#and destroyed. right in front of my eyes.

[luxcuriousao3]

Not-So-Creepy Landlord König

Word Count: 1484 Warnings: none Notes: He's just really, really awkward, okay? Go easy on him.

You were convinced your landlord was going to murder you.

It wasn’t even the fact that he was the most massive man you’d ever seen—nearly seven feet tall and with shoulders that spanned the breadth of a fridge—nor was it the fact that his face was heavily scarred. It wasn’t even his awkward attempts at conversation.

No, it was the highly suspicious circumstances in which you were renting your apartment that had you so convinced your grisly death was lurking on the horizon.

You’d found the place on Craigslist—yeah, the red flags were abundant from the beginning, but desperation had you grimacing while strolling right past them—and it had seemed like an answer to your prayers. Two bedroom apartment, small but not cramped, fully furnished, in a nice, safe neighborhood, and best of all, significantly below budget. You weren't even too put off by the listing stating that it was for women only, soothed by the fact that one of the rooms was already being rented by a girl, and she was only comfortable with female roommates. The little profile picture was of a girl, too, and any lingering doubts disappeared. Clearly, she was just looking for someone to split rent with—maybe even desperate herself, considering that she had to be fronting more than half of it. You sent a message and arranged a meeting with her, sure that all was right in the world.

All was not right in the world.

Turned out, the poster wasn't your roommate—instead it was the renter of the room you'd be taking over. The phone number she’d listed in the post belonged to the landlord, and he hadn’t seen fit to warn you that you were talking to a giant of a man and not the petite blonde in the profile picture.

You should’ve turned around and ran right then. But the allure of an in-unit washer and dryer was too strong. It was the promise that all utilities—including electricity—were included in the already dirt cheap rent that sealed the deal, though. Even learning that your landlord—König, he told you to call him in a voice that was surprisingly high pitched for such a big guy—kept some of his personal items stored in your apartment, and would occasionally just pop in to grab them, didn't stop you from making a terrible decision.

(“That’s weird, right?” You asked your best friend, who was staring at you with wide eyes.

“Yes, that's weird! And you signed a lease with him?”

“About that… technically, there’s no lease…”)

And yeah, it was fishy as hell that he didn't have you sign a lease. But the view! It was so distracting, such thoughts just slipped right out of your mind.

Unfortunately, the view wasn't going to save you from ending up on the six o'clock news.

(“So,” you began once the tour of the apartment had ended, craning your neck to look into the eyes of your potential new landlord. Or you would have, if he didn't stare pointedly at a spot just over your shoulder. You chose to ignore that. “I have to ask. Why is the rent so low? Any ghosts I should know about?”

Your landlord—König, you reminded yourself—didn’t so much as smile, and you tried not to wince at your joke falling flat.

“Helping vulnerable, young girls is important to me,” he said, and you gave a full body shudder. “It is my atonement.”

“Besides,” he continued while you mentally mapped the quickest route back to the nearest exit. “I grew up in that flat. I do not wish to see it destroyed by some careless dumkopf with a hammer and too much grey paint.”)

In the end, you’d forked over the euros, and less than a week later, you were fully moved into your new apartment. You locked your bedroom door every night, just in case. You never ate any unsealed foods. You counted your bras and panties every day, and when you noticed your pretty, silk pair was missing, you called off work and started packing then and there.

When you found them in the dryer that night, you realized that you might have, possibly, maybe overreacted.

König hadn’t actually done anything worthy of suspicion. It was just the circumstances and his general vibe that had you on edge. Which wasn’t really fair to him, you knew, and even kind of mean. But you couldn’t help it. Better safe than sorry, and all that.

Because God, but he was just so weird.

Every time you saw each other—which was often, considering that he lived in the apartment above you—he stopped in his tracks, hunched his shoulders, and asked how you liked the apartment, all while refusing to look at you. And every time, you told him it was great, silently counting the seconds until you could get away. He would respond with a random memory about his childhood—”My Oma once started a fire in the kitchen, that is why the curtains are so short. I had to cut off the burnt edges.”—and then leave before you could react to it. It was so baffling it almost pissed you off.

Then he started memorizing your schedule.

Well, you couldn’t say for sure that that was the case, but it certainly seemed like it. Every Monday morning before work, you would go grocery shopping, and when you got home, König was conveniently sweeping the lobby. As always, he stopped what he was doing, asked after the apartment, and dropped another tidbit of landlord lore—but this time, he didn’t immediately run away after. Instead, he plucked the grocery bags from your aching fingers—yeah, you definitely needed to invest in one of those folding cart thingies—and walked up the stairs, ridiculously long legs taking them two at a time. You blinked, confused by what just happened, and then scurried after him. But by the time you got to your door, he was gone, and your groceries were sitting innocently in front of it.

It became a routine. One you didn’t know how to stop. You weren’t even sure you wanted it to stop—it was ultimately harmless, after all, and really quite helpful. But you were still wary of him, and you didn’t want to give him the wrong idea about your intentions. The last thing you needed was your landlord kicking you out (or killing you) because he thought you were stringing him along.

But as the weeks passed by and the dreaded date offer-slash-murder never came, you slowly began to relax. You stopped locking your door at night and counting your sets of underwear. You started eating from containers of food that had already been opened. And tonight, you even brought a guy home for the first time since moving in.

Before he could so much as get his cock out, though, there was a loud, insistent knocking at your door. You ignored it, and told your date to as well.

Fatal mistake.

The door opened, and in walked König. You shrieked, hands flying up to cover your bare chest—which was where his wide, guileless gaze had landed. Figures, the first time he properly looked at you was to stare at your tits—and your date stood up in front of you protectively… only to throw his hands up in a non threatening gesture and start blubbering apologies the second he saw König.

“Oh fuck, man, I’m so sorry, I didn’t know she had a boyfriend, oh fuck, please don’t kill me, I swear I didn’t know—”

König didn’t answer, having torn his gaze away from your hastily covered breasts to stare resolutely at the wall, his pale, scarred face now a bright red. Your date looked about ready to leap from the second story window rather than try to get around the mammoth of a man standing in your doorway, and you grabbed the back of his shirt and yanked him back down onto the couch.

“Get out!” You shouted at your landlord—and yeah, you could worry about whether that was going to get you evicted later—and König jolted before doing exactly that, the door closing behind him with a slam.

Nothing you said could convince your date to stay. He fled your apartment like he had a warrant out for his arrest, and you were once again left in the lurch. One angry wank later, and you went to bed, miserable and furious.

You woke up the next morning to an envelope slipped under your door. Inside was a note and several one hundred euro bills.

Fraulein, I am very sorry for last night. I called to tell you I was coming to get some of my things, but when you did not answer, I thought you were not home. I have returned half your rent from last month. Please forgive me. König

For a red flag, the cash in your hand looked very, very green.

[mintyys-blog]

Minty

I just read you Pink Diamond reader and was wondering if you could do more with main Mark

(Sorry for just asking for main Mark again I haven’t gotten to season two yet so I all I really care about is the main one rn)

BAKING | main mark grayson x pink diamond! reader

INVINCIBLE MASTERLIST 2 | WARNINGS:

Do not repost, translate, or rewrite my work, whether AI-generated or otherwise, without my permission.

© @mintyys-blog

You wanted everything to be perfect.

