.” Jaehyun sets a tub of protein powder onto the kitchen counter next to Mark, then he turns his full attention to you again. “So how did you meet Jungwoo?”

“In the laundry room,” Jungwoo is quick to explain, and you don’t miss the exchange of glances between Jaehyun and your friend. “She’s new to the building.” Jungwoo practically winks at Jaehyun, and you get the suspicion that he’s trying to set you up with this model looking protein man.

“I love meeting new neighbours,” Jaehyun says smoothly. “What floor are you on?”

“This one, room 304.”

“No way.” Jaehyun’s eyes widen. “That’s right across from mine!”

“You’re 305?” you ask, heart beating faster in your chest.

“In the flesh,” Jaehyun grins.

“Can we move the talking somewhere else?” Mark asks quietly. “I’m trying to concentrate.”

The energy fizzles immediately, and Jaehyun nods. “I was actually just heading to the gym.”

“Of course you were,” Jungwoo rolls his eyes.

“But uh, I’ll see you around,” Jaehyun says, looking at you directly. “Welcome to the building.” 

Four:

You suppose you shouldn’t be shocked when meeting cute men in your apartment building anymore, but you still find your breath leaving your body when you’re bringing groceries up from the parking garage only for a very cute man to enter the elevator.

He steps in and flashes you a smirk, then looks at the floor buttons. “You’re headed to three?” he asks.

“Uh huh.”

“Are you new?”

“Been here about a month.”

“Huh,” the man looks stumped for a moment. “I feel like I would have seen you. I’m Hyuck by the way.”

“y/n.”

Hyuck nods. “Are you liking the building?”

“It’s nice,” you muse, too tired from your day at the grocery store to make much smalltalk. 

“You must be… unit 304? I’m a couple of doors down, near the corner. I know someone moved out, and I heard from the building manager that someone was moving in, but fuck, I can’t believe I haven’t met you yet.”

“I can be kind of reclusive,” you joke. “I mean, I work from home.”

“Ahhh, you’re one of those girls.” Hyuck grins at you knowingly and your heart leaps into your throat.

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing,” he shrugs. “Just, you know, sometimes the cutest girls are the ones that stay in their house all day.”

“Oh.” You’re really not sure how to respond to his statement, and your eyes shift down to the floor as the elevator comes to a stop.

The two of you both turn to the left, and Hyuck walks in step with you to your door, where he stops. “What’s that?”

You’re confused for a moment, too busy fumbling with your keys, but when you look up, you realize there’s a sticky note on your door. 

“Looks like you already have an admirer,” Hyuck grins. “Was nice to meet you, we should hang sometime,” he reads. “Who do you think left this?”

You’re pretty sure it was Jaehyun who left the note- after all, the only other people you know are Jungwoo and Johnny, who both have your number, and you doubt Mark Lee of all people would be this forward. 

“I uh-” you stutter a little, swallowing thickly. “I’m not sure.”

“So are you single, or…?”

“Definitely single,” you blurt out, pushing your key into the door and clicking it unlocked.

“Definitely single,” Hyuck repeats as you push into your apartment, “I’ll keep that in mind.” 

Five:

You’re finishing up after dinner when your phone makes a beeping sound, and you quickly pick it up, surprised to see a message from Johnny.

‘Looks like you’ve got some secret admirers, 304.’

Your stomach drops, and you realize that in your haste to enter your apartment after finding Jaehyun’s note with Hyuck earlier, you hadn’t actually removed it from your door- but wait, admirers? As in… plural? 

Tripping over yourself to get to the door, you throw it open to find not one sticky note, but two.

While Jaehyun’s initial ‘Was nice to meet you, we should hang sometime’ is still there, someone has taken the liberty to put a second note on top of it, and this one reads; ‘I’m more fun, let’s have drinks.’

It’s clear who the second note is from, and you’re quick to rip both off of your door. 

Jaehyun and Hyuck are both quite forward, and your heart is racing as you go sit on your couch, feeling conflicted.

You pull out your phone again, releasing a deep sigh as you write up a text to Johnny. ‘This apartment building is so weird.’

‘Boys will be boys,’ comes his quick response. 

Taking another breath to calm yourself, you look at the texts, and that’s when you realize, ‘I didn’t know you were back from the rigs.’ 

‘Got back a couple of days ago :)’ 

Tapping your fingers against your couch, you try to figure out how you should play this.

You’re most attracted to Johnny, but now that Jaehyun and Hyuck are so clearly demonstrating their blooming affection for you - out in the open where everyone on your floor can see - you wonder if that might throw a wrench at Johnny’s own feelings for you…

Does Johnny like you?

When he’d helped you move your things, was that just him genuinely being nice? 

You feel absolutely twisted, especially since you’ve never considered yourself the type of girl to entertain a long distance relationship…

‘So… you’re in town for a few more days?’

‘three!’ 

You definitely need to sort out your priorities. 

Six:

You’re in need of a drink as you walk into Jungwoo’s work, taking a seat at the bar and releasing a deep sigh.

“For a girl who came to happy hour, you don’t look too happy,” Jungwoo muses as he moves to stand in front of you.

“Is it that obvious?” you laugh.

“I mean… you’re the hot new girl in 304 who has two guys fighting over you in sticky notes, I’d expect you to be a little more up beat.” 

“You saw that?” you ask in shock.

“Everyone saw it. Whoever left those notes weren’t exactly subtle… who did leave those notes, by the way?”

You let out a laugh, shaking your head at your friend’s need for gossip. “You know one of them at least.”

“Jae, I’m guessing,” Jungwoo nods. “He asked me for your number but since I’m your friend I’m not just out here handing around your personal information.”

“I appreciate that.”

“And guy number two?” he enquires.

“Some dude named Hyuck.”

An interesting expression immediately appears on Jungwoo’s face. It’s something between an ‘oooooh!’ and an ‘ooop!’ and you can’t quite place the emotion.

“What?” you ask, leaning forward. “You know him?”

“Everyone knows Hyuck.”

“They do?”

“Let’s just say…” Jungwoo’s voice lowers as he leans over the bar, “he’s a provider of things that a lot of people like to get their hands on.”

“Huh?” 

“A plug, there, you tortured it out of me, Hyuck is a plug,” Jungwoo throws his hands up as if you just twisted his arm for the information, and you stare at him blankly.

“A plug,” you repeat.

“You can’t be that innocent, babes, you know what I mean.”

You sit back in your chair, thinking it through.

So… Johnny works on a rig for long periods of time, Jaehyun is a gym rat with dimples, and Hyuck is a… drug dealer who’s not afraid to be extremely direct and combative? And they’re all your neighbours and also into you? How did you get yourself into this mess? 

“Where did you even meet Hyuck?” Jungwoo asks.

“In the elevator?”

“Why did that sound like a question?” your friend laughs.

“I don’t know! God, I’m just… overwhelmed.”

“There are worse things to be overwhelmed about, I mean… tax season is coming soon, and I don’t know how much fraud I should commit with my tips.” 

You can’t help but laugh at Jungwoo, and he’s succeeded in using humour to calm you down. 

He’s grinning at you, and he taps his hand onto the bar top. “Let me make you a drink, on me, but you’ll be paying me with gossip, deal?” 

“Deal.”

You trust Jungwoo to make you drinks by now, and he doesn’t ask what you want, he simply begins to mix a fruity concoction together. Soon, he’s setting it down in front of you and you’re taking a large gulp.

“So…” he grins. “Hyuck or Jae?”

“Are those my only options?”

Jungwoo’s eyes widen. “Spill the tea.”

“I just… I met this guy Johnny when I moved in-”

“Johnny as in super tall, blue collar, muscle man, Johnny?”

“Sounds like him,” you laugh.

“And you met him the first day you moved in?”

“He actually helped me with boxes and furniture.”

Jungwoo lets out a whistle. “Now I see why you’re overwhelmed.”

“I guess, I just don’t really know any of these guys too well. I’ve only met all of them once-”

“But you have a favourite,” Jungwoo interjects. “Johnny’s your favourite, despite his fucked up job.”

You sigh. “How could you tell?”

“I watch a lot of reality tv, in shows like Love is Blind or Singles Inferno sometimes a girl has multiple guys going for her, but the first one leaves a mark… it’s not always the case though, but it’s about that initial impact.” 

“Impact,” you repeat. “Johnny definitely made an impact… and he saw the notes from Hyuck and Jae.”

“Oooooh,” Jungwoo grins, “scandalous.” 

“But he works away for weeks at a time!”

“He’s here now,” Jungwoo points out. “So… go on a date with him, and sort out Hyuck and Jae after.”

“You think so?”

“What could be wrong about it?” Jungwoo shrugs. “Go on a date with Johnny, see how you feel- maybe he does something gross that turns you off and it makes life easier.”

“Or maybe he’s perfect and it makes things even worse,” you sigh.

“You never know until you try. Another thing from my dating shows is that no one wants to live with regrets, and I don’t think you do either.” 

Seven:

You’d taken Jungwoo’s advice, and after two drinks at the bar, you’re home, waiting for a knock that sounds on your door.

Taking a deep breath, you fix your outfit, approaching your entry way to find Johnny standing in the hall. He looks all tall and gorgeous, in a similar laid back muscle shirt and sweats combo to the one you’d first seen him in. His hair is a little messy and damp as if he’d just come out of a shower, and the smell of his piney bodywash has you going weak. 

“Hi,” he grins. 

“Hi,” you smile back. “Uh, come in.”

Johnny nods, stepping past the threshold. “Are you a shoes off in the house kind of girl?”

“Yes, please.”

You watch him kick off his runners before turning to you. “I’m a little confused.”

“You are?”

“I got your text that you wanted me to come over, and I half expected you needed help building some cabinet or something, but then I remembered you’ve been here a month already, so now I don’t really know what I’m doing here.”

“I told you I’d buy you a beer for helping me move my stuff, remember?” You let out an awkward chuckle. “I don’t have beer, but I did open a bottle of wine.”

“That works,” Johnny grins.

“Come, sit.” You move to your living area, taking a seat on the couch. Johnny joins you, and you note the way he immediately shifts his body to be facing you. He watches you pour him a glass, and you both notice your shaky hand as you pass it to him.

“How much have you been drinking, 304?”

“A bit.”

“Rough day?” he enquires with a smile.

“Just…” you let out a deep breath. “Not used to all the attention I’m getting here.”

“Yeah, your entourage.” Johnny sips his drink, still grinning as if this is the funniest thing in the world.

“Would you believe me if I told you I’m not the kind of person who loves getting a lot of attention?”

Johnny cocks his head to the side. “I think it’s hard for a girl who looks like you to avoid that sort of thing.”

God, he is into you, you can taste it- or maybe that’s the sweet notes of your wine. 

You don’t know what to say, but you feel a grin appear on your face, your eyes shifting down to your glass. “I don’t know about that.”

“Just an observation,” Johnny laughs. “So… what are you going to do about all of this?”

“I think…” you swallow thickly. “I think I’m doing something right now.”

“Yeah?”

You look up at him, smiling. “Yeah.”

Now it’s Johnny’s turn to be at a loss for words, and you get the sense that this isn’t something that happens very often to him.

“I’m sure you know what it’s like to get a lot of attention,” you offer.

Johnny shrugs. “I’m only in town a week every month, and when I’m here I spend most of my time at the gym or at home. I’ve never been a big party guy, I prefer cheap beer to bars, and I guess I’ve just accepted that a guy like me has to be single.”

“You have to be?” you enquire, cocking your head to the side in a bid to understand him better. 

“Most girls aren’t interested in starting anything with a man who works on a rig. I understand the guys who have girls before the job, and they stay after building a foundation, but it’s hard to work on the start of a relationship when you’re not around.”

“I suppose that makes sense,” you nod- in fact, it’s something you’ve considered to great length already. “If… if the right girl came along, would that be something you’re interested in exploring?”

Johnny lets out a deep breath. “That’s a good question.” 

You watch him sip his wine, giving him the space to consider it.

“I just… I wouldn’t want a girl to feel like she’s an afterthought, or a fuck buddy- and doing the work I do, I have to be focused. It’s day rate, it’s dangerous, sometimes the rigs are a couple hours away from camp, and that’s on top of a twelve hour shift-” He lets out another deep sigh. “I think it would take a very special, very loyal kind of girl to give me a chance.”

“And what would you say your type is?”

His eyes meet yours. “I love a cute girl next door.”

Your heart thumps in your chest. “Funny, I like a boy next door.”

“Then it’s a good thing we’re neighbours.”

Johnny lifts his glass and you clink yours together, giggling.

It’s crazy how things can feel so comfortable with him already- but in the background of your mind there’s a sense of dread looming, after all, he’s leaving in just two or so days.

“Can I be honest with you?” you ask.

“Of course.”

“I’m sad you’re leaving soon.”

“I’m not leaving yet,” he points out.

“You know what I mean.”

Johnny shifts, resting his arm on the back of your couch. “I have a proposition for you, 304.”

“God, stop calling me 304,” you laugh.

“It feels like we’re interested in each other, but I get the sense you’re unsure about the long distance aspect. What if we hang out tonight, tomorrow I take you on an actual date, and if things go well, we could talk about what communication would look like when I’m away.”

“You know what?” you take a deep breath. “I would like that.”

“But… I have on condition.”

“Hit me.”

Johnny is quiet for a moment. “I’m aware that, no matter how good our dates tonight and tomorrow are, me being away might be too much for you. You have two other guys who are interested and they live here, so… even though I’m a cuddly person, I think it’s better for both of us if we keep things PG before I leave, that way… I mean, if you chose one of them because distance is too much, at least things won’t be awkward for us, and we can still be friends.” 

“I think…” - as much as you hate the idea and want to climb him like a tree - “I think that might be the most mature way to handle this.” 

Johnny nods. “So… what are your thoughts on aliens?”

“Huh?”

“UFO’s, UAP’s, USP’s-”

“What even are all of those?” you laugh.

“Unidentified flying objects, unidentified aerial phenomenon, which is pretty much another term for UFO’s, unidentified submersible phenomenon-”

You shake your head at him in affectionate shock. “Where did you learn all of this?” 

“History network,” Johnny grins. “Listen, why would I ask you surface level questions when we can dive into conspiracy theory? UFO’s are a good way to bounce into all sorts of topics, religion, politics, current and historical events-”

He’s a little odd, but you suppose you understand where he’s coming from now. You decide to give up control, and you lean into his question, loving the twists and turns that the conversation takes. You talk about everything, from the moon landing, to ancient monolithic structures and tv shows about space, a discussion about recent alien films leads to an analysis on favourite actors-

Before you even know it, hours have passed, the wine bottle is empty, and you feel as if you know him a lot better than when he’d first entered your apartment. 

“Do you work tomorrow?” he asks.

You sigh, looking at the time. “At nine.”

“I should probably get out of your hair then. When are you off?”

“Fiveish.”

Johnny stands up, stretching, and you can’t help the way your eyes move to the exposed strip of V-line when his shirt rises. “Guess I’ll see you tomorrow at fiveish, 304.”

You rise to your feet, pleasantly surprised when the gentle giant pulls you in for a hug. God, the feeling of his chest against your cheek- the soft cotton of his muscle shirt and the scent of his cologne- you release a deep breath, fully melting into what must be one of the best hugs of your life.

“I’ll text you,” Johnny says, and as he does so, his lips brush the crown of your head.

He’d said PG, and you suppose this is PG, but fuck, you want more.  

Eight:

Out of all the possible date venues, you hadn’t expected bowling. Johnny had told you to dress casually, he’d picked you up, and taken you down to a massive black truck- he’d driven you around town, pointing things out to you, and you’d ended up at a small, underground bowling bar.

He’s a bit of a goof ball, but you can tell he’s got experience playing this game. To compensate for your lack of skills, he does all sorts of trick shots that make him miss points, and you appreciate his effort to not decimate you. 

You drink beer and chat and play, and again, it feels so natural with him. 

When the game is over, the two of you get in the truck, and Johnny says he wants to show you something. A fifteen minute drive leads you to the edge of town, on a lookout that’s perfect now that it’s dark and the small city’s lights are sparkling.

“Do you take all your dates here?” you tease.

Johnny chuckles. “Would you believe me if I told you I haven’t been on a date in a while?”

“I guess with your job, I would,” you pause, looking over at him. “Do you want to talk about it?”

The large man releases a sigh. “I had a highschool sweetheart,” he starts. “But as time went by, she couldn’t deal with me being a blue collar man. She was very corporate, and our life styles weren’t exactly a match. When she broke up with me, I switched from construction to the rig jobs, figured it would be easier to just put my head down and work. Been doing that for about six years now.”

“So you haven’t dated since highschool?” you ask in shock.

“There’ve been a couple of things here and there. Took a few summers off, had flings, but shit always hit the fan when I went back to work.” 

“That makes sense,” you nod. 

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m a family man at heart,” he assures you. “As a supervisor, I definitely make enough money to take care of the people in my life, but it’s always been a time issue.” Johnny takes a breath, and then he meets your gaze. “What about you? Any skeletons in your closet?”

“Had a couple of failed relationships, the last one inspired me to move away from my home city and come here so I guess there’s a silver lining to it. Ended things with my ex about a year ago and nothing really felt the same after that, figured a change of scenery would do me good.”

“And has it? Done you good?”

You look over at the gorgeous man sitting next to you. “Definitely.” 

It feels like the perfect moment to kiss him, and you note the way his gaze dips to your lips, but then he pulls back, letting out a sigh. “You’re dangerous.”

“Me!?” You act scandalized.

“Yes, you, little miss 304.”

You can only laugh, doing your best to enjoy the rest of your date with him while the knowledge that he’s leaving tomorrow haunts in your periphery. 

Nine:

Johnny’s been gone for three days, and he’s been true to his word when you’d discussed communication while he’s on the rig. He’s kept contact with you, sending good morning messages for you to wake up to, and texting or calling in the late evening when he’s off work.

However, other things have progressed as well. You’d come out of your apartment this morning to find not one, but two bouquets waiting for you, and you feel as if this thing with Jaehyun and Hyuck is getting out of hand.

You find yourself at Jungwoo’s bar again, giving him the rundown on everything that has happened.

“So you’re like, set on Johnny then, huh?” your friend asks.

“I’m not sure, it’s only been three days that he’s been gone but I miss him already, and I can’t even imagine what it will be like to wait another nineteen days-”

“You always knew distance would be a struggle,” Jungwoo nods.

You groan, taking a sip of your fruity cocktail. “I just can’t believe Jaehyun and Hyuck left flowers at my door.”

“You’re going to have to do something about them.”

“Like what?”

“Reject or accept, babes,” Jungwoo says simply. 

“Accept?”

“You’re not technically dating Johnny yet. It sounds like he understands you might go on a date or two while he’s gone, I mean, you had that whole conversation about keeping things PG so it’s not awkward if he comes back and you’ve chosen someone else- it feels like he’s giving you breathing room to explore.”

You can only sigh, resting your head in your hands.

“Do you want to explore?” Jungwoo enquires. 

“I don’t know.”

“Well, you’re going to bump into Jaehyun or Hyuck sometime, so you better figure it out fast.”

Ten:

As you’re returning from happy hour with Jungwoo, you run into your building manager. He’s a young man named Doyoung. He has a very regal look to him, and he’s as attractive as most of the men on the third floor.

He’s in the small building office, and as you walk past, he stops you.

“y/n!” he calls, waving you inside, “I’ve been meaning to talk to you!”

Your heart sinks- your payment wasn’t late, was it? Did you get a noise complaint? Your mind begins to race-

“I heard that people have been leaving notes and flowers at your door,” Doyoung tells you. “As you’re a young woman who is new to the building, I wanted to check in with you and make sure you’re not being harassed.”

Your brain short circuits- it’s one thing for Jungwoo and other people on the third floor to know about your ‘secret admirers’ but another for your building manager to be broaching the topic with you. 

“I uh,” you swallow thickly. “I’m not being harassed.”

Doyoung gives you a pointed look. “You’d tell me if you were, right?”

“Of course,” you assure him. “It’s all just playful, nothing… nefarious.”

God, you hate how proper you’re trying to sound, but how else are you supposed to explain this situation to Doyoung? 

This is so awkward, who knew moving into a new apartment would be this fucking complex? 

Eleven:

You’re in the lobby checking your mailbox when the front door opens and Jaehyun walks in. His hair is windswept, and he looks like he’s getting back from the gym. He immediately flashes you that dimpled smile and your heart begins to thunder in your rib cage.

“Hey, you,” he grins. “Long time no see.”

“Yeah, I’ve uh… been busy,” you offer, quickly closing your mail box.

“Seems that way,” Jaehyun muses, and you realize he’s waiting to go to the elevator with you.

Taking a deep breath, you pull up your big girl panties, walking with him to the lift.

He hits the button, turning to you. “So-”

The elevator opens and you find Hyuck standing there, having just come up from the underground parkade, and suddenly you feel like a deer caught in headlights.

“Hiya, hot stuff,” Hyuck grins. “Going up?”

Part of you wants to turn and run away, but you’re in too deep now to go back, so you enter the elevator with the two men who’ve been fighting for space on your door, and maybe also in your heart.

“How’ve you been?” Hyuck asks.

“I’ve been good, just busy,” you mutter quickly, hitting the ‘close door’ button in the hope that it saves you even one second in this awkward elevator ride.

“You coming from the gym?” Hyuck’s line of questioning has taken a turn, and you realize he’s addressing Jaehyun next to you. 

“Yup, you?”

“Was just out,” Hyuck responds vaguely.

You get the sense that these two might know each other in passing, after all, you all live on the same floor, but at the same time, it’s somewhat clear from their muted interaction that they’re not particularly close.

It’s an awkward, silent minute in the elevator, but it’s even more awkward when you all get off on the third floor, with both men letting you exit first, only to struggle in a pissing match over who follows you.

They end up tracing your steps to your door, and when you get there, they both stop.

“Wait,” Hyuck breathes, and you watch him look from you to Jaehyun then back again. “You must be sticky note dude.”

“And you’re flowers guy,” Jaehyun sighs.

Both of them turn to you and it’s Hyuck who asks, “You’re still single right?”

It must be obvious to them both that if they’re warring at your doorstep, neither of them actually have your number just yet, and while it’s awkward to be put on the spot like this, you understand their confusion.

“Still single,” you assure them, fumbling with your keys. “I uh, actually have only lived here a month, and I’m still getting settled-” you search for the right words while trying not to drop your phone. “I appreciate the interest from you both, but this has gotten a little out of hand- Doyoung asked me about all of this yesterday-”

“Doyoung?” Hyuck scoffs. “What does he care if we leave notes and flowers at your door?”

“I guess he’s just concerned about my safety?” you offer.

While you can tell that Jaehyun understands, Hyuck still seems a little slow to the pick up, rolling his eyes. “As if we’d ever do anything bad.”

Which is funny, coming from a guy who’s supposedly a drug dealer.

“I think I just need some space,” you say finally, shocked by the conviction in your own voice as you slip your key into the lock. “To… you know, settle.”

“I’m sure we can give you some space,” Jaehyun offers, and you can tell from his tone that it’s a warning to Hyuck not to argue.

The plug sighs. “Yeah, we can give some space.”

They’re both very handsome, and upon different circumstances, one of them doing the sticky note and flowers trick might have swayed you, but the fact that it’s become something of a war between them has turned you off. The seriousness in Doyoung’s discussion with you yesterday had made you realize as much, and you’d be lying if you said your growing connection with Johnny didn’t have anything to do with it either.

Twelve:

After the debacle with Jaehyun and Hyuck, you’d anxiously awaited a call with Johnny when he was done work and back at the camp. But now, as you talk to him on the phone, you hesitate about divulging in the events that took place today.

Johnny’s making an effort with you, but you can hear in his voice that he’s exhausted, and you don’t want to add pressure to his shoulders-

“Are you okay, 304?” Johnny asks.

“Hmm?”

“You’re just a bit quiet.”

“I’m thinking,” you admit with a sigh.

“Sounds intense, what’s up?”

Another deep breath escapes you. “So… remember the whole secret admirer thing?”

“Uh huh.”

“They left flowers on my doorstep a few days ago too, and Doyoung actually pulled me aside to ask me about it- he was worried I’m being harassed, and it just makes me think about, you know, being a young woman in a new city and my safety…”

You trail off and Johnny takes the opportunity to empathize, softly telling you, “Being anxious about this sort of thing is reasonable given the circumstances.” 

“It’s not that I think Jaehyun or Hyuck would ever overstep-”

“Well, they left notes, and you didn’t respond, so they left flowers, it’s not exactly a sign that they’re going to back off.”

“I guess that’s true,” you admit.

“Anyways, you were saying, about Doyoung?” 

You love how Johnny can get you back on track, and you take another deep breath to steady yourself. “I saw Jaehyun and Hyuck in the elevator today, and they both walked me to my door which was super awkward, and I guess I pretty much ended up telling them both that I needed space. Part of me wasn’t sure if I should tell you any of this, I know you’re tired after work a long day, but I guess I want to be transparent with you about everything.”

The line is quiet for a moment, and when Johnny speaks, you can tell he’s choosing his words carefully. “I appreciate you bringing it up,” he starts. “If I’m being honest, I’m a little shocked you didn’t accept either of their offers to get drinks.”

Your heart lurches in your chest. “Really?”

“Yeah, I mean, I thought I’d made it clear that I’d understand if you did-”

“Just because you’d understand it doesn’t mean I was going to do it,” you tell him.

Johnny chuckles. “I suppose that’s true. I just, I don’t know, you don’t owe me anything- and maybe you’re just not interested in either of them, but I hope you didn’t say no to them to… spare my feelings or something?”

“Well… are your feelings spared?” 

Another laugh escapes him. “I just mean to say, this wouldn’t be the first time a girl thought she could do long distance, only to get a better option in town and jump ship.”

“Maybe I’m not like the other girls you’ve dated,” you tell him.

“It’s starting to feel like you’re not.” You can hear the fondness in his voice, and it makes your heart race faster in your chest. 

“When I get one man in my head, I can’t think about another. I’m not the type to jump ship,” you explain. “You’ve given me no reason to.”

“Except the distance,” he muses.

“Even with the distance, you’ve been attentive every day, and I’ve really appreciated that. You know, some guys will live in the same city as you, take you on one date, then not talk to you for five days- you and I did two dates back to back, and we’ve been talking consistently ever since.”

“Like I said, I didn’t want you to feel like an afterthought.”

“And I don’t want you to feel like just an option.” 

The line is quiet for a moment, then Johnny laughs. “There you go, being dangerous again.”

“If being genuine is dangerous, then I’m the most dangerous woman you’ll ever meet, Johnny.”

“I work on a rig, 304, I happen to like danger.” 

Thirteen:

You’re drinking wine with Jungwoo in your livingroom when your phone dings, and a smile spreads across your face when you see it’s a text from Johnny.

“One second,” you tell him, putting down your wine to respond to your blue collar man.

“Johnny?” Jungwoo grins knowingly.

“Yup, he’s just telling me he’s off work, but now it’s a two hour drive back to the camp.”

“So our girls’ night is over in two hours, got it,” Jungwoo jokes, except, is it really a joke if it’s true?

You can only laugh, shaking your head and setting your phone down again.

“You like him,” Jungwoo notes. “You like him a lot.” 

“I do,” you confess.

“You told Jaehyun and Hyuck off because of him,” your friend continues.

“Uh huh.” You take a sip of your wine, trying to ignore the knowing expression on Jungwoo’s face.

“So… has it gotten sexual yet? You know, asking for snaps of your tits-”

“Jungwoo!” you squeal, nearly spilling your wine as you go to gently smack his arm.

“What!? It’s a valid question!”

“No! It’s not sexual yet! I mean… I think we both have those feelings, but right now… we’re just, getting to know each other.”

“And when he’s home?” Jungwoo cocks a brow and you giggle even more.

“When he’s home…” you lower your voice, “I’m going to climb that man like a tree.”

“I knew it!” Jungwoo cheers. “Team Johnny!”

You clink your glasses in agreement, waiting for Jungwoo to settle down a little. He’s way too invested in your love life, but you kind of adore it. 

“You know…” Jungwoo trails off, “some rig guys do mostly winters, then come back for the summer and will take a couple of months off. I remember seeing Johnny more frequently last August.”

“He mentioned that,” you admit. 

“Did he say if he plans to do that this year? It’s almost March, so that’s April, May, maybe June… three or four more stints up there until a possible summer of love?”

You laugh at his choice of words, but your heart races at the notion of getting to spend your whole summer with Johnny, of a relationship of normalcy. 

“I’ll have to talk to him about it,” you decide.

“Maybe send some sexy snaps to tempt him, or talk about it once he’s home and you’ve sucked that dick, you know, incentives.”

“You’re so bad,” you giggle.

“I’m a hit of realism, which is what you need after living a fantasy for a month with three men fighting over you.”

You let out a sigh. “I suppose you might be right about that.”

Fourteen:

“How was your day?” you ask, practically kicking your feet now that you get to talk to Johnny.

“Long,” he laughs. “You?”

“It was good, hung out with Jungwoo for a bit, had some wine.”

“I can hear it in your voice, 304, you always get extra cute when you’ve been drinking your wine.”

“Do I?” 

“See? I can just imagine you kicking your feet right now.”

God, he knows you so well already- but you suppose that’s what happens when you talk to someone for hours every day. 

“And now you probably stopped kicking your feet because you’re embarrassed,” he continues.

“You’re a psychic,” you declare.

“Sure I am.”

You take a breath. “There was actually something I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Let’s hear it.”

“So… you mentioned that sometimes you have the summer off, and I guess, since it’s almost March, I was just wondering if you’d be around in June or July.”

“I mean, I wasn’t necessarily planning on it, but if that’s something you wanted, I could see what I could make happen.”

You pause, considering your words carefully. “I don’t want to tell you what to do… and, I don’t want you to lose out on money for me, especially since we just started dating, if you even call this dating- but, at the same time, I think, long term, it would be easier to manage you going away for six or more months if I knew you’d be back for at least part of the summer.”

“I do call this dating,” Johnny tells you. “So I’ll see what I can do about it.”

“I also wanted to know when you’re flight back is, I was thinking I could come grab you from the airport.” 

Johnny chuckles. “I’ll send you the information, 304.” 

Fifteen:

You’re waiting outside your car when you see Johnny coming out of the airport, and you simply can’t help yourself anymore. You run to him, throwing yourself into his arms.

Johnny chuckles, dropping his duffle to pull you closer, even going so far as to lift you off the ground, releasing a groan as he does so.

Fuck, he feels so good, and big, and warm-

When he sets you down, you throw inhibition out the window, grabbing the back of his neck to pull his lips down to your own.

He smiles into the kiss, his palm flattening against the small of your back, his mouth moving in harmony with your own. You kiss him deeply, pouring in all the emotion of having missed him for weeks- 

It’s you who breaks the kiss, panting and looking up at him. “Let’s get you home,” you state. 

“Whatever you say, 304.”

The drive back to the apartment complex is a blur, you’re so distracted by Johnny that you’re surprised you even make it back in one piece. The elevator ride is quiet, filled with tension, and you can practically feel happiness radiating off of both of you.

“Wanna come to mine?” Johnny suggests. “I need to have a quick shower, unpack a little.”

“Okay,” you nod, excited as you follow Johnny to his place.

He lets you in first, and you eagerly eat up what’s in front of you, looking for details of the decor that might help you know this man even better.

However, you find that his apartment is sparsely decorated, with bare necessities, a minimalist look, which you suppose makes sense given the fact that he’s hardly here.

“Your place is nicer,” Johnny muses as he kicks off his shoes. 

“It’s just more furnished,” you laugh, not minding the lack of items.

“My bedroom is this way,” Johnny explains, heading into it while you follow slowly. He throws his bag on the floor next to his bed before turning to you. “I’m going to wash up a bit, then we can do whatever you want… or, I mean, you could always join me in the shower if that works better.”

He winks at you, and it’s very playful. You can only laugh, shaking your head and feeling your skin flush with heat as you look at the ground.

“I’ll be here,” you tell him, but when he disappears into the bathroom, you find your heart is still racing.

Should you go in the shower with him? 

He had offered for you to join…

Can you be a bit more patient?

No. You can’t. As you stand in his bedroom, you begin to undress, hyping yourself up for the moment that you’ve been waiting for.

After a deep breath, you knock gently on the door to his bathroom.

“Come in!” he calls over the sound of water spray, and you peek your head into the enclosed space. 

The room is full of steam, and the glassy walls of the shower are fogged up, but you can see the outline of Johnny’s body and it has you drooling.

You slip inside, closing the door behind you before making your way to the shower.

“Can I join you?” you ask, giving him one last opportunity to decide if this was a bad idea-

“Get in here.” Johnny opens the shower door, grabs your arm and tugs you inside with him. You blink against the mist, looking up at the large man who’s currently blocking the spray of water from hitting you. “Didn’t think you’d actually join,” he muses with a grin.

“Me neither,” you admit.

Johnny strokes your arm, fingers trailing up so he can cup your face. His thumb brushes by your cheekbone and you lean into his warm touch, releasing a moan. 

“Do you want to do this here, or would you rather we wait till I can get you onto my bed?” he asks.

“Here,” you tell him. “I’m tired of waiting.”

“Didn’t take you as the impatient type,” Johnny chuckles.

“I’ve been patient, for weeks,” you laugh.

“I guess that’s true, let’s fix that.” The tall man leans down, pressing his lips to your own. You immediately wrap your arms around his strong, wet shoulders, pressing your chests together as the kiss deepens. 

You can feel your nipples hardening against him, and his hands move to grab at your hips, pulling you even tighter to his body.

Something is beginning to press against your abdomen, and you love that you’re getting him hard already, that he’s as into you as you are into him. 

His palm slips down, and he grabs a handful of your ass, squeezing deliciously. You break the kiss to throw your head back, eyes closed as you enjoy the sensation of him.

“You know the only bad thing about shower sex?” Johnny asks, lips hot against your throat now. “Water isn’t lube, so I guess you’re going to have to be a good girl for me and wait just a little longer while I get you nice and wet for me.”

“I’m already wet,” you insist.

Johnny only chuckles, squeezing your ass harder as he licks at the sweet spot on your throat. “Let me enjoy this, I’ve been thinking about it for weeks.”

“Really?” you groan. “I never would have noticed, you’re always so PG.”

“I’m not going to be PG anymore.”

“Thank god!” A shiver runs through your body at the idea of what ‘rated R Johnny’ is going to look like- and as he pushes his thigh up between your own, you’re so grateful that you no longer have to wonder, you’re about to find out exactly how dirty this blue collar man can get.

Johnny laughs again, but as he laughs, he pushes his thigh up even higher, making contact with your clit.

“Fuck, I haven’t been touched in so long,” you whimper, immediately grinding down against him.

“Well, you deserve this, you’ve been a very patient, very good girl for me.” 

“I have been,” you nod, rubbing your clit harder against his large, muscled thigh.

“Had options, but you stayed loyal, even when you didn’t have to.” Johnny’s still kissing your throat, and he nuzzles up against your ear, biting your lobe gently. “I feel like those choices have earned you many rewards.”

His words are something like praise- appreciation almost, and you’re thankful that he’s taken into account the fact that you’ve made important decisions to put this blooming relationship first, even when - as Jungwoo said - you had no actual defined loyalty keeping you tied to this tall man.

“I just like you a lot,” you moan, feeling overwhelmed with the possibilities of a relationship with this man- a man who has communicated that he’s interested in something long term, which is such a stark contrast to most of the men you deal with these days.

God, to have hope for a man again- it’s such a foreign feeling.

“I like you too, 304.”

“Johnny,” you groan, “call me something else.”

“I think 304 is cute,” he grins against your throat.

“Please?”

“Okay, baby, I’ll call you anything you want,” Johnny promises, adjusting his grip on you so he can trail his hand up your torso, putting a slight distance between your bodies now so he can cup your breast. His thumb rubs over your hard nipple and you whimper, grinding harder against his thigh. “You are a baby, aren’t you, pretty girl?”

“Yes,” you whimper.

“I could also see you as a bit of a princess,” he muses, pinching your nipple and making you gasp loudly. “Adorable little pretty princess baby.”

He might be overdoing it with the pet names, but you can’t even bring yourself to care- in fact, this overt cheesiness is doing something to you, making your pussy throb as you grind against his wet skin.

“That’s it,” Johnny groans, “I kind of want to watch you get off on my thigh.”

“Yeah?” You swallow thickly, reaching for his hard cock. You’re a little taken aback by how large he is, but you guess you shouldn’t be all that surprised. You’ve been shy so far, not even taking so much as a peek at what you’re going to be working with- and maybe that had been a mistake. You’d been so sure of yourself earlier when you’d told Johnny you could take him without prep, and now you’re realizing how wrong you had been.

A deep moan escapes Johnny as you begin to stroke him, and he rolls your nipple between his fingers, making you cry out- only for his hand to move away, along with his thigh.

You want to protest- only for two digits to press between your pussy lips, teasing your entrance but not pushing in- just playing, toying, moving up to your clit then back down.

“Fuck,” you whimper.

“You definitely feel wet,” Johnny muses.

“So finger fuck me?” you suggest, applying more pressure to his cock as you stroke him off.

“Hmm?” He circles your clit teasingly, being so gentle that your body is already practically begging for more.

“Please finger fuck me?” you ask, your free hand now clutching his forearm in desperation.

“Only because you asked so nicely.”

Johnny cups the back of your head, pulling your lips to his as his fingers enter your hot core for the first time.

Fuck, his fingers alone are enough to stretch you out and it feels absolutely delightful. 

He starts slow, testing the waters as his digits explore your inner walls gently, but as the kiss deepens so do his motions.

You’re absolutely lost in him, whimpering and moaning- your hips even begin to move, eagerly seeking out stimulus that he grants when his palm presses flat to your clit.

“Fuck,” you gasp, holding his strong, veiny forearm even tighter.

“Feels good?” he asks, looking down at you with lust filled eyes.

“Feels so good,” you nod, fighting the urge to just close your eyes and enjoy it, while also wanting to stare up at this gorgeous man who is watching you with clear interest.

You take a shuddery breath, trying to focus on stroking his cock, but he makes it more difficult when he crooks his fingers up, hitting that sweet spongy spot inside of you that has your legs shaking.

“Are you going to be able to stand through all of this?” Johnny chuckles. “That’s the other bad thing about shower sex, it’s a slipping risk.”

“I think I can do it,” you insist, not wanting him to stop his motions for even one moment.

“Just hold onto me tightly okay, but if you start to fall, uh… don’t pull my dick off.”

You can’t help the laugh that escapes you, and Johnny joins you with a chuckle of his own.

This feels so natural, so safe- the fact that you’re both giggling during your first sexual experience together is a great sign, and it makes you relax a little more, which only adds to the pleasure that’s starting to throb out from your core.

“You close?” Johnny asks, sensing the shift in your attention.

“Too close,” you nod, swallowing thickly in an effort to control yourself.

“Want you to cum on my fingers,” he tells you. “You can do that for me, right princess?”

“Uh huh.” Your mind is becoming clouded by lust, and it’s making it harder for you to respond to him-

His fingers are moving fast now, pistoning in and out of you with just the right amount of pressure, his palm stimulating your clit in a way that’s just enough-

You’re getting closer and closer to the edge and you don’t feel like slowing down. 

Your eyes close, your breathing becoming haggard as your muscles tighten with anticipation-

“Cum on my fingers, baby,” Johnny groans. “Wanna feel it.” 

With that, you explode, unable to contain yourself anymore as his filthy words vibrate through your entire being like a mantra. The pleasure is intense, your core clamping down on his digits, body throbbing deliciously as you give yourself over to the feeling of it.

Your legs are weak, and you grab Johnny’s forearm tighter, digging your nails against his skin.

It’s the kind of ecstasy that you never want to end, and it’s clear that Johnny’s not going to be the one to pull the rug out from under you. He keeps you steady, working you through your high until your legs are physically shaking.

Only once he’s sure you’re finished does Johnny pull his hand away.

You open your eyes to watch him slip his fingers into his mouth, groaning at the taste of you, and an echo of pleasure throbs through your pussy again.

“You’re so pretty when you cum,” Johnny tells you.

“Want you inside of me, now,” you respond.

“Hmmm… not yet.”

“What?” 

“You almost just fell over, I don’t think this is the safest place to do this,” Johnny laughs. “Come on, let's get out of the shower, dry off, and I’ll take you to my bed, like I’d planned.”

“Is it really that bad to fuck me here?” you whine.

“One, I don’t want you to slip, and two, I don’t want our first time to be here, you deserve a proper bed, so I can cuddle you after.” 

“You’re such a romantic,” you tease, but your heart swells at the notion of a man actually taking care of you.

“You love it,” Johnny insists.

He reaches behind himself, turning off the spray of water, then, he helps you out of the enclosed space. “Here,” Johnny passes you a towel, quickly patting himself down with his own before wrapping it around his waist, then he begins to help dry you off.

“I can do this part,” you assure him.

“I want to take care of you,” Johnny muses as his palms massage your breasts through the towel, making sure they’re extra dry.

“I think you just want to touch my tits again,” you grin.

“That too,” Johnny laughs.

“Predictable,” you toy.

“You think so?”

“Uh huh.”

In one quick motion, Johnny grabs you by the hips and lifts you onto the washroom countertop, tearing the towel away and discarding it haphazardly as he sinks to his knees.

“I think I’m going to make you cum on my tongue before I fuck you, you know, to prove how predictable I am.”

You don’t even have a moment to argue, Johnny pushes your thighs open, pulls you to the edge of the counter, and dives into your core with his tongue. 

You immediately latch onto his damp hair, throwing your head back as his mouth begins to work your pussy. You’re still sensitive from having just cum, and the sensation of his lips now wrapping around your clit has your muscles clenching with pleasure already. 

“Fuck-” you whimper, loving the way Johnny’s fingers are digging into your thighs, holding you open for a tongue that has a mind of its own.

You especially adore how messy he’s being. There are no kitten licks, no hesitancies, just a full-on lust fuelled ravaging of your core- nothing in your life has ever felt this fucking good.

You tug on Johnny’s hair roughly, but he’s unrelenting, in fact, you think he kind of likes the inkling of pain because he groans against your clit, licking at you sloppily while his nose bumps your sensitive bud over and over.

For a man who doesn’t do one night stands very often, he definitely knows his way around a pussy.

“Shit,” you moan, louder this time, your muscles tightening more and more-

You’re not used to men behaving this way with you, worshiping your body and putting your pleasure first. To have two back to back orgasms before he’s even taken anything for himself? Unheard of.

You can tell he wants you to cum, can tell that he’s eager for it, and the wet licks of his tongue against your sensitive pussy are ensuring that his preferred outcome happens sooner rather than later.

You give in to the feeling, deciding to relinquish control. If he wants to make you cum fast, then you can cum fast, and all of your attention moves to the feeling of pleasure that’s radiating out from your core.

Your abdominal muscles are tightening deliciously, and you begin to buck your hips a little, trying to ride his tongue while you hold him tight to your pussy by his hair.

Johnny groans again and the vibration of it sends a shiver of delight through your entire body.

“Fuck, I’m gonna-” You swallow thickly, brows furrowing with effort as you latch onto that feeling of euphoria, unwilling to let it drift away- “just like that, just like that-”

He sucks lewdly on your clit, flicking it with his tongue, and that’s all you need to explode, your pussy clamping down hard on nothing, squeezing and squelching sinfully. 

You’re gasping loudly, moaning like a whore as your orgasm washes over you in waves- and like your first high, Johnny is just as unrelenting with this one.

He doesn’t pull away, and with so much attention focused on your throbbing clit, it’s almost too much for you to handle.

You begin to push at Johnny’s head, but he’s like a brick wall, unmoving and diligent in his task.

“Oh my god-” your voice is raising with effort, raising with the euphoria that’s threatening to overwhelm you completely. “Johnny- too much-”

This time, he allows you to push him away, and you sink back down against the countertop, chest heaving with effort. Your legs twitch with aftershocks from your orgasm, and you can’t even bring yourself to open your eyes yet, still lost in the ecstasy he’d just provided.

“You okay, princess?” Johnny asks, and you can sense him rising to his feet, his eyes inspecting you.

“Overstimulated,” you admit, another shock washing through you and making you jolt.

“I got side tracked,” Johnny admits, and you peer out at him from under hooded lids to see him sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck.

“It’s okay, it was just a lot,” you assure him, reaching out to gently stroke his forearm. 

“Come on,” Johnny coaxes, lifting you off the sink so he can carry you to his room, “let’s give you a breather.”

He lays you gently onto his mattress, moving the blankets so you can get under the warm duvet.

The sheets smell like him, a manly pine scent, and it makes you groan, burying your face against the pillows while your brain tries to reaclimatize after a mind shattering orgasm.

Johnny joins you, and you instinctively cuddle close to his chest, delighted by the way his large arms wrap around you to hold you close.

“Just give me a sec,” you whisper, but even as the words leave your lips, your hand snakes down to his cock, and you gently wrap your fingers around the thick length.

Johnny chuckles. “Part of me thought you’d be too tired to actually fuck now.”

“Never,” you tell him, although you’re so exhausted from two extreme orgasms that there’s little conviction in the tone of your voice. 

“Take your time,” Johnny assures you, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head while you languidly stroke his large cock. Unlike in the shower, however, there’s no lubrication of any kind, and soon, you tire of it.

“Okay,” you tell him, sitting up, “I can ride you.”

“Are you sure you want to be on top?” he blinks in shock. 

“Just to start, just to get used to your size,” you assure him.

“Whatever you want, princess.”

You swing your leg over Johnny’s hips, straddling him, and his hands find your waist. 

“Actually, let me grab some lube,” he says, sitting up abruptly. The muscles in his abdomen ripple under the skin, and you’re taken aback by just how beautiful this man is even as he’s reaching for his bedside table.

He pulls out a green bottle, squirting some of the gell into his palm before he grabs his cock.

You kind of love the view of his large hand on his massive cock, stroking up and down-

“Like what you see?” he laughs.

“You’re just so perfect,” you muse.

“That makes two of us I guess,” Johnny grins. “Okay, whenever you’re ready.”

He’s all lathered up now, and you grab the base of his cock, guiding yourself down on the tip. 

As you sink down even an inch, you groan at the stretch.

He’s covered in lube, and you’re definitely more than lubricated from two orgasms, but fuck- having not had sex in ages only to take the biggest cock of your life is definitely an adjustment for your tight pussy.

“Take it slow,” he assures you, tightening his grip on your hips to keep you steady as you gently sink down further on his cock.

“I’m good, you’re just so big,” you whimper.

Johnny only chuckles at your words, his eyes fixed on the meeting of your bodies.

“Not sure I can take it all like this,” you admit.

“I’ve heard that when a girl is on top, things feel deeper,” Johnny muses. “Don’t feel like you have to take it all right now, we can work up to that.”

“Okay,” you nod, “I’m going to bounce a bit.”

“Works for me, princess.”

You close your eyes, leaning over him and placing your hands firmly on his chest as an anchor as you begin to move up and down. The feeling of his massive cock against your inner walls has your body singing with pleasure already, and you begin to moan.

“Fuck,” Johnny groans, his fingers digging into your hips. “Feels good.”

“So good,” you agree with another whimper.

One of Johnny’s hands moves from your hip to your breast, and he begins to massage the sensitive flesh as you ride him gently. The sensation of him tweaking your nipple has you groaning, your pussy clenching incredibly tight around him, which makes both of you cry out desperately.

“Fuck, let me know when you want me to take over,” Johnny tells you, and you get the sense that you might be killing him a little with the slowness of your pace. His hips twitch, and you suspect that he’s doing everything in his power not to madly thrust up into you, which is something you appreciate greatly.

You ride him for a little while longer, and then you give up, legs burning with effort already. “Okay, okay, you can top now.”

You pull off of his cock, and Johnny helps you roll down onto the bed, your back hitting the mattress.

Instead of just getting on top of you, however, he stays on his side and leans over you, pressing his lips to yours while his hand continues to massage your breast.

You groan against his lips, threading your fingers through his hair desperately as his tongue invades your mouth.

He kisses you until you’re breathless, until your pussy is pulsing with desire, only then does he get between your legs, bringing the head of his cock to your awaiting hole.

“If you ever need me to slow down, or be less rough, or anything, just let me know,” he tells you, swallowing thickly as he gazes at your body.

“Just do it, Johnny,” you assure him, stroking his forearm. “Please.”

You watch his adam’s apple bob with effort again, and he slowly pushes the head of his cock into your wet hole, making you cry out. You grip his arm tighter, closing your eyes to enjoy the stretching sensation.

He sinks into you, inch by inch, gently thrusting to get you used to the intrusion.

When he’s almost fully inside of you, Johnny leans over your body, his elbows making contact with the bed on either side of your head so he can be in something of a plank position overtop of you.

You can feel his breath on your face, and you open your eyes to look up at him, your hand moving to cup his cheek while your legs wrap loosely around his waist.

“You can fuck me now,” you tease, grinning at how slow and gentle he’s been up until this point. “Please.” 

Johnny presses his lips to yours, and just like that, he begins to move.

Each thrust is unbound pleasure, his hips moving fluidly as he gradually increases his pace. His long cock hits deep spots inside of you that have you crying out, wrapping your arms tightly around his shoulders while your tongues battle for dominance in the most heated kiss of your life.

He’s moaning too, and it sounds so good- making your pussy even wetter as he decimates it perfectly.

You love the feeling of his large body pressing down against your own, his hard muscles are delightful under your touch when you skim your hand along his shoulders.

He’s steadily increasing the power behind each thrust, and now, the bed is beginning to rock with his movements, delighting you even more.

How can this man have so much raw power, but still be so gentle and careful when it matters most?

You might be a little obsessed with him, but as his massive cock hits your g-spot, you suppose it’s no wonder your feelings are growing at a rapid pace.

He has you cock drunk, in a way that you’ve never experienced in the entirety of your life, and you kind of love it.

“Shit,” Johnny cusses, breaking your kiss so he can press his mouth to your throat. “I never- never asked about protection.”

“I’m covered,” you assure him.

“Really?”

“Yeah,” you nod, swallowing thickly. “You can cum inside me.”

A deep groan escapes Johnny, and it vibrates through where your chests are pressed together.

“Don’t want to cum like this,” Johnny tells you, “it’s too soon.”

He pulls away, and you whimper when his cock leaves your wet hole. But then Johnny is manhandling you into doggy position, and you let out a moan of pleasure, arching your back and resting your head against the bed.

“You look good like this too,” Johnny muses as he pushes his cock back into you, his hands grabbing your hips roughly. “Always look so good.”

His praise is doing something to you, encouraging you enough to make you begin to move as well, doing your best to match his pace and push back against him with each thrust.

The sound of skin on skin fills the room, and your moans mingle in the air together.

“Fuck,” Johnny groans, railing into you even harder. “So fucking tight-”

“I’m close,” you assure him, “just let me-” you slip your hand between your thighs, fingers seeking out your sensitive clit. The moment you make contact, you feel your pussy contract around Johnny’s cock, and it makes you both moan loudly.

“Yeah, want you to cum with me,” Johnny tells you. “Want us to cum together.”

You don’t respond, too focused on your task as you begin to draw small circles around the sensitive bud.

God, nothing has ever felt this good, to be so completely full, while your clit is receiving attention at the same time-

The tension is quickly building in the pit of your stomach, and it’s clear to both of you that you’re rapidly approaching the edge-

“Here,” Johnny’s voice distracts you, and all of the sudden he’s hauling you onto your knees, pinning your back to his chest with an arm braced across your breasts, one hand cupping your boob like a seatbelt. You can feel his breath on your throat, and you quickly turn your head, seeking out his lips with your own.

His free hand pushes yours aside from your clit, applying even more pressure to your sensitive bud as he fucks into you erratically.

God, you feel him absolutely everywhere. You feel like a doll, suspended in time and space while this absolute unit of a man gives you all of the pleasure you could ever ask for, pulling at your strings like an expert.

He’s groaning more deeply- and with one more rough circle of your clit, you feel yourself come undone. You gasp against his lips, core clamping down on his cock-

A strangled sound escapes Johnny, his thrusts becoming even more erratic as he cums with you, coating your throbbing insides with his cum as you both fall off the edge together.

He’s clinging to you in a way a man has never clung to you, and you’re kissing him as if he’s the air you need to breathe. In this moment, it’s only you and him and this feeling of euphoria that you never want to give up.

He fucks you through your high until you’re both a panting mess, and then, he helps you back onto the bed, taking a deep breath.

“I’m going to go get some tissues,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your cheek.

You can only moan happily, inhaling the scent of pine as you cuddle against his pillow.

Johnny returns shortly, and he hands you some tissues to wipe his cum from your core.

“Should we take another shower or something?” Johnny asks, laughing a little at how messy you both are.

“Cuddles first,” you tell him.

Johnny grins, joining you on his bed, his strong arms immediately wrapping around you. “Cuddles first,” he agrees.

You both take deep breaths, and as your body begins to calm down while pressed against his, you know you made the right choice of man in this fucked up, love island-esque apartment complex that you now call home.

☀️ mlist + an. thank you for reading! This was way longer than I intended, which is why it took a minute to be posted, but I hope it was worth the wait!

🍭 support me by. sending a tip here or here - or become a patron to access monthly bonus content and extensions for fics like this one :) find the Patreon teaser below! 

🔮 preview.  In the summer, Johnny’s not just a blue collar rig man, he’s a dude with friends, tanned skin from his obsession with the sun, and a taste for margaritas while sitting on boats between water skiing stints.

cw/ tw. Unprotected sex, use of toys, vibrator, nipple clamps, overstimulation, breast worship, use of lube, inklings of pain kink, hand job, fingering, multiple reader orgasms, etc…   I petnames. (hers) princess

👹 rating. 18+ explicit I wc. 2.8k I teaser wc. 100

🌙 starring. Johnny x afab!Reader

bonus

People sometimes talk about a specific summer in their life being ‘the summer of dreams,’ and you never quite understood what could make one stretch of months so significant- but now, living life with Johnny by your side every day, it makes total sense.

In the few months you’ve been dating, he’s done his best to introduce you to friends, but with such a short time in town, it was always difficult to juggle friends, family, and your growing relationship.

Now that it’s summer, you get to see how Johnny is when he’s just being himself.

☀️ to read the full fic AND 2.8k bonus NOW, subscribe to my Patreon, then click here

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[2tcs]

Day 2 Meeting a new family member and Wire

“My brother has moved to Gotham and I intend to visit them tonight as Robin.” Damian announced as everyone began to eat dinner.

“You have. A brother?” Tim haltingly asked as he looked at Damian.

“Tt. That is what I said. I advise not attempting to contact him unless he invites you into his home.”

“Damian. Why didn’t you tell me you had a brother?” Bruce asked.

“It was irrelevant. Danyal is older than me and had been deemed a failure by the time Mother and Grandfather decided to make me. I had been under the impression that he had been disposed of. In a way, I suppose he was, seeing as he was placed in the hands of some scientists who worked for the league.”

“But he’s back. Do you know what he wants?” Tim asked as Bruce disassociated.

“He would not go into detail but it seems that the scientists who raised him have found a purer and more radioactive Lazarus water. It is why I am meeting him tonight so he can turn over the more sensitive information without the league hearing about it.”

“Damian.” Bruce started before rethinking what he was going to say. “I would like to come with. He may be your brother but he is also an unknown.”

“I am aware Father. That is why I am telling you now. You cannot come with me but I will stay in contact and keep the com channel open throughout the entire exchange.”

“I would still prefer”

“Father. You will not come with. Danyal has expressly forbade you from meeting him.”

“That makes this even more suspicious! If not me then at least bring Dick with you.”

“Richard is in Bloodhaven and will not be able to get here in a timely manner. I am going alone.” Damian said before standing up and walking off.

“Damian!”

“Give it a rest B. He’s on a mission and I have a feeling he’ll go alone no mater what you say. If anything we could try to tail him but I have a feeling he’ll be on the lookout for that.”

“Hn.”

👻🦇👻🦇

“Akhi. You have fortified this place well.” Damian complimented as he walked into the office of the warehouse where Danny had made his base. It had been years since Danny had looked into the child that was meant to replace him after he failed one too many missions for Grandfather's liking. But to see that his little brother had managed to escape the league made Danny’s core hum happily.

“Thank you, Dams. But we aren’t here for pleasantries.” Danny said as he walked over to the single desk in the room and pulled a thick file out of one of the drawers. “In here is a brief rundown of the Fenton's research as well as a law that has recently passed that is in violation of”

Before Danny could finish talking there was a loud crash and a string of expletives.

“What the fuck! Who puts two wire traps mere inches from each other!” The voice shouted before the sound of a body hitting the floor. A few moments later the voice started yelling again as they fell into another trap.

“A friend of yours Dams?” Danny asked while he watched the door.

“A member of our family. Unfortunately. I had told Father not to come and I was hoping the fact that it was in Crime Allie would discourage Drake. I had not counted on Father getting Todd involved.” Damian sighed before walking over to the folder.

“As long as he does not wake up the littles I could care less. Perhaps we should help him out?” Danny asked. Not noticing Damian’s head snapping up to stare at him.

“Littles? You did not inform me of anyone else.”

“Hm. Long story short? You are an uncle to two little ones.”

“ALL RIGHT! WHO SET UP ALL THOSE… Demon brat. I should have known.” Red Hood said as he barged into the office. Causing twin crys to echo from a door on the opposite side of the main door. “Are those?”

“Yes, and your entrance has just woken up my kids. Dams? I have also left a number in the folder if you need to contact me. I will be off now.” Danny said as he began to walk towards the door the cries were coming from.

“There is a family brunch every Wednesday at ten in the morning. I request you to be there so that I can meet the new members of our family. Father would also like to meet you.” Damian said while ignoring Jason’s stuttering.

“I will think about it. Until next time Dams.” Danny replied before disappearing through the door.

[silentheiss]

It starts with Shang Qinghua, as many unpleasant things do.

“Come on, Cucumber-bro,” He whines, lying on Shen Qingqiu’s floor and eating Shen Qingqiu’s snacks. “Do you have to go? You promised you’d read my draft, remember?”

“I do.” Shen Qingqiu says. “And I will. Later. I promised I’d help Binghe with his hair before he has to leave for his trip today.”

“You gotta get all the way back to the demon realm just to do his hair before he leaves again?”

“Yes.”

“Aw, bro. I’m sorry.”

Shen Qingqiu snaps his fan shut. He doesn’t like his tone.

“Why?”

“What?” Shang Qinghua blinks up at him from his position on the floor.

“Why are you sorry?” Shen Qingqiu repeats, slowly.

“Well, because you have to interrupt your evening to placate my clingy son?”

Shen Qingqiu isn’t sure what exactly about Airplane’s wording bothers him so much, but he doesn’t let it stop his ire.

“You think I prefer your company to my husband’s?” He hisses. Shang Qinghua sits up abruptly.

“Oh, shit, bro.” He mumbles, sounding apologetic. “I didn’t mean it like that. I know you love him and all.”

Does he? Not that Shen Qingqiu cares, of course, but- does he?

“Do you?”

“Yeah, it was hard to miss with all the rage comments and well, uh. Suicides?” Shang Qinghua laughs awkwardly and Shen Qingqiu opens his fan once again. “It’s just that I get that it must be hard for you to put up with his quirks sometimes?”

What quirks! Shen Qingqiu grips his fan tighter. Sure, Binghe can get a bit sticky and is prone to crying, but what’s so quirky about it? And who’s talking! As if Mobei-jun is a completely normal choice of a partner. Shen Qingqiu scoffs and moves to stand up.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He snaps. “Binghe’s perfectly normal. I enjoy spending time with him.”

“Of course you do.” Shang Qinghua nods hurriedly, also scrambling up to his feet. “Don’t be mad, Cucumber-bro. I didn’t mean to offend you!”

Shen Qingqiu know that. He didn’t mean to offend him, no. He meant to commiserate. Because, apparently, he thinks Shen Qingqiu must be tired of Luo Binghe.

“I’m leaving.” He says and promptly turns around and walks out of his own house. Binghe wouldn’t like it that he left his martial uncle in bamboo house unsupervised, but it’s either that or beating Shang Qinghua and Shen Qingqiu hasn’t yet formulated a reason inside his buzzing and spluttering mind for why he needs to do that.

Shen Qingqiu is still trying to understand what exactly about the conversation with Shang Qinghua addles him so much as he walks towards the designated meeting spot. Luo Binghe should be there soon to pick him up and take them both to the underground palace. When they last talked – just that night, in a shared dream – Luo Binghe asked if he could visit Shen Qingqiu in their bamboo house as he has some free time before he has to continue on his business, but Shen Qingqiu wanted to be alone with his husband for the short time that they would have, and he’s rarely left alone while on Qing Jing Peak.

“Shizun!” He hears, as almost reaches the stairs. He slows down, allowing Ning YingYing to catch up to him, but doesn’t stop completely. Binghe might already be waiting.

“What is it, YinYing?” He asks, smiling indulgently at his disciple.

“Why is Shizun leaving?” Ning YingYing pouts. “Didn’t he say that he’ll stay for a few days more?”

“Your Shizun will be back shortly.” Shen Qingqiu rolls his eyes, but his smile is still present. See, Airplane-bro? All his disciples are sticky! Luo Binghe is not worse than anyone else. Well, if only just a little. “This Shizun just has a meeting with your shidi.”

“Ah, A-Luo is back? When will this one get to see him?”

“Luo Binghe is very busy, so he won’t be coming to Qing Jing Peak just yet.” Shen Qingqiu says, stopping at the top of the stairs and looking downward. Binghe isn’t there yet.

“So he’s stealing Shizun all to himself?” Ning YingYing pouts again, but this time her eyes are sparkling with amusement. “Isn’t A-Luo the sweetest?”

And then it dawns on Shen Qingqiu. He quickly sends Ning YingYing back and starts his trip down the stairs, lost in thought. He’s taking Shizun all to himself. You have to interrupt your evening to placate my clingy son. They say it as if it wasn’t Shen Qingqiu who insisted on meeting somewhere else, so they could be alone. As if he didn’t insist on being interrupted whenever Luo Binghe had a minute to spare during his trip.

Because even if they know that Shen Qingqiu cares for Luo Binghe, they are certain that Luo Binghe cares for him more. More to the point of being annoying, even?

Shen Qingqiu sees red. He’s furious with Airplane, of course, because he started it, but most of all he’s furious at himself. Sure, he isn’t as shameless as his husband to declare his love left and right, but did he really let his cold and aloof facade lead people to believe that he is not madly in love with his husband?

Did he lead Luo Binghe to believe that, too?

Shen Qingqiu doesn’t notice the stairs end and almost stumbles, when his foot meets the ground sooner than he anticipated. A strong arm catches him around the waist.

“Shizun.” His husband breathes out and draws him closer, hugging him as if they’ve been apart for months instead of days. Shen Qingqiu is frozen in his arms.

That’s it, isn’t it? Luo Binghe never hesitates to show his feelings. But Shen Qingqiu’s thin face is not an indicator that he loves his husband less! It’s just that-

“Shizun?” Luo Binghe leans away, arms still circling his waist. His brow is furrowed, just a bit. Starry eyes are already watering from Shen Qingqiu's lack of response. How on earth could someone not love this man with their whole heart?

“Binghe.” Shen Qingqiu says, unable to hold the question back a moment longer. “Do you think you love me more than I love you?”

Luo Binghe’s arms drop. He takes a stumbling step back. His perfect, beautiful face freezes completely, not showing a single emotion. A second later tears start rolling down his cheeks.

“Binghe?” Shen Qingqiu takes his husband’s hand and squeezes lightly. “Are you okay?”

“Shizun said-” Binghe chokes, still looking at him without as much as blinking. “He said he loves…?”

Then, the dam breaks and Luo Binghe starts sobbing in earnest. Shit. Has he ever said the L word before? Shen Qingqiu swears on his own grave – on all of his graves – to never let the shame overtake him again.

“So, you do?” He asks, heartbroken and ashamed. He truly is an abominable husband.

“I do!” Binghe cries. “Of course I do. How can there be a love greater than my love for Shizin?”

How? Shen Qingqiu would love for Luo Binghe to see his old room right now. That’d show him how.

“What about my love, huh?” He snaps, fighting an urge to stomp his foot. “Why can’t it be greater?”

Binghe must realize his mistake. He hastily wipes his face and shakes his head.

“Of course this one knows Shizun cares for him! Shizun’s shown this one so much kindness, has been so generous, and-”

“No!” Shen Qingqiu feels his cheeks grow hot. “I don’t just care for you. I love you. I love my husband.”

Luo Binghe stares at him and doesn’t say anything for a very long time.

“Shizun?” He says, finally. “Did you happen to come across any interesting plants recently?”

Oh for fuck’s sake!

“I’m not under any influence!” Shen Qingqiu huffs.

“Do you mind if I…?”

“Go for it.”

A second later Shen Qingqiu feels the blood parasites start fretting. It’s not the most pleasant feeling, but if it’ll make his husband stop humiliating him, he’ll take it happily.

“Shizun is healthy.” Luo Binghe says dumbly. “But then why would he say that?”