You spent all day hunched over cookbooks, scrolling through videos on your phone, obsessively reading reviews. You could do this. It was just a simple cake. People did it all the time.

You imagined how it would look—perfect, golden, fluffy, decorated in soft pink frosting, just like the ones you saw online. You imagined Mark’s face when he saw it. How proud he would be. How he’d kiss you and tell you you were amazing.

You wanted that. So you tried. And you failed.

The oven beeped mockingly. Smoke curled out of the top. The cake was ruined—sunken, burnt at the edges, collapsing in the center like a popped balloon. The frosting you slaved over was a sticky, dripping mess. Your kitchen looked like a war zone.

You stood there, trembling, hands sticky with batter and frosting, staring down at the disaster you had created.

A sharp, painful lump formed in your throat.

It wasn’t fair— You tried. You followed the directions exactly. You wanted so badly for it to work.

You clenched your fists, nails biting into your palms.

The bowl on the counter wobbled dangerously.

The light over the stove flickered.

Your breath started to come faster, faster, the edges of your vision going white—

“Y/N.”

A voice. Gentle. Steady.

You barely registered Mark standing in the doorway at first. You were too busy shaking, your entire body buzzing with frustrated, helpless anger. You hated this feeling. You hated failing.

Mark stepped closer, carefully, like approaching a wounded animal. You could feel the floorboards creak under your feet as your power began to boil over—an invisible force swirling around you like a storm about to break loose.

Your hands twitched towards the ruined cake. You could crush it. You could level the entire kitchen in a heartbeat. You could make it disappear and pretend none of this ever happened.

You didn’t even realize you had started crying until Mark was right there in front of you, cupping your face in his warm, steady hands.

“Hey,” he murmured, his thumbs brushing away the angry tears on your cheeks. “Look at me. Just me.”

You struggled at first—your pride, your anger, your shame making you twist away.

But Mark didn’t let you. He pressed his forehead against yours, breathing with you, slow and deep.

“It’s okay,” he said quietly. “You don’t have to be perfect.”

You let out a broken, choking sound, your whole body trembling from the effort of not snapping, not destroying everything.

“I wanted it to be good,” you whispered, voice cracking.

“It is good,” Mark said instantly. “You made it for me. That’s all that matters.”

You closed your eyes tightly, your fists unclenching.

The invisible weight in the room lifted slowly, your powers settling like dust after a storm. Your knees buckled, and Mark caught you easily, lifting you into his arms like you weighed nothing at all.

You buried your face against his chest, still hiccuping little sobs, furious with yourself.

Mark kissed the top of your head, his hand cradling the back of your neck.

“I’m proud of you,” he said fiercely. “I love that you tried. I love you, no matter what.”

You clutched his shirt desperately, afraid that if you let go, the shame and frustration would swallow you whole.

But Mark just held you tighter, grounding you, anchoring you to him.

Minutes passed. Your breathing slowed. The rage inside you ebbed away into exhaustion.

Mark rocked you gently, like you were something precious and breakable—not because he thought you were weak, but because he knew how hard you were fighting to stay gentle.

“My diamond,” he whispered, brushing his nose against your temple. “Even when you fall apart, you shine.”

You blinked up at him, your cheeks still wet, your heart aching.

“Stay with me,” you croaked.

His smile was crooked, a little watery too.

“Always.”

Later, when you were curled up together on the couch under a blanket, Mark sneaked a bite of the ruined cake.

He chewed dramatically, pretending to savor it with a loud, “Mmmmmm!”

You sniffled a laugh, slapping his arm lightly.

“It’s awful,” you muttered.

Mark grinned, frosting smeared across his lip.

“It’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted,” he said, and kissed you before you could argue.

You must’ve dozed off.

When you blinked awake, the apartment smelled… different. Warm. Sweet.

You sat up, bleary, confused, the blanket pooling around your waist. Mark wasn’t on the couch anymore.

“Mark?” you called out, your voice rough from crying earlier.

“In here!” he shouted back cheerfully.

You shuffled toward the kitchen, heart thudding a little.

When you stepped inside, you froze.

Mark stood at the counter, hair messy, wearing an apron that definitely wasn’t his—it was pink and frilly, something you bought months ago on a whim and never used.

There were bags of flour, sugar, eggs, a ridiculous amount of frosting tubes spread out all around him.

He looked up at you and grinned.

“You fell asleep,” he said simply, wiping his hands on the apron. “So I figured we’d try again. Together this time.”

You stared at him, stunned.

“Mark, you don’t have to—”

“Nope,” he said, popping the P, moving toward you and gently steering you toward the counter. “This isn’t about the cake. It’s about you. About us.”

He picked up a wooden spoon and tapped it lightly against your forehead.

“We screw it up together,” he said solemnly. “That’s the rule now.”

You laughed, watery and soft, and Mark lit up like you’d given him the sun.

“You’re insane,” you mumbled, but you were already reaching for the flour.

“Yeah, but you’re stuck with me,” he teased, bumping your hip with his.

You started working side by side, measuring, mixing, laughing when Mark dumped half the bag of sugar into the bowl by accident.

At one point, he dabbed a smear of frosting on the tip of your nose and pretended it was an accident, even though his smirk gave him away immediately.

You tried to scowl at him. You really did. But you ended up giggling so hard you almost dropped the bowl.

There was frosting everywhere. The counters. The floor. Your hair. It was a disaster. An even bigger disaster than your first attempt. And somehow… you didn’t care.

Because Mark was there, sticking by your side through the mess, through the failure, through you.

[quietplace26]

Furina!MC au: Diary of Secrets

Notes: Another alternative take to my Furina!MC au..only this takes place in canon. Furina!MC returns home, and is now just MC again... Leaving chaos behind in the now post Prophecy Fontaine.

Warnings: OCness, cringe, thoughts of depression and suicide, yandere thoughts. Romantic yandere! Neuvillette, and Platonic yandere!Fontaine cast.

Furina!MC stares blankly at the thing before her. It was a computer... her old computer. The one she owned back in her last life.

The Genshin Impact logo flashes ominously on screen...

Furina!MC shakily shuts it off, standing up slowly and looks around.

She was in her old room. Everything still in the same place as it was the last time she saw 500 years ago...

She pads into her bathroom, marveling at the modern style bathroom she missed having, and gasps when she catches her face in the mirror.

She... she looked like her old self again! Her hair, eyes, nose, and even the little scar or mole here and there. She was herself again!

But how? The last thing she remembered was-

Furina!MC freezes. Her body begins to shake as tears started building up in her eyes.

The trial. How could she forget that?

Neuvillette, he... He had given the verdict of death sentence as her punishment, like canon did, but...

Now she's home? ...Maybe Focalors dying and the Hydro throne being destroyed freed her from her forced role? Finally letting her go home...

Furina!MC- no, MC sniffles as she smiled a true smile in the first time in 500 years.

She was home. She was free. And she was human again.

Glancing back at her computer she makes the decision to delete Genshin Impact from its system... Later on.

Right now? She wants to go spend time with her family and friends... And maybe she would forget all the pain and loneliness she went through...

So, rubbing her eyes dry, she pads out her bedroom, quietly calling out to her parents and siblings... Only she never notices her computer flicker on again.

The Genshin Impact logo flickers, and the usual log in screen of the game flickers to a scene of Fontaine. A Fontaine that was dark and rainy...