“Because it’s the truth!” Shen Qingqiu cries. “Why is it so hard to believe? Why do everybody, including my own husband, keep suggesting that I don’t feel as strongly about Binghe as Binghe does about me?”

“Did Liu Qingge say something?” Luo Binghe asks, eyes narrowing.

“No!” Shen Qingqiu rolls his eyes. “But I’m sure he would, if he had a chance. Because apparently, I don’t look in love!”

Luo Binghe’s face is quite red, Shen Qingqiu notices.

“But they’ll see.” He continues. “Ang you! You’ll see too, Binghe.”

“I’ll see?”

“Yes.” Shen Qingqiu nods decidedly. He knows how to fanboy, okay? Binghe’s cooking and fretting and gift lavishing won’t stand a chance against Shen Qingqiu’s skill. “Take me home this instant. I have posters to paint.”

“Posters?”

“Now, Binghe!”

Luo Binghe squeaks and reaches for Xin Mo. Shen Qingqiu jumps through the portal before it even fully opens.

[evansbby]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧'𝐬 𝐑𝐞𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐝

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: dark!Steve Rogers x naive!Reader

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: VERY DARK ELEMENTS, noncon, extremely rough smut, daddy kink, captain kink, age gap (Steve is very into the age gap), MAJOR size kink, no seriously Steve is HUGE, misogyny, loss of virginity, mentions of blood (heavy mentions), mean Steve (seriously, he has no soul and is very mean, honestly unhinged), anal play, oral (f receiving), innocence kink, naive reader, 18+ ONLY, NO MINORS. MINORS DNI.

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Even Captain America deserves a reward after an intense, grueling mission.

𝐀/𝐍: Here we go! 16.3k words. Written very quickly. Not edited so please be forgiving. Also I don't have much knowledge on Shield and all that, so yeah! Final warning to PLEASE read the warnings! Anyways, enjoy!

“The girl’s ready, Captain.”

Steve nods at the SHIELD agent tersely, “She’s in my room?”

“Yes, sir. And all your specifications have been followed.”

“Good. You’re dismissed.”

The agent bows his head before leaving the office, and Steve finds himself pacing. He often paced after gruelling missions, as if trying to get all the leftover adrenaline out. Tonight had been particularly challenging; a local university under threat from HYDRA. Thousands of screaming staff and students, the air painted with gunshots and screams of chaos. But Steve’s team had come to the rescue. Just like they always did.

His team all had different ways of dealing with it, the trauma and evil they saw every day. Clint had his family to go home to, and some middle-of-nowhere farmhouse that Steve would’ve found quaint if he’d given more of a fuck. Tony’s solution was alcohol – copious amounts of it. And maybe that would’ve been Steve’s fate too, stumbling out of a bar at three in the morning having no idea where he was, but of course, he had the serum to thank for avoiding him that. Natasha immersed herself in her friends, Sam partied a lot, Bruce locked himself up in his lab because God knew he was wrestling more demons than anyone else. Except maybe Bucky… But even Bucky had a girl to help him cope.

That left Steve. But Steve had this.

I deserve this. He thinks it to himself as he makes his way out of his office and down the hall toward the elevator. There are SHIELD agents scattered here and there, chattering mindlessly about the successful mission and how, thanks to the Avengers, there were no civilian deaths. But they all hush when they see him, parting like the Red Sea, their heads bowed in respect as he walks past them. The Captain. The hero. Their leader. He’s still in his suit, the shield still on his back and bloodied cuts decorating his face. Nevertheless, he’s the face of the Avengers. Everyone in this building looks up to him.

Everyone on the face of this Earth looks up to him.

And a few minutes later, when he gets off the elevator and to his private floor, walks over to his bedroom door and opens it, he finds a large pair of eyes looking up at him too.

You jump, the fear on your face so evident that Steve can almost smell it. Standing in the corner of his room as if you want to permeate through the wall or maybe disappear altogether. Your arms hug your body in a bid to hide it from whoever you thought was going to enter this room, but you seem to relax once you see that it’s him.

“C-Captain, it’s you! Oh, thank God!” Your shoulders sag in relief, although – much to Steve’s displeasure – you continue to cover your body with your arms, “I-I don’t know what happened, but there’s some bad people here, and they took me while I was being evacuated from the university, a-and they brought me here and they wouldn’t answer my questions and–”

Steve frowns as you drone on and on, talking about a mile a minute – a quality he doesn’t particularly care for in a woman. But his eyes drink you nevertheless. You look young – a college student, no doubt – but he finds he doesn’t mind that. In fact, it makes his cock harden, seeing how wide-eyed and naïve you look, a lot younger than him. A pretty face, and an attractive body too despite the fact that you seemed hell bent on hiding it from him.

“Put your arms down by your side.” He commands you, watching closely as you stop mid-sentence, your voice trailing off. He can tell you’re uncomfortable, confused, and probably tired out from fighting and arguing with his agents. But he knows already what’s going through your mind: that you’ll obey because it’s Captain America, and Captain America was a hero who always meant well. Hesitantly, slowly, your arms fall down to your sides.

Steve had very specific tastes, and his agents knew to follow his instructions to a tee. Which was why you stood before him, your body sheathed in the prettiest, most expensive vintage lingerie. All lacy and intricate, just how Steve liked it – white and silky, hugging your body like a second skin and accentuating your curves, making you look like half angel, half seductress. He’d long ago, in a different lifetime, pored over old pin-up magazines, just like any other boy his age would. He’d likened the white lingerie in the pictures to be what his innocent bride would wear the night he deflowered her. Back in the forties, back when he’d been a different man, a man who actually cared about trivial things like marriage and family. Years of war and fighting had beaten that out of him.

And yet, almost a century later, Steve still has a partiality for white, lacy lingerie.

After every mission (successful or not) SHIELD would bring him a girl in vintage lingerie. Always an unsuspecting girl who had no idea what she was being pulled into. They came in all sorts of varieties; crying, kicking, screaming, paralysed in fear when they realised the reason they were in his bedroom. But Steve deserved it, for every single sacrifice he’d made for his country, for the world – he deserved this one bit of pleasure. Bucky had his girl, Sam had his parties, Tony had his alcohol, Bruce had his lab… And Steve had this.

And it was the least you could do, the least all those girls before you could do, because hadn’t Steve saved you? Saved all of you? This was his payment. You were his reward.

“C-Captain?” He notices how you can’t help but stutter, and he finds it amusing despite the fact that he’s used to having this effect on women – especially immature college girls like you. You gesture down to your body, “Th-This isn’t how I was dressed – they put me in this, those bad guys! N-Now I don’t know where my clothes are, and, and…”

Once more, your voice trails off as Steve walks past you nonchalantly. He heads to the bathroom, making sure to leave the door open so he can keep an eye on you lest you try to escape. Not that you’d get very far – this whole floor was his and every lock required his facial recognition to open. In the past, other girls had tried to escape, and sometimes Steve enjoyed the chase. But tonight, he felt tense. He’d wanted to capture all the HYDRA agents but two of them had escaped. To Steve, that was failure, and failure made him tense. Angry. Frustrated. He needed someone submissive, obedient, quiet…

“C-Captain, I’m gonna be okay, aren’t I?” You ask, voice high-pitched and shaky, and Steve almost smirks. He stands in front of the sink, surveying the scratches on his face. They’d heal overnight, and once more he’d be the perfect face of the Avengers. The face of America. The face of hope, the face of good. If only they knew what went on behind his eyes, the thoughts he thought, the darkness behind the façade.

He washes his hands, observing the blood as it swirls down the drain of the sink.

“Sir… Captain… Is there a way I could call my family? They’ll be worried about me, and those people took my phone so I don’t–”

“Get on the bed.”

“H-Huh?”

“Get on the bed. I won’t repeat myself.”

Steve’s voice is soft, levelled, yet commanding. And he knows you’ll listen. He’s been over this with so many of the other girls brought in for him as a post-mission reward. You still trust him, he can see it in your eyes. You know him as the superhero you see on TV, where he’s all clean-cut and politically correct as he commands the hearts of millions through his motivational speeches and actions. And by the looks of it, you’re so naïve that he knows you haven’t yet figured out what “get on the bed” truly infers to.

And so you do, gingerly settling down on the edge of his king-sized bed, shaking like a little leaf but he can tell that you’re trying to keep a brave face as you look up at him, determined to trust the super-soldier that the whole country trusted. And breaking that trust, breaking that spirit that shone in your innocent eyes, that was the sweet release he needed tonight, or any other night after each mission made him grow more disillusioned. Breaking your trust, breaking your body so all of this was worth it.

Sometimes, Steve wonders when exactly he had changed. He remembers how plucky and optimistic he used to be. A little bit sardonic, a little bit sarcastic, but he really did have a heart of gold – at least that’s what people told him. Even after they’d dug him out from that iceberg, he’d still been that same guy. But that was years ago, and each day he grew more disillusioned with what he preached, what he stood for. He could never settle, never feel like he fully belonged in the world he kept risking his life to save over and over again. Even Bucky, who’d gone through so much, had managed to find fulfilment through finding love.

Steve, on the other hand, doesn’t think love exists.

What does exist is you… Sweet, quivering, innocent little you. The SHIELD agents know his tastes down to a tee, and physically, you’re everything he likes, everything he prefers. It’s nights like these when Steve really feels alive, when he snuffs out the innocence of some unsuspecting girl and reaps his reward for saving countless lives. He deserves this. God knows he deserves this.

“What’re you doing?” You whisper, eyes round as saucers as he reaches out to stroke your hair. He bristles slightly, annoyed by your persistant questions. You should know better – he was your superior after all. But you’d learn by the time the night was over, and so Steve resumes petting you, slipping his hand down to rub your cheek, feel your smooth skin under the rough callouses of his hand.

The same hand that had choked two or three HYDRA bastards to death earlier tonight.

“You will address me as Captain.” He says, dismantling his shield from his back and placing it on the floor against the bed. He follows your gaze, how your mouth drops open in awe despite how scared you are. His cock hardens, knowing you’re impressed by him. By his size, because he’s aware he looks even bigger in person than on the news – enough girls have told him that. And by the shield too, because it reflected his power, his status, everything that he supposedly stood for.

You clear your throat nervously, “S-Sorry, uh, Captain, I just, uh, I was wondering when you’d take me home,” you say the last few words quickly, as if you’re mouth’s dry and you’re rushing to get all your words out. “I n-need to get home, my parents will be worried about me, Captain, and I have homework–”

Steve almost snorts at that. Homework. You were even more innocent than he thought you were, if one of your biggest concerns was whether you’d get your homework done or not. And this naivete amuses him, enamours him, but most importantly, it gets him hard.

“You’ll be taken home tomorrow.” He informs you, his tone clipped and formal, clinical like a doctor informing his patient when they’d be discharged. He liked to keep it like that between him and his “rewards.” Steve didn’t believe in intimacy, and didn’t feel the need to waste kindness on you or any of the previous girls. He faked kindness and heroic optimism all day, it was only at night in the privacy of his quarters that he could shed all that away and allow his darkness to take over.

“T-Tomorrow? Why? Why not tonight? And why am I here, anyways? Everyone else was evacuated together!”

“Enough.” He says sternly, and you shrink back like a chastised child, or an injured puppy. He watches your lower lip as it juts out, and he wonders if you’ve done that on purpose as a way to appease him. He wouldn’t fall for it though, he was wise to women and all their cheap tricks they used to wrap weaker, lesser men around their fingers. Steve would never be one of those men. “You will not speak unless I give you permission.”

Your lower lip quivers, “I don’t understand…”

He sits down next to you, acutely aware of how much bigger he is than you. Leisurely, his eyes drink in your body now that he’s much closer to you. The bra pushes your breasts upwards so they spill out attractively over the creamy white lace of the lingerie, and he watches them rise up and down as you breathe heavily, probably trying to keep yourself from crying. He wishes you would cry – tears have always turned him on. But the night is young, and he knows he’ll see some tears soon, he always does.

“C-Captain, please, please help me! I’m so confused and I don’t know what’s going on, and I don’t know how I got into this outfit, I think they drugged me, and I’m scared, and I have homework, and I gotta go now, so pl– OW!”

Steve yanks you forward by your hair, till your face is inches from his, and he can practically smell your fear. Eyes as big as saucers look up at him, shining bright with unshed tears of both fear and pain. He loosens his grip slightly, despite the fact he isn’t holding you too tightly – but the serum gives him inhumane strength, and you’re just a weak little girl after all.

“Once again, I’m telling you not to speak without permission. Do not make me repeat myself one more time.”

You swallow harshly, bowing your head once he lets go of your hair. But your lips are now pressed tightly together, as if you’re hoping he’ll take you home if you shut up and listen. There’s still light in your eyes, you’re beginning to question him inwardly but you still trust him, Steve knows you do. And it’s not long now before he crushes that trust completely.

He sighs at your compliance, stroking your quivering bare arm, thrill shooting straight down to his cock because of how soft and smooth you are. He likes the juxtaposition between the two of you right now: you, so soft and small, so much younger than him, like a doll in your pretty lingerie that he’d picked out. And him, more than double your size, jaded with age that didn’t physically show, bloodied and scratched suit, rough hands, dark thoughts.

“C-Captain, I’m scared,” you whisper, and you really do look like you’re about to wet yourself, and it turns him on so much that he doesn’t even bristle at you speaking out of turn again.

“Good.” He murmurs, continuing to stroke you like you’re his little doll. There’s something about you, something so pure that he can’t really put his finger on. In the past, he’s been detached, unforgiving, often just throwing his “reward” on the bed, holding her head down against the mattress while he fucked the living daylights out of her. He would be detached and cold with you too, but this time he feels a peculiar need to savour you at the same time.

It's when he grabs your hand and places it on his hard crotch that you start crying in earnest, finally realising your fate.

“What’re you– No, please, not that! Please, I don’t know what’s going on, Captain, please–”

You try to snatch your hand back, but he holds it steadily in place. You’d never be a match for his strength, no matter how hard you tried – he had more brute power in his pinkie finger than you did in your whole body. And that turns him on even more.

“You’ll go home tomorrow,” he repeats, not even sure why he’s explaining anything to you, because he usually doesn’t speak to the girls brought for him at all, let alone reassure them. “Tomorrow, you’ll see your family but tonight, your body is mine and I’ll do with it what I please.”

You look like you’ve seen a ghost, but quickly you shake your head, blinking rapidly as if you’ve misheard him. “N-No, Captain, I don’t want to! Y-You can’t make me,” you look at him pleadingly, trying to tug your hand back but he holds it firmly against his covered cock, “You won’t make me, will you, Captain? Th-That’s wrong! An’ you’re a good man so you’d never do that!”

“Take it out.”

A different man would have perhaps consoled you, told you it would all be over soon, or maybe even made up an excuse to manipulate you into sleeping with him. A better man would’ve taken pity on you, given you your clothes back and taken you home. But Steve wasn’t like any of those men. All Steve was right now was impatient, and more than ready for his reward. I deserve it, he thinks once more to himself, before pressing your small hand down on his crotch meaningfully.

“Take my dick out.” He repeats sternly, and when you still don’t comply (probably because you’re frozen in shock and fear) Steve can’t help but quickly undo his fly before pushing your hand down his suit pants, letting out a hiss when he feels your dainty palm and fingers on his rock-hard flesh.

“No, no, no, please no,” you cry softly, rivulets of tears streaking your face, “This is wrong, Captain, please.”

He makes you wrap your hand around his cock, smirking to himself when your fingers don’t even come close to wrapping around all the way. The serum had made him a lot bigger than average, and a lot thicker too. So much so that every time he had sex, no matter how much he stretched the girls out, there would always be blood. He’d grown to become turned on by the sight of it.

“I’ve seen you on TV,” you whisper desperately, and he knows you’re in that state of mind where you’re just so scared that you’ll say anything and everything, “I’ve seen how you are, a-and you’re supposed to be the good guy, Captain. Please, let me go, y-you’re a good man so please–”

“Shut up.” He says simply, making you take his dick out. That quietens you up for a second, and you gape at his huge dick as it slaps up against his abs which are still covered by the suit. He hasn’t had sex or jacked off in about a week now (missions, press conferences, community work and other bullshit had kept him busy) and his dick is almost angry hard, the veins so prominent as he throbs in your hand.

“Stroke it.” He instructs you.

You shake your head, hand limp around his hard cock, “You c-can’t, this is wrong.”

“Drop the coy act,” he orders you, feeling a surge of impatience when he’s tried to be level with you for so long, “I know what you kids watch these days on the internet, and all the vulgar movies on television. Now do what I fucking say, or else.”

You look both taken aback and hurt by his sharper tone, and immediately you’re shaking your head.

“N-No, Sir, please. I don’t watch any of that stuff, I’m not allowed to, okay? A-And this is wrong on so many levels, you’re meant to be a good guy!”

Steve finds his cock hardening even more when he hears how you’re not allowed to watch the vulgarity that’s become so normalised in the media now as compared to back in the day. Were you, perhaps, a girl with morals? Someone who was raised well? He had yet to run in to such a girl in the twenty-first century.

“I’ve seen you on the news,” you try again when he doesn’t speak, “you and the Avengers, you’ve saved c-countless people. You’ve won wars for us. I w-went to see you when you gave a talk at my school last year, the one about good versus evil. You’re an inspiration, Captain, you wouldn’t do this!”

You’re talking a mile a minute, and Steve knows you’re doing it to prolong time till your inevitable fate. He’s tortured enough men to know that goners loved to run their mouths. As for what you’re saying, it has zero effect on him. He didn’t believe in what he said, what he stood for – you could never use that to persuade him to take a higher road.

He starts moving your hand up and down on his dick, hissing again because of how pleasurable your dainty hand feels on his rock-hard length, not to mention how much it turns him on that you’re still trying to pull your hand away, looking anywhere but at his cock, embarrassment mixing with the bone-chilling fear on your face.

“Y-You’re not a good man!” you finally sob out, shaking from head to toe as realisation finally seeps through your head.

Your words bristle Steve for whatever reason. In the past, his “rewards” have often back-talked him, insulted him as if they thought their words would have any impact on him – which they never did. But seeing you, with your bright, optimistic eyes that clearly looked up to him up until this moment, hearing you call him a bad guy… It makes him feel defensive.

“I saved you.” He spits out, “HYDRA attacked your university and I saved you and all your little friends. You’d be dead if it weren’t for me.”

You nod desperately, “I-I know, Captain, that’s why I don’t understand why you’re doing thi–”

“I deserve this.” He says simply, cutting you off. “I risk my life to save unthankful people like you, over and over again. Even a super soldier deserves payment, or at least an incentive to do what I do.”

Your jaw drops open, speechless and horrified. Steve couldn’t care less, and he feels another wave of impatience. Two weeks ago, he’d endured a similarly gruelling mission, and his reward had been waiting for him in his room. She’d been mouthy, of course, as most women of the twenty-first century were, but he’d fucked her and sent her packing within fifteen minutes. So why, on this particular occasion, was he sitting here making idle chit-chat with some dumb-witted college girl who was half his age?

He's always been quick, and you yelp in surprise when he grabs you by the waist, his rough fingers digging into your soft skin. He drags you into his lap, till you’re crying on top of him, your back to his chest. You struggle and flail against him, but it’s to no avail as he presses you down on top of his thigh, spreading your legs and locking them with his own.

“Stop struggling,” he orders you through gritted teeth, although he has to admit that having a weak girl like you fighting against him with all her might while he held you down with just his one arm was quite arousing, “It’ll be easier for you if you just stay still.”

“Please don’t, I-I’m not ready for this, I’ve never done this before, I–”

Steve snorts at that. He knows you’re young, but he also knows that girls in this century are promiscuous, and that’s putting it kindly. How many lies would you tell before you realised they’d all be in vain? He was goddamned Captain America, and he was going to have his way with you tonight no matter what came out of that pretty, pouty mouth of yours.

Grabbing your soft, bare thighs with his hands, he pushes them further apart, all while you cry and quiver in his arms like a wounded animal. Your white, lacy panties hide your pussy from his greedy, impatient gaze, and he wants nothing more than to rip your lingerie apart and ravage you to soothe the ache of his hard cock which is currently pressing against your back.

“Push your panties aside.” He commands, “and don’t even think about arguing with me. One more word of insubordination out of you, and you don’t even want to know what I’ll do.”

You’re sobbing and sobbing as you gingerly do what he says, and he licks his lips when he sees your bare pussy, trussed out for him as he holds your legs apart. He can’t help but press a finger on your bundle of nerves before swiping downwards over your slit. He frowns. You’re not wet. That simply won’t do.

Of course, he’s been in this situation before. Not often, because truthfully, women got wet the second they looked at him, turned on by his size, his power, his authority. But sometimes, like now, when one of his “rewards” was very scared and non-compliant, she wouldn’t be wet. Steve didn’t care, and he’d go in dry if he could except, with the sheer size of his dick, it just wasn’t physically possible. Often, he’d tell the SHIELD agents to prep his rewards before they were sent to his room – stretch their pussies out by whatever means (he didn’t care) so long as they were able to take his girth.

But you… Oh, he reckons he’ll have fun with stretching you out all by himself.

“Touch yourself.” He says into your ear, holding you in place tightly.

“I…I…I don’t know how, I don’t– I don’t do this, I’ve never done this, I–”

There’s something about your frightened demeanour that makes him realise that maybe you’re not lying after all. He raises a brow, “You’ve never touched yourself?”

“N-No, Sir – I mean Captain – I’m not allowed to. My parents are very conservative, Sir, I haven’t even had my first kiss. Please don’t make me do this!”

Steve didn’t think it was possible for his dick to get any harder, but it does. So big and painfully hard, it presses against your back almost indecently as he licks his lips, now infinitely more interested in you. So you were a girl raised right in these godforsaken “modern” times. His mind conjures up different ways in which he could teach you, mould you, ruin you… He doesn’t remember the last time he had a virgin – it was probably back in the forties, back when women were pure and of good heart and good intentions.

Maybe tonight’s reward would be sweeter than any other.

He grabs your hand, pressing it against your petal-soft folds. He takes your pointer finger and slowly, gently, circles it around your clit. You fight against him but it only takes you a few seconds to realise that your efforts are completely futile. Steve does not care for what you want, not in the least. You’re his reward, and he deserves this.

He leaves your finger on your clit, shooting you a deathly look that conveys that you better keep circling it or else. His own eager fingers explore your core, slipping down to probe you, finding that not even one of his fingers fits inside your little fuckhole. In fact, he tries pushing his pinkie finger up inside but to no avail at all. Fuck. You weren’t lying – you were definitely a virgin. Another telltale sign is how it only takes a handful of seconds before your wetness begins to spread, and you whimper softly – probably at all the foreign sensations you’re feeling as Steve continues to probe your hole.

“Feels good, huh?” Steve hears himself say softly, and he doesn’t know why he’s bothering wasting words on you. He never spoke to any of his other rewards – they were only there for his pleasure, and may as well have been inanimate objects to him. Dolls brought in for him to use and then promptly taken away when he was done with them. But you? Fuck, Steve doesn’t know what’s come over him.

“I-It won’t fit, Captain, please stop,” you cry softly when he tries to force his finger into you again. You’re adequately wet now, but your pussy continues to reject his finger, and he knows there’s no way you’ll be able to take his dick if he doesn’t stretch you out with his fingers first.

“I’ll make it fit,” he mutters, throwing you aside on the bed and standing up quickly. He sucks his finger into his mouth, tasting your sweetness and shutting his eyes for a second to savour your taste. And then he shoots you a warning look, “Stay there.”

He smirks when you don’t move an inch – probably paralysed with fear – as he walks over to the dresser next to his bed. Rummaging through his drawers, he sorts past all the sex toys that some agent had probably stocked up inside. Steve didn’t have much use for them, as he considered himself too traditional for toys. But he can’t help but be turned on by the idea of using a large dildo on you, or stuffing your virgin ass with a cute plug. But for right now, he grabs the bottle of lube – it’s half empty because of how often he’s had to use it on his past partners. Since the serum, his dick was way too big to go in naturally, especially when it came to a sweet virgin like you.

Roughly, he pushes you down till your back is pressed against his king-sized mattress. He climbs on top of you, rolling his eyes at the fight left in you, how you flail and fight against him despite his body being more than twice your size. He uses his arm to hold you down, but truthfully, he could’ve done it with just his pinkie finger.

“Stay still,” he commands, pinning your limbs down flat against the bed. You resort to sniffling and crying silently, your wary eyes watching him as he spreads your legs as wide as they’ll go. A sudden feral urge takes over him, and he rips your panties in half, the flimsy material landing gracefully on his sheets. Your bare pussy glistens up at him, now wet with your sweet cream despite how much you continue to cry. He can smell your sexy aroma; the scent of a virgin pussy and it goes straight to his dick.

With an animalistic snarl, he dips his head down between your legs. Using two fingers to spread your creamy petals, he lays his tongue flat against your quivering fuckhole. You scream in shock, body jerking underneath him but he doesn’t care. He grips your thighs, lifting your ass and lower back up off the bed, watching carnally as your wetness drips down to between your ass crack. He spreads your cheeks, smirking when you wail in surprise. He digs his eager tongue between your cheeks, probing your puckered, virgin ass before licking a straight line all the way back up to your pussy, ending with a harsh suck on your clit as he holds your hands at bay.

It’s come out of nowhere, this sudden need to taste you. Back in the forties; Steve had rather enjoyed going down on women. He knew he was skilled at giving head, he’d been told more than enough times. But he can’t remember the last time he’d done it. Never with any of his “rewards,” who were only ever good for fucking on their hands and knees like dogs. But you, you were different.

You wiggle, crying and begging him to let go of you but you may as well be a fly with how weak and inconsequential your pleas are to his ears. Instead, he laps at your baby cunt like he’s starved. Like a starved caveman, he spits down on your clit, wanting to make your pureness as messy as possible. He spreads his saliva all over your core with his fingers, marking you up with his DNA. He encases your now engorged bundle of nerves between his lips once more, giving it another hard suck but this time his teeth graze against it.

“C-Captain, oh-oh my God–Ah!”

It’s when Steve finally forces his one finger inside you that you squirt, drenching his digit as your walls clamp down around it. And God-fucking-dammit, he can’t believe how tight you’re squeezing his one singular finger, how tight and sexy and soft you feel around it. How your slippery walls pulsate around his digit like you’ve never cum before in your life – which would explain how quickly you’ve come undone. Some of your wetness lands on his face, some of it on the sheets beneath you, and that’s when Steve realises he’s given a virgin her first orgasm.

He can’t help but smirk, his finger still lodged inside you, but not even halfway because you’re still so fucking tight.

“Doesn’t seem like you want me to stop after all, sweetheart.” He says, not realising he’s used the pet-name on you until it’s already out of his mouth. He sets the lower half of your body back down on the bed, his finger still inside you.

You sniffle as your whole body shakes with the remnants of your orgasm, “P-Please,” you say faintly, and you can’t even raise your head to look down at him, “Please, can I go home now?”

Steve’s lip curls into a snarl, and he drives his finger inside you with renewed force, curving it upwards even when he feels resistance. You scream bloody murder, and he knows if your orgasm hadn’t sapped all your energy, you’d be flailing your legs again. But for now, he easily holds you down, feeling your soft walls encase his finger which is now up to the hilt inside you. That’s when he grabs the bottle of lube, squirting out a generous amount onto the rest of his fingers.

“N-No, Captain, please, I can’t take another one, I can’t, I can’t!” You plead, fat tears rolling down your cheeks. “Captain – Steve – please listen to me, please, look, I can’t take another finger, pl–”

His palm lands on your clit with a wet smacking sound, and you howl in pain, your pelvis lifting off the bed except he pins you back down with just one hand.

“Don’t fucking use my first name. You will address me as Captain. One more slip up and I won’t do you the favour of stretching you out.” His intense blue eyes meet your tear-filled ones, “And trust me, you want to be stretched out for when I fuck you.”

With gritted teeth and a cock that’s now painfully hard, he gets to work trying to stuff another finger into your pussy. His other hand grabs your hip in a bruising grip, and his fingers stroke your smooth, bouncy ass every so often like he can’t help it. You’re turning him on so fucking much; with your crying, how you’re begging him to stop, how weak and small you are, how fucking tight your pussy is. It makes Steve want to say something just so he can hear you speak in response, despite the fact that he’s never vocal during sex.

“Tell me, why is your pussy so fucking tight?”

“H-Huh?”

“You heard me.”

You sniffle again, shooting him a pleading look that he doesn’t even bother acknowledging. He just looks at you with waiting eyes as he nonchalantly continues to force his second finger inside you. He wants to hear you say naughty things with your innocent little mouth, and talking would get you to fucking relax so he could penetrate you with his digits properly in order to stretch you out in preparation for his dick.

“I-I’ve never done this before…” you scrunch your eyes shut, but a quick slap to your thigh has you opening them again.

“You’ve never fingered yourself?”

“No!”

“Tell me why not.”

You bow your head, “I don’t know… I just… I never did, okay? I’ve never done any of it.”

A wicked thought crosses Steve’s mind, “Oh yeah? You’ve never done anything naughty, huh? You’re a good girl?” His second finger curves up to join the first, and your hips jerk forward as you suck in your breath. It makes him smile, and he slowly begins to pump his two fingers in and out of you, “You’ve never, say, humped your baby cunt against your pillow at night? Or your stuffed animals?”

The way you freeze and how your eyes widen is all the confirmation Steve needs. He chuckles darkly.

“So that’s the type of girl you are. Riding your pillow at night when you think no one’s watching, and you probably touch your body all over, too, don’t you?” Lightning quick, his other hand leaves your hip, grabbing your wrist and bringing your hand up to your chest. Through the material of your bra, he makes you cup your breast like how he would, wanting to watch with dark eyes as you play with your tits, trying to imagine how hot you’d look doing just that all alone in the privacy of whatever girlish bedroom you had.

Steadily, he continues to finger you, pumping his digits in and out of your greedy, wet pussy, and it makes slurping sounds as it swallows his fingers in over and over again. And he observes you carefully, notices your wide eyes, the sweat on your brow, the way your lips are parted as your breathing shallows out. He even sees the slight buck of your hips, and he knows he has you where he wants you, hanging on to his every filthy word despite your mind screaming at you to continue resisting.

“Yeah, that’s right,” Steve mutters lowly, “I know that’s what all innocent little girls like you do when they think they’re alone. You play with your tits and you rub your cunt all over your pillow, till you’ve got it all wet and messy. All while you fantasise about a man like me fucking you, taking care of you, huh? I’m right, aren’t I?”

You’re full on panting now, as if his beguiling words have made you forget all about your resistance, and you rock your hips harder against his thick fingers, little pants and moans sneaking past your pouty lips as he watches you closely.

“And then you act like a good girl, and you lie to me and tell me you’ve never touched yourself. But you and I both know that’s not true. Not when you spend your nights alone in your bedroom riding your little pillow while mommy and daddy sleep in the next room, and then when you’re done, I bet you bring it up to your face, just so you can smell your own wetness, right?”

This time, he gives your ass a swift slap when you don’t reply, and you cry out in pain before squeezing your eyes shut.

“Y-Yes,” you breathe softly, so softly that he barely catches it. But it makes him grin wickedly all the same. He hasn’t had this much fun with a reward since God knows when. He never bothers speaking to the lowlife girls brought to him as post-mission rewards, let alone engaging in dirty talk with them as he was with you, hanging on to your every word because it makes his dick so fucking hard.

“Of course, I’m right,” he mutters, “Captain always knows. I know you’re a little slut in the making just like all the other college girls of this century. You bring your pillow up to your face and you smell your cunt on there, and you lick it too, don’t you? You taste yourself because you’re curious, and you don’t have a man like me to show you how it’s done.”

He slips his fingers out of your cunt, your walls automatically squeezing around them as if they want to keep him inside you. But his digits are dripping wet, and he brings them up to your face. He shoves them past your lips, and you protest but all it does is create vibrations around his fingers as he smears them inside your mouth.

“Taste yourself,” he orders you, “suck on daddy’s fingers, don’t be shy.”

It takes him a few seconds to register that he’s just referred to himself as daddy. He hasn’t done that in a while – not since the forties, at least. Back then, it was quite common for women to call their man daddy, and Steve remembers enjoying it when he used to fuck the show girls during tours. But now? He usually stuck to being called “sir” or “captain” or just nothing at all. Because “daddy” was way too intimate, it suggested that he was going to take care of you. And he wasn’t going to take care of you – he was going to ruin you before you’d be taken away tomorrow.

And yet you look so sweet and cute as you suck on his fingers, too scared to fight back any more although your eyes blaze with objection, and tears stream down your face. He doesn’t think you’ll stop crying at all tonight, but he doesn’t give a fuck about that. Not when your pouty lips look so hot sucking yourself off his fingers.

“That’s right, get ‘em nice and wet,” he murmurs lowly, before deciding he misses the feel of your tight cunt squeezing his fingers – and he still has to stretch you out, too. He removes his digits from your mouth, watching as you gasp to breathe. He trails them down your front, down your chest, down your torso, all the way down to your clit. He gives it another smack, loving how you jerk upwards like you’re so damn sensitive.

He grabs a pillow, putting it underneath your ass so he has your cunt propped up and he can examine it better. Your cream is pouring out of you almost, dripping down to the pillow below you while you cry and pretend you don’t like it. But the signs are all there, he can even see how your pelvis shakes and humps upwards, because you need a man to fill you up no matter how much you protest.

“Tight little baby cunt,” he says softly as he spreads your pussy lips once more. You look so wet and slippery and yet he knows he needs to pour some more lube into your fuckhole, which he does. And then, without giving you much time to react, he shoves three of his fingers inside you, pushing harder and with more force when he’s met with any barrier.

“STOP, NO, PLEASE! STOP, CAPTAIN – TOO MUCH!” You scream so loudly that the walls seem to vibrate around the two of you.

“Shut up and take it,” Steve says, narrowing his eyes up at you before he focuses back on your gorgeous cunt, watching as your leaking hole finally swallows his three digits, “Look at this greedy little virgin pussy, so ready for my big dick to split her in half.”

You shake your head violently, crying and protesting, but it’s when you bat at his head that he sees red. How fucking dare you hit him? Just now, when he was thinking you’d been raised well, but clearly not if you didn’t think it was a problem to hit your superiors.

“You raise your hand at me again, and I’ll hit you back twice as hard.”

His menacing words make you freeze, and you whimper quietly in absolute fear as he continues to play with your pussy. He fingers you in earnest now, three of his digits stretching you out as he scissors you open, amused by the squelching sounds your cunt makes as it swallows his fingers over and over again.

“Apologise to me,” Steve demands, “say you will not raise your hand at your superior ever again.”

You sniffle, “S-Sorry…”

“Sorry, who?” He pinches your ass unforgivingly.

“Sorry, Captain! I won’t raise my hand at my superiors, okay? I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” You squeal the last few words, your pitch going higher and higher as your hips begin to meet his thrusts. And bless your innocent fucking face, you look so confused by what’s happening. Your pussy’s jammed tight but he knows it must’ve started feeling good. All greedy little girls like you needed was a little push in the right direction.

Off their own accord, your thighs lock around his hand as you cum for a second time, your walls squeezing and pulsating against his fingers so fucking tightly as you mewl and cry above him. You’re absolutely gushing with wetness now, and the pillow below your ass is stained dark with your juices. For someone who kept claiming she didn’t want this, you sure were receptive to his touch.

Steve snatches his fingers out of you, smirking when you, despite everything, cry in protest at the loss of friction. He bets your pussy feels all gaping and empty now, because he knows how big and thick his fingers are. A normal-sized man would’ve had trouble stretching your virgin cunt out with his dick – Steve had had that same problem with just his fingers.

But he knows he’ll somehow manage to fit his cock inside you if he prepped you well enough. Or else he’d spend the whole night trying to. Often, with the women he’d slept with in the past, he’d be too impatient and couldn’t be bothered to prep them properly. Because of that, he’d only be able to fit half his dick inside them, and he’d grown used to fucking them like that, only because it was physically impossible to go any deeper. He won’t let that be the case tonight.

He climbs up your quivering body, and you look spent already after two orgasms, your eyes fluttering like you’re about to pass out. Steve can’t have that though, and he taps your cheek not so gently, hovering on top of you till you open your eyes and meet his gaze.

“Please, Captain,” you whisper faintly, “E-Enough, please. Can’t take any more.”

Steve ignores you. He’s grown distracted by your lips. How wet and warm and pouty they look, glistening with a mix of your salty tears, your cum and your saliva. Fuck. He never kissed any of his “rewards” before, it was too intimate and Steve didn’t do intimacy. But maybe…

He spits down on your face, his saliva landing on your cheek as you cringe. Fuck intimacy, Steve thinks, using his hand to smear his spit all over your face, till it’s shining with a mixture of both your bodily fluids. So messy yet so pretty…

“N-Never been kissed before!” you blurt out once more all of a sudden, as if you’ve read his mind. Your eyes plead up at him, a tiny bit of hope in your eyes as if you truly believe he’ll show you empathy and spare you, “P-Please, Sir. I’ve never been kissed, a-and I want it to be special…”

How cute. You were worried about him spoiling your first kiss as if he hadn’t just finger-fucked you to two orgasms in the span five minutes. Amused, he brings his thumb up to your mouth, stroking your pouty bottom lip gently.

“You don’t let the boys at your college kiss you?” He asks, again not fully understanding why he’s even bothering to talk to you, but he figures it’s simply because he finds it amusing.

“N-No, Captain.”

“Why not?”

“I’m t-too shy, and they’re not… they’re not interested in me,” you sound so shaky, peering up at him as if you expect him to just get off you now you’ve told him your sob story about wanting to save your first kiss to be something special.

Steve snorts. And just how fucking naïve could you be? You’re fucking delectable, he bets the lowlifes at your college creamed their pants thinking about you. Suddenly, he bristles at the thought of sending you back tomorrow, back to the dumb idiots you went to college with. But he shakes the thought out of his mind to focus solely on you.

“There’s nothing special about kissing,” he tells you, “Love, intimacy, saving yourself for that special someone – none of that’s real. The sooner you realise that, the better.”

He kisses you, cupping your cheeks with his hands so that you don’t move your face aside. At first, he’s rough, unforgiving, pressing his tongue into your mouth because you taste so sweet and he needs to get more. And then he slows down, registers your soft, quivering lips on his, how rigid they are as you don’t kiss him back. He snorts inwardly, not caring in the least. He’d kiss you all he wanted – he doesn’t care if you don’t respond.

Steve sighs into your mouth, so tuned in to your senses that he feels your breath hitch, and a tiny squeak sounds past your lips and straight into his. His thumbs, seemingly moving off their own accord, stroke your cheekbones, and he feels your body instinctively relax underneath his – probably because that’s the first and only gentle gesture you’ve felt from him this whole night.

Slowly, he sucks your bottom lip almost sweetly, as if lulling you into a false sense of security. You’re still too scared or shy to kiss him back, but that doesn’t make the kiss any less enjoyable for him. His tongue plays with yours coaxingly, because he can’t remember the last time he kissed a girl and liked it so much. And then he feels you give a tiny little kitten lick, as if you’re testing the waters as you move your tongue shyly against his. And the feeling goes straight to his dick.

He pulls away slightly to watch your face, amused when he sees your eyes scrunched shut and your lips slightly pursed, as if awaiting another kiss. And that’s what he does, giving you one, two, three quick pecks that have you inhaling deeply, and your eyes open cautiously. But they flutter shut almost immediately when they find him staring back at you.

Steve goes in for another kiss, as if one wasn’t enough because suddenly it’s like he’s parched, and his raging hard on would have to wait a second longer. His dick is as hard as a metal rod, resting against your bare stomach as he makes out with you. One of his hands reach down to cup your breast, and he can feel your nipple, hard as glass, poke against his palm even through the material of the bra. You squeak into his mouth again, as if him touching and playing with your breast is making your body invertedly respond to him.

He can definitely feel you kissing him back now, even though it’s shy and periodic… Your tongue moving slowly against his for a few seconds before you remember you’re not supposed to be enjoying this and you freeze. And then you start again, your tongue timidly stroking against his once more. Then you stop again. Repeat. It makes him smirk against your lips, feeling a rumbling in his chest like he wants to chuckle in amusement.

He pulls away, examining how breathless and cute you look. And you gaze up at him with glassy, wet eyes, those perfect, pouty lips still slightly puckered, as if you’re asking for more. But he continues to just drink in every detail of your face and how you look a mix of scared and curious, afraid and confused.

“W-Was I bad?” you breathe, and your innocent face is begging for reassurance. He knows because little girls like you always want reassurance, are always seeking out the approval of men like him. And a part of him wants to tell you no, no you weren’t bad at all. In fact, he rather enjoyed kissing you. But he keeps his mouth shut, because it wasn’t his job to reassure you. And maybe he wants you to be a bit insecure; you’d work harder in pleasing him if you thought he didn’t like your kiss.

He’s still cupping your breast with one hand, and he suddenly feels a wave of irritation at the lacy material of your bra. Quick as a wink, he tears your bra apart, the two ripped pieces now lying on either side of you. A hungry growl emanates from him, and he feels like an animal, he really just wants to suck on your tits but his dick is growing impatient, and you’d probably pass out from fear and dread if he stretched this out any longer.

He reaches to grab a condom from where he stashes them in his bedside drawer. Protection was a must for him – who knew what kinds of diseases all these modern, promiscuous girls were carrying? And yet, his hand falters before he draws back completely, his mind clouding with thoughts of how sexy your soft pussy would feel around his dick if he fucked you raw. Yes. He had to fuck you raw, feel your tight virgin pussy around him as he ruined it. He deserved as much.

Instead, Steve grabs the lube once more, acutely aware of you watching him with eyes round as saucers as he squirts a generous amount of it on his dick. He looks back at you, lying deathly still underneath him, looking like you’ve seen a ghost. He wonders if your pussy’s still tingling from the two orgasms he’s just given you, and he absentmindedly pumps his dick at the thought. He doesn’t think he’s ever been this turned on before in his life, his dick so hard he feels he’ll blow his load right there and then.

He lines his cock up against your entrance, his hands holding your silky soft thighs apart. A part of him wishes you’d fight back just one more time, just so he could exert his dominance over you once more, just so it would highlight how weak and small you are. But you lay there, quivering in fear, definitely too scared to fight back, or too distracted by his dick he glides it up and down your wet slit in anticipation.

Suddenly, you grab his arm as if to stop him, and Steve narrows his eyes.

“W-Will it hurt?” You ask softly.

“Yes.”

You whimper, your grip on his arm tightening as another tear trickles down your cheek, and you look up at him with desperate eyes.

“Please, Captain, p-please could you… could you make it hurt less? Please?” You beg him so prettily, and he can’t help but focus on how your tears get caught in your lashes, and how you sniffle like a baby. “Please, I’m sc-scared, I– maybe if you were slow–?”

“It’s going to hurt no matter what,” Steve says briskly, feeling impatient beyond belief, and yet a part of him wants to brush and collect your tears. “In fact, if I go in slowly, it’ll hurt more.” He wonders if he should say more, say anything at all to ease your discomfort. But he reasons that that’s not his job – he’s not a lovesick boyfriend who needs to worry about your feelings. This is for him. He deserves this.

You start crying softly once more, your whole body shaking. Steve tries to ignore it, focusing on your cunt instead. His dick is twitching with excitement, the tip an angry red as he brings it up against your fuckhole. He grits his teeth and pushes in, but he can’t. You’re too tight – and he’s way too big. He sighs in frustration.

“Stop being so tense.” He orders you, pouring another decent amount of lube all over his cock as well as your entrance. He’d scissored you open with three of his fingers, but it had been an extremely tight fit. And three of his fingers didn’t compare to the girth and thickness of his dick – not even the tip of it. He frowns down at you, “You need to relax. It’ll hurt less if you relax.”

A panicked look flits over your face as you look down at his dick, and he knows you’re intimidated by his size. But then you take a deep breath, close your eyes and he feels your body get less tense underneath him. He smirks.

He grabs his cock by the base and lines it up against your hole once more. You flinch away from him, your innocent, puppy dog eyes blinking up at him. He doesn’t give a fuck though, and with a lot more determination this time, he grits his teeth and forces his way inside you.

Your scream is earth-shattering. But it’s music to his ears.          

“NO, PLEASE, NO, TAKE IT OUT! TAKE IT OUT! TOO BIG!”

You thrash violently underneath him, limbs flailing before he pins them down. But for a handful of seconds, he can’t even really focus on you. Not when he’s finally basking in the glory of being inside your tight little snatch, and it feels almost euphoric. You feel so sexy around him, so hot and velvety, squeezing the life out of his fat cock. Well, he’s only got a bit more than his tip inside you, but it already feels fucking heavenly.

“Oh fuck,” Steve mutters under his breath, trying to get a grip and not get too lost in the feeling of your gorgeous fucking pussy. He hasn’t even fucked you yet, and yet he feels like his balls are about to blow with how fucking hot it feels being inside you like this.

“It hurts! T-Take it out, Captain! Please!” Your tiny hand grabs his forearm again, lips puckered so sweetly, even the grimace on your face looks beautiful. You’re beautiful when you’re in pain, and he’s addicted to the sight of it. For a split second, he imagines it’s his wedding night, and you’re his beautiful bride – sweet, innocent, beautiful bride and he’s just popped your cherry and now you’re his forever.

The thought makes him shudder, and he quickly pulls out (not that there’s much to pull out, since only his tip had entered you. You were crying and screaming just from being penetrated by only his tip, and this makes Steve smug, despite everything).

You’ve barely caught your breath when he drives his dick back inside you, and this time he really forces it in. Now that he’s got a taste of your warmth, he wants to be completely enveloped in it. His hands grab your hips tightly, forcing his fat cock inside you inch by inch. He doesn’t care if it takes all night, he was going to fully penetrate you if it was the last thing he did.

“Shhh, shut up and take it,” he orders you as you scream and protest. If any other one of his girls had screamed bloody murder the way you were doing right now, he would’ve smacked them unconscious. Not you though, and he doesn’t know why that is. “God fucking dammit, how is your pussy so fucking tight?”

“Y-You’re too big,” you answer, shaking your head over and over again, “th-this… this isn’t normal, Captain, y-you won’t fit! Please stop, something’s gonna break, I-I’m scared, I–”

He wants to break your pussy. He wants to break you.

“Shut up,” he snarls, before a thought occurs to him. Out of nowhere, he kisses you once more. Silencing your protests as his tongue works against yours, and he finds that he was already missing kissing you. God, you felt so good. Your warm, sexy lips against his and your warm, sexy pussy gripping his dick. God, fuck… So this is what great sex was, huh? Maybe he’d been fucking the wrong girls this whole time. Maybe he should’ve sought you out from the beginning – or someone like you. Someone young, innocent, unexperienced, delicate, fragile, a cry-baby. Just the complete opposite of him.

Despite everything, you kiss him back once more. Steve bets it’s because your girlish mind is trying to convince him (and yourself) that you’re a good kisser. He makes a mental note never to give you this reassurance – that way you’d just keep kissing him as if you had something to prove. Or at least that was the hope. Nevertheless, the kissing distracts you enough for him to still inside you (he’d only gotten less than a quarter of his huge dick in) and then he pulls out.

The third time he penetrates you, he does it with more force than ever before. And he bites your lip hard, grunting against you till he can taste your blood. That’s when he finally pushes more than halfway inside you, and he hears something rip from within. And you scream, you scream so fucking loudly and straight into his mouth, but he continues to kiss you, basking in the feeling of being inside you properly now. His dick feels so constricted inside your tight walls, but it’s the best feeling he’s ever felt.

He breaks the kiss to look down into your eyes, and savour your reaction to being impaled by him, to being filled up by only half his length. But your head lolls to the side, your eyes rolling to the back of your head.

You’ve passed out.

“What a fucking baby,” Steve hisses, shallowly thrusting in and out of you. “Can’t even take daddy’s dick inside this tight little snatch of yours without passing out, can you?” Truthfully, he doesn’t even want to pull out, he’s so obsessed with how good your pulsating pussy feels around his dick. But he knows he needs to draw back so he can thrust back in even deeper. He’s only got half his dick inside you now, but he’s determined to get in balls deep before the night is over.

“Wake the fuck up!” he commands, wanting you alert as he defiles you. He slaps your cheek lightly several times, to no avail. He sighs, reaching for the glass of water on his side table. He dips his fingers into the liquid before sprinkling the water over your face. He slaps your cheek again, harder this time, and it turns him on when he hits you, taps into his darkest, most masochistic desires that he keeps under wraps from even himself.

It's only when he pulls out and slams back into you that you suddenly rouse, and it takes you a nanosecond to start screaming again, panicking and flailing underneath him once more. But he’s not having it this time, and quickly plasters his palm over your mouth to silence you.

“Tell me... how does daddy’s dick feel?” He asks you darkly, and he can sense the sadistic smile on his face fuelled by the sheer power he has over you right now. “And I’ll backhand the fuck out of you if you start screaming again, so don’t even try it.”

He removes his hand from your mouth and focuses on pushing more into you, and you pant underneath him, silently sobbing and cringing in pain. And yet you swallow and look up at him bravely.

“I-It hurts!”

“Address me properly.”

“C-Captain, it hurts!”

He narrows his eyes, “No. I asked you how does daddy’s dick feel?”

Your jaw drops open, and it looks like you’ve momentarily forgotten that he’s currently trying to impale you with his huge dick. Your face has the audacity to look mortified, and he wonders how innocent you truly are.

“I can’t… I can’t call you… That’s wrong!” you sputter, looking almost – dare Steve think it – cute. With your wide eyes and indignant gaze and delicious pouty lips in the shape of an o. You seem to blurt out your next words without even thinking: “Y-You’re not my dad!”

Steve barks out a laugh before he can stop himself, but he straightens his face almost immediately, reaching up to grip your chin harshly between his thumb and forefinger. Faced with your horror-struck reaction to calling him daddy, he now wants you to address him as that and nothing else.

“Listen, sweetheart. You may have noticed by now that you don’t get much of a say in what happens to you tonight,” he licks up your jawline before his lips brush against your mouth, and he speaks in a whisper, “Now answer my question. And address me properly. Or else.”

You look mortified, scrunching your eyes shut as you breath rapidly in and out. “It… It hurts…daddy.”

Steve feels like he’ll bust a nut right there and then. He doesn’t think he’s ever been more turned on. You’re so small and shy, so tiny and naïve and scared like a baby, and now you’re calling him daddy in that sexy, shaky voice of yours. Goddamn, what a sexy little slut you were. And he’d take care of you tonight, just like any daddy would. Oh… damn right he’d be your daddy tonight. God fucking dammit, you were such a little slut for calling him that!

With a renewed, carnal type of lust, Steve grabs your legs and hoists them over his shoulders. You yelp as he folds you in half like a goddamned pretzel. And the juxtaposition, the visual of your naked body underneath him still in his bloodied suit from the mission – God, it turns him on so much. He presses another kiss to your lips, guiding you into making out with him, wanting you to get obsessed with the idea of kissing him. And then he pulls away, and looks you right in the eye.

“Now you can scream.”

“Huh?”

He slams into you so fucking hard, he’s sure you see stars. And if you were screaming loudly before, it’s nothing compared to now. His entire floor is sound-proofed, but he’s sure the people above and below can hear you. He’s pushed himself far deeper into you, so deep that he senses something rip inside you again. And you’re crying, your little fists pounding against his chest, and yet Steve grits his teeth and mutters, “take it, just fucking take it,” pushing into you bit by bit, inch by inch, so determined to finally get his cock all the way inside you. Pulling out a bit, then pushing in some more while your tight walls try to push him out but he’s so much fucking stronger than you.

A deep rumble emanates past his lips when he finally – fucking finally – bottoms out inside you, and he leans down to press his forehead over yours so he can savour the moment. You were his, completely, irrevocably, undeniably his. You whimper and cry underneath him but it’s music to his ears, your sweet reaction to him popping your cherry, completely snatching away your virginity and possessing it as his forever. He looks down to where you two meet, sees your pussy stretched out completely around his girthy dick, and it makes him want to spontaneously combust.

“You’re mine.” Steve breathes against your lips, and for the second time tonight, the image of you as his little bride flits through his mind. Yes, you’d make a very fitting bride for him. Small and submissive and innocent. And he’d never taken marriage seriously before now but… well, how could he give you up? When he’d taken your virginity and made you his? How could he possibly send you back to wherever you’d come from? The mere thought fills him with vitriolic rage. No. You were to stay with Steve, and you’d be his bride. His wife. His. “Say it. Say you’re mine.”

You don’t argue this time, or even hesitate. He knows he’s broken you when you look up at him, dazed expression on your face. “I’m – I’m yours, daddy.”

Fuck. And you’d gone and called him daddy again without him even having to prompt you. Yes. That more than sealed your fate. You would be his now. His girl. His wife. He’d keep you locked up in his room forever, the same reward that he’d look forward to coming home to after every mission.

“How does it feel to have your baby pussy split open on my cock, sweetheart?” He presses kisses down the nape of your neck, excitement rippling through him at his impulsive decision to make you his wife. The thrill of finding a bride as cute as you makes him want to kiss you even more, and he nips at your neck before reaching your lips, pecking them once, twice, three times. All while you look up at him with glassy, wet eyes and a pitiful expression mixed with something else.

“Please,” you breathe quietly against his lips, and with sapped energy you manage to grab a fistful of his suit, pulling it to get his attention, “Please, make it hurt less. Please.”

Steve smirks, pulling out of you and preparing to slam back in. But he grows distracted by the sight of his cock, completely coated scarlet with your blood. Your virgin blood. The pillow under your ass is stained with drops of dark crimson too, and he’s never seen anything like it. Fuck. He’d really done a number on you, hadn’t he? And he hadn’t even begun fucking you yet.

I deserve this, he thinks to himself.

He slams into you again, the gasp dying in your mouth when he grabs you by the chin and forces you to look down at where you two meet. Your eyes grow wider, your mouth dropping open as you shake your head in disbelief at the sight of your pussy so stretched out to accommodate his girth.

“What’re those conservative parents of yours gonna think when they find out their good little girl just got her pussy ripped apart by a man twice her age?”

You swallow and shake your head, “I–I…”

“Answer me!”

“They’d be d-d-disappointed!” You cry out, ripping your gaze away from the sight of his dick penetrating your formerly virgin pussy, instead looking up at him instead, your mouth looking so deliciously pouty.

Steve smiles wickedly, “It’s a good thing you’re not their little girl anymore, huh? You’re mine now, so their opinion doesn’t matter.”

“Th-They like you! They’re fans of you… They wouldn’t like this at all! OH MY GOD!” You gasp, and he has to hold you down to keep you from sliding upwards from the power of his thrusts. You cry out once more, “W-Was supposed to – ah! – wait till I was married…”

The mention of marriage has Steve imagining you as his little bride once more. He already owned your body, mind and soul – but the marriage certificate would make sure he owned you under the eyes of the law too. His kept woman you’d be, fluttering around his apartment like a bird in a gilded cage. Or maybe he’d move you into one of the suburban properties he owned, where he could come home to you and relieve all his tension and worries. Yes. It would be perfect. He’d make all the arrangements tomorrow…

For now, he focuses back on fucking you silly. Pulling out all the way, he rams his dick straight back into your cunt, and you let out a sound that’s a mix between a squeak and a moan. He looks down at you curiously.

“You like that? You like daddy’s big dick?” He grabs your hands, squeezing them tightly.

“T-Too big!” Your eyes flutter shut as if you’re about to pass out again. “C-Captain, please slow down! H-Hurts so bad!”

Steve bristles. Hadn’t he explicitly told you to call him daddy? After all, he’d be your daddy now. You wouldn’t be your father’s property after tonight. No, you were Steve’s. He was your daddy, and he’d take care of you because you’d soon become his bride. But he wouldn’t have an insolent, insubordinate wife who couldn’t take instructions well. That wouldn’t do at all.

He grunts, letting go of your hands and wrapping his fingers around your throat instead. You squeal in protest but it lands on deaf ears. His other hand presses down over your mouth once more.

“Shut up!” He snaps, “Stop squealing like a little bitch. It hurts but you’re just going to have to take it. And you better start calling me daddy, or else I’ll drag you back downstairs and fuck you in front of everyone.” He only means it as a threat, but he knows by the way your breath hitches that you’re innocent enough to believe him.

He removes his hand from your lips and taps you roughly on your cheek, “Tell me you understand.”

You nod, receiving a harder tap on your cheek and a menacing look.

“I-I understand, daddy, I – oh – oh my!”

He thrusts into you with such force, he knows you’re seeing stars. And it’s subtle, but Steve catches it. He catches the shift in your expression, this unfamiliar spark in your eye as if you don’t know what’s happening with your body. But Steve knows. Your body is finally starting to respond to his cruel ministrations – just like he knew you would. You were an innocent little baby but you were also a horny little slut who was enjoying getting fucked by a man like him.

“It’s starting to feel good, huh?” Steve whispers against your lips, imagining the different ways he’d take you for the rest of the night. Of course, you’d probably pass out again once he was done with this first round. But after that? Maybe he’d put you on top of him, bounce you up and down on his cock and get in even deeper that way. Or he’d make you suck his cock, or maybe he’d manhandle you till you were on his face, rubbing that sweet, gorgeous little baby cunt on his –

“I-I don’t understand!” You cry, and he feels you wiggle your hips subtly as if you’re trying to do it without him noticing, “Feels…feels…oh, oh god!” With abandon, your head lolls back and you rut your hips up against his dick, meeting his thrusts. Steve chuckles, a satisfied feeling spreading across his chest.

“All that crying and screaming, just for you to enjoy getting fucked by me,” Steve murmurs, brushing your hair off your face so he can gauge your expression better. You look so pitiful, biting your lip and looking up at him with wet eyes, humping up against his dick and your eyes reflecting the confusion you felt. “But don’t worry, all little girls like you love getting fucked by their daddy. It’s only natural, sweetheart.”

“D-Daddy, please,” you pant, and now your hands come up to grip a fistful of his suit, and he knows that you don’t even understand the pleasure you’re slowly starting to feel. And you’re gripping his cock so tight as he rams in and out of you, building up a steady pace now. He knows he’s found your g-spot and he’s pounding against it, but you have no fucking clue and it’s the hottest fucking thing ever.

“Look at you, humping your baby pussy up against daddy’s dick,” Steve shakes his head as if he’s reprimanding you. He spits down on your face, wanting you even messier. His hand leaves your throat as he shoves two of his fingers past your lips, spreading them open and spitting again. His saliva lands on your tongue, “Swallow it, you nasty fucking slut. I knew I’d make you my little slut before the night was through. I said fucking swallow it. That’s right. Good girl.”

“Ah, ah, ah– tingles… I – daddy! P-Please, I don’t know what’s – AH!”

 Your breathless moans and nonsensical garbles are like music to his ears, but nothing compares to the way you clamp down on his cock when you suddenly squirt around it. The way you squeak and clutch him tightly, and he fucks you through your orgasm. Your very first orgasm while getting fucked, and it’s so fucking sexy the way your tight walls flutter around him. God, he could get used to this feeling – buried deep inside your wet, tight snatch every single night from here on out.

“Did daddy make you feel good?” He breathes, hips moving like a jackhammer, his balls slapping against your pussy as he continues to fuck you.

You nod timidly, wiped out from your orgasm to say anything else. He smirks, watching your breasts bounce up and down as he fucks the living daylights out of you and you just lie there beneath him and take it. As if a part of you had understood that this was to be your job from here on out – his little fuckdoll, his little prize after God knows how many listless years of saving the world, saving people who he didn’t give a flying fuck about.

He’d won countless medals of honour, rewarding him for his bravery in serving his country, in saving his people. But you were his true prize, with your tight cunt that was his and his only. And how jealous every other man would be! He knew they already envied his physique, his fame, his authority. Now all those assholes would have another reason to envy him – because his little bride was the most innocent, most vulnerable, most beautiful girl they’d ever lay their eyes on. And it would be his bed in which you’d be, night after night, waiting with spread legs for him to fuck you.

Of course, he’d fuck other women if he so wanted to. Steve didn’t believe in love or monogamy. He believed in ownership, though. And he owned you, every part of you from your cunt to your soul. You wouldn’t even look at another man ever again, or else Steve would have you killed. And the thought of you with another man is what incenses him even more.

With a low growl, he pulls out of you. Your eyes shoot open, your mouth pausing mid-moan to look up at him desperately. Your cunt shamelessly humps the air, and he can’t believe what a little harlot you’ve turned into after your first taste of sex. He looks down at his blood-covered dick, grabbing it by the base. He lays his fat cock on your stomach, painting your smooth skin scarlet with your own virginal blood. The sight turns him on even more, and with another growl, he puts your legs down and flips you over on your stomach.

He grabs your ankle, dragging you to the foot of the bed while you squeak in protest and confusion. He gets off the bed, standing up to his full height as you cower beneath him, looking back at him over your shoulder warily, a trail of blood on the sheets from where he’d dragged you.

“Hands and knees,” he orders, “and don’t fucking make me repeat myself.”

This time, you do obey pretty quickly. Mustering up whatever energy you have left, you shakily get on your hands and knees. He grabs your hips just in time, keeping you upright before your body has a chance to collapse. Your legs are shaking and he knows your body can’t take much more. He doesn’t care, because he owns your body and you’ll take what he gives you.

“Nice ass,” he smirks, squeezing and kneading your ass cheeks liberally before giving your ass a hard smack that has your knees buckling. He hoists you back up by your hips, “Thank me for the compliment, sweetheart.”

“Th-Thank you, daddy.” You answer almost at once, and Steve grins wolfishly. He’s broken you. He bets you’d do just about anything to please him now. He bets you’ve forgotten about your life back home, and all your tiny mind can think about now is your daddy and his big cock.

With a grunt, Steve pistons his fat cock inside you once more. And god, from this angle, with your gorgeous, perky ass right in his fucking face, he feels like he’s going to blow his load any second. You start moaning again, rocking your hips backwards, garbling “please” and “daddy” and other nonsense. Your ass bounces with each thrust, and Steve can’t help but slap it brutally hard, over and over again, wanting you even more bruised and bloody than you already are right now.

“You like it rough, don’t you?” he asks, slapping and pinching your ass while he watches his dick disappear inside your sexy cunt over and over again, “you tried to act all innocent and cute, telling me you had fucking homework to do tonight, fuck!” He lifts your hips up off the bed to get a better angle, till he’s holding your entire lower body up in the air.  It gives him better leverage, since he’s so tall, and he fucks you on his dick like you were nothing more than a fleshlight.

“I – ah, daddy! – I d-do have h-h-homework – OH MY GOD!”

It just gets Steve even harder, hearing you be so innocent despite being held up and fucked like a dog. You’ve got your elbows propped on the mattress to keep you up, your legs flailing helplessly as he holds your hips in the air, ramming you repeatedly with his fat cock till he knows you’re seeing stars.

“Forget about your fucking homework from now on,” he spits out, grabbing your ass lewdly and jiggling it, fascinated by how it bounces so cutely. “There’s no way I’m letting you go back to that college of yours.”

“Wh-What?”

He doesn’t answer, and the room is filled with sounds of skin slapping against skin, the carnal sound of Steve staking his claim on you. With all his other rewards, he’d be done in about fifteen minutes. You, he’d have you all night if he could. Well, he can – he’s built like a fucking tank with stamina for days. You, on the other hand, keep looking like you’re going to pass out and he’s pretty sure he’s done some type of damage to your pussy. He’d have SHIELD’s physician check you tomorrow.

He throws you back down on the bed, not giving you a chance to even catch your breath before he’s on top of you, flipping you on your back and urgently pressing his lips to yours. Much to his smugness, this time you respond as if it’s muscle memory, kissing him back as best as you can. And for a person who’s just learnt how to kiss, you sure were extremely desperate for it. You keep kissing him even when he enters back into you for the third time, fucking you on your back and this time you wrap your arms and legs around him like a goddamned koala bear, your kisses growing more fervent till Steve pulls away and chuckles against your lips.

“You like kissing me?” He finds himself asking you, holding you in place beneath him as he fucks you hard, but his one hand comes up to grip your chin so you don’t look away, “be honest, baby. You like kissing daddy?”

Your eyes widen in fear at the direct question, and he watches the panic on your face. But then your features contort in pleasure as he repeatedly hits that spot deep inside you, and you nod desperately, surging up to kiss him again but he pushes you back down.

“Use your words.”

“Ah, y-yes, I do, okay!? I like it! P-Please!”

You start doing that thing again, humping pathetically up into him as if to meet his thrusts. And he wonders if you realise how easy he’s truly going on you. He reckons he’s using about five percent of his power right now as he rams into you repeatedly. Any more than that and he’s sure he’d shatter your pelvis or cause permanent damage.

“Kiss me, then.” Steve says, not knowing why he sounds so gentle. He probably had something stuck in his throat, but he doesn’t dwell over it because, like a good little girl, you obey him. Your needy lips, your desperate tongue poking against his in a perfect kiss. He groans into your mouth, his thrusts going sloppy as your cunt squeezes around him because you’re so turned on by him kissing you.

“Am I… A-Am I doing this right, daddy?” You breathe, batting those fucking sexy, innocent eyes up at him.

Steve smirks, “You’re fine.”