...Fontaine was in a state of chaos. Yes, the prophecy was avoided, meaning Fontaine and its citizens were safe... But their Archon? False Archon? Where did she go?!

After the verdict of a death sentence was given, she just faded away! Did she die?! Did she ever actually exist to begin with?!

No one was sure, but one reporter from the Steambird wanted to get answers, so he snuck into the Palais, and managed to find the former Hydro Archon's old room.

Digging around he finds what could be the Archon's diary and takes it back to the Steambird where he and his colleagues could go over what would probably be the biggest scoop of the century.

But all they got was some horrifying information...

The workers of Steambird, Charlotte included, all stared down at the old, beaten-up diary nervously... and guilty.

Should... Should they actually post what's in there?

Charlotte pushes for them to post it. The young reporter said the truth needed to be heard... and for their Archon's cry for help to heard as well...

So, they end up posting the article... and the Ludex himself, along with many others of Fontaine showed up in front of the Steambird, demanding answers.

The Article itself titled, 'Under the mask of our Hydro Archon-'

It spins a tale that their Hydro Archon was never their actual Archon, which Fontaine already knew, but it's revealed she was the HUMAN side of the Hydro Archon.

Neuvillette reluctantly admits he himself found out that info during the whole mess of a trial.

But here's the thing... Even that wasn't true.

Oh no, turns out Furina!MC wasn't even Focalors human side to begin with! Well, the body maybe, but the soul? The soul was once someone else.

A poor human that woke up in Focalors body double and was essentially made into a puppet for the Archon's bidding.

But even that wasn't the biggest shock!

The surprises continue as Furina!MC wrote about her past life, about how Fontaine, its people, Neuvillette, and even all of Teyvat had been a game in her old life.

Basically, she saw through the Traveler's eyes and explored Teyvat with them.

But if that's the case then why didn't she helped Fontaine?! Help people who were going to die or worse?!

The answer, as it would turn out, was because of Focalors.

The goddess' only goal in life was to prevent the prophecy and protect Fontaine... So, in her eyes, a few or more deaths didn't matter in her eyes.

So that meant she would NOT allow Furina!MC to act out of character and help those that could be saved.

And poor, poor Furina!MC was forced to watch as every soul she could've help, could've saved, die, or in Wriothesley's case, lose his childhood.

Carole, oh poor Carole... There were tears mark all over the page as Furina!MC cried through her words.

Navia's father, oh, his death could've been prevented if Marcel, no, Vacher had been caught. If only Focalors let Furina!MC bring up the evidence she had and KNEW, then-

'I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Navia-' the rest of the page had the same lines over and over again.

And Wriothesley. Oh, Furina!MC had been planning on fostering him, maybe even adopting him, but Focalors could never allow that, oh no.

Then there's Neuvillette.

Most entries showed how... Scared she was of him, how nervous... But also showed how she admired him.

She admired him for his abilities, for how he treated the Melusines, affectionately even writing being a dad was a good look for him.

It was obviously now that Fontaine's Hydro Archon had a crush on the Ludex, which apparently even shocked Neuvillette as he never knew that...

But for the rest of the diary entries, it mostly spoke of Furina!MC steadily declining mental state.

She started writing more about how it would feel to sleep die and not wake up one day. How lovely it would feel just to sleep drown deep in the sea, all alone where no one could hurt you...

Apparently sometimes when she was alone, she would test out her immortality to see if she could find a loophole and rest... and the way she described what she did to herself made several people sick.

It only got worse when they got to the last entry. The day before that trial...

Furina!MC wrote how she didn't hate any of her would be betrayers. She wouldn't hate Fontaine for turning its back on her. She LOVED Fontaine, truly...

It was just inevitable. There was no changing this 'story'. There would be no happy ending for 'Furina'.

All she asked for.... Is that when Focalors died... She could go home.

"...Lady Fur- I mean, Lady MC must have returned back to her world after Focalors' death." Neuvillette murmured as he closed the diary that a steam bird employee timidly handed to him.

All around him, nervous whispering could be heard. There was no hate towards MC like before, no, it was sorrow, it was worry, and guilt.

"Even if that's the case... would she even be alright? 500 years... and all the torture that Goddess put her AND us through..." Navia says, eyeing the nearby Archon statue in pure disgust.

That bitch let her father die! Of course she's angry! MC said she had evidence counting the fact she KNEW about Vacher, and even so, Focalors forced MC into silence.

"...Should we try to bring her back?" Clorinde suggests, fingers gripping her blade. She failed as a guard... and a friend. She raised her sword towards an innocent soul who has been silently crying out for help for 500 years... She had to make it right somehow.

Fontaine's citizens look at one another, and there's chimes of agreements. Their Archon was fragile right now, she should be brought back to Fontaine where the best doctors and therapists could help her now that no meddling Goddess was in the way.

Sigewinne was the loudest with this. "Lady MC is in a delicate state right now, both mentally and physically. Even if she did return home, that doesn't erase 500 years' worth of trauma, especially on a Human soul!" The Melusine nurse needed to see MC right away!

"Monsieur Neuvillette there must be a way to bring her back!"

"Please! We need to apologize!

"Lady Fur- MC needs help! Chief Justice, please!"

Neuvillette silently still gazes down at the diary.

To think... 500 years, and he never knew of the pain his lady was under.

When he saw Focalors, he felt the same affection he felt for Furina!MC, as they had the same face, but acted so differently.

But hearing the truth. Hearing how Focalors treated Fur-, no, he must in call his lady that name anymore! It... It wasn't her name. She deserves to be called her name!

...Hearing how Focalors treated MC, forcing her to act how like a puppet, keeping her quiet when the poor girl wanted to help... Unforgivable.

He glanced over at the nearby Hydro Archon statue and walks towards it, standing before it.

He sees Focalors' face, not MC's. It was never MC's. Focalors took that away from her l, didn't she. Took away her identity, her will...

With a flick of his wrist, Hydro shoots out and destroys the statue.

With the once grand statue in pieces at his feet, he turns to the crowd before him, face emotionless but eyes dark and determined.

"...We will bring back Lady MC back."

The resounding roar of agreement from the crowd echoed through Fontaine.

Fontaine would have its Hydro Archon back. The one they should've had to begin with.

Not a bratty, selfish, arrogant one. No. The shy, awkward, but oh so very kind and gentle Hydro Archon that was human just like them.

Fontaine will treat her gently, spoiling her with the love she was denied for so long.

The Melusines will have a chance to be closer to MC, to tell her Carole's death wasn't her fault. That they care about her, LOVE her.

MC took care of them without the Melusines noticing. Protecting them the best she could from Focalors.

.... Oh... That... that kinda sounded like a mama protecting her children. Was MC their mama? They had a mama and never noticed!

Navia wanted to apologize to MC. Both for her words and that awful test she tried to force MC through with the Primordial Sea water.

The President of the Spina di Rosula wanted to be MC's friend. Her best friend. Navia could tell by her diary entries MC was so lonely. She wanted a friend... And Navia would be that friend.

From her 500 years of being forced to act as 'Furina', poor MC must be so confused as to what she likes and dislikes anymore. Navia would help her with that.

She could take her to Fontaines best boutiques and pick out outfits she actually likes and then they could go out for a spa date. Navia would treat her friend right.

Clorinde needed MC back in her sights. She needed to keep her safe, to make up for her betrayal and failure. She would be the protector MC needed... The only one she will need.

Wriothesley... He originally held resentment towards the former Archon for all her failures towards him and his foster siblings.

But hearing the truth? It made him feel ill with guilt. The woman he held quiet hatred for had wanted to foster him and his siblings, and maybe even possibly adopt HIM.

He could've had a mother... but Focalors ruined everything.

Even though there was probably no way to have a family relationship with MC now that he was a grown adult, Wriothesley at least wanted to be someone that she could rely on.

Someone close to her, a friend... Or maybe more...

And Neuvillette? He wanted MC back. He NEEDED her back. He wanted to know the true MC, see the true MC.

She was probably very adorable; he could tell with the way she shyly wrote about him in her diary. Such a sweet little thing.

But he bet she was also beautiful as well...

No matter the cost, Neuvillette would bring MC back to Teyvat. Back to Fontaine... And back to where she belongs the most... With him.

Even if he had to bind her to his soul.

And with his Authority and status as the Hydro Sovereign returned, he was MORE than able to accomplish that.

[wendichester]

｡𖦹°‧ i see you in my dreams⁸,

summary. sam only ever sees you in his dreams

pairing. sam winchester x dreamwalker!reader    genre. angsty

wordcount. 1250

⋆.˚ ★— read part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7

The bunker has never felt colder.

It’s the middle of the night, but no one’s sleeping. Not anymore. Not since Cas confirmed it—Sam’s soul is fracturing. Rapidly. Pieces of it are slipping away like sand through his fingers, devoured by the bond tethering you to this plane. Every breath you take, every second you stay real, you feed off him.

You didn’t mean to.

God, you didn’t mean to.

But that doesn’t stop the truth from curling around your chest like barbed wire.

And Sam—Sam is still Sam.

Still warm and steady beside you, brushing your hair back like you’re fragile, like you’re breakable, like you aren’t the one tearing him apart from the inside out.

He kisses you like it’s the only thing that matters. Like it’s the last thing he’ll ever get to do.

Like he’s already made his choice.

“Sam,” you whisper, your voice cracking. “This isn’t fair.”

He cups your face with both hands, thumbs sweeping gently under your eyes. “It’s not about fair. It’s about you.”

“But your soul—”

“I don’t care.” His voice is quiet. Absolute. “I don’t care what it takes.”

But you do.

And so does Dean.

It starts like everything always does in this house—loud.

The door to the library slams open. Footsteps thunder down the hallway. And then Dean’s voice:

“I’ve had it.”

He storms in like a force of nature, fists clenched, jaw tight. He’s vibrating with fury, eyes wild and dark like he hasn’t slept in days—which, to be fair, he hasn’t.

Cas trails behind him silently, face unreadable, but the tension in his shoulders is impossible to miss.

Sam shifts instinctively, stepping in front of you.

Dean’s eyes narrow at the movement. “Oh, that’s rich. You’re protecting her now?”

“Dean—”

“No. No, I’ve let this go on long enough. I’ve watched you spiral before, Sam, but this? This is suicide. And for what?” His voice rises with every word. “For some girl you dreamed up?”

“She’s not just some girl,” Sam snaps.

“Oh, right. My bad. She’s the girl you sacrificed your soul for.” Dean takes a step closer, every inch of him coiled like a spring. “Do you even hear yourself?”

Sam’s jaw clenches. “You don’t understand—”

“No, you don’t understand!” Dean’s voice breaks, ragged and furious. “This is Ruby all over again!”

The words hit like a slap.

Sam’s eyes widen, a flicker of something—shame? guilt?—crossing his face. You flinch, but Dean isn’t looking at you.

He’s looking at his brother like he doesn’t recognize him.

“You think I forgot what you were like after she got her hooks in you?” Dean’s voice drops, bitter and shaking. “You were gone, Sam. You were gone, and you let her destroy you.”

Sam steps forward. “This isn’t the same—”

“It’s exactly the same,” Dean snarls. “Only this time, you’re smiling through it. You’re pretending like it’s love instead of possession.”

You open your mouth, but Dean cuts you off without looking at you. “Don’t. Don’t even try.”

“Dean,” Cas says quietly, a warning in his voice.

But Dean’s shaking now, hands trembling at his sides. “Do you know what it was like? After the Cage? Watching you claw your way back, piece by piece? And now you’re just—what? Throwing it all away for her?”

Sam’s fists clench. “I’m not throwing anything away.”

“You’re dying, Sam!” Dean explodes. “You’re draining out like a leaky faucet, and you’re just gonna let it happen because you think you love her?”

Sam’s voice goes low. Dangerous. “I do love her.”

Dean barks a humorless laugh, pain twisting in his face. “You don’t even know what you’re feeling anymore! That bond—it’s not natural. It’s not you.”

“It is,” Sam insists. “It is me.”

“Bullshit!” Dean points at you, furious. “You’re dying. And she’s standing there like she didn’t know this would happen.”

“I didn’t,” you say, your voice barely a whisper.

Dean finally looks at you. And it’s not hate in his eyes—it’s fear. Desperation. Heartbreak.

“You shouldn’t exist,” he says, and it guts you. “You were never supposed to.”

“Dean,” Cas warns again.

“No,” Dean says, staring at Sam now. “She’s killing you. And I can’t watch that happen again. I won’t.”

Sam’s expression shifts. Cracks.

And then he does something he never does—he yells.

“Then don’t, Dean!”

The silence is instant.

Thick. Devastating.

Dean stares at him like he just took a knife to his chest.

Sam breathes hard, shoulders heaving.

“I didn’t ask for this,” Sam says. “I didn’t ask to meet her. I didn’t ask to fall in love. But I did. And now that she’s here—now that she’s real—I’m not letting her go.”

Dean looks like he’s about to be sick. “You’d really give up your soul for her?”

Sam doesn’t hesitate.

“Yes.”

Dean doesn’t speak.

He just turns, shaking his head, shoulders trembling as he walks away.

And you—your heart is breaking.

Because this is wrong. All of it.

You weren’t meant to exist. Every second you stay, Sam loses more of himself. And soon, there’ll be nothing left.

You can feel it now.

That awful, hollow pull under your skin—the tether between you and him. It hums, faint and hungry, feeding on every touch, every moment. Every heartbeat.

You want to stay.

You want him.

But not like this.

Not if it costs him everything.

So when the house finally goes still—when Sam falls asleep, breath soft against your shoulder—you slip out of bed.

And you call it.

You don’t know how you know how. Maybe it’s always been inside you. Maybe it was waiting.

The words aren’t words. They’re threads. And they unravel from your lips like smoke, like silk, like blood in water.

And the air breaks.

The world shifts.

The lights flicker.

And then—

The Weaver steps into the bunker.

Not through the door.

Through the space between.

It drags darkness with it, folds of its cloak twisting around reality like a spider spinning a web. Its face is a mess of eyes and none, flickering in and out like a glitch in time.

It tilts its head.

“Dreamwalker,” it says. “You summoned me.”

Sam’s voice shatters the silence.

“No.”

You turn.

He’s standing in the doorway, barefoot, bare-chested, pale and wide-eyed. Behind him, Dean and Cas appear—Dean already reaching for a blade.

Sam’s voice cracks. “Don’t do this.”

“I have to,” you whisper.