You’re more than fine, of course – but he doesn’t need you knowing that. He needs you to be as insecure as possible. It made you even hotter, the look of self-doubt that you have on your face right now. He’s violated your body, he’s still violating your body, and yet all you seem to be focusing on is the fact that he thinks your kissing is “fine.” Not good, not great… but fine.

You kiss him once more, even more desperately this time, as if you’re trying to prove something. Steve relishes how easy it is to play with your mind, how naïve you are. How much he’ll enjoy playing with you when he makes you his wife. He continues pistoning his dick inside you as he lets his mind wander.

All the others would be so fucking jealous of him – even Bucky, who had a girl already but Bucky’s girl was nothing compared to you. He’d drag you around the whole building, the whole headquarters, the whole compound, showing you off like a shiny, new toy. That’s what you were – his very own toy.

He’d take you into meetings with him, make you sit on his lap and play with you in front of everyone. And he’d chop the dick off of anyone who looked at you in a way he didn’t like. He’d make you wear pretty dresses, make you look like a cute little housewife, train you to answer his every command. Fuck yeah, you’d be his reward. He deserved you, after all he had sacrificed for his country, for the world.

“D-Daddy, I’m feelin- tingly again!” you moan, your words shaky from how hard he’s fucking into you. Your legs wrap tighter around his waist and in return he clutches you harder, determined to make you squirt again before he had his own release.

“Oh yeah? What does it feel like?”

“D-Daddy – nngh…ah, I–I–”

He swats your clit harshly, making you howl in what he knows is pleasure. His dick hammers in and out of you unforgivingly, and you’re such a fucking slut, humping up against him, crying for your release. And it’s such a far cry from how much you were resisting him at first, he can’t believe what a little slut he’s reduced you to in such little time.

“Stupid girl, can’t even talk anymore, can you?” he mocks, pinching your clit meanly, bullying it as he rubs it fiercely. Till you’re thrashing underneath him, so desperate to cum that you don’t even care that your body is betraying you. “Tell me you’re a stupid little girl!”

“Oh fuck! I’m a – a – a stupid little girl!”

He can see the remnants of your tears stained to your cheeks, and he feels a carnal level of possession within him. With a growl, he lewdly licks the side of your face, claiming his territory, tasting your salty tears. Roughly, he tugs your hair, pulling your head to the side and biting down on your neck. So hard that he draws blood, and then he licks that up too. God, what a little slut you were – a slut disguised as an angel and you were making him act like a motherfucking animal.

And now the side of your neck sported his bite mark, your porcelain perfect skin marred by his branding of you. And this was just the beginning – Steve already knows that he plans to mark you in many different ways. Tomorrow, he’d get one of the agents to bring over a tattoo artist to tattoo his initials somewhere on your body. Maybe right above your baby cunt, just so you would always remember who you belonged to. He smirks, and wonders what your conservative parents would think of that.

“What would your parents think now, sweetheart?” He asks, grabbing one of your legs and hoisting it over his shoulder for a better angle. And you’re so pliable, so easily going along with whatever he’s doing to you like a perfect little doll. “What would they think of their perfect little girl getting fucked by Captain America like it’s her fucking job?”

You panic, as if the mention of your parents is a reminder of how wrong this all is for you – not that Steve gives a fuck. Biting your lip to keep from moaning at all the sensations you’re feeling, you shake your head. Only for him to slap you not so lightly on the cheek.

“Answer me, baby girl.”

“They’d – ah – they’d hate this, they’d be upset, they’d – OH FUCK, FUCK, FUCK!” You scream out all of a sudden, your pussy walls gripping him like a vice, “O-Oh, I’m feelin– I gotta–”

“Hold it.” Steve hisses warningly.

But you don’t. Of course, you don’t. Babies like you couldn’t hold orgasms for shit. And you cum, crying for him and gripping him tightly, and Steve feels like he’s going to lose it with how sexy it feels. It feels like your cunt is trying to swallow him up, crying for his seed as it pulsates around his fat cock that continues to move in and out.

“Bad girl,” Steve chastises, giving you another not-so-gentle slap on the cheek because you look like you’re about to faint again. He jostles you with the forces of his dick, still ramming in and out of you at lightning speed. “You do things without permission a lot at home?”

You have the audacity to, despite everything, look indignant: “N-No, never, I never–”

“Then what made you think you could cum without your daddy’s permission?”

Your lips purse as if you’re about to cry, and you blink up at him so goddamned innocent. Steve’s honestly surprised he’s still going, surprised he hasn’t busted a fucking nut with how goddamned cute and sexy you are.

“I’m…I’m sorry, I couldn’t – ah! – I had to, I–I–”

“Give me another one,” he orders you darkly.

“Wh-What–”

“You heard me. Cum for daddy again. Since you like doing it so much.”

Frantically, you shake your head, “C-Can’t! Too much, daddy, it’s too much– O-O-HHH GOD!”

He reaches down to strum your clit before a dark thought crosses his mind. His fingers slip lower, gathering the wetness of your pussy along the way. Lower, between the cleft of your ass cheeks. He can’t resist giving one of your perky cheeks a hard smack, before going straight for your puckered hole. He circles it with his thumb and your body stiffens in shock and horror.

“N-No, daddy, no please, that’s wrong, that’s–”

Steve shoves his finger in your tight, virgin asshole. He hadn’t been planning on defiling that third hole tonight, but oh well. And it’s even tighter than your pussy, and you clench against his digit like a fucking whore because he knows you like it. You like your daddy’s finger up there. His fucked up little wife-to-be… God, you were so perfect for him.

 With his fat cock, Steve fucks your pussy and at the same time, his huge finger fucks your tiny ass. Pumping in and out of your tiny hole while you cry and yet once more you slowly begin humping up against him. As if the depravity of it all turned you on even more – which he knew it did.

Your hand tugs at his bicep, making him shift his gaze back up to you.

“It’s happening again, daddy, it’s– d-don’t stop, I–”

Steve licks his lips, “Say you’ll marry me.”

Your eyes widen the most they have all night, “Wh-What?!”

“Say it!” He orders, “Say it or else I’ll fucking stop and leave you hanging. Say you’ll marry me, be my wife and do whatever the fuck I tell you to do.”

“N-No, I–”

He stills his hips, only for you to shake your head and grip his arm harder in desperation, humping up against him hopelessly.

“Say it. Say you’re daddy’s little bride. Fucking say it.”

“I-I’m daddy’s little bride, okay? I’ll do it, daddy, I’ll marry you, I – OH FUCK, PLEASE – I’ll do whatever you say, I, just please, I–” You’ve lost it, completely lost it as new tears swell from your eyes and you beg him as if you have no shame at all. And Steve feels all the pride and smugness in the world as he resumes fucking you, knowing he won’t last any longer after this carnal display of submission from you.

“Cum.” He orders you, “right now, sweetheart, do what I say and cum for daddy.”

You squirt so violently around his cock, that your whole body shakes and shudders, you’re so overwhelmed by pleasure. Toes curled and tears streaking your face, you hold him so tightly that he’s surprised by your strength, and you keep moaning his name, you keep moaning “daddy” over and over again as if he got his agents to reprogramme your brain and it’s all you know how to say now.

“That’s right, baby girl,” he mutters lowly, “squeeze that pretty little princess cunt around daddy’s dick. You’re such a good fucking girl.”

“Th-Thank you, daddy,” your meek response, barely audible by how quietly you say it, is not something he expected, and it goes straight to his dick. Not you, not his little bride, thanking him for deflowering you in the most brutal way possible? Fuck, he’d broken you. You’d be licking the palm of his hand by tomorrow; he just knew it.

The thought makes him shudder, his dick twitches and then he unloads inside you. Spurt after spurt unloaded straight into your pussy, and it’s such a satisfying feeling, pumping you full of his seed. Filling you the fuck up, and he’s glad he didn’t use the fucking condom. And there’s so much of his cum, because of the serum of course, so much that it doesn’t even fit inside you. It pours out of you and you watch with wide eyes before letting out a soft cry.

“I’m not… I’m not protected, I don’t take birth control, I–I…” Your voice trails off, too weak to voice any more protestations as Steve continues to empty himself inside you, your words having no effect on him whatsoever.

“Good. You’d be lucky to carry my child.” Steve informs you, his cock already thickening again at the thought of him knocking you up. He’d never had an interest in having children before now, but fucking a whole family into you seems like the hottest fucking thing he could do right now. Captain America: the family man. It made sense for his image.

Your protests fall on deaf ears, and he remains inside you, till he’s finally emptied out and your poor, raw pussy is overflowing with his cum. But he stays on top of you, propped up on his elbows as he watches you underneath him. Your chest rising and falling as you breathe, and you’re so pretty, and he can’t help but lean down to kiss you again. Once, twice, three times. He frowns when you don’t kiss him back, drawing back to take another look at you.

Your eyes have fluttered shut. Your body couldn’t take it. You’ve passed out once more.

Steve smirks, feeling himself hardening up again inside you. He had absolutely no qualms with fucking you back to consciousness again.

***

It’s gone past midnight when Steve hears a knock on his door. He calls for them to come in, and two SHIELD agents appear in his doorway. The same two who always come to take away his rewards after he’s done with them.

The female agent’s jaw twitches at the sight. Steve on the bed, having changed and washed up with a quick shower. And you’re next to him, passed out on the bloodied sheets. Steve reckons you look beautiful, like you’re sleeping.

“Would you like for us to take her away, Captain?” The male agent asks.

“No. She will stay with me. Contact her family and let them know, make them pack a bag for her and make sure it arrives here by tomorrow.”

The male agent nods, but the female – it’s always the damned females, Steve scorns – she hesitates.

“Captain, she looks like she’s in bad shape. Maybe–”

“That will be all.” Steve interrupts, “you can leave now.”

They do, and Steve turns his attentions back to you – his little girl, as you begin to stir.

“Shhh,” he orders, when you open your mouth to speak. Your eyes look bleary, you look confused, wondering whether all this was a dream or not. Steve’s in no mood to indulge you, and yet he presses his thumb past your lips. And fuck, it goes straight to his dick when you readily accept it, sucking his thumb like a baby as you blink up at him.

His beautiful, broken little bride.

“Go back to sleep.” Steve tells you, “Tomorrow’s going to be a busy day for us. You need all the rest you can get.”

Yes, tomorrow. When he’d parade you around his teammates as Captain America’s little bride. It would be perfect. His forever reward.

Tony had his alcohol, Sam had his parties, Bruce had his research and Bucky had some girl. But Steve? Steve had drawn the best cards out of all of them. Because he had you. Your submission, your devotion. You.

He deserved this.

AKFSLA THE END!! Steve's inner monologue was unhinged af. I know! Please, please let me know what you think!!! It would mean the world, please do reblog and leave feedback!!! I have been writing this for around two weeks and would love to know what you think!!! As usual, thanks so much for reading my work and supporting me!!! I love you guys!! SORRY IF IT SUCKED ASDAGNL.

ALSO please forgive me if i got anything wrong about shield or hydra or any of that. like i literally am not an expert asnglagl okaybye!!!

[rumplereids]

wonderstruck.

part one. tags: spencer reid x fem!reader. tech analyst!reader. early-s1!spencer. a/n: tech analyst!reader won’t leave my little brain. i hope u like this :) masterlist. requests are open !

You were 21 when you got recruited into the bureau. Barely a graduate, and already on a FBI watchlist. Honestly, the only reason you’re under their watchful eyes is because of a lapse in judgment.

To celebrate the semester ending, your roommate decided that you both needed to get drunk. Being a psychology major with a pre-med roommate leads to tequila shots in your own dorm room. It’s the convenience and comfort of your own space that got you so drunk. This situation led to this: you admitting to your roommate, with heavy eyes, that you can “hack, you know. I learned when I was 15.”

She sat up from her place on the floor.

“Really? I don’t believe you!” she giggles, and then hiccups.

“I so can!” there’s indignation and a want to prove yourself in the tone of your voice.

“Okay, show me!”

Shuffling on heavy feet, you plop down in front of your laptop. A few clicks and the comforting clacks of your keyboard, and then a window pops open. You look at the wide-gaped mouth of your roommate. “What are you hacking?”

You hum, “I don’t know.”

And then you remember the talk from a few days ago. Two agents from the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit came over to your college to talk about criminal profiling to psychology majors and anyone else interested.

Completely inebriated, you manage to hack into their database. Your hazy mind doesn’t forget to compliment the beauty and intricacy of the codes and firewalls you broke down.

At Quantico, Virginia, Technical Analyst Penelope Garcia rushes into her unit chief’s office.

“Sir, somebody is attempting to get into my system. I think they’re trying to communicate?”

Hotch follows Garcia into her office, the quickness of their steps catching the attention of Dr. Spencer Reid who was seated at his desk, skimming over a case report.

When Hotch gets into Penelope’s ‘lair’, his eyes squint, adjusting to the dimmed lights and bright screens. On the main monitor, a window displaying the barebones of a text chat is open.

<ATHEN411> ????

<ATHEN411> hiiiiidfgsd

<YOU> Who is this?

<ATHEN411> ohymgofd i didnt think anyonewould alsnwer

<ATHEN411> wh o it sthis?

<YOU> BAU Section Chief Aaron Hotchner.

<ATHEN411> omfdg i know uuu !! jason mentoined u

<YOU> Jason?

<ATHEN411> yhuhh jason digeon or sumn omg i cant tpoye

<ATHEN411> sorry

<YOU> Jason Gideon? How do you know him?

<ATHEN411 disconnected.>

You’ve completely forgotten about the conversation. Until, a few days later. You’re turning the corner of the hallway to get into your dorm. Backpack slung on a shoulder, arms full of your laptop, binders and a soft-bound copy of your final paper. You stop in your tracks when you see two men stationed outside your room’s door.

One man was in a shirt, jeans, and combat boots. He also had sunglasses on. The other had a permanent furrow to his brows, dressed formally in a suit and tie.

“Hi, can I help you?” you ask, hand reaching into your hoodie pocket for your keys and pepper spray.

The one in sunglasses holds up a badge and ID.

“FBI. I’m Agent Morgan, this is Agent Hotchner. Are you Y/N L/N?”

You gulp, wondering why they knew your name.

“Um, yeah. Why?”

“Can we talk somewhere private?”

Your bring out your keys, and you notice how Agent Hotchner eyes the pepper spray keychained to it.

“Um, yeah. We can talk inside? My roommate’s still out.”

You unlock your door and walk in, the agents following in after you. Dropping your bag on your desk chair, you turn to ask the agents, “How can I help you?”

Agent Hotchner asks, “Are you familiar with the name athen-four-one-one?”

You look up at them guilty.

“It’s athena-eleven.”

“So, it’s you?” Agent Morgan clarifies.

“Yes. How did you find me?”

The two men share a glance. A silent conversation passing with you unknowing.

“Two nights ago, you hacked into the BAU’s database.”

You look at them in suprise, “I did?”

“Yes,” Agent Hotchner says, passing a folder to you. Inside are images and a transcript of messages shared between a ‘P.GARCIA’ and ‘ATHEN411’.

“Oh my god,” you whisper, realizing what’s happening.

“I was drunk off my ass two nights ago! I’m so sorry,” that catches Agent Morgan’s attention.

“You were drunk?”

“Yeah, my roommate and I were celebrating our exams. I didn’t… Am I in trouble?”

Agent Hotchner raises a hand in a placating gesture, “You were drunk when you hacked into the bureau’s database?” Confusion and slight amusement evident in the tone of his voice.

“Yeah,” you confess, “It was just a dare! I don’t even remember much of it.”

Agent Morgan looks as if he doesn’t know what to think about the situation. You feel the same. Agent Hotchner extends a hand to get the file back from you, and you give it to him easily.

“Would you go with us back to the station?”

“What? For what? Am I being sued?”

“The opposite. I would like to conduct a proper interview.” Agent Hotchner explains.

“An interview? For what?”

“A job as a technical analyst at Quantico.”

You look at them, eyes furrowing in confusion and disbelief, “What? I can’t!”

“Why not?”

You gesture toward your desk, “I still have a paper to pass!”

Meeting Penelope Garcia was like a dream come true.

“I should have realized! The triple-stacked firewall should’ve been so obvious! The Black Queen signature!”

The blonde’s eyes sparkle, happy to meet a match.

“Athena-Eleven! I didn’t even notice you were in my systems until you sent your first message.”

You feel your chest puff up at the indirect praise.

“You were one of my idols,” you admit, “Your exposé on Griffith Industries was just… stunning! Absolutely flawless. You had a section in your code that I used to build my private server—” Agent Hotchner interrupts your spiel.

He gestures to the rest of the room, where agents were seated at a round table.

“This is Y/N L/N, the unit’s newest technical analyst. ” he says, and you give a shy wave. You get a wave back from the agent wearing glasses. He’s cute. Have you seen him before?

“This is Jennifer Jareau, our communications liaison,” you shake her outstretched hand. She’s so pretty, you start to think, gorgeous blue eyes too.

“You’ve met Derek Morgan,” Agent Hotchner says, and Agent Morgan gives a two finger salute, his hands wrapped around a coffee cup.

“Agent Jason Gideon,” you return his handshake, mumbling a shy; “Hello, sir. Nice to see you again.”

And then, “This is Dr. Spencer Reid—”

“Oh! You were with Agent Gideon at the seminar! You talked a bit about geoprofiling, and how an unsub’s subconscious can’t help but stick close to home, which helps you triangulate the—” Agent Hotchner lets out another soft cough.

“Um, yeah. I did. Nice to meet you,” he gives another small wave, smile close-lipped and awkward. Endearing. He’s really cute. “I don’t really shake hands.”

You nod, “I get that, germs and stuff. It’s actually, weirdly, safer to kiss.”

You don’t see the way JJ and Derek look at each other, nor do you notice when Penelope whispered, “Oh my God, there’s two of them.”

“Your code name, it’s for the Athena, right? The Greek goddess of wisdom, warfare, and handicraft?” Dr. Reid asks you, curiosity getting the better of him.

“Yeah. I love greek mythology.”

He gives you a smile, “I do, as well. I’m wondering about the eleven though. Does it mean anything?”

You tsk’d through your teeth, “The angel number 1111’s often seen as a spiritual wake-up call and awakening. I thought it was fitting, and I was 15 when I chose the name, okay? Excuse little old me.”

“That’s cool,” Dr. Reid admits. If he remembers your file right, you were barely 17 when you became a trademark and known name in underground hacking circles. He can’t properly meet your eyes, struck in awe. Athena. It’s perfect for you.

“Y/N formally starts her job with us in three days,” Hotch informs the team, “Be kind.”

With a final word, Gideon and Hotch start to return to their offices.

Derek straightens from his position on the office chair. “I am very kind!”

“He didn’t say anything about you,” Penelope teases.

“Ooh, that says a lot, Morgan. It says so much,” JJ teases back.

You smile at them, your new co-workers, taking the seat JJ was gesturing at for you. The three continue bickering, you start to tune them out as you make eye contact with Dr. Reid. The apple of his cheeks blush red, and you can’t stop the grin on your lips from getting wider. He’s downright enchanting.

[nmakii]

i blinked and suddenly, i had a valentine!

— valentines with nagi and sae

folow @itoshiluvbot …. number one sae lover she on the floor rn while i type this…

nagi never liked valentines days. florists would be more pushy than usual, insisting that he should buy a rose for that someone special, and wouldn’t let him cross to school. so troublesome, honestly. not to mention how a bunch of girls would be slipping treats and love letters into reo’s locker. they’d always try to vy for his attention, specially on valentines, so now he doesn’t have anyone to hang out with!

well, no one else but you. on days such as valentines, you’d complain all day about how you had no one who loved you, it was a bit bothersome hearing the same thing every year. so this year, he decided to fix that.

he went out of his way to buy you a tiny box of chocolate— one of those expensive brands with different flavors that all really just taste the same. nagi knew that it was more or less a scam for boyfriends who want to buy their girlfriend something special, but nagi had a feeling you’d pout if it was one of those cheap brands chocolates from the convenience store.

right. you’d be the one who would be sad. it definitely just wasn’t nagi unable to show you that he does care for you, and him doing it by buying you the more luxurious options.

…anyway, he also bought you those bottled milk teas you love so much. the ones that he also likes to take sips out since it’s so tasty. one taste of it, and he’s always back to your favorite convenience store where the two of you would hang out. he’d play his video games while resting his head on your shoulder, and you’d write your essay while eating your cup noodles. it was all so simple, yet so perfect.

“nagi, pleaseeeee… be my valenhuzz…” you whined, sitting beside him on the staircase as he played his video games. “what does that even mean? the slang lately is so weird.” he sighed. “hmmm… you’re right, i miss skibidi toilet.” you shrugged, all before groaning to yourself. god, valentines was seriously hell on earth for single people.

nagi nodded, knowing the cause of your grief, and— …put his game down?! he lightly dropped his console to the side, letting his character get pummeled with bullets. he dug his hands into the holes of his absurdly large hoodie pocket, and pulled out a box of luxury chocolate and a bottle of milk tea.

“…for you” he mumbled, handing the gifts over to you. your heart swelled like the strings of a quartet at a genuine act of kindness from nagi seishiro, and you couldn’t help but wrap your arms around him.

“oof!” he grunted, caught more than off-guard by your side hug. “nagi! you’re so freakin’ sweet!” you squealed, your cuteness aggression kicking in. all you want to do is just take a bite out of nagi! “…it wasn’t too bothersome. i didn’t want you to be sad this valentines.” he muttered.

“ahah! so, you are my valenhuzz!” you snickered proudly, pumping your fist. “i— umm, sure... as long as we just spend today in my dorm.” he shrugged, exasperatedly shaking his head. you were awfully pushy when it came to the things you wanted, and it seems that today, that thing was him. it was too bothersome to fight you when you were like this, so it was easier to just agree with you.

“really—?!” you asked, you didn’t really expect him to agree! “…yeah, i’m not busy today, so i’ll be your valentine.” he hummed tiredly.

ah… you never thought this would’ve happened, but at least you aren’t forever alone anymore.

“come over.” was the only thing sae said in his text. as you went up to his apartment door, you felt nervous. this could’ve been a number of things. a booty call? a date? all of this on valentines no less. this was the first year he hadn’t asked you to be his valentine. even after 5– almost 6— years together, you could never read his mind, he just texts too ominously.

you knock on the door. and without a beat skipped, sae opens the door. he’s in an apron, looking like a househusband. hahah, how cute of him!

sae quickly moves to the side, making way for you to enter. “come in.” he hums, leading you in. inside, a display is before you. an actual candlelight dinner. a fried chicken cutlet served on the side of a cheesy pesto pasta. god, just looking at it made your mouth water.

“happy valentines, amorcita.” he whispers, his breath tickling your ear as he rests his jaw on your shoulder. he observes the shocked look on your face and scrunches his eyebrows. “why do you look so surprised? i do something like this every year, don’t i?” his head tilts.

you couldn’t really refute him— maybe your reason for thinking otherwise was a bit silly now. “i mean… yeah..! but, you didn’t ask me to be your valentines this year…” you pout, frowning like a child. sae scoffed, “you’re my valentines every year. why would it change this year?”

he raised an eyebrow, small creases forming at the edge of his lips as he tries to hide the smile on his lips. he uses his thumb to slide along the sharp edge of your jaw, admiring how the flames shone in the reflection of your eyes. “you’re being silly, amorcita. but if it makes you feel better…” he sighs, “will you be my valentine?” he asked.

you laughed at the seriousness of his tone. no matter the situation, he had a voice that made you want to listen attentively as if it’d be the last thing he says to you. you nodded softly,

“yes, i’ll be your valentine, sae.” you breathlessly sighed, humming your words as it reverberates back onto his lips in a soft, meaningful kiss.

[thatnewweeb]

Arranged | Todoroki Shoto

Summary | Endeavor and your father both always wanted to be higher in the hero rankings. In case you and Shoto do not achieve those goals, they decided you should enter a Quirk marriage to create an even better Quirk combination. However, you and Shoto didn't want to give into those demands. So how did you end up falling in love?

Content | Smut, fluffy, virginity loss, unprotected sex, aged up Shoto (third year, 18), discussion of marriage, alluded abuse of both Shoto and reader

Word Count | 2.4k+

A/N | I've had this idea for a while, this wasn't the original direction I had in mind, but this is how it went as I wrote. I'm trying to get better at writing smut! At the time of posting, I wrote this forever ago

Your Quirk developed when you were 4 and a half years old. Since that day, your life changed, and not for the better. Since that day, you've been training. You've been training hard.

Almost the moment that your Quirk finally developed, your father had made an agreement with the number two hero. His boy had already developed his Quirk, and your father had been waiting for yours to finally appear.

Later that year, you met Endeavor's youngest son, the boy you were told you would later marry, provided everything followed the plan created by your fathers.

The next time you saw him, roughly six months later, he had gained a large facial scar on his left side, although you did not ask about it.

Throughout the next ten years, you saw the boy multiple times, training together on occasion. You had to learn how best to use your Quirks in cooperation with each other, as well as separately. That was somewhat difficult, considering Shoto's refusal to use his fire.

Despite also having a deep hatred of your father, you never refused to use his half of the Quirk you inherited.

Your Quirk is called Cryo-Phasing, giving you the ability to pass through objects, simultaneously freezing them. Your phasing Quirk works a little differently than Mirio's, being unable to pass through the floor.

Your father and Endeavor believed that combining your Quirks in a Quirk marriage could lead to a stronger version of the Ice Quirk, as well as possibly adding Phasing to the mix of Quirks, thus creating an even more powerful child.

It seemed like some things never changed.

At age 15, you were accepted in UA through recommendations, being placed into Class 1-A, the same class as Shoto.

At the beginning of the year, it was unusual for the two of you to speak much, to each other or really to anyone else. You would spend time together, sure, but that was almost purely because you somewhat knew each other already. The only real interactions you had were sitting together during lunch breaks, and training together during class.

You both excelled in academics, combat and Quirk use. Of course, you had both been training for this your entire lives, training with some of the top heroes in Japan, so that was to be expected.

It wasn't until Midoriya helped Shoto to start coming out of his shell that you two started to actually get to know each other. He started to sit with Midoriya and his friends, but he didn't want you to become lonely, so he invited you to join them. Although you were quiet and difficult to get to know, he did hold some level of affection for you already. He figured that you were in a similar position to him, and that you would be able to relate to him and his issues.

During that time, Midoriya and his friends continued to help Shoto come out of his shell and open up to people, and also helped you to begin opening up too.

In particular, you and Shoto opened up to each other a lot.

Once UA implemented the dorm system, you and Shoto spent a lot of time together outside of school hours. It seemed to everyone that you were always together, whether that was in the common areas or one of your bedrooms.

Everyone was convinced that you both had crushes on each other, both being asked many times why you were not dating. Both of you claimed you were only friends.

Neither of you truly knew what it was you felt for each other, both being somewhat emotionally stunted from your upbringings, but you both knew it was something different from what you felt for your other friends. You both wanted to deny these feelings. After all, neither of you wanted to give in to what your fathers wanted for you.

During your second year, you kissed for the first time. Everyone had thrown a birthday party for Shoto, and as everything was winding down and coming to an end, he had snuck away with you and took you to the balcony in his room, claiming he wanted some fresh air.

Once outside, he turned to you and informed you of a conversation he had with his father a few days prior. He had spoken to your father about breaking the marriage arrangement. Your father had been against it, but Endeavor insisted that Shoto is now free to make his own choices. Part of his atonement for his previous actions.

Your father was continuing to try convince Endeavor to change his mind, which is why you hadn't been informed.

He explained that he was still hesitant to give into what his father wanted, even if he had been let free from being basically forced to do them now.

You understood his feelings, of course you did, you'd been struggling with the same thoughts about this as him.

"Well, for now, while we figure everything out, how about we just try this?" you ask him, taking both his hands and stepping closer, leaning up.

He realised what you were doing and leaned down a little, your lips pressing together for the first time. When you went to pull away, his hands let go of yours, moving quickly to wrap around you, keeping you close to him, not letting you move away, or break the kiss.

You don't try fight him on it, arms moving to wrap around his neck as your lips move against his.

Once you finally do break the kiss, he moves one hand up to rest gently on the back of your head, guiding it to rest against his shoulder, allowing him to keep you close.

Just a moment later, you were interrupted by a small squeak from inside the bedroom. Shouto apparently hadn't locked the door, and someone had realised the birthday boy was no longer present at his own party, so a few friends had come looking for him. The squeak came from Uraraka, who quickly ran out of the room, being closely trailed by a slightly red Midoriya.

The two of you looked at each other and smiled softly. "I suppose we may have to answer some questions."

He nodded in response to your statement, leaving to re-join the party.

Ashido and Hagakure of course asked if you were dating now, which you both denied. For now, it was simply a kiss.

"Are you going to Endeavor's agency once school is over?" You ask, laying with your bed hanging off the bed, looking at your best friend.

He gives a small nod. "I believe it will be the best place for me to start off." He says before talking a small, sharp breath. "Can we talk about something?"

You raise your eyebrows a little and sit up, patting the bed next to you, where he takes a seat. "Of course, what is it?"

"We're almost finished with UA, and I thought it may be time to finally discuss our relationship, before we leave school."

You take a small breath in this time, feeling a little nervous about what he is about to say. Your crush on the boy had never disappeared, but you never brought up your relationship again, not wanting him to feel pressured into making a choice he wasn't ready to make.

His hands find their way to grip yours gently, keeping eye contact with you. "I would like to go into this new part of our lives together. I am still a little hesitant for us to do what our father want from us, but it's what I want too, and I hope it is what you also want."

You bite your lip, letting go of his hands and throwing your arms around him. "Shoto, I would love that. I have wanted that for years."

He nods silently, one arm wrapping around your back, the other digging into his pocket. A moment later, he pulls a small, cute box out, pulling away from you a little so he can look you in the eyes as he hands the box to you.

"I've had this since I was 15. My father insisted I should give it to you, but I never did. I want you to have it," he says.

Inside is a small ring, with a delicate diamond, dainty and tasteful rather than being large and distracting. You bring your eyes back up to look at his, surprised.

"That ring is simply proof of my love for you. We should take things at my own pace. I'll buy you a ring myself one day. That will be when I really propose."

You smile, once again throwing your arms around him, this time putting your weight behind it to catch him off guard and knock him over.

Before he has a chance to say anything, you plant your lips firmly on his, bringing one hand to rest on his cheek, the other resting on his chest, legs holding you up as his hands immediately find your waist, giving into the kiss without any hesitation.

His fingers grip you tightly, breathing already beginning to get a little heavier. Although he has no experience, it seems as though he knows what to do, at least a little, moving his leg to press between your own.

One hand stays on your waist, the other moving to wrap around your back, holding you close to him and allowing him to press him leg up more, bouncing it softly.

His movements cause a soft moan to escape your lips, muffled by his own.

"You're so beautiful," he whispers breathlessly before connecting his lips to yours once again, seemingly wanting to have all contact he possibly can with you.

His tongue runs along your bottom lip, probing into your mouth, wanting to explore you as much as possible.

Breathlessly, you pull away from the kiss, looking down at him. His heterochromatic eyes stare back up at you, lids low with lust.

You sit up, pulling your shirt over your head, discarding it to a forgotten corner of the room. His hands quickly find their way back to your waist, biting his lip as he admires you. His staring makes you blush, but you know he's just taking it in.

His hands come up higher and carefully, yet slightly clumsily, undo your bra, slipping it off your body, throwing it in the same general direction as your shirt, quickly moving one hand to your left breast, sitting up and leaning his head to take your right nipple into his mouth.

You bite your lip, moaning softly. Your arm wraps around him, one hand coming up to play with his hair. You give it a gentle tug, making him groan softly.

Carefully, he moves so that you're underneath him, mouth not leaving your breast until your back is pressed against the bed.

Your hands find your way under his shirt, resting on his abdomen, prompting him to discard his too.

He leans down to kiss you once again, hands moving down to undo the shorts you're wearing, shuffling them down your thighs along with your panties. His long fingers drag slowly down your slit.

"You're so wet for me already, baby," he whispers in your ear.

His fingers continue to tease you, dipping slightly into you, but never quite giving you what you want, enjoying your moans as they get increasingly desperate.

You only want more and more as you feel his clothed cock pressing against your thigh.

“Shoto, please,” you whimper, needing more than what he’s giving you.

He chuckles softly. “Because you asked so nicely,” he whispers, slipping two fingers inside you, moving them slowly.

You moan softly, eyes closing and head leaning back. His movements speed up, fingers quickly finding your sweet spot. His thumb moves to your clit, your moans growing louder.

“S-Shoto, so good, so close,” you moan, looking up at him, orgasm building inside you.