“You don’t.”

“I do,” you say, voice rising. “You’re dying, Sam.”

He steps toward you, panic flooding his features. “I don’t care—”

“Well, I do!”

The Weaver watches.

Silent.

Unmoving.

“Please,” Sam says, softer now. “Don’t leave me.”

You step closer, press your hands to his chest—right over his heart.

It’s weaker than it should be.

Not physically.

But something inside him is fading. Vanishing.

And you did that.

“I love you,” you whisper. “So much.”

His eyes shine.

“I love you too.”

And then you turn to the Weaver.

“I want to go back.”

It tilts its head again. “You understand the cost?”

You nod.

“You will not return.”

You nod again.

The world starts to tear.

Sam lunges forward, grabs your hand. “No. No, please—”

You kiss him.

Soft. Final.

“I was never supposed to exist,” you say against his lips.

And then—

You let go.

You fall through the gap.

Back into the dark.

Back into nothing.

And behind you, Sam breaks.

He screams your name like it’s being ripped from his soul.

And maybe it is.

Maybe that’s the last piece of it.

Gone.

⋆.˚ ★— read the epilogue

ꔛ. navigation 𓂃˖ ࣪ all drabbles ; compatibility readings ; support my work .ᐟ

[skyguytoast]

YOU’RE THE ONLY THING THAT I GOT RIGHT - JAMES KELLY X YOU

SYNOPSIS:  James always believed he was doomed to destroy everything good in his life. But then there was you—too good, too kind. You stayed through the mess, even when he tried to push you away. The night before the heist, he comes to you, unsure if he'll make it out alive. He doesn’t ask for forgiveness… but he asks to be held one last time. WARNINGS:  angst  WORDS:  785 A/N:  Hi loves of my life, how are you? I love James, he's so suffering poor thing, every time I watch the movie I want to pick him up and never let go🤧😔❤️‍🩹So, basically, I wrote what I would like to do, anyway I hope you like it, comments, likes and reblogs are always appreciated 🩷🩷🩷 And requests are open, please, ask!! DIVIDERS BY @cafekitsune

When I take a look at my life and all of my crimes  You're the only thing that I think I got right  I'll never give you away 'Cause  I already made, already made that mistake

You were curled up on the living room couch, already in your pajamas, balancing your laptop on a pillow while your fingers raced over the keys. The sales spreadsheets for the small grocery store where you worked blurred together, the numbers twisting into knots the longer you stared at them.

Your hair was piled into a messy bun — half from comfort, half from the hundred times you’d run your fingers through it out of frustration. A forgotten mug of coffee sat half-full on the table, gone cold hours ago. Takeout burger wrappers were scattered across the surface, your half-eaten sandwich abandoned next to crumpled napkins and a mess of sauce packets.

You barely heard the knock at the door over your headphones, only catching the second round thanks to the ad flashing across your laptop screen. Frowning, you shoved the pillow aside and padded barefoot to the door, wondering who would show up this close to midnight.

When you cracked it open, your heart twisted.

James stood there, hunched slightly like he was carrying the weight of the world on his back. His dark hoodie hung loose around his frame, grease-stained jeans rumpled and dusty. His face was drawn, his blue eyes a storm of anxiety and something softer — something broken.

You didn’t hesitate. You reached for him.

Wordlessly, James let you pull him inside, his body heavy with exhaustion. He dropped onto the couch where you’d been working, elbows braced on his knees, hands scrubbing at the worn denim on his thighs as if trying to wipe away something invisible.

“What happened, James?” you asked gently, kneeling in front of him, your hands hovering just shy of his trembling ones.

“Nothing you need to worry about, sweetie,” he said, the edges of his southern drawl curling around the words, soft but strained.

You didn’t believe him. You knew him too well. You could see the chaos crashing behind his tired eyes.

“James,” you whispered, your voice full of quiet insistence, “is it about Frank? Did he… force you into something again?”

Your lips parted to say more, but he reached out, brushing his thumb over your mouth in a silent plea. “Not tonight, baby,” he murmured, voice cracking. “I don’t wanna talk. I just—” His chest heaved. “I just need you.”

The words cracked something open in you.

Without hesitation, you climbed onto the couch beside him, fitting yourself against his side until your thighs touched. "I'm here, James. Always," you promised.

He let out a shuddering breath, turning to press his face into your chest, arms snaking around your waist like you were the only thing keeping him alive. His fingers clutched at the fabric of your pajama shirt like he was afraid you’d slip away.

“I know,” he whispered thickly. “That’s the problem.”

You didn't push for more. You knew better. You simply gathered him close, threading your fingers into his messy dark hair and stroking soothing lines across his scalp, cradling him with an almost maternal tenderness.

Softly, you began to hum — an old lullaby your grandmother used to sing, letting the quiet vibrations anchor him. His body slowly melted into yours, the tension bleeding out of him little by little, though you could feel the slight tremors still running through him.

You didn’t flinch when you felt the warmth of his tears soaking through your shirt. You didn’t tell him to stop. You just held him tighter, pressing kisses to his hair, to his forehead, to any piece of him you could reach without pulling him from the shelter of your arms.

After a long while, your lips brushed the shell of his ear. “Do you want to go to bed, baby?” you offered softly, rubbing small circles against his back.

James shook his head, a muffled, broken sound escaping him. "Nah," he whispered hoarsely, "don’t wanna move… don’t wanna be away from you."

Your heart cracked wide open.

“It’s okay, baby,” you murmured, rocking him slightly. “We can stay right here. As long as you need.”

Slowly, James lifted his head, blinking up at you with raw vulnerability laid bare across his face. You cupped his cheek, your thumb brushing away the lingering salt tracks on his skin.

He leaned forward, brushing a soft, desperate kiss against your lips — a silent prayer, a plea for forgiveness he didn’t know how to ask for yet. You answered by kissing him back, gently but firmly, pouring all your love and reassurance into that one moment.

If tomorrow he had to walk into hell, you would make sure that tonight — at least tonight — he would know what it felt to be in heaven, to be safe, to be loved without condition.

TAGLIST: @ihearthayden @anakinstwinklebunny @sometimescharlolette @awhhayden @dessxoxsworld  @speaknow-sw

[rhageyrhage]

The Bartender and the Brat

Chapter 3 - The Breaking

Her POV

The moment the door clicked behind them, she felt it—that low, vibrating thrum of panic under her ribs. She didn’t belong here. She didn’t belong anywhere. She was just a rain-drenched, half-broken girl who stumbled into a man’s bar like a stray animal and let him fuck her until she couldn’t remember her own name. What the hell was she doing? Her arms wrapped tight around herself, still shaking even though the room was warm, her body flooded with exhaustion and fear and longing she didn’t know how to carry.She didn’t know how to ask for more. Didn’t believe she deserved it.

His POV

He saw it. Of course he saw it. The way her spine curled inward like she was trying to shrink herself. The way her eyes darted around, looking for an escape route she wouldn’t even take. Not on my fucking watch. He locked the door with a heavy clunk that echoed through the house. Final. Safe. Without a word, he shrugged off his jacket, kicked off his boots, and walked past her into the small kitchen. Pulled a clean glass from the cabinet, filled it with water. Not alcohol. Not poison. He set it on the coffee table like a silent offering. She flinched when it clinked. “Come here,” he said, voice low, edged with command but wrapped in something infinitely more dangerous—care. It took her a second. But she came.

Her POV

She didn’t reach for the glass right away. Couldn’t. Her hands were still trembling too much, her mind too splintered and raw. He noticed. Of course he noticed. The way his dark red gaze dropped to her clenched fists, the way the muscle in his jaw ticked like he was fighting himself not to rush her. Instead of crowding her, he moved slow—predator slow—to the linen closet tucked into the wall by the bathroom. Yanked it open. She watched him pull out a thick, soft towel, watched him toss it over his shoulder. Watched his fingers ghost along the folded shirts inside, choosing one without even thinking. A plain black one. Soft and worn thin from too many washes. His favorite. Smelled like him—whiskey, cedar, and something darker underneath.

His POV

She looked like a ghost standing there. Soaked. Shivering. Her mascara was smudged under her eyes like battle paint, her hair a wild, dripping halo. He wasn’t going to ask if she wanted help.

Asking implied she could refuse. And she needed help right now. She needed him to take the decision out of her bruised little hands. He crouched in front of her, towel in one fist, shirt draped over his other arm. “Arms up,” he said. Not a question. Her lips parted. A whimper caught there. But she obeyed. God—how he wanted to destroy those who made her like this—, she lifted her arms, trembling, vulnerable.

Her POV

The second she lifted her arms, he peeled the wet fabric off her body—slow and careful, but firm. The shirt clung to her, soaked through, outlining every curve, every scar, every place she hated herself for being too soft, too broken. He didn’t comment. Didn’t leer. He pulled the wet shirt off over her head and dropped it on the floor with a wet slap. She stood there in her panties, shivering, arms hugging herself again. And he…he moved like she was made of glass and iron all at once. It perplexed her. The towel came next—rough, warm, heavy as it dragged over her skin, absorbing the rain, chasing the chill away. Down her arms. Across her shoulders. Over her breasts, slow but not sexual, just thorough. Down her sides. Over her soft belly. Lower. When he reached her panties, he paused. Met her eyes. Permission? A small nod. Fucking brave. He peeled them down, slow, letting her feel the respect wrapped around the motion—this wasn’t taking.This was claiming, yes—but only after she silently handed herself over. He dried the tops of her thighs. Her calves. Her feet. Then stood, towering over her again, shirt still slung over his arm. “Arms up,” he said again, softer this time. She obeyed. He pulled the black tee over her head, let it fall around her body like a blanket.

It swallowed her whole, hanging to mid-thigh. The collar hung loose, baring one side of her neck where his teeth had left bruises earlier. She looked up at him. Eyes wide. Raw. Something shifted between them in that moment—something thicker than lust, heavier than need. Something permanent.

He picked up the glass of water again.

Held it out. This time, her hands were steadier. This time, she took it. Sipped. And when the first little tear slid down her cheek—silent, unannounced—he just cupped her jaw, wiped it away with his thumb, and whispered: “I’ve got you, sweetheart.” No more panic. No more cold. Just him. And her. And the heavy, electric truth binding them tighter with every breath.

Her POV

She stood there, stiff and awkward, the hem of his shirt clutched in her fists like it was the only thing keeping her from coming apart. The glass of water shook faintly in her trembling hand, tiny ripples disturbing the surface. She took a sip. Two. Enough to wet her mouth, not enough to steady her heartbeat. She didn’t know where to go. Didn’t know what to do. Every instinct screamed to shrink, to vanish, to apologize for existing. She set the glass down on the coffee table, fingers lingering like she was afraid to dirty even that. Her body betrayed her: A small, broken whimper slipped free. Too soft to be a cry. Too sharp to be ignored.

His POV

He heard it. That sound hit him harder than any scream ever could. The fucking whimper. The sound of a girl who’d been holding herself together by sheer will for too long—and who was about to shatter at the slightest push. He didn’t think. He moved. In two long strides, he crossed the space between them. Didn’t grab her. Didn’t yank. Just reached. His hand found the small of her back, broad and warm, and he guided her—slow, firm—toward him. Not forcing. Inviting. Her steps were tiny, hesitant, like every inch closer stripped a layer of armor from her bones. When she was close enough to feel the heat rolling off him, he sat down hard on the couch—legs spread wide, arms open, silent invitation glowing in his dark fucking eyes. She hovered. Trembled. And then—She crumbled. Collapsed into his lap like a star falling into a black hole, inevitable and beautiful and so fucking vulnerable it made his chest ache.

Her POV

The second her knees hit the couch cushions and her body slid into his lap, she felt it—the way his hands caught her immediately, one arm looping around her waist, the other cradling the back of her head. No hesitation. No disgust. No coldness. Just solid, steady warmth. She whimpered again, shame burning up her throat, and tried to pull back—but he growled low in his chest and tightened his grip. “No.” Not cruel. Not angry. Final. Commanding. Like he was speaking not just to her body—but to the shattered, screaming pieces of her soul. “Stay.”

His POV

When she slumped against him, her body small and trembling, he felt it down to the fucking marrow. This wasn’t just sex. This wasn’t just lust. This was claiming. This was gathering up a wild, broken thing in his hands and promising it—not with pretty words but with presence—that it would never be alone again. He pressed his mouth to the crown of her head, breathing her in, letting her feel every slow beat of his heart against her cheek. “You’re safe,” he rasped into her hair. “Like I told you before, you are mine now.”

Her POV

And that’s when she broke.. That’s when the glass in her chest cracked all the way through, and the sobs she’d been burying for years tore out of her throat, messy and ugly and real. That’s when her fingers clutched his shirt like it was a lifeline. That’s when her body shook, not from fear—but from the sudden, violent, terrifying realization that maybe… Maybe she didn’t have to do this alone anymore. Maybe she found someone that could handle her and not see her as ‘too much’.

They were sitting there in the low lamp light. Heavy silence. Her curled into him, his hands broad and steady against the curve of her back. Rubbing in soothing circles.

Her POV

She didn’t even know how long she sat there on his lap, wrapped in his arms, breathing in the smell of him—leather, soap, cigarette smoke clinging faintly to the collar of his shirt. His words haunted her. You’re not alone anymore. Her throat burned. Her body ached.

And yet somehow, for the first time in so long, she wasn’t scrambling to run away. But still, the voices in her head whispered. Still, the self-doubt clawed. “What if you change your mind?” she asked, so quietly she wasn’t sure he even heard. Her voice sounded wrecked. Like it had been dragged over broken glass. She hated how weak it sounded. Hated that she cared. She stared down at her hands, twisting in the hem of the shirt he gave her. “Everyone does.”

His POV

He heard it. Felt it like a knife sliding between his ribs. And it pissed him off—not at her, but at the fucking world that taught her to expect abandonment like a guarantee. He cupped her chin, firm but not rough, forcing her eyes up to meet his. No escape. No hiding. “You think I’m like the weak fucking cowards you’ve dealt with before?” he growled low, voice rumbling through his chest and into hers. “You think I fuck you, hold you, promise you, and then just walk away?” Her eyes filled again, shimmering but defiant. He smirked, dark and razor-edged. “Wrong, baby girl.” He leaned in, mouth grazing hers, not a kiss—a brand. “When I claim something,” he whispered, teeth brushing her bottom lip, “I fucking keep it.”