Shoto kisses you, tongue finding it’s way into your mouth immediately, swallowing your moans as you get closer and closer to your release.

Then, right before you get there, his fingers suddenly withdraw. Your eyes shoot open and you look up at him, breathless and confused.

He laughs softly. “You look so pretty like that, baby,” He kisses your forehead, unable to resist at the sight of your bemused pout. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to leave you unsatisfied.”

He quickly takes off his pants, his cock straining against his boxers to get out. When he finally lets it free, your mouth falls open slightly at how big he is. You’d expected him to be big, but not that big.

His hand runs up and down his cock a few times, spreading the juices on his fingers onto his cock before pressing up against your hole, which is already missing the fullness of his fingers.

“You ready, beautiful?” he asks you. You nod, taking your lower lip between your teeth.

He slowly pushes his cock into you, taking in a deep breath. “Been waiting so long for this, baby,” he whispers in your ear before moving to kiss your neck.

Your moans sound so sweet in his ear, moving slowly to give you time to adjust to the new stretch. He stills for a moment when he bottoms out inside you, stopping to kiss you.

“Are you ready, beautiful?” he asks you softly. He waits for your confirmation before moving, pulling out a little before thrusting back inside.

He pulls out a little further each time, cock seemingly perfect for finding that sweet spot inside you, as if your bodies are made perfectly for each other.

"You look so pretty for me, baby," he whispers, eyes staying on you, wanting to see your reactions to his movements, enjoying the look of bliss on your face.

You moan each time he thrusts inside you. "Your cock feels so good, baby," you whisper breathlessly.

His fingers find their way back to your clit, rubbing gently to begin with, rubbing a little harder as he continues.

"I'm getting close, baby," he whispers, breath heavy and small beads of sweat on his forehead. You nod to tell him you are too, moans interrupting your speech when you try to vocalise it.

He rubs harder, moaning as he feels your pussy tighten around him, getting him closer to his own orgasm as you reach your own climax.

Right before he reaches his own high, he pulls out, finishing on your abdomen and thighs.

For a minute, he stays where he is, both breathing heavily and just enjoying the moment.

When he does finally get up, he goes and grabs a warm cloth, cleaning you up, neither of you saying anything.

He climbs onto the bed and lays next to you, wrapping his arm around you. "This was worth the wait," he whispers to you, making you laugh softly.

"I agree."

[lale-txt]

BACKSEAT GIRL ; Atsumu x f!reader

As if he’s trying to memorize every dip and curve of your body, the shape of your soul. As if he doesn’t mold you like molasses underneath his fingertips, perpetuating his name into your being.

contains: f!reader, friends to lovers vibes, college au, mutual pining, heavily suggestive (hence me not tagging anyone from the gen taglist for this i'm sorry), non-sexual nudity (bathing together), no plot just one thousand words of atsumu miya being touch-starved

word count: 1.3k

You didn’t plan on taking him home.

But the words he murmured against the shell of your ear were a little too sweet and his kisses were a little too hungry; and maybe you’ve also dreamt a little too often about Atsumu Miya nudging your legs apart to slot himself between them while he pushes you against the nearest wall���until it all wasn’t a dream anymore. 

It feels forbidden. As if you’re not supposed to know what it feels like to run your fingers over the shaved part of his neck. Or how his canine teeth graze the skin on the side of your neck, leaving trails of faint red marks. Or the way his muscles flex when you slip your hands underneath his shirt to feel him closer. 

He’s just a guy who sits in front of you in class. Someone who occasionally asks you for a pencil or your notes just so he has a reason to turn around to you, who nudges your feet with his underneath the tables when you push them together for group work, who finds a lame excuse to linger behind when you’re too slow with packing up your bag after class, just so he can walk to the cafeteria together with you. 

Atsumu shouldn’t be here; with his hair still a little damp from the shower and naked from the waist up in your bed, in your arms. He’s like a weighted blanket on top of you, his face hidden in the small space between your neck and your shoulder, his hot breath fanning across your skin. Your fingers are tangled in his hair, giving it a slight tug whenever his shameless fingers dip underneath the waistband of your shorts, followed by an airy laugh against your collarbone. 

Just a kiss, you told yourself earlier in that dark corner you both found yourself in, his broad back shielding you from the eyes of anyone else at the party. It was as if he wanted you just for himself, something so easy to brush off as greedy. But there’s something else luring underneath the surface, underneath the carefully composed mask of brazenness he wears so well. You couldn’t figure out what it was, too dizzy from his kisses and his hands roaming your body, but now in the dim light and quiet of your bedroom you can see it so clearly. 

Atsumu is touch-starved.

It shows. There is his hand on the small of your back when he leads you outside through the crowd of people. His fingers interlaced with yours in the back of the cab after he reached over you to secure your seatbelt for you. The stolen kisses during the elevator ride up to your floor and the scowl on his face when the elevator door opened, interrupting you too soon. Him kneeling in front of you while he helps you out of your heels, nimble fingers brushing over your ankle before loosening the clasp for you. The love-drunk expression he gives you when you grab his chin between two fingers, tilting it up so he’d look at you. 

As if he’d ever take his eyes off you to begin with. 

Not when he unzips the back of your dress till it slips to the floor with a soft thud. Not when you push him towards the bed, his hands catching your hips to pull you on top of him. Not when you unbuckle his belt, his fingers digging in the flesh of thighs, his chest heaving with every breath you draw out of him. 

For someone who has never learned how to shut up in his entire life, Atsumu turns into a needy, whining mess underneath you. All coherent words seem to slip from his mind as badly as his self-composure. It’s like he’s pleading for your touch, to feel more of you, to have you fully, wholly, deeply. His hands grasp every part of you he can reach, sometimes gentle, mostly insatiable, always with utter adoration. As if you’re a dream that’ll crumble between his fingers when he blinks.

You bathe together afterwards–or you try, at least. It’s the night you learn that your bathtub is a little too cramped to hold you and someone of Atsumu’s size, but you make it work somehow with your back pressed against his chest, nestled between his legs, his hand splayed out over your stomach. His idle fingers draw small patterns against your skin and every now and then he leans down to press kisses against your shoulder, a low sound of affection rumbling in his chest when he does. 

He washes your hair for you even though you didn’t ask him to, slender fingers working through every bit of tension in your scalp. Part of you believes he does it just so he can charm out more of these sweet little sounds from you that he seems to love so much, but then he tips your head back to kiss you upside down, smiling against your lips, and you think that maybe you’re not the only one who has fallen in love a long time ago.

Atsumu holds perfectly still when you dry off his hair with a towel. He sits on the edge of the bathtub, legs spread to make room for you standing between them. Looking down, you try hard not to think about how he had you grinding against his thick thighs earlier but to be fair it’s impossible to forget how that made you feel, the pulsing still present. There’s his grin again and your stomach does a little flip. I love having you like this, Atsumu murmurs and tugs you closer to him by your waist before trailing countless kisses up from your stomach to the valley of your chest, honey colored eyes never leaving yours. 

As if he’s trying to memorize every dip and curve of your body, the shape of your soul. As if he doesn’t mold you like molasses underneath his fingertips, perpetuating his name into your being. 

If Atsumu was a braver man he’d tell you all about the way you make his heart stumble. How the thought of you being with anyone else makes his chest coil and tighten. That only you allow him a calmness so unfamiliar it scares him sometimes. But the words are stuck in his throat and just won’t come out.

Not yet. Not when it’s you.

Because with you everything is different. With you his prideful heart unravels so easily, finding shelter in your palms. You give all of his touch a meaning, as if everything before you was just hollow. Golden, he thinks. Your love feels golden. Shining bright like a hundred suns, igniting a flame within him. Atsumu has long fallen for you without even realizing it. He gets it now, sees it so clearly when you smile at him; that it’s you. It’s always been you. 

You both don’t bother getting fully dressed after your bath–there’s this unspoken unanimity that you won’t need these clothes for too long. Atsumu carries you over to the bed despite your protests, your laughter mingling with his when he drops you unceremoniously on the mattress and crawls on top of you again, half-crushing you underneath him. It’s a sound he wants to hear forever, paired with your playful shoves against his shoulder and your huffs and puffs, as if you didn’t hook your leg around his middle to keep him close to you. He kisses the side of your neck again, wondering where else he can leave his mark, and what waking up with you will feel like, and just how these three words will taste like once you lick them off his lips.

Ambrosial, he thinks. Just like you.

a/n: starting the year with an atsumu fic was not on my bingo card but here we are. @nekozaki hi ily this is mostly for you my liege

[strange-aeons]

hi strange i’ve been enjoying yr videos for about four years thank u for giving me giggles for so long. however i am writing as i am not totally sure who else to ask…

my boyfriend had a traumatic pneumothorax last week and about 80% of his right lung collapsed. i don’t really know anything about pneumothorax (although i have learned so much recently lol) aside from hearing you mention it and as such i don’t know how to help him :(

i know it’s a shot in the dark but i was wondering if there are any comforts or ways to alleviate pain you could share? thank you so much strange you are super tough btw to have gone through this several times this Sucks big time

many good wishes to you and your sweet hairless babies in the new year!

If it happened one week ago he’s already gotten through the worst part! I’m assuming he’s still hospitalized with a chest tube in right now??

When I was in that situation it helped a lot having frequent visits from my partner and family. Especially when they brought snacks!!!!!! Hospital meals can be borderline inedible and there’s no way of escaping to the food court when you have a chest tube in (unless you plan to deceive multiple nurses and risk life threatening infection through the OPEN HOLE IN YOUR CHEST. Don’t do that).

Good food can be a relief in an otherwise horrible time, so finding out what he really wants to eat and brining it will definitely help. If he has no appetite then things like smoothies or drinkable soup can be very helpful. I often live off booster juice and Tim Hortona chicken noodle soup when hospitalized.

Finding the right media to keep sane is also very important!!! Your sleep schedule disintegrates entirely when laying on your back full of tube for multiple days. 2AM listening to alarms go off and 6AM getting woken up for x-rays and 1pm having the lunch slop delivered and 3pm being woken up for x-rays and 9pm visit from your surgeon all become basically indistinguishable, especially if you have no windows. Podcasts were ideal for me because it can be very hard to find a comfortable position with a chest tube / pneumothorax and looking at a screen was often too much of a hassle. Queer as fact and fall of civilizations are both excellent if you want non fiction btw. Old gods of Appalachia or welcome to nightvale if you want fiction.

There’s not a lot that you as a loved one can do about his physical pain, but I will share some of my pneumothorax expertise with you and anyone else who might go through this.

There’s no nerve endings in the lungs so all the pain/ discomfort related to a pneumothorax has to do with pressure in the chest cavity.

The pain is the absolute worst when your lung is actively collapsing so when that feeling starts SHOVE SOME EXTRA STRENGTH ADVIL OR TYLENOL DOWN YOUR THROAT, then lay down and wait for it to finish collapsing. It may seem tempting to rush to the hospital as fast as possible (or rush your loved one who’s lung is collapsing to the hospital) but trust me the last thing you want to do with a lung that is actively deflating like a sad balloon is exert yourself (this is how I collapsed my lung the full 100% and could not move my upper body for an hour. Quirky). Give it at least 30 minutes of floor time before you try to move. You will have a way better time getting to the hospital.

Wait sorry I lied lung re-inflation hurts sometimes more than the initial collapse. The sometimes are the times when ER nurses do not know how to do it properly. Immediately after they put the chest tube in, they attach it to a suction machine to suck out the excess air in your chest cavity. I do not know if these machines are the same internationally (I’m Canadian) but if you’re dealing with one where the settings are percentages, the one you want is 20% suction. NOT 100%!!! that just causes unnecessary excruciating pain without being more effective. I have had to fight numerous nurses while in the worst pain of my life to TURN THE PAIN MACHINE DOWN. fuck the pain machine. Anyway. After the pain machine they leave the tube in for a few more days to make sure the lung stays inflated. Nearing the end of that process, most of the discomfort is caused by the tube itself, so as horrible disgusting the worst getting that thing ripped out is, just know you will feel so much better after.

Throughout the healing process (and in the case of small pneumothoraxes not requiring chest tubes — I’ve had over 10 of those ones) I’ve noticed that heightened discomfort lasting a few minutes results from going from laying down to standing up or vice verse, or from bending over. This is why I have pioneered the sophisticated technique know as the pneumothorax squat. It is just as cool and hot as you’re imagining.

This post was supposed to be about how to support a loved one with a pneumothorax what the heck am I even talking about now.

Most of what he’s going to need will seem boring or insignificant. Companionship. Food. Medication. Toiletries. COMPANIONSHIP. podcast recommendations. But it absolutely is not insignificant. Abruptly losing mobility, independence, and bodily autonomy as a young person is really fucked up and I cannot fathom doing it without my family and my partner, even if most days that consisted of talking to me and bringing me smoothies and underwear.

Wishing a quick recovery to your boyfriend! Good luck with everything!!

[marvelwitchergilmore]

Let Me Prove It

Summary: Logan x Fe!Reader -> After months of grieving for Logan, he proves to you he's not going anywhere.

Disclaimer: Descriptions of death, blood, reader goes through grief of losing Logan. Angst, sadness, some fluff. There is a happy ending. Illusions to smut towards the end. Not Proof Read.

You could remember the day you fell in love with Logan Howlett. 

It had been a rainy afternoon. Nothing grand had happened that day. The kids had been in classes all day, most exams were happening all week but by Friday, they’d all be over for the semester. There was stew, heating up on the stove, and you had been reading your book. 

At least, you’d been trying to. 

Often, your mind would wander off on its own and only half way through your train of thought would you realise you had boarded the wrong train and it was already moving. And just like a flash of a meadow, snapping past one of the compartment windows, you discovered you had feelings for Logan. 

And watching him walk through the backdoor only a moment later, confirmed your thoughts. 

“What’s wrong with you?”

Your train came to a halt and you snapped up, focusing on reality. “What?”

Logan grumbled. “Nothing. Dinner ready?”

“Almost. Storm’s looking for you, by the way. She wants to know if you can cover her class next week. She’s got a doctor's appointment and no one’s available.”

Logan still had his back turned as he looked in the cupboard for something. “Sure. What class?”

“History. What are you looking for?”

Logan didn’t fully answer you. He just mumbled a noise before pulling a small box out from the back and closing the door. Turning around he opened it up, took a cookie out before offering it to you. 

“She got a lesson plan?”

Looking down at your book, you dog-eared the page. Sometimes, you’d use a bookmark but considering most of them would disappear without a trace and leave you fending for yourself to find your page again, hours after you’d read it, you gave up on them. 

“Yeah, she’s already left it in your room.”

“Of course she has.” Logan took another bite of his cookie and rounded the kitchen island. 

Your gaze followed him. Mostly out of curiosity. You and Logan were friends. Not best friends. But good friends. Well…

Good enough friends. 

Could you really be in love with him?

Reaching up into the top cupboard, he brought down the set of bowls and took half from the top. 

“You take the rest.”

And for the next ten minutes, you both laid out the table in time for dinner. 

Then you watched as he helped some of the younger kids with their hot meals. Despite all of his grumbling and his small protests when it came to calling him the best baby-sitter. 

Logan was good with kids. 

Yep. 

You were in love with Logan. 

And just like how you could remember the day you fell in love with Logan, you could also remember the day he died. 

It had torn you to pieces. 

It still did. 

It had been on a mission. You’d all faced worse before. And yet, somehow, nobody was prepared for what was about to happen. Everything blew up. Quite literally. You had been helping some of the kids to safety with Storm and Scott. Scott had left half way through, running to find Jean and help her. Storm had given him cover, as well as the kids. 

And once you knew the kids were in safe hands on the jet, you ran back. 

Only, when you got to the top of the hill, having skidded to a halt only to catch yourself on a rotting tree, you looked down to see for the first time, the image that would be forever imprinted in your mind. 

Logan and Jean were at the bottom. Scott had made it just in time to hold his girlfriend back when Logan took the brunt of the attack. It sent him flying and when he fell to the floor, your gut twisted. 

Usually, he’d get up. 

But something was off. 

He wasn’t getting up. Not as quickly, anyway. 

And when he did, an attack came sooner than anyone else had expected. 

Straight through his stomach and a second through his side, Logan was impaled to the tree before being torn from it, sent flying forward with the tentacle branches before being pulled off and sent flying to the ground. 

You remembered screaming his name along with the others before running forward. Storm had made it there before you, but you were the first on your knees beside him, trying to check for any healing that was starting. 

It wasn’t. 

You heard the muffled voices of the rest of the team in your ears, fighting against your own heartbeat as you looked down at Logan. He was bleeding out and fast. 

The bodies beside you disappeared and followed after the attacker and soon everything became…

Silent. 

The ringing in your ears had stopped, your ears had gotten used to your own heartbeat, and you tried your best to focus on Logan. 

His eyes were closed. Begging him through your own tears for him to open his, you took his hand. Feeling for his pulse, it was weak. And getting weaker. 

“Logan…please. Please don’t do this.”

Then your hearing focused on his heartbeat. Each beat took longer to come after the other until finally, with one weak squeeze of goodbye to your hand, Logan died. 

The hours that followed after that became a blur. 

The man you loved but had never told had died in front of you. You had heard his heartbeat stop. You had felt his last goodbye. He never got any last words. Just one last touch. 

And every night that followed after that, you re-lived it. Over and over and over again. Each night, the same. Logan. The branches. The blood. The pulse. The heartbeat. The touch. The silence. 

Sometimes you’d wake just as he touched your hand, the ghost of a feeling left on your palm as you woke. 

The others never bothered to ask. At least, not after the first time you had told them. The Professor had gathered you all in his office after everything had happened. And all you could think of was that Logan’s body was lay, lifeless, underneath the school. 

He had asked you what had happened and, with your arms folded and your eyes on the ground, you answered him. 

“He wasn’t healing. There wasn’t anything I could do. He died,” you explained before looking up at the Professor and giving him Logan’s time of death. “May I go now? I want to make sure the kids are okay.”

The Professor excused you and you left as quickly as you could, the door slamming a little louder than you had meant. 

And for the next two months, you…kept yourself busy. 

People talked about Logan, they were determined to keep his memory alive. But they didn’t have to go to bed at night, just for his memory to die again. Each morning, you seemed to wake up earlier than usual. And with the feeling of Logan’s hand against yours, you busied yourself as best as you could. 

Grading papers, alphabetising the library, cleaning every possible surface including the ceilings, constantly doing the laundry. Weeding out the garden, planting some new flower beds. Fixing the creaky wooden board in the hallway, painting the doors and wooden boards between the windows. Trimming the bushes, scrubbing the pots (even the old ones that weren’t in use anymore). 

You did anything and everything you could. Mostly to keep your mind busy but party because you hoped, if you tired yourself out enough, you might have caught a break. Made it one night through without re-living Logan’s death. 

But all of that changed one afternoon when you were called to the Professor’s study. 

Where you came face to face with…

Logan. 

Everyone was confused. 

Apart from the Professor. 

And throughout the meeting you remained quiet. Obviously, everyone was angry at the fact the Professor had kept such a big secret. 

“We didn’t know if it would work and we didn’t want anyone to have to re-live their grief.” The Professor explained. “It was a shot in the dark.”

“How is this even possible?” Storm asked as she sat down. 

“It seems Logan’s healing abilities were simply weakened. He needed help to heal. Medical help that not I, nor I’m afraid even you, Jean, could give him. There is a doctor I know, based in Alberta. She helped boost Logan’s healing factor and made sure that whatever had weakened him was no longer in his system.”

There was a little more explaining to do, but you could feel yourself drifting from the conversation. You just kept looking at Logan as he stood by the window and the Professor’s desk. 

He had his back turned when you had walked inside, the others all looking confused and annoyed, having to wait for you before they got their explanation. 

He had died. 

You had seen him die. 

You had felt him die. 

And yet, there he stood. His hands in his pockets, looking around the room, breathing and living as if nothing had even happened. 

Not long after all the explanations, everyone got to voice their opinion and you came last. Everyone looked at you, including Logan. 

And all you wanted to do was run.

To him or away from him, you couldn’t quite tell. 

So, with a breath, you forced a half smile and nodded. “It’s good to have you back. Professor, may I go? I’ve got a class that’s about to start.”

“Of…of course. I would have thought-”

Reaching for the door, you looked back. “See you round, Logan.”

Just before you closed the door, you heard Storm announce her way to Logan to give him a hug. But even the Professor couldn’t concentrate on that because he couldn’t help but notice there was something different about you. 

Of course, he’d noticed you’d been keeping yourself busy. Missing out on family dinners, eating yours when you found the time later on in the evening, cleaning up the classrooms after hours, doing a little touch ups here and there with a smaller paint can and paintbrush. 

Little did he know, you had just been filling in the spots you had missed the day before. 

But he had figured you had been like the others. Itching to hug Logan. Being glad he was alive and breathing. 

Instead…

You had barely said two words and had left as soon as you could. 

“Are you okay?” Storm asked you later that night when you were cooking dinner. 

“Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”

Storm lifted herself onto a stool opposite you. “I don’t know. You just didn’t seem…excited about Logan being back.”

“Of course I’m excited he’s back.”

“Then would it kill you to show it?” Storm asked, half jokingly. “Here, let me help.”

You shook your head. “It’s okay, I’m almost done.”

Storm moved her hands away from your chopping board slowly. “Okay. Are you sure you’re okay?”

You smiled. “Ororo, I’m fine. Scouts honour. It’s just…”

“Just what?”

You shrugged, forcing your mind back to reality. “Nothing. It’s just been a long day, s’all.”

Later that evening, you found yourself alone in your classroom. The others were down the hall having dinner but you had found yourself something to do. You could have gone down but whether out of habit of the last two months or fear, you didn’t wish to join them. 

Your appetite had already been worse for wear over the last couple of weeks. If you were sat at the table, across from Logan, you wouldn’t have been able to even think about eating. 

So, taking another bite of your sandwich, you turned back to your essays. 

Meanwhile, back in the kitchen, Logan looked around the table. You were missing. 

“Whose turn was it to cook tonight?” Logan asked. 

“Y/n’s.” Jean told him. “She’s been making most of the meals lately. Guess she just got the cooking bug.”

“But she’s not here.”

Jean shrugged it off. “She’ll probably get some later.”

“Where is she?” He asked as he went to stand. But Jean stopped him. 

“Oh, no. Stay. Come on, Everyone needs to catch up.”

“Catch up on what?” Logan asked. “I’ve been in a hospital in Alberta for two months.”

“Please, just…stay. Besides, Y/n’ll appear when she wants. She’s probably busy.”

And after a little bit more convincing, Logan stayed. You’d left so abruptly that morning, he questioned if you even wanted to see him at all. 

It continued like that for a week. 

At first, Logan tried to convince himself you weren’t avoiding him. But as the week went on and he began to see less of you inside his routine, he knew you had to be. 

And then he began to notice things. 

Everything seemed cleaner than when he had left. And brighter. Fresher, even. The doors had been given a paint job. Despite it being dry, he could still smell the aroma of fresh paint in the air. The halls were less creaky when he walked down them. The cupboards were tidier. He could find his cookies with ease now. 

And despite the fact he didn’t read all that much, he knew the library had changed. Even the books that no-one ever touched. There wasn’t a speck of dust to be seen near them. And one of his personal favourites – a book he tended to read around winter, where the cover was falling off and the pages were falling apart – had been binded to look like new.

So, taking action into his own hands, he went to look for you. 

And it wasn’t long before he found you. 

You had escaped him when he saw you planting fresh flowers in the garden, and you had escaped him when you had brought in the groceries having used Storm as a distraction for you to slip out of the kitchen once everything was away. 

But he had found you in the library. 

Once again, you hadn’t come to dinner, making up an excuse that you needed to work. And Logan knew for a fact you hadn’t left to come and get your dinner yet so, he brought it to you. 

“Thought you might be hungry.”

You looked up but Logan had already heard the change in your pulse. 

“Oh…thanks. You can just leave it there.”

And he did. 

“You’ve got to eat at some point.”

“I will,” you looked back up at him. “Soon. I promise.”

This was the longest conversation you’d both had since he got back. So, he took a seat across from you. 

“What are you working on?”

“Work.”

Logan smiled. “Funny.”

Then the silence washed over you both. But he didn’t want it to stick. “Y/n?”

You hummed a response. 

“Can you look at me?”

Your heartbeat seemed to jump and you took in a discrete breath. Finally seeing your face, Logan smiled. 

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

“I’ve not been avoiding you.” You looked back at your work. 

“Yes, you have.”

“What makes you say that?”

Logan gave you a list. “The constant work, the avoidance of dinners, the silent treatment. Did I do something?”

You shook your head. “You haven’t done anything, Logan.”

“Then can you look at me when you tell me that so I might believe you.”

Finally, you looked at him. 

“Tell me what’s going on?”

“Nothing’s going on.”

Logan asked again. “What’s going on?”

You laughed, nervously. “Nothing’s going on. Logan, I’m fine.”

“Are you? Because you’ve been avoiding me since I got back and- what? What is it?”

You laughed again, except this time you didn’t know how you’d describe it. 

“‘Got back’ you repeated his words. “You say that as if you left for a vacation. You died, Logan. Or did you forget that?”

“No. Y/n. What’s going on?”

You shook your head and packed away your things as quickly as you could. “Forget I said anything. Thanks for dinner.”

“You didn’t even eat-” Logan watched you walk away from him again. 

He’d rather have you fight him than avoid him, so he pressed on. 

“Talk to me.” Logan followed after you. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing. It’s late, Logan. Go to bed.”

“Only when you do.”

“What?” You asked. 

“Your bedroom, it’s upstairs, down the hall from mine. In the opposite direction. The only thing this way is your classroom.”

“I’ve got to finish grading.”

“It’s almost midnight.”

You shrugged. “What teacher doesn’t get enough sleep?”

“Something is going on. Something has been going on. For a while. Please,” Logan begged. “Just tell me what it is.”

You stopped in your tracks. “Do you really want to know what it is?”

“Yes.” Logan nodded, stopping in front of you. 

“Okay then, I’ll tell you.”

And you did. 

“I watched you die, Logan. I heard your heart stop. I watched as blood pooled out of your body with no way for me to stop it. Even after three scalding hot showers, I still had your bloodstains on my skin, under my nails and on my clothes. Every night when I close my eyes, I re-live it. Everything. Every tiny detail. And the silence afterwards…it’s deafening. Sometimes I wake up, still feeling the pressure you put into my hand. Sometimes it’s still there hours after I wake up. I had spent every single day keeping myself busy, finding extra work for myself, just to make sure that I don’t start daydreaming about the waking nightmare I had to watch you go through. I had spent the last two months going over and over in my head what I would say to you if I ever saw you again. But I could never bring myself to do it, because I had watched you die. I had felt you die. So, please. Forgive me if I’m not jumping with joy because I can miraculously forget what happened, like everyone else.”

Logan let your words wash over him. No one had told him. He had a sneaking suspicion they hadn’t because even they didn’t know. Maybe they never asked. Maybe they just hadn’t noticed. 

Gaining back your breath, you went to turn away. 

“Goodnight, Logan.”

Closing your classroom door behind you, you silently locked it and pressed your back against it feeling your entire body start to shake. Slowly, your legs went from underneath you and you lowered yourself to the ground by sliding down the door. You tried your best to squeeze your tears back into your eyes with the heels of your hands, but nothing could stop them. 

Not now. 

Not when you had just admitted the truth to the one man you never thought you would see again. 

Three times Logan turned back to your classroom door, ready to walk inside. But he didn’t know what he would say. 

So he waited. 

Back in his room, he waited to hear the door to your room close. 

And after two hours, he finally did. 

And before he knew it, his feet were carrying him towards your door. Only, he stood there for ten minutes, unsure of what to do with himself. 

At some point, he finally knocked. 

Turning off the tap by the sink, you hung up your flannel onto the radiator bar and dried off your face when you heard the soft knock at your door. 

There was only one person who could have been up so late. 

He knocked again after a minute or two. 

And you opened up the door. 

Whatever Logan had just semi-prepared in his mind, slipped away. He was going to say something. But looking at you, standing in front of him…all words failed him. 

And the longer he stood in front of you, the louder the reminder came to you that he wasn’t dead. He was alive. He could be shot with twelve live rounds and the bullets would pop right back out of his skin. His claws would flare out and he’d be Wolverine. They’d retract and his skin would heal instantly. There would be no evidence that anything had ever happened. 

Then six words slipped from your mouth before you could stop them. Before even your brain could register the thought. 

“I’m sorry I couldn’t save you.”

Logan felt his chest crack and his heart impale with pain. 

Pushing the door open a little wider, his arms engulfed you in an embrace that would forever be imprinted on your soul. Your own arms wrapped around him, trying to remember the feel of him both physically and spiritually in case the day ever came where you truly would never see him again. 

That if this was going to be your only memory of him, you could never, ever forget it. 

Lifting you up in his embrace for a moment, Logan walked further inside your room, kicking the door shut with his foot. Even if no one else was awake, he didn’t want to risk anyone walking by. Clearly, no-one else knew what you had been living through in your nightmares. And he didn’t want anyone else to share this moment between himself and you.

“You spared me the pain of being alone.” Logan whispered into your hair. “I was less scared because you were there.”

“I couldn’t have left you.” 

Your tears were back to rolling down your cheeks. “I’m sorry about everything you had to go through.”

Logan softly kissed away your tears, wiping the others away. 

You took in a shaky breath. “I’m sorry I couldn’t save you.”

Logan shook his head. “You saved me. You stayed with me.”

“But-”

With both your eyes closed, and Logan’s, you felt his forehead touch yours as his hands cradled your cheeks. “I’m real, Y/n. I’m alive.”

You felt Logan take your hand and press it to his chest, over his heart. His heartbeat was mostly steady, if a little quick. Spreading your fingers across his chest, you felt it rise and fall with his breathing. 

“I’m alive,” he kept repeating. “I’m alive.”

Logan’s breath was drawing closer to yours. “Logan…”

“Let me prove it to you.”

And you let him.

Capturing your breath in a kiss, Logan remained soft at first. He didn’t want to scare you. He didn’t want you to jump and run away from him like you had done only a few hours before in the library. 

But then you kissed back. 

So he moved his hands through your hair and over your body until you were pressed against him as close as you possibly could be. 

Your own hands pulled him in closer by his neck whilst the hand he’d placed over his heart remained fixed in its position. 

Logan was proving to every sense in your body he was real. That he was alive. Almost counteracting the memory that had been drawn from a waking nightmare. 

And as he lifted you up, your back soon pressing against the wall, you and Logan knew he would be spending the rest of the night doing exactly what he told you he wanted to do. 

Prove it to you. 

As morning rolled around, you felt a warm body next to you, tangled not only in you but also your sheets. 

Logan. 

His arms practically caged around you, you recalled every single detail from the night before. Your argument in the hallways, the classroom, the knock at the door, the hug, the kiss, the proof. 

And then, you felt yourself, for the first time in months, give a real smile. 

Lowering your head, you buried yourself in between Logan’s chest and your bedsheets, feeling his arms tense at your movement, holding you in the bed without a way of escape. 

And as your body reacted to his touch you realised something. 

For the first time since his death, you hadn’t had a nightmare. You hadn’t seen his death play on repeat inside your head. And the touch you were feeling wasn’t in your hand but rather all across your body. 

Parts were aching with a soreness you never quite knew was possible and later when you would look in the mirror, you would find fingertip bruises by your hips, love bites leading down your hip bone and on your inner thigh. Smaller ones were also dotted around your collar and neck, but a rather prominent one was yet to be left by the crook of your neck from behind where Logan’s lips would find themselves before you got into a fresh shower, Logan joining almost immediately. 

But until then, you’d revel in the feeling of Logan’s constant heartbeat against your hand, and for a moment your lips as you kissed his skin. Before he woke up and proved to you time and time again how real he was and how much the memory that had plagued you for two months was something that, although wasn’t easy to forget about, could become something of a distant memory. 

And for the rest of your lives, he would make sure to do exactly that.

[peachiejeongin]

Back to Blue | Han Jisung

Synopsis: Jisung messages you out of the blue one day, and before you know it, you are at the Stray Kids dorm dying his hair back to blue.

Pairing: Han Jisung x Reader

Genre: established relationship, fluff, crack

Warnings: None! (Unless shirtless Jisung counts)

WC: 1.6k

Notice: My loves, this was an entirely unprompted fanfiction. I have a couple requests scheduled and I'm working on a longer fiction, so I was not going to write anything at all today. But after reading a few stories about Hyunjin's buzzcut and Felix's dark hair, I realized I had not seen many stories about the return of Bluesung on my feed; therefore, I decided to write my own!...and I may or may not have sped-wrote it in about an hour or two. Whoops! Nevertheless, enjoy the story, my darlings! (I am also attempting a new format style, so enjoy that as well!).

Divider By: @strangergraphics-archive

It started with a random text on a Saturday afternoon.

Hannie<3: Hello, my beautiful, gorgeous, amazing specimen of a partner who I love more than anything else ever! You: What do you want, Ji? Hannie<3: Sooooo, our hairstylist may or not be out sick with the flu, and your amazing boyfriend who is ALWAYS so nice to you may or may not be wanting to bring back an old hair color so....wanna come help me dye my hair blue? :D

You blinked at your phone, rereading the message over and over again as if you were trying to find a joke in the wording that you had missed; he could not be serious, could he?

You: Why not just go to an ACTUAL salon? Hannie<3: And have them mess it up? Absolutely not! You're the only one I trust with this so can you pleeeeease come do it for me?? You: Hannie, I'm going to hold your hand when I say this. You: I have never dyed anyone's hair before. Hannie<3: Boxes have instructions for a reason!

You narrowed your eyes at your phone briefly, quirking your lips into a line; you pondered the text for a moment before sighing and typing out a reply.

You: I'll be there in fifteen.

Minutes later, you were at Jisung's dorm, standing in the doorway to his bedroom with a skeptical expression etched onto your face; your boyfriend just grinned at you like an eager puppy.

"I knew you wouldn't be able to resist the urge to play mad scientist with my hair."

"You're acting like I'm about to give you an entirely new identity," you retorted, stepping inside and tossing your keys onto his bed. "Remind me why you want blue specifically? I thought you wanted to stay natural for a while."

Han shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck.

"I did, but blue is like my color, y'know? Fans loved it, and, let's be real, I looked amazing!" You rolled your eyes at the final comment but could not help the smile that eased past your lips.

"Fine," you told him, "but if this goes wrong, I am taking zero responsibility."

"Noted," he replied, leading you down the hallway to the bathroom; a box of blue hair dye already sat waiting on the counter.

"Wow," you teased, picking up the box and analyzing the instructions. "You really went all out with the cheap stuff. Y'sure it won't turn your hair green?"

Han laughed at first, but his eyes widened slightly, his playful expression morphing into one of slight fear.

"Wait...it's not going to do that, right?"

"I guess we'll find out."

Han let out a dreadful groan as you opened the box, pulling out the black rubber gloves that came with it; you pulled them on with a moderate snap as Han took off his shirt, throwing it somewhere on the messy bathroom floor. He perched on the edge of the bathtub, wrapping a small towel around his neck as you read the instructions in order to figure out just what you were doing.

After scanning over the steps and figuring out the process of unprofessionally coloring hair, you took out the color and the developer and poured both into the applicator bottle, shaking it harshly in order to quickly mix up the dye. Once the agents were fully combined, you stepped closer to Han, sitting yourself beside him on the rim of the tub.

"Okay, tilt your head back," you instructed, squeezing a tiny amount of hair dye onto your finger tips.

"Wait," Han suddenly said, looking up at you with large, doe-eyes. "What happens if it actually turns my hair green?"

"Hannie, it's just hair," you replied, running your clean hand through his hair lightly. "You'll be fine."

"But my appearance is my livelihood!" He clutched a dramatic hand over his heart, pretending to tear up at the thought. "If my hair is ruined, I'm ruined!"

"Well, you could always shave your head and wait for it to grow back!" you playfully remarked. "Hopefully by then, your stylist will feel better!"

"A shaved head?!" Han gasped dramatically, his words loud and bewildered. "Do I look like my name is Hyunjin? We can't have two kiwis in the group!" You chuckled at his melodramatics before halting suddenly, furrowing your eyebrows slightly.

"Wait, Hyunjin shaved his head?"

"Oh, nevermind that!" Han playfully shook his head as he spoke. "Can you just get started before I go crazy?"

"You're already crazy, Hannie, but okay."

You slowly raked the blue dye through Han's hair, being as gentle as possible just in case you caught any missed tangles or knots. You went by sections, going by the layers of Han's hair. As you worked, Han squirmed as if he were a child.

"Ow!" he yelped unseriously. "That was a tangle!"

"Han, my fingers literally ran through a couple of strands," you retaliated, trying not to laugh. "How could I have hit a tangle?"

"I don't know, but that's what it felt like," he muttered, pouting and wincing for effect.

"You're such a baby," you teased, brushing through his hair more softly. "I know you don't act like this with the stylists, so just behave for me, would you?"

"Fine, fine," he conceded with a sigh. "In my defense, though, it absolutely kills me to sit still for an hour with them, too."

"Keep yourself distracted then," you suggested as you began to work on the second section of hair. "Like, just talk to me about whatever will make time pass by for you."

Upon your statement, you and Han began to discuss everything and nothing, from his plans for the week, to a new song he was working on, and finally the latest group chat antics with the other members. You had to pause your efforts multiple times during conversation, scolding Han for turning his head away from you while he was speaking. By the time you had finished applying the dye, you were both laughing so hard that your sides were aching.

"Okay," you sighed out victoriously, peeling off your gloves and throwing them away along with the applicator bottle. "Now we wait."

"For how long?"

"Thirty minutes," you answered after re-checking the box's directions. As you pulled out your phone to set a timer, Han let out a frustrated groan, slumping dramatically off of the bathtub's edge and onto the bathroom floor.

"I am going to die of boredom."

"You could always help me clean up," you suggested, glancing pointedly at the blue streaks adorning the whie porcelain of the bathtub, as well as some spots that had made their way onto the floor.

"Absolutely not." Han sat up quickly, shaking his head. "That's your mess."

"Excuse me?" you shot back while chuckling. "Are you not the one who squirmed, flinced, and turned your head so aggressively that you got hair dye everywhere?" Before Han could answer, you pulled out a washrag from one of the bathroom drawers, turning on the faucet to wet it slightly and tossing it to Han.

"Now, get it before it dries up!" you commanded, getting out a second rag for yourself. "I don't want to explain to your managers why the dorm's bathroom looks like a Smurk emporium."

To your gratitude, and more so Han's, cleaning up the smeared hair dye made the time pass by swiftly; within what felt like moments, the alarm on your phone had gone off.

"Thank goodness!" Han yelled, standing up from where he had been kneeled on the floor, working on a particularly tough stain. "Moment of truth!" Han made his way to the shower, sliding open the door before glancing back at you.

"Privacy, please!" he cheekily commanded, waiving you away sassily.

"Yeah, whatever. Just don't forget to use this, ya goof." You handed him the small packet of hair color conditioner before striding out of the bathroom.

"Text me when you're done."

You were sitting on Han's bed, scrolling through social media for what felt like an eternity; you were never able to understand how one person could take such a lengthy shower. You got the urge to go knock on the bathroom door and ask what was taking so long, but before you could, your phone buzzed.

Hannie<3: All done! Come look! :D

You smiled at the text, sluggishly standing up and making your way to the bathroom. You opened the door to find a beaming Han, his squirrely smile lighting up the entire bathroom as he ran his hands through his hair whilst looking in the mirror; it was blow-dried, which was probably why he took longer than expected, but most importantly, it was vibrant, shiny, and blue.

"Ladies and...well, just lady!" Han exclaimed as he turned to you, a prominent, joyous sparkle present in his eyes. "I present to you: the return of Bluesung!"

"No kidding!" you responded, ruffling his hair lightly and fluffing it up slightly. "I think I nailed it!"

"You did!" he agreed, grinning from ear to ear. "I am dangerously attractive now. Well, I've always been attractive, but even more so now, baby!"

"Alright, alright." You rolled your eyes, lightly pushing at his shoulder. "Calm down, Blueberry."

"Careful," he warned, the gleeful glint in his gaze turning into a mischevious one. "Call me that again, and I'm dying your hair."

"Fine by me," you retorted while smirking. "I've been wanting to go purple for a while, Blueberry."

"Oh, you little!" Han picked you up, throwing you over his shoulder and playfully bickering with you as he spun you around the bathroom; however, even through the teasing and the unserious arguing, one thought crossed your mind:

Blue really did suit him.

Taglist: @velvetmoonlght, @amararosesblog (If you would like to be added to the taglist, please let me know!)

[oreo-creampies]

𝐚𝐬𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐜𝐮𝐝𝐝𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮’𝐫𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐝

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: fluff comfort fic, reader is stress and crying for reasons you decide, established relationships, holding you close, being sweet on you, they are all so soft wanting to help you feel better or at least less alone while upset, confession, toji is a bit rough but trying his best

Oreo: in case anyone else is also crying and needs to be held. Yeah I'm sticking with Satoru is sugar bear cause he is cuddly like bear and he likes sugar, Toji is Teddy Bear because obviously he is. Matching nicknames for my favorite two

𝐒𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐮

You’re sniffling, looking down and holding yourself tightly when you shuffle out of the hallway. It doesn’t matter. Satoru six eyes could see your tearful eyes, quivering bottom lip and your nails digging into the soft fabric of his sweater.

You’re desperately trying to hold yourself together about to crack into another flood of tears at any second. “Hold me.” Your voice breaking.

Satoru’s chest is tightening, his heart dropping into his stomach. Holding his arms open for you, closing the space in two long strides. He wraps his arms around you when a harsh sob wrecks your fragile body.

He lifts you off your feet prompting you to wrap your legs around his waist. “Cry and take deep breaths sweetheart I’m here for you.” Your tears are soaking through his white shirt.

You lift your head up, studying the tear stains and smear of mascara. “’m sorry ‘m messing up your shirt.”

He gently kisses the side of your head. “Mess it up, or I can take it off. You can lay your head on my bare chest and listen to my heart beating for you.” You sniffle and look up at him, your beautiful eyes are bloodshot.

“Please take it off.” Satoru walks past his bed into the bathroom. He turns on the light then grabs a tissue holding it to your nose for you to blow, tossing it in the trash.

Satoru opens your makeup wipes to slip one out. “Anything for you honeybun.” You close your eyes. He’s careful when wiping your eyes and lashes clean, giving you two kisses. Cleaning your cheeks and forehead of foundation you get three more kisses.

He slides the wipe down your nose giving you one more soft, loving kiss. A smile tugs on your lips when he kisses the tip of your nose. “You’re smile is beautiful makes my day brighter, you’re the sunrise that makes my day.” He throws the wipe away and carries you out of the bathroom, flicking the light off behind him.

Your eyes widen, “I love you!” You bury your face in his neck and squeeze him tighter like he might vanish.

Satoru’s heart skips a beat. “Look at me sweetheart.” He smiles when you lift your head. “I’m deeply in love with you too.”

𝐓𝐨𝐣𝐢

Toji crouches next to the bed, pulling back the covers. Your tears are trickling sideways, soaking into the pillow. “Cuddle me, please Toji I need to be held.” He frowns and you look away, tugging the covers back over your head.

Toji finds crying irritating, taught to suck it up he grew up expecting that of others. But seeing you recoil from him dissolves any anger. You deserve to feel your emotions, to cry, and to have him hold you.

He will have to learn how to comfort you and become the man you deserve.

Toji stands up to slip his sweater off. He grabs the blanket slowly pulling it off of you. “Ya wearing my sweater 'cause it reminded ya of me right? This smells like me, I took a shower at a shitty motel before coming home, wanted to smell good fer ya.” You sit up and slip his sweater off, tossing it onto the floor.

He bunches up the sweater and you rise your arms up for Toji to slip his sweater into you. “We can cuddle, I'll be ya like one of ya Teddy bears.” You scoot over giving Toji room to slip into bed. He flips over your pillow, hiding the side soaked with tears.

There is a small smile tugging on your lips. "Teddybear is a good nickname for you." He rolls his eyes climbing into bed, you sit to the side letting him get comfortable. Toji's large body takes up most of the bed.

He's sitting up, pouting, mulling over your new nickname. A darkening blush spreads across his cheeks. You climb onto his lap, "You're big and strong like a bear, and you're going all soft on me. Cuddling you is like cuddling up to those oversized teddy bears you see around valentine's day." He sighs, glancing down at you to see that soft smile spreading.

"I'll let you get away with it 'cause ya cute." He leans down kissing your forehead, wrapping his arm around you.

𝐒𝐮𝐠𝐮𝐫𝐮

"Meh!" It's a short squeaky chirp of a meow behind your head. A rumbling purr follows as a soft warm fuzzy kitten walks onto your head. Gently pressing its soft beans into your face, their purr gets louder as they delightfully use your cheek to make biscuits.

Another cat comes clawing up the side of the bed. "Meeeehhh." A fluffy brown cat with bright blue eyes announces themself with a loud, chirpy scream "You were upset so I canceled with Toru wanted to surprise you. I saw these two on the side of the road n' couldn't leave them." He sits down on the bed next to you.

He grabs the proudly purring kitten off of your face for you to sit up. "They-they are sooo cuteee. Are we keeping them?" There is shining hope replacing the dull sadness tainting your beautiful eyes.

Suguru's heart aches to see your wet cheeks with tears and bloodshot eyes. "They are our babies now, no one is taking them from us. We can hide them for two weeks until we move into our new place together." He gently sets the small fluffy orange cat on your lap next to the chocolate one. He wraps his arm around your shoulder, holding you close.

The orange one tackles the other, lightly biting their ear. The chocolate kitten gets on its back and delivers bunny blows to the orange one's gut. Which pushes the smaller kitten off.

In surrender the fluffy orange kitten rolls over to show their soft white belly. Pushing their fluffy paws into the air. You sniffle and get on Suguru's lap, he spreads his legs for you to sit between.

"I still need to be held." Suguru carefully wipes your face dry with the baggy sleeves of his sweater.

"Won't let you go till you feel better. I'm sorry you're feeling this way darling. We can get through it together. I'm always here for you whenever you need me." He kisses the top and side of your head, trailing several more kisses down your cheek.

His kiss is tender, loving, and salty from your tears. "When you get hungry," kissing your cheek, "we can grab a bite to eat then become some criminals together by sneaking in stuff for our new babies"

Oreo’s m.list

[lolxdswag123]

The Engine Room Scene

Leo Valdez x reader

Warnings: MoA spoilers, mentions of foster care, loneliness, a steamy makeout session

Author’s note: I’m actually really proud of this one so let me know what you think

———————————-———————————————

I quietly rocked back and forth on my heels, trying not to make any noise. If I let the floor creak even a decibel too loud, Coach Hedge would be out here in an instant.

I had been standing here for at least three minutes now, working up the energy to knock on my best friend’s door at this ridiculous hour. I knew he’d been feeling really down lately- something had been off since we left Camp Jupiter- even after Piper had coaxed the Eidolon out of him. I had kept myself awake all night so far, trying to figure out how I could help him.

I had originally decided to talk to him tomorrow, but my mind wouldn’t let me rest for even a second- so here I was.

Part of me wanted to just enter the room, as I had so many times before. But the other part of me wanted to turn back to my room, go to bed, and pretend that I hadn’t been standing out here for several minutes now. I decided on a third option of knocking as quietly as I could, to avoid stirring any of my other sleeping friends.

After the first knock, I took a tiny step back- listening for any movement in the room. There was none. I waited half a minute before trying again, slightly louder this time.

Still nothing.

Anyone else would’ve given up there, but I knew my best friend too well. If he’s not in his room, he’s either on the deck, working on the ship- or he’s in the engine room.

I tip toed as quietly as I could, my slippers being a soft cushion to silence the impact of my feet on the boards. I headed toward the back of the ship, and down to the lower deck to the engine room.

Before I even opened the door I could feel the vibration of the engine. It’s hum was quiet and relaxing, which gave me a feeling I was in the right place.

I slowly pushed open the door, trying to avoid any creaking. Of course with Leo’s excellent craftsmanship, the doors weren’t going to squeak anyways.

I took a soft step inside, and immediately spotted my best friend peacefully sleeping on the floor with only a pillow and blanket. It looked extremely uncomfortable.

I quietly closed the door behind me, stopping it before it clicked to limit any more noise that Hedge might hear.

I tip toed over to him, sitting down next to his sleeping figure, and reached down to run my fingers through his hair.

It wasn't unusual for us to be physically affectionate with each other. We had been best friends for almost a year now. We first met when we both ended up at the Wilderness school with Piper. The three of us had become close, but Leo and I shared a special bond. We understood each other in a way that no one had ever been able to before.

Both of us had grown up in foster care- so we never really had a permanent home. Being with Leo every day for the past year has felt more like home than I ever thought I could feel.

Things only started feeling off the past few days. With the Eidolon in Leo's head, he had fired on Camp Jupiter without knowing. He also had quite a few outbursts that left our friendship in an uncomfortable place. I knew it was just the Eidolon, but his words still stung.

Leo had never been anything but gentle and kind to me- aside from his targeted jokes every now and then- but that was how our friendship worked. When the Eidolon was possessing him he said some things about how my parents didn't care about me and that's why I ended up in foster care. He also had said something about how of course we are the only two single members of the quest because nobody cared about us.

I let the words pass over me in the moment, but part of me couldn't get the memory out of my head. And yet, I was more worried about him than I was about my own emotional wellness.

I brushed his hair out of his face, watching a sleepy smile settle onto his face at the feeling. I subconsciously started tapping Morse code on his head- the way to communicate he made me learn at the Wilderness School to talk during classes. It took a while, but I got the basics down. We hadn’t used it much since he’d gotten so busy with building the Argo ii, and we hadn’t used it at all since he’d been possessed by the Eidolon.

He stirred, and I immediately stopped tapping. I didn’t even realize until I’d stopped that I was tapping miss you.

I pulled my hand back, letting him blink his eyes open. I watched as he reached his arms up to stretch, a smirk crossing his face as he looked up at me.

“Well well well,” he said, looking up at me, “if I’d have known I’d be getting a late-night visit, I would’ve put on my good pajamas.”

I snorted at his attempt at a joke, rolling my eyes and smacking his arm gently with my hand.

His smirk widens as he rests his hands behind his head, “what can I do for ya, querida?”

I blushed lightly, breaking eye contact for a moment before saying, “I just wanted to see how you were doing…”

His smirk dropped slightly, looking uncomfortable, but his grin quickly returned as he said, “If you mean after having an evil spirit leave my body… I’d say I’m doing great, even better now that you’re here, estrella.”

I sighed, knowing his typical way of deflecting his feelings into humor. It would be hard to get around.

“Leo, I’m serious.” I prodded, “I know something’s been up lately.” I leaned back, allowing my arms to prop me up.

He scanned my face, his face becoming slightly more serious, but he didn’t let go quite yet.

“I think you’re just making up excuses to hangout with your charming best friend in the middle of the night,” he said, turning on his side to face me, resting his head on his hand and raising his eyebrows suggestively.

“Yeah, that’s it. I just was dying for some alone time with you.” I said with thick sarcasm in my voice, playing along to his game. The words were true, but that isn’t what I was here to talk about. That was a conversation for after I figured out what was going on with him.

“See, I knew it, mi amor,” he grinned, looking up at me, “come here.” He said, laying back and opening his arms.

I rolled my eyes, but obliged, moving forward until I was laying on the floor as well- our arms around each other and my head in his neck. Unfortunately the floor as uncomfortable as I anticipated. Although I hardly noticed that as I breathed in Leo’s scent. He always had a soft smell of camp fire, and I adored it. Nothing ever could make me feel so at home.

There had been many nights at the Wilderness School that Leo and I had spent comfortably laying on each other. There were even a few times we’d accidentally fallen asleep in each others dorms. It had always been purely platonic, although Piper had questioned us about it hundreds of times.

After we got to camp, we obviously weren’t allowed to sleep in the same cabin- or even lay together. And now with Coach Hedge on the look out… let’s just say I missed the times we got to spend together like this.

I took a deep breath, pushing the memories aside and bringing myself back to the present moment. I could feel Leo’s hands fiddling with the hair on the back of my neck.

“Leo?” I asked, exhaling.

“Hm?” He hummed quietly.

“Can you be honest with me?” I whispered, as I begun subconsciously tapping again on his side where my hand rested.

He was silent for a moment, still fiddling with my hair, before saying, “Of course, querida.”

I nodded, feeling the warmth of his neck against my cheek. “What’s been going on with you? I know the whole evil spirit thing was a lot… but something else has just seemed… off? You know?”

He took a deep sigh, hands moving to fiddle with something from the floor now instead of my hair. “The ‘whole evil spirit thing’ was definitely a lot…” he whispered, mocking the way I said it.

“But, I don’t really know.” He said, shifting slightly below me.

I lifted my head, looking up at him, and lightly tapping a word that I had learned very well on his side. Liar.

He shook his head, rolling his eyes at my gesture. “You just know me so well, huh?” He teased.

“Of course I do.” I nodded, now fully propping myself up to look at him. “And I know when something is off with you.”

He breaks eye contact, suddenly finding the wooden wall a lot more interesting than this conversation. “This just isn’t really what I expected… I don’t know.” He trails off.

He’s always had a hard time talking about his feelings. He didn’t open up to me about his mom until nine months into our friendship. I understood completely, but all I wanted was to help him.

The night that he finally opened up to me about her, I had helped him relax and then the words started flowing much more easily. I decided that I should do the same now.

I slowly reached my hands up to his head, bringing them to his hair and massaging gently. He leaned into my touch and closed his eyes.

“You don’t know?” I asked, not stopping my movements.

He hummed, clearly only half-paying attention now.

“It’s not what you expected?” I asked, repeating what he had just told me.

He opened his eyes slightly, gazing up at my face, but closed them again and leaned his head fully into his pillow. He gave a slight shrug, “I just feel…” he paused for a minute before continuing, “kind of like an outsider?”

I was taken aback by his words, but I didn’t show it. An outsider? And he’s saying this to the one person who gets him more than anyone?

I continued massaging his head, nodding at his words even though he couldn’t see me. “An outsider? Why?” I asked gently.

He shrugged again, and softly mumbled, “Everybody here just seems so useful to eachother. Percy and Jason have all their awesome powers. Piper literally saved me with her charm speak, Annabeth has her super smarts, you are just like all around perfect…” he trailed off, opening one eye to look at me.

I blushed, tucking my head into his neck again, but didn’t stop massaging his head.

He continued, “Hazel and Frank… actually I haven’t gotten to know them very well yet, but I bet they can do some awesome stuff too.” He finished.

The tone of his voice could’ve shattered my heart. When he finished talking, I pulled my hands away from his hair, propping myself up to get a better look at him.

“Leo?” I asked gently. He moved both of his hands behind his head again to look up at me.

“Yeah?”

“Who built this ship?” I ask.

“My cabin.” He answered.

“No Leo. Who is responsible for building this ship?” I asked again.

His eyebrows furrowed, before responding, “Me, but-“

“No.” I cut him off, “Stop that. None of us would even be here without you. You’re the most important one here. Seriously.” I said, confidently.

He let the corner of his mouth twitch into a slight smile, “Thanks, querida.”

I looked at him for a few moments, still not feeling like the air had been cleared. He wouldn’t make eye contact with me.

“Leo.” I said softly.

“Yeah?” He asked, still not meeting my eyes.

“That’s not everything, is it?” I asked, laying back down next to him and trying to catch his eyes.

He glanced over at me, before staring at the ceiling and giving his head a small shake.

“What’s going on?” I asked, reaching out a hand to rest on his arm and draw soothing shapes on it.

He pursed his lips, momentarily glancing at me again. He shook his head before speaking, “That’s not the only reason I feel like an outsider.”

I continued tracing shapes on his arm, “Then what is it?” I asked.

He gave a small chuckle, “You’re not going to let me joke my way through this one are you?”

“Never, Valdez,” I smiled through my words, shaking my head and scooting closer to him.

He finally turned his head toward me, looking into my eyes. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but then closed it again.

When he finally spoke, his voice was even softer than before. “Do you ever feel like… everyone’s got somebody and you’re just alone?”

I nod, recognizing this conversation as one we’d had before- particularly about when we were in foster care.

“You know I do.” I said gently.

“Well…” he said, rolling his head back toward the ceiling and throwing his arm over his face. “I just thought I was done feeling like that when we got to camp- and when I met you, Jason, and Piper- of course. But now that we’ve started this quest I’ve been feeling that way more than ever…” he trailed off, still covering his face with his arm.

I paused for a moment, considering his words. Could this be because of the Eidolon? Or maybe because we’re so far from all of his newfound brothers and sisters?

“Why do you think that is, Leo?” I asked, allowing my hand to rest now on his arm.

He removed his arm from his face, eyes directed toward the ceiling in silence for what felt like ages, before speaking, “…I don’t know how to explain it…” he paused again for several moments, “Like… Jason and Piper have eachother, Annabeth and Percy have eachother, Frank and Hazel don’t know it yet but they obviously are going to be together… and I just feel like… I don’t know…”

I processed his words, feeling the truth of them sink in. Almost everyone on our ship was paired off. But then again- so were we. The friendship that we shared did that for us. We had a connection between the two of us that we didn’t have with anyone else. We did all the same things as any of the other couples… we just weren’t a couple.

I start tracing my fingers along his arm again, softly saying, “Well, we have eachother.”

His eyes flickered to mine briefly, and then he fully turned on his side to finally face me, looking me directly in the eye.

I dropped my hand, feeling my heart rate pick up a little bit. I wasn’t sure why I was nervous, but it didn’t feel like a bad type of nervous.

“We have eachother.” He repeated, nodding.

“Of course.” I confirmed, nodding as well.

I watched as his eyes scanned over my face once, then again.

He reached into his pocket, pulling out a q-tip and a plastic bottle cap and began fidgeting with them.

“That’s different though,” he said, now watching his hands work with the items.

“Is it really, though?” I asked, watching him fidget as well. “I mean, you’re my best friend. We tell eachother everything, and we do things like-“ I paused, gesturing between us, “this.” I finished.

He nodded slowly, not meeting my eyes.

“I mean how different is that really from what they have?” I asked, shifting onto my back so I could stare at the ceiling.

He paused his fidgeting, returning the items to his pocket. He took a deep breath in, exhaling slowly. I was familiar with this look on his face. It meant he was deep in thought. It was the same look that he had when he’d be working in bunker 9.

I studied his face, reaching a hand out to gently rest on his cheek. He leaned into my hand, pressing a quick kiss to it before meeting my eyes again.

“You really are something special, you know that?” He whispered, glancing behind me at the cracked door.

I blushed, shaking my head slightly, “You are, Leo.” I said, scooting closer to him.

I could feel his breath on my face, and he glanced again to the cracked door.

I turned my head to see what he was looking at. “Everything okay?” I asked, “Did you hear something?”

When he didn’t answer, I turned my face to look back at him. He was now inches from me, looking intently into my eyes, and I swear I could see his eyes flicker to my lips for just a millisecond. He shook his head, looking back into my eyes.

A swarm of butterflies filled my stomach, and I could feel my face getting hot, but I stared back at him.

“Want me to close it?” I whispered, watching his chest rise and fall with every breath he took.

He nodded.

I sat up, pushing the door closed as quietly as I could with my foot. It shut with a quiet click, and I paused for a moment, listening to ensure that no one else had stirred from the sound.

When I was sure that no one had woken up, I turned back around, laying next to him again. His gaze was heavy on my face, and this time I was sure I caught his eyes flicker to my lips for a second.

Neither of us moved, just scanning eachothers faces- and I knew mine was bright red.

After a moment I whispered, “you okay?”

He opened his mouth again, but the words didn’t find him. He shifted, reaching out his hand to rest on my cheek gently, his hand warm and comforting. Our eye contact grew even heavier, and I felt a stirring deep in my stomach.

He leaned closer, hesitantly, as if he wasn’t sure what I would do. I immediately leaned in as well, closing the gap between us. We found eachothers lips in a hot, passionate kiss.

His mouth desperately moved over mine with a pent-up intensity. His hands tangled into my hair, ruffling gently to angle my face to move in sync with his. I gasped into the kiss, feeling his body against mine. The hand that wasn’t in my hair slid around my waist, his fingers pressing gently into my back as the kiss deepened, and I heard a low groan escape his throat. The sound made me feel like we were both on fire.

Each brush against each other sent shivers through my spine. I allowed my hands to move, finding his shoulders. The lean muscle was a familiar feeling beneath my fingers, but I gripped on him, bringing him even closer. I ran my hands down his back, silently encouraging him to press against me until I could feel every inch of him. His lips left mine, tracing down my jaw and grazing along my neck. I could feel waves of heat pulsing through my body. I gasped, tipping my head back as his mouth found a spot just below my ear, his lips burning against my skin.

He shifted, kicking my legs apart until his body was pressing me gently back against the wooden floor, and he was hovering over me. Both of us were breathing heavily, gazes intent on eachother as I felt his entire body against mine. He leaned down again, with more confidence this time, capturing my lips desperately. I could feel his hand shakily slipping beneath the hem of my shirt, hot fingers brushing the bare skin on my stomach.

My own hands followed his lead and roamed under his shirt, tracing the muscles along his back with my finger tips. I let out a quiet moan as he shifted his weight, pressing into me. His head dropped and his mouth returned to my neck, trailing a line of hot kisses and gentle bites that made me feel light headed. My fingers moved from his back to tangle in his hair, tugging gently, and he groaned against my skin. His hand continued moving up my side, leaving a trail of heat everywhere he touched.

As his hand traveled up, my shirt bunched up with it. His fingertips grazed my skin, and he lifted his head to look at me. “You’re so beautiful, mi amor.” He whispered, breathlessly.

He leaned in again, his lips trailing down my collarbone, pressing heated kisses against my skin as I tangled my hands in his hair again. He pressed his forehead to my collarbone, kissing all over. His hand resting on my side, and I felt the soft tapping of his fingers against my skin. He was using Morse code. He was tapping- love you. The realization sent a flood of warmth through my stomach, and I gripped his shoulders, pulling him even closer, feeling my eyes sting with pure love and happiness.

Then he shifted his weight again, his hips pressing into mine in a slow, intentional motion that left me breathless. I let out a soft gasp as I held onto his shoulders, feeling his heartbeat pounding against my own. His hands traced down my sides, his touch careful, as he pressed into me again, each movement full of longing.

We moved together, every touch and soft gasp saying what words couldn’t. His lips found mine once again, kissing more deeply, more fervent. I could almost feel his lips quirk into a smile against my lips as he took continued shifting his hips against mine. It was just us, our connection, tangled together, as everything else seemed to fade away.

The intensity slowly softened, and he cradled me in his arms, our foreheads pressed together as the room grew still. We were both panting, looking deeply into eachothers eyes and neither of us could fight the smiles overtaking our faces.

His fingers traced soothing patterns along my skin, and I reached my hand to his side. Gently tapping out the same code that he had earlier- love you.

Looking into his eyes, I could see them start to water a little bit too, as mine had before. It was just us. The two who never had a home, never had anyone who truly loved them- and now we were finding it all in each other.

The rest of the night was filled with soft whispered words, and several more gentle kisses. We were so completely wrapped up in our own little world that we didn’t even realize when we started to drift off together.

The next morning, I woke up to the sound of the door opening. I was immediately confused about where I was, until I felt his arms still wrapped around me, and smelled his soft scent of campfire. I looked up and he had a line of drool running down his chin. Adorable.

I heard someone clear their throat from behind me, and I instantly sat up, spinning around to see who it was.

My frantic movement had made Leo sit up as well, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

Annabeth stood at the door, arms crossed, looking down at us with an amused look on her face.

“It’s not what it looks like-“ I began.

Annabeth cut me off, “It’s definitely what it looks like.”

I could feel my face get hot, as I turned to Leo for help- but he was just staring at her wide-eyed like a deer in headlights.

I exhaled, shaking my head, “I just wanted to make sure everything was okay after-“

She cut me off again, “The Eidolon? I won’t tell Hedge, don’t worry. Just get back to your cabin before anyone else finds you two down here.” She said, gesturing up the stairs to my cabin.

I nodded, standing up and straightening out my appearance. I glanced back down at Leo, who looked extremely relieved.

As I went to exit, Annabeth held out a hand to stop me. She glanced down at my neck, then back at my face and let out a loud laugh.

“What?” I asked.

“On second thought, go see Piper before you go back to your cabin. She has some makeup.” Annabeth said, clearly amused.

“Makeup?” I asked, confused.

“You’ll see when you get there.” She said, shaking her head and looking back down at Leo.

As I headed away to the stairs, I could hear Annabeth talking to Leo. She said something like, “I like the idea. How comfortable would you say the stables are?”

[whatsk-poppinhomies]

Pairing : Dad!Bangchan x F!Reader TW : Chans daughter is not readers child ; Chans ex wife and daughter are shit starters ; drama of course ; angsty ; honestly, poor Chan ; fluffy ending though ; slightly suggestive at the end as well ; Word Count : 6.5k Request : Anonny : Please write an angsty / fluffy fic about Dad!chan who, after years of not dating, finally decides to get back into dating & when he finally finds someone he doesn't tell reader he has a teenage daughter because he doesn't know how reader would feel about it but when reader finds out they're really upset and avoid him and his daughter reaches out to reader and convinces reader to talk to Chan and make up because she hates seeing her dad upset. A/N : This request is so cute and I'm so happy I get to write it. Of course, it will be super drama because I love when it happens, and with Chans recent bbl messages we know this man loves this kind of shit, so... This is for Chan and Chan stans and we love Chan!