Her POV

The sobs ripped out of her like a dam breaking after a hundred years of pressure. Ugly sounds. Gasps that clawed up her throat. Wet, messy tears streaking down her cheeks and soaking into the collar of his worn black shirt. She hated it. Hated feeling weak. Hated that she couldn’t stop. But he didn’t let go. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t fucking move except to tighten his arms around her, one hand stroking up and down her spine, slow and steady like taming a feral animal. Every pass of his hand over her back whispered: You’re safe. You’re safe. You’re safe. And somehow…Somehow, a small, broken part of her started to believe it.

His POV

He felt every tremble. Every sob. Every hitch of her breath against his chest like her body was trying to shake itself apart. And he just… held her. Anchor. Shield. Goddamn fortress. He didn’t shush her.Didn’t tell her to calm down. Because he knew. Knew that what was pouring out of her wasn’t weakness—it was poison. Old fear. Old betrayals. Old wounds festering too long under skin that had grown too thin. She needed to bleed it out. And he was going to be there when she did. “Good girl,” he murmured against her hair, voice so low and rough it was barely a sound.

“Let it out. I’m right here. You’re not alone anymore.”

Her POV

The words wrapped around her tighter than his arms. Good girl. Not mocking. Not demanding.Praising. Her whole body melted against him. Her fingers clutched the fabric of his shirt tighter, nails digging in like she thought he might slip away if she didn’t hold on. “I don’t know how to do this,” she gasped into his chest, barely able to form the words. “How to what?” he asked, patient and solid and so fucking present it made her chest hurt. “Trust someone,” she whispered. “Let someone stay.” Her confession hung between them, trembling, naked, terrifying.

His POV

He gritted his teeth against the surge of rage that flared up—not at her, but at the fucking world that had taught her to expect abandonment as her baseline.

He slid his hand up, cradled the back of her head, pressing her closer to him so she could feel the hammering of his heartbeat. “You don’t have to know how,” he said, voice rough and sharp like broken whiskey glass. “You just have to fucking let me.”

Her POV

A fresh wave of sobs rocked her, but softer this time. Softer because underneath the terror…there was relief.

Like the tension that had held her body hostage for years was finally starting to bleed away, leaving her raw but lighter. She nodded against his chest, the movement barely there but fierce. “Okay,” she breathed. Not loud. Not confident. But real. “Okay.”

His POV

He closed his eyes, breathed her in deep, and pressed a kiss to her hair—slow, rough, reverent. He could feel the exact moment she gave in. Not just her body, but her fucking soul. And he knew—right then, right there—that this girl wrapped around him wasn’t just some stray he picked up off the street. She was his. Meant for him. And he was going to make damn sure she never doubted that again. Not for a single second.

They stayed like that for a long time. Not speaking. Not moving. Just breathing each other in, tangled together on the battered old couch while the storm outside battered the windows, powerless to touch them. The exhaustion eventually hit her—hard. He felt the moment her body went heavy in his arms, her sobs turning to soft, hiccuping breaths, her fists unclenching slightly. He shifted carefully, gathering her up against his chest without breaking the cocoon he’d built around her. Carried her. To his bed. Laid her down with a gentleness he didn’t show anyone else. He pulled the heavy blanket up over her, tucking it around her like armor, smoothing her hair back from her tear-streaked face. She whimpered when he pulled away—but he didn’t go far. Just stripped off his jeans and climbed in behind her, dragging her back against his chest, wrapping his arm around her waist tight enough that she couldn’t move even if she wanted to. “Sleep,” he growled against her ear. “I’ll still be here when you wake up.”

[bedlam-barbie]

Toxic

Or Attention part 9

Pairing: In-ho x recruiter!reader; The Salesman x recruiter!reader

Warnings: mention of drug use; canon violence; slapping

Word count: 5.7k

Summary: In-ho has spent years building a fortress around himself — a mask, a title, a kingdom of blood and order. But when the carefully managed balance of power slips in a single moment of rage, he finds himself unraveling in front of the one person he can't afford to lose, ending up kissing her. The Dancer, caught between the ghosts of two men who were never supposed to mean anything, fights to keep control the only way she knows how — by hunting.In the neon-drenched rot of Hongdae, a new player is about to be recruited, and she’s wearing her sharpest smile, her reddest lipstick, and a heart cracked down the middle. Love was never part of the game.

Author’s note: Thank you everyone for your wonderful comments! I am glad you are enjoying this as much as I am. For this chapter I decided to include Nam gyu and accelerate a bit the timeline even though in my story Il nam is still (barely) alive. Decided to find my In ho girlies today so enjoy!

Masterlist

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8

Headquarters ; 12:00 PM; Boardroom meeting 013

By the time the meeting adjourned, In-ho was a storm barely caged behind polished steel. The geometric mask on his face felt suffocating now. It no longer felt like a shield, but a prison, trapping the fury coiling through his veins like venom.The meeting droned on, new game cycles, projected numbers, potential player surveillance, but he hadn't heard a single word. His focus had long since narrowed to a single point.

The Salesman.

That smug, stitched-up face, lounging across the table like he hadn't been bleeding twelve hours ago. Still wolfish. Still lazy. Still maddeningly unbothered. As if none of it mattered. As if the blood on the tiles, the fists, the broken skin, had all been a joke only he was in on. It wasn’t the violence In-ho regretted. No—someone should have rearranged Gong Yoo’s face years ago. It was the fact that he had reacted exactly the way the bastard wanted him to.

After years of flawless discipline, the Salesman had slipped a blade between In-ho’s ribs and twisted, exposing the raw nerves he had spent a lifetime burying. One blind, incandescent moment—and the carefully cultivated façade he wore like armor disintegrated into ash.

And just like that, he wasn’t the Frontman anymore. Not the overseer of the Games. Not the right hand of the Host. Not the heir apparent to the empire. He was the disgraced detective again.The desperate man who once bartered away his soul in the neon shadows of a subway station. The man Gong Yoo had seen straight through all those years ago—the rot already festering, even then.

And then there was her, The knife hidden in silk. The wildfire he thought he could contain if he only stayed cold enough.Things were not supposed to spiral this far. The only reason he even went to the training center was to speak to her. Instead, he found her shackled against the wall by the one man he should have destroyed years ago. Found her choosing him. And the red mist that descended had been absolute.Blinding. Consuming.

Hwang In-ho did not lose control. Not for lust. Not for rage.Not for anyone.

Until her.

Now, as the chairs scraped back and the room emptied, he moved.

“Dancer, if you could stay back for a moment, I have some  matters to discuss” In ho’s voice was clear, perfectly poised, deadly.

A few heads turned—brief flickers of curiosity quickly smothered under the weight of knowing better. Enough for Gong Yoo’s lazy grin to sharpen, slicing deeper into In-ho’s restraint. Il-nam lifted an eyebrow, half amusement, half warning. In-ho didn't spare him a glance. His eyes were locked on her—and her alone.

And she, damn her, smiled.

Slow. Sharp. A razor blade wrapped in honey. She met his stare head-on, unflinching, a sarcastic smile curving over her lips like a blade drawn clean. Every inch of her screamed defiance, masked in sugar and silk.

“Of course, boss," she said, the word twisted into something mocking and sweet at once. "Anything for you.”