“I got a call from your teacher today, Ella.” Chan said as his daughter walked through the front door. “They said your grades haven’t been the best lately, that you haven’t been focusing in class. Is something wrong? Do you have something going on?” He didn’t want to be the kind of father that always got on his child when their grades were below average, but he also didn’t want his daughter to flunk out. He wanted to see her be successful and happy in life, that’s all he ever wanted. 

“I’ve just been going through some stuff, dad.” Ella mumbled as she kicked her shoes into the corner near the front door and dropped her bags onto the floor. “Mom said she’s been trying to get in touch with you lately. I guess she saw that you’ve been posting about going out on your facebook.” She pulled out the chair across the table from Chan. “Why don’t I get to meet your new girlfriend?” 

Chan rolled his eyes, finally looking up from his phone to look at his daughter. “You’re changing the subject. What I do in my spare time isn’t important. Your grades are. So tell me, what kind of stuff have you been going through that’s been keeping you from being able to focus. Maybe I can help.” 

She huffed loudly, the attitude that he was warned would come along with a teenage daughter was in full force now. “It’s not even important anyway… Don’t you have a date to go on tonight? That’s all you ever talk about anymore. It’s like you don’t even care that mom left…” It was finally making sense to him, but it hurt that she felt that way. He had been kind enough to keep his ex wife’s dirty secrets just that, a secret, so that Ellas view of her mother wouldn’t be warped. He was trying to do the right thing, but it was becoming harder and harder. 

“I do care that your mother left… I was hurt by it for a long time, El. It’s been 8 years, and I think that it’s time that I’ve finally moved on because she isn’t coming back. Your mother has gotten remarried, divorced, and married again in those 8 years and I haven’t been with anyone until just a few months ago. I don’t think you’re being very fair right now.” He tried to explain, but he could tell, he could just see it in her face that she wasn’t ready to hear about it. “And, just so you know, I don’t have a date to go on tonight. I was planning on being here to help you with your homework and studying so that I don’t get another call like I had today.” 

///

“Had a late night in the studio, huh?” You said as you walked up behind Chan, your arms draping over his shoulders as he sat in front of his computer in his office. You could tell he was tired, he could barely sit up straight and his eyes wouldn’t stay open for longer than a few seconds. “It’s okay to take a break, bubs. It’s 3racha, not ChrisRacha.” 

He snickered at the little name, finally swiveling his chair around to face you and pulling you down onto his lap. “You sound like everyone else. I don’t like taking breaks, it gives me too much time to think about the time that I’m wasting.” He explained, his voice was groggy and not even laced, but completely filled with exhaustion. “I’ll be fine once I go over your place tonight, we can cuddle up and watch a movie.” He nuzzled his face into the crook of your neck, his hot breath against your skin sending a wave of goosebumps all over. 

“They’re repainting all of the apartments, I can’t even go into my own house right now. I’ve been staying with my parents.” You reminded him, although you were sure you had texted him about it and told him about it in the days leading up to the renovation. “We can go over to your place. We’ve been dating for 4 months now and you haven’t even invited me over.” 

There was a reason for that, a reason that you didn’t know of, but he felt it was just better if you didn’t find out. The last thing he wanted was for you to run off because he had a daughter, not just any daughter though, a teenage daughter who was still hung up on the divorce of her parents. She wasn’t the easiest to get along with, and although Chan had tried to butter her up to the prospect of one day meeting you, she didn’t take too kindly to the fact that he was dating again. “My place is a mess…” He lied, trying to muffle his words in the fabric of your shirt so you wouldn’t pick up on it. “We can go to a hotel if you’d like.” 

“That seems sleezy…” You mumbled, and he felt awful, he truly did. It felt like he was stuck between a rock and a hard place. He absolutely loves his daughter with every ounce of his heart, his entire being, he loved being her father. He loved you too though, you had been the light at the end of a very long, very dark tunnel. He didn’t want to have to choose between the two of you, it just didn’t seem fair. “I guess we’ll just wait for my apartment to be ready…” He could feel you trying to pull away, he could tell that you were upset, he didn’t want you to leave like that, so he tightened his arms around you, holding you close to him. 

“You’re not sleezy! I’m sorry I even recommended that, you’re better than that.” He quickly tried to get himself out of the hole that he had dug, it felt like he was clawing his way to the top, and everytime he got halfway out, he’d slip and he’d fall right back to the bottom. “I’ll clean my place, I just want it to be perfect for when you come over. Okay? You deserve the best.” 

The tension slowly left your body, he felt you soften up against him, and for a moment, it felt like he could breathe again. “Okay… Fine. I’ll wait… I just really miss sleeping next to you.” You whispered, and those words made his stomach feel warm and fuzzy. He missed sleeping next to you too. “I have to get back to work though… I’ll see you later. Try taking a break though, take a nap or something, that’s what the couch is for.” You pressed a kiss to his cheek before getting up, his arms reluctantly loosening around you until you were free to go. “Seriously, get some sleep.” 

///

“Where are you going?” Ella asked from the couch, watching Chan storm to the front door and yank his coat off the hook. “Did you and your girlfriend get into a little fight? Do you have to go kiss and make up now?” The mocking tone in her voice would usually only slightly irritate him, but he was already beyond irritated at the reason he had to leave in the first place. 

“No, it’s your damn mother.” He snapped, pulling his shoes on before grabbing his keys. “I don’t know how long she’ll hold me up, there’s food in the freezer, or you can grab my wallet out of my bag and order yourself something. Try to do some studying while I’m gone, please?” And without another word he was out the front door, slamming it behind him. 

What Chan didn’t know was that he had left his wallet at work on his studio desk, and you had gone into his studio before leaving to see if he was there but only found his wallet. He must have left the building without saying anything to you, and you wondered if maybe he was sick or something had happened back at his place. You were doing the right thing, at least that’s what you felt you were doing. You were just going to take his wallet home to him and check up on him. You didn’t mind that his house might be a little dirty, you completely understood that he was busy, you didn’t expect his house to be immaculate. 

You weren’t sure why you were so nervous to stand in front of his front door, but a chill ran through your body and you had to take a few breaths before even lifting your hand to knock. Once you did, you took a step back, listening to the locks being undone before the door opened. It wasn’t who you expected to see, it wasn’t Chan, it was a girl, she looked younger, at least 15 or 16. “Oh, I’m sorry. I must have read the address wrong.” You quickly apologized, bowing your head to the girl before turning away. 

“Who are you looking for?” The girl asked, and what you weren’t aware of was that she had seen Chans wallet in your hand, she knew that you had come to the right address, she was just playing a game that you didn’t know about. You quickly said his name, and she let out a soft hum. “He’s out right now. It’s date night for him and my mom.” You felt your stomach sink, deeper and deeper until it couldn’t go any further. “Is that his wallet? Thank you so much for bringing it, I’m sure he’ll be happy to know that you brought it back. Hopefully he’ll answer his phone so he can pick it up and pay the bill, you know?” 

You nodded slowly, the bile from your stomach rising into your throat. “Y-Yeah… Of course… H-Here you go.” You stammered, your hand shaking as you handed the wallet over to the girl. You knew she wasn’t lying, she looked so much like Chan it was uncanny. Why hadn’t he told you? What was he even doing with you? He had a wife, or at least a girlfriend or fiancee… He had a child… But he was going around with you? It was beginning to add up though… Why he always wanted to go over your house. Why he’d rather go to a hotel than to bring you to his own place. You felt absolutely sick. 

“Have a good night!” The girl chimed cheerfully as you made your way back to your car, the light from inside the house that had illuminated the front yard faded until you were covered in darkness. You were devastated, you were heartbroken… You had never felt more humiliated in your life and all you wanted to do was go crawl underneath a rock and hide there. 

///

The meeting with his ex wife the night before had stressed Chan out beyond belief. He couldn’t believe that after 8 years she wanted to fight for custody of Ella now. Her reasoning behind it would have been laughable if they hadn’t been so damn ridiculous. By the time he had gotten home though, Ella was already in bed and he was so tired from dealing with his ex that he had gone right to bed as well. By morning, Ella had already left for school, so he’d have to wait until he got off work and she got home from school to even talk to her about what her mother had said. 

Now, he was only looking forward to seeing you. You were the only person at this point who could calm him down and bring him some semblance of peace, at least for the short amount of time that he got to be with you. “Hey, lovely.” He called to you when he caught you walking down the hall. Usually you’d smile and wave, you’d even run over to him sometimes if the hall was empty. This time you just shook your head before lowering it and walking right by him. 

It was a shock to say the least, and his mind immediately jumped to the worst, although he couldn’t be 100% sure of what had happened that would cause you to be acting like this. Was it because of the hotel comment the day before? Was it because he wouldn’t let you come over to his house? It couldn’t be that though, he had talked to you about it. It had to be something more, but he couldn’t figure it out. You looked absolutely pissed, like you didn’t want anything to do with him. 

“Y/N!” He called out your name now, jogging down the hall to catch up with you, but you didn’t even look up at him, and you sure as hell didn’t slow down. In fact, it seemed like you sped up, like you were trying to get away from him. “Hey… What… What’s wrong? What happened? Are you okay?” He lowered his voice but quickened his steps to keep up with you, trying to duck down just enough to get a view of your face, but every time he got close enough you’d look away. 

“I don’t want to talk to you, I don’t want to see you. Whatever it was that you made me think we had, it’s over. I’d like it if you left me alone now.” You stated flatly, your arms tightening around the multitude of folders that you clutched to your chest. “I’m changing groups, I won’t be one of your staff anymore as well, so please, don’t bother me anymore.” 

Something had happened, and it wasn’t something that could easily be fixed like Chan thought. It was worse, way worse. You had basically fired yourself from being his group's staff because of whatever happened. “Hold on!” His fingers wrapped around your upper arm, stopping you from going any further. “So you’re just… Breaking up with me? You’re not even going to tell me why!?” His voice cracked as it rose in pitch, his chest rising and falling heavily as the panic fully set in. “I fucking love you, Y/N… You can’t just do this to me and not tell me why.” 

When you finally looked up, he could see your eyes were glistening, your bottom lashes bedazzled with twinkling tears that clung onto them. You were just as upset as he was. “Stop pretending, Christopher!” You croaked out, sniffling loudly once the words left your chapped lips. “I refuse to be the rebound chick that you think you can run to when your marriage is on the rocks. I won’t be strung along by you, not anymore.” You took a few deep, shaky breaths to compose yourself before you pulled your arm free of Chans hold. “Now, if you don’t mind… I have another group to meet. I have work to do. I do believe that you have some work to do as well.” You bowed your head to him before turning and walking away, leaving him more confused than he was before. 

His marriage… It had fallen apart years ago when he had come home to find his wife in bed with another man while his daughter was fast asleep in the room across the hall. It had been disgusting, heartbreaking, it would have been his downfall if not for his daughter and the moral, mental, and emotional support of the guys. He wasn’t sure why it was being brought up, he didn’t even know how you had found out, but that same feeling of devastation that he had felt 8 years ago was flooding him once again. 

The guys… They were the only ones who would be able to talk to you, they were the only ones who knew about the secret past that Chan was trying so hard to hide from you. Would they do something like that though? Would they hurt him like that? “Yo! What’s up?” Changbin said as he came up behind Chan, his arm draping over his shoulder. “You’re… crying? What happened?” The cheerful tone was immediately dropped, and even though Changbin was younger, he was in full protection mode. 

“Y/N… She… She broke up with me…. She knows about Sana…” He gasped out the words, each of them getting caught in his throat, it felt like he was choking. “Somebody told her… Someone… They had to have told her! Who!?” He was shouting now, his sadness turning to anger in a matter of seconds. The look of confusion of Changbins face was enough for Chan to know that he had no idea what Chan was talking about, and that in itself proved his innocence. That left 6 more guys to question. 

“Y-You know that none of us would do that to you… Why would we do that? You were happy!” Changbin quickly defended the others as well, seeing in Chans eyes that he was on the warpath and he wasn’t going to stop until he found out who had told you. “I… I do know she went to the studio last night after you left… She… She said something about your wallet but… Maybe she went to your house to drop it off and… and…-” 

“Ella…” Chan muttered out the name, a loud groan leaving him as his head fell back. “I have to go… Will you be okay? Can you run practice for me?” Now he was in a hurry, a hurry to get home, to talk to you… He had so many things he had to do, he didn’t even know where to begin. Changbin nodded his head, patting Chans shoulder before taking a step back. Truthfully, Chan didn’t know what the hell he was going to do… But he knew he had to do something. He wasn’t going to lose you… He couldn’t. 

///

“Sit. Now.” Chan said, not even giving his daughter time to fully come through the door before the words left his mouth. He had been sitting at the table, thinking over and over about how he’d go about bringing it up to her, but now that she was finally home, all of his thoughts had gone out the window and all he could feel was irritation. She rolled her eyes, dropping off her bag and kicking her shoes off like she did every day, heading in the direction of her bedroom. “Did you not hear me? I want to talk to you.” 

“About what?” She snapped, whipping around to face him. “About the lady that showed up on our front porch last night?” Chans eyes widened, he didn’t even have to drag it out of her, she wasn’t a liar… and for that, he was proud, he had at least taught her one good thing. “Did she dump you? Well good… You don’t deserve to be happy. Not after what you did to mom…” After… what he did…? He was stunned into silence, his head cocked to the side as he tried to think about what he could have possibly done to make him the bad guy in all of this. “She told me all about it, don’t try to act like you’re so innocent.” 

Those weren’t Ellas words, those were her mothers words and she was speaking them for her. “I tried so hard to protect your mother for some reason… So that you wouldn’t think badly of her… And this is what she does.” He mumbled, running his hand through his hair and sighing heavily. “Can you please sit? I really need to talk to you…” He stretched his legs under the table, pushing out the chair across from him and motioning to it with his head. He could see the reluctance, but she finally made her way over, dropping down into the chair, but not without an eye roll and a look of disgust. “I didn’t want to tell you the truth… I didn’t want you to see your mother as anything less than what she is… But I wasn’t the one who did anything. Your mother is the reason we’re divorced…” 

“You’re a liar… She said that you’d lie…” Ella mumbled, her arms crossing over her chest as she glared at her father. “Just like you lied to that lady. She didn’t even know I existed! You kept me a secret from her… Why? Are you embarrassed of me? Are you ashamed of me?” The sulky teenage attitude subsided, and he could see that she wasn’t just angry, she was upset. He never meant for it to be like this, he didn’t even think that something like this would happen. It’s not like he planned on keeping his daughter hidden forever… He just didn’t want to spring it all on you at the beginning of the relationship. 

“No! God, no… El… You are an amazing daughter, you’re smart and you’re funny… You’re the most wonderful thing I’ve ever created. I’m so proud of you…” He whispered, and he could see the tears beginning to form in her eyes. He should have told her these things a long time ago, maybe she wouldn’t be acting out, but it was too late, and now all he could do was try to fix things piece by piece. “I didn’t want to bring someone into your life unless I knew that it was serious… It’s one thing for me to be hurt… But I didn’t want you to potentially get close to her just for her to leave and hurt you too.” He swallowed thickly, taking a deep breath to prepare himself before continuing. “I divorced your mother… Because she cheated on me, Ella. Do you really think I would have gotten custody of you if it were the other way around? The man she married… That’s… That’s the guy… And they’re already divorced… And she’s already married again. She’s been married twice since the divorce, and I… I haven’t been with anyone until a couple months ago. Do you think that would be the case if I was the one who had screwed up?” He could see the gears turning in her mind as she thought about everything that he was saying, and he could see that it was all adding up. “Your mother wanted to meet up with me yesterday because she’s trying to get custody of you…” 

Ellas eyes widened and her head shook fast. “No… I don’t… I don’t want to leave. I don’t want to live with her, dad.” The words were rushed out, full fledged panic written across her features. “Don’t let her take me… I want to stay with you… I’m sorry… I’m sorry I told the lady that you were having date night with mom. I’m sorry that I ruined it… I’m sorry… Please don’t let her take me.” She was crying now, absolutely bawling, and it broke his heart to see his daughter so upset. 

He jumped out of his chair, running around to her side of the table and pulling her up into his arms. Right now, she wasn’t just a teenager with a bit of an attitude problem… She was his little girl, and he was going to protect her and he was going to keep her safe. He was going to fix everything, no matter what it took. “She’s not going to get you, she won’t win. You’re staying here with me… I promise.” 

///

“Have you gotten a hold of her?” Ella asked, dropping down onto the couch beside her father. It had been weeks since the last time he had spoken to you, but he had seen you in the halls at the building every single day. No matter how many times he tried to stop you and explain everything, you’d just keep walking like you didn’t know him at all. Ella could see that it was breaking him, and she knew that it was her fault. “I’m really sorry, dad…” She mumbled. 

Your picture was still his lockscreen, and every time a notification would pop up on his phone he would jump up, a single second of excitement and wishful thinking, only to be let down once he realized it was someone, anyone but you. “It’s okay… I’m gonna try to get some work done. Let me know when you get hungry, I’ll make us some dinner, yeah?” And she nodded slowly, waiting for Chan to get up and go into his little office before running to the front door and pulling on her shoes. If he wasn’t able to fix it, maybe she could. 

The walk to the building wasn’t too far, and she knew that, for the most part, whenever her father went into his office it was so he could cry in private. That usually lasted a couple hours, and she was sure that she wouldn’t need too much time. 

Everyone in the building knew her, they had heard so much about Chans daughter that she was looked at as an idol herself. They all welcomed her warmly, but she was on a mission. “Hi! Would you happen to know where an Y/L/N Y/N is? My dad sent me to make sure she got something.” She came up with it quickly, and no one seemed to question it either. They gave her the information just as fast and sent her on her way… It was far too easy… She’d have to talk to her dad about that. 

The ride up the elevator gave her enough time to think about what she would say, or at least a little bit of what she’d say. Truth be told, she was nervous. She wanted things to go well for her fathers sake, but she knew that the trouble she had caused and what she did could have irreversible damage. 

When the doors slid open, it was like fate had brought her here at this exact moment, because you were standing right outside the doors. “Oh… Uhm… I-I remember you…” You murmured, bowing your head to her before taking a step back. “I think you’re on the wrong floor though… Your father is a couple floors down.” 

Ella shook her head, stepping out of the elevator, trying to look like she wasn’t a nervous wreck standing in front of you. “I’m here to talk to you.” She said, her head held high just to exemplify the false feeling of confidence that she was trying to give off. “Are you busy?” 

“I’m very sorry if me being with your father created any problems. I’m not with him anymore though… And, with all due respect… I’m just trying to move on.” 

“That’s the problem though!” Ella blurted out as you moved past her and stepped into the elevator, turning around quickly on her heel to face you, her hand pressed against the elevator door to keep it from closing. “Him and my mother aren’t together… They haven’t been together for 8 years. I… I was upset because… I didn’t understand what happened… I didn’t know why my parents weren’t together and… My mom lied and… And I’m sorry. My dad really loves you… And he wanted me to meet you… And he’s been crying every night because I ruined your relationship because I lied just like my mom and I’m… I’m really sorry, ma’am…” 

She was once again crying, and you didn’t really know what to do, but it felt wrong to just stand there and watch her cry, so you hesitantly stepped out of the elevator and gave her the most awkward one armed hug. “It’s… It’s okay…” You murmured, and much to your surprise, she turned her body completely toward you and wrapped her arms around you. Whether there was a maternal bone in your body at all before this moment or not, you immediately felt the urge to comfort her, to make sure she was okay, to wipe her tears and tell her that everything would be fine. “Hey… Hey, let’s go to my office. We can get a drink and some tissues and then… I’ll take you home. Is that okay?” 

Ella nodded slowly, her face scrunched up and her bottom lip pushed out. She really did look like her father. “Will you talk to him?” She asked weakly, and as much as you hated him… Now that you knew the truth… It felt like the right thing to do, so you hummed in agreement to her question, leading her down the hall to your little office and pushing the door open for her. “Y-You know… You’re still his main picture on his phone. He’s waiting for you to text him or call him or something… He misses you so much.” 

You were sure that she didn’t mean to tell you so much, and you were very sure that Chan would be incredibly embarrassed if he found out that his daughter was telling you so much. “I’ll talk to him, I promise… Pinky promise.” You held out your hand, your pinky extended to her, and she quickly latched her finger around yours, a bittersweet smile tugging at her lips. 

“You are really pretty… He wasn’t lying… And you’re really nice too. I would be really mad at me if I were you…” She lowered her head, her entire body slouching forward as she sat in the chair across your desk. “Why aren’t you mad at me?” Her voice was below a whisper, her question genuine, and you didn’t really know how to answer it. 

“Well…” You began, your fingers drumming against your lap as you leaned back in your chair. “I don’t blame you for what you did… You’re a child and… And your parents divorced. I’m sure that any child would be upset if they found out either of their parents was dating someone else, especially if the kid doesn’t understand why their parents divorced in the first place. You were protected from the truth… But it made you do something that you regret. It’s still not your fault though, it’s no one's fault.” You reached across your desk, your hand faced up for her, and she slowly placed her hand in yours, the smile from earlier returning to her face, but this time it was just a little bigger and it reached her eyes. “Let’s go see your dad, yeah?” 

///

Chan had at some point cried himself to sleep while sitting in front of his computer, but the sound of a soft knock on the door had him jolting awake. “Dad?” Ellas voice came between the small crack in the door as she peeked inside, and he quickly wiped the sleep from his eyes as he got up from his chair, almost bringing his entire laptop with him since he forgot to take the headphones off. “I ordered dinner for us… It’s here.” She said between little giggles at the way he stumbled. It was nice to hear her laugh, he hadn’t heard it in a bit, not from anyone in the house. He wondered what had changed. 

“You didn’t have to do that, I would have cooked for us…” He said somberly, but he knew that she was doing it as a favor for him. He was a wreck, it was visibly noticeable that he hadn’t had more than a few hours of sleep in the past two weeks, he had bags under his eyes and his hair was a mess. He was a shell of the man that he once was when he had you, but he knew he had to get better, he wasn’t sure how he would do that, but it wasn’t fair to Ella to constantly be like this, it would only make her feel more guilty. “I’ll be right out… Thank you.” He said when she hovered in the doorway, and he watched her walk away. There was a bounce in her step, she hadn’t been this peppy in a while. He was genuinely curious and now he was rushing out of the little studio room so that he’d be able to sit down and talk to her, maybe he could find out what was going on. 

“I hope you don’t mind, I brought a friend over.” She said from the kitchen. He was adamant that he had never heard her bring up a friend, especially not one that would come over and visit. Was it a boy? She never mentioned liking anyone at school… Was she too scared to talk to him about those kinds of things? He made a mental note to sit down and talk to her about it one day this week. “Are you coming?” She called out and he hummed in agreement, trudging out of the little room with his head hung just a little. 

This wasn’t the first impression that he wanted one of his daughter's friends to have of him as her father. He wanted to look more respectable for the sake of Ellas reputation. It seemed like he didn’t really have a choice though, she was rushing him to come out, and he didn’t want to keep her and whoever she had over waiting. “I apologize, I wasn’t really told that you’d be coming over.” Chan began as he walked down the hall, and he completely froze when he saw just who his daughter had brought over. 

“I don’t think anyone really knew I was coming over.” You said lightly, the warmest smile spreading across your face as you looked at him. He couldn’t say anything, he couldn’t find words, all he could manage to do was open his mouth and croak out sounds as salty tears pricked his eyes. “Is it… okay… that I’m here?” You asked when the silence lasted longer than you thought it would, and he nodded his head fervently, wiping his eyes with the sleeves of his hoodie. 

“It’s… It’s more than okay… I just… I don’t know why… I don’t mind it though.” He rambled, looking between you and Ella who was currently setting the table for three people instead of the usual two. “You’re… staying for dinner?” He questioned, and you gave him that adorable, heart stopping smile that had stopped him in the halls of the building all of those months ago, the smile that had pushed him over the edge and made him fall for you in the beginning. 

“Yes she is.” Ella spoke up, clapping her hands together to get both of your attention. “Do you want me to eat in my room… So the two of you can talk? I’m sure you have a lot to talk about… I can leave you alone if you’d like.” But you shook your head, walking over to the table and playfully ruffling her hair before opening the takeout bag and pulling out the contents. 

“I’d like it a whole lot if you stayed and ate with us… But if you want to eat in your room… If your dad says it’s okay… Then you can.” You sounded so… sweet, the way a mother would talk to her own daughter, and the craziest part was that Ella smiled at you before taking a seat at the table, she actually listened to you… There was no attitude that came alone with it. “Are you just going to stand there and look at the food, or are you going to join us in eating it?” You asked, bringing Chan out of his own thoughts and back into the room. 

“Yeah… Yeah, I’m coming…” Chan whispered, walking into the dining room and taking his usual seat, but the aura at the table was a lot different now. It’s like the whole room had gotten 10 times brighter, and no matter which way he looked he was met with a warm smile. He had so many questions, but he knew that he had all the time in the world to ask them, and regardless of the answer… He knew that things would be better now, all of the pieces were falling back into place, and the picture was more beautiful than he had ever imagined it to be. 

~6 Months Later~

“You’re gonna absolutely crush this test, I know you will.” You stood at the stove, preparing breakfast as Ella sat at the table, her face buried in her text book to get as much last minute studying in before she had to go to school. “No matter what, I want you to remember that your dad and I are so proud of you and how hard you work. Okay? We love you.” Ella hummed softly, not even looking up from her book, but you could see that she was smiling, and that was enough of a response for you to know that she had heard you, that she was listening. You carefully placed her plate down beside her, lightly tapping the table to get her attention. “Please eat. Okay?” 

Chan ran out of the bedroom, his eyes barely even opened, his shirt wrinkled and twisted and his hair sticking up in all different directions. “Did she leave yet?!” He asked rather loudly, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and blinking a few times before focusing in on his daughter who was looking up at him, her shoulders shaking with silent laughter. “Don’t laugh, it’s not funny. I wanted to give you a hug before you left.” He pouted, and she quickly got up out of her chair, rushing over to Chan and wrapping her arms around him. “You’ll do great. I-” 

“No more speeches! You guys are going to make me cry!” Ella dramatically whined, pulling away from Chan and running back to the table to pack her things into her bag and then shoveling as much food into her mouth as she could before going to the front door. “Love you! I’ll see you later!” She mumbled with her mouth full of food, and before the two of you could say it back she was out the door. 

Once the door was shut, Chan walked over to you, his arms wrapping around your from behind as he rested his chin against your shoulder. “Hey…” He murmured, pressing a kiss to your cheek that was dampened by tears that you hadn’t even realized had begun to fall. “What’s wrong, lovey?” He cooed, gently turning you around to face him, his head cocked to the side. 

“I don’t know… I just… I’ve only been here for six months and… We’ve gotten so close and… She’ll be going off to college soon if that’s what she wants to do… But… I’m gonna miss her and the house is gonna be so empty and…” You pouted up at Chan who couldn’t help but find it adorable the way you were right now. It was the most heartwarming thing, to know that you loved his daughter so much already that you were crying at the thought of her leaving. 

“Well… We have the house to ourselves for a couple of hours… We could watch a movie or something to take your mind off of being sad… Or… We could go have some fun… Surprise Ella with a brother or a sister when she comes home from college…” Your eyes widened at the suggestion, but your feet were already moving in the direction of the bedroom, that all too familiar tingly feeling building in your stomach. “We can watch a movie when we’re done… If you’re not too tired.” 

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[sinstear]

ㅤ ㅤㅤ❝ 𝐝𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐢𝐭 𝐚𝐢𝐧’𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮? ❞  

abby remembers the second the light in your eyes left. it was like yesterday. she remembers the night you showed up at her house, completely drenched, from head to toe in the rain, looking at her with the tears streaming down your face. even covered in rain, she could tell just how much you had been crying. she remembers how your hands shook as she helped you undress for a warm shower, and how you could barely hold the washcloth because of how cold your body felt. at first, she wasn’t sure why. why you cried your heart out the second she let you inside, how you clung to her body like she would disappear if she didn’t hold you tight enough. every piece of her broke each time you would grip her shirt in your fist, knuckles turning white, whenever she tried to pull you away just to get you in the shower, to warm you up, but you never budged. you didn’t want to let her go. ever. 

she was quick, like she always is when it came to you, when you slumped onto the shower floor and held your knees against your chest, sniffling and whimpering into your arms. she didn’t care about her dry clothes getting wet, all she cared about was you and making sure you were okay. the stream of water covers her as she wraps her arms around your body and pulls you into her chest, whispering and reassuring you that you were okay. it wasn’t until you opened your mouth and uttered a soft, “we argued about you” that her body tensed, and her eyebrows furrowed at your words. 

“me? why me?”

“why not? you’re perfect” you laughed, but it wasn’t your usual laugh she adored hearing, was used to hearing. it sounded so broken that all she could do was hold you tighter. “m’not sure, i think it makes her angry that i always come to you when m’sad, or when something is getting too much for me to handle and i never go to her. m’scared that i only trust you, and i can’t trust anyone else with my emotions,” you sucked in a deep breath and sniffled. “m’scared of my feelings, the ones i thought i had for her, the ones i have had for you for years and i hate that i keep putting all of this on you” you rambled, not fully understanding you had just admitted one of your confessions to your best friend.

abby was momentarily happy for this moment of confession because she’s been in love with you from the start, but she was also terrified. scared because right now you were too heartbroken and too hurt for her to drop the i love you bomb right onto you. “m’here for you, no matter what the problem is, you know that” she mumbled against your head. “you can bring your things to me, and i will try my best to help you through them, like i’ve always promised you.” even if it killed her to hold back her own feelings towards you.

“s’not fair on you” you couldn’t help but huff and roll your eyes at her. “m’always doing it. it just ruins everything”

“you need to stop thinking you know what’s not fair on me, and what is. that’s my decision, i won’t let you make that for me. m’here for you, no matter what is going on in your life, and in your pretty head, okay?” abby rubbed your back and placed a tender kiss on your temple when you nodded wordlessly. “now, how about we get out of the shower, i’ll find you something to wear, watch one of those shitty movies you love so much and eat ice cream?”

“i’d like that.” 

abby was gentle and patient, like she always is, when she helped you dry off after she managed to get you from the bathroom to her bedroom, clothes already on the bed waiting as you fumbled with your fingers nervously. none of you had to say anything, her actions of getting you comfortable and warm were enough to express how much she cares about you.

she doesn’t rush you to get changed into something warmer, drier even, nor does she rush you to get comfortable in her bed as she makes her way into the kitchen just to find the ice cream you both always used to eat if you had a shitty day. thankfully though, by the time she makes it back to her bedroom, her pride and joy, her safe place, she finds you snuggled up under the blankets and already scrolling through endless movies that you aren’t sure if you really want to watch. 

“did you pick one?” abby mumbled, placing her bowl of ice cream on her nightstand while passing you the other and chuckling under her breath at your soft gasp from the coldness of the fine china. “careful, it’s cold”

“funny,” you grumbled playfully and snuggled more into her bed. oblivious to her soft eyes watching you. “but thank you, and no, i haven’t picked one. they all look boring.”

abby doesn’t reply, just makes herself comfortable on the other side of you on her bed, your body on instinct snuggled more up to her side and slumped your head on her shoulder as you scooped up ice cream and shoved it in your mouth with subtle sniffles. “you feel better?” she couldn’t help but ask into your hair. 

“a little, thank you for being here” you sighed and rubbed your eyes with your free hand. “s’not what someone’s night should be like, always having to fix me and put me back together again, but thank you.”

pressing her lips to your temple, abby doesn’t feel the way you sag more into her body, nor does she feel the heat rising in your cheeks at such a simple action. she’s forgotten all about her ice cream, as you eat yours and keep your eyes locked on the tv, still undecided on which move you’re going to watch. “hey,” abby whispered. 

“hm?”

“i love you,” the meaning to abby was deeper than you’d ever know, but she wasn’t going to place something else on you while you were already dealing with a broken heart. so instead, she wraps her arm around your waist and kisses your head again. her thumb brushing against the skin on your hip that had you sinking more and more into her with each touch. “which means m’always going to be here for you. during the good and bad. i will do my best to help and guide you through the bad days, but there for you, supporting you through the good ones too. i just want you to be happy, and i will make sure i can help you get there. always. i love you.”

because loving you is the easiest thing she’ll ever have to do.