In-ho watched as Gong Yoo leaned down, murmuring something against her ear—a private joke, a final provocation—and then turned on his heel to leave, nonchalance written into every step. The boardroom door clicked shut behind him, sealing them into the silence. The Dancer smirked as if the whole thing amused her. But her gaze drifted back—anchored to In-ho.She didn’t move to follow.Didn’t even flinch.

Her tablet sat abandoned in front of her, screen dark. She lounged in the chair like a queen surveying a battlefield, one leg crossed lazily over the other, her weight shifted onto one hip. With deliberate slowness, she lifted her coffee cup, taking a long, unhurried sip.

And all the while, she watched him. Unblinking. Daring him. Daring him to speak.To move.To break first.Minutes bled by. Neither of them moved. The air between them tightened—thick with everything they hadn’t said, couldn’t say, wouldn’t admit. Finally, In-ho reached up and removed his mask and gloves.He placed them carefully atop the files stacked neatly beside him.

His stare locked onto her—flat, cold, designed to grind her down.To force her to crack first.

But God, she was stubborn.

In-ho rose from his chair, movements precise and controlled.The quiet scrape of leather against the floor echoed louder than any shout would have.Step by step, he crossed the room, never looking away. A predator stalking, measured, inevitable. He stopped just in front of her, close enough to see the faint sheen of coffee on her lips, the tiny twitch of muscle at the corner of her jaw.

Still relaxed. Still mocking.

He leaned slightly on the edge of the table, arms loose at his sides—casual in posture, lethal in presence.And when he finally spoke, his voice was low. Flat. Cutting.

“Tell me,” In-ho said, his eyes burning into her. “Did you really lose all your self-respect that easily?”

She didn’t blink. Didn’t even pretend to be wounded.

Instead, she laughed—a short, sharp sound, soft enough to be almost sweet. But her eyes? Her eyes flashed with something sharper.

“Geez,” she drawled, setting her cup down with a lazy clink, “didn’t know you got promoted to father figure, boss.”

The word boss dripped off her tongue like a blade dipped in honey. Mocking. Defiant.She tilted her head slightly, studying him like a puzzle she had already solved and grown bored of. Her leg swung idly where it was crossed, the tiniest, deliberate show of control—taunting him.

"Can you stop being a brat for half a second so we can have an actual adult conversation?" In-ho said, voice cold enough to strip flesh from bone.

Her head snapped toward him, eyes flashing with something between laughter and contempt.

“Oh?" she drawled, lacing her tone with mockery. "Now you want to communicate like adults? I thought big men like you only knew how to talk with their fists.”

She rolled her eyes with exaggerated disdain, the movement as deliberate as a slap. In-ho’s jaw clenched. Hard. The control he prided himself on—the one thing that had survived the worst nights, the blood, the betrayals—fractured another inch under her gaze.

"God," he bit out, the words scalding his throat, "I’m trying to apologize here. Could you shut up for one second so I can?"

His voice was sharp enough to slice between them, brutal and raw. "You are insufferable. This—" he stopped himself, biting down hard enough on the words that they nearly tore free anyway.

This is exactly why I can’t have you.This is exactly why you’ll burn.This is exactly why I keep losing.

But he didn’t say any of it. Didn’t give her the satisfaction of hearing the truth.Even so, the damage was already done. His half-choked fury hit her harder than he intended. He saw it—the flicker in her expression. The breath she forgot to take.The way her fingers froze for a single, raw second.

But she recovered fast.Too fast.

She stood abruptly, the chair scraping back with a screech that shattered the fragile stillness of the room. Without a word, she began gathering her things—fast, sharp movements, more violence than necessity in the way she stuffed her tablet and phone into her bag.

Done.

Not with the meeting. Not with the Games. With him. 

In-ho didn’t move.He watched. Watched the cold armor slam back into place around her.Watched the walls go up so high he could almost hear the stone grinding against stone. But as she threw the strap of her bag over her shoulder and turned to leave, something black and feral inside him roared to life.He had promised himself he would fight her, so then why did it feel so much easier to let her hate him?

Because he knew, if she walked away now, it wasn’t anger she was carrying. It was indifference. And that?That was the beginning of losing her forever.

“Little dove…”

The words slipped out before he could cage them, softer than he intended, raw, almost fragile. “Stop. Please. Let’s talk.”

The sound of it, broken in ways he hadn’t meant to reveal, halted her in her tracks. For a moment, she didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Then, with a sharp, tired exhale, she set her bag down on the nearest chair.But she didn’t turn to face him.Didn’t give him the dignity of her eyes.

In-ho stayed frozen for a heartbeat longer, pulse thundering somewhere between his teeth and his throat.Her silence wasn’t a rejection. But it wasn’t forgiveness, either.It was a wound. A wound he’d inflicted.And now, standing behind her, so close he could see the tension pulling at her shoulders, he realized he wasn’t sure how to stop the bleeding.

Slowly, cautiously, he closed the last few feet between them.The scent of her hit him first—warm amber and smoke and the faint, addictive sweetness of vanilla—so familiar it carved something out of him. Every cell in his body screamed to leave it alone. To walk away before he made it worse.

Instead, he reached out.His hand moved almost without thought, his fingers brushing the bare skin of her arm—a touch so featherlight it could have been mistaken for a ghost.

But he felt it.The shiver. The way goosebumps bloomed across her skin like a storm moving beneath the surface.A visible betrayal of the control she fought so hard to maintain.

“What is there left to say at this point?” she whispered, voice cracked at the edges.

It wasn’t cruelty. It wasn’t even anger. It was finality. A death sentence spoken too softly to hear until it was too late. And she was right. It felt like they had said goodbye that night on the rooftop pool of the hotel in Jeju, beneath a sky so wide and merciless it felt like a graveyard. When she'd looked at him like she was already mourning the man he could have been.

Still, In-ho couldn’t stop himself.

“You’re going to be the death of me,” he muttered, the words scraping out of him low and broken, more confession than accusation.

And maybe he meant it to sound bitter. Maybe he meant it to wound.But instead, it sounded like truth. Like surrender. Like he had already made his choice—and it was her, even if it killed him. His hand moved again, slower this time. Tracing the line of her arm, brushing the curve of her shoulder, skating lightly along the side of her neck—until finally, he found her jaw.He turned her gently, almost reverently, until she was facing him.

Her eyes stayed closed.Tightly. As if seeing him would break something she wasn’t ready to let go of. In-ho’s thumb ghosted over her cheekbone, a caress so delicate it barely registered as touch. He felt the tremor just beneath her skin.The way she was fighting herself even now.His voice, when it came, was barely more than breath.

“You were right," he said, each word heavy with regret. "I’ve been playing with your feelings. You didn’t deserve that."

His thumb swept the hollow beneath her eye, careful, hesitant, like he was afraid she might shatter under his hand. "That's why I went looking for you last night," he continued, voice cracking under the weight of it.”To talk. To apologize."

A beat. A fracture.

"And then I found you with him. And I—" The confession stuck in his throat like a knife he had no choice but to swallow. "I lost control," he finished, raw. "I shouldn't have hit him. I shouldn't have... but I did."

The words felt pathetic. Inadequate. As if they could undo the blood still staining the back of his hands. For a long moment, she said nothing.And when she did, her voice was sharp—but hollow. A blade dulled by too many cuts.

“So you don’t want me..." she said quietly, "...but you don’t want anyone else to have me either." The corner of her mouth twisted—not a smile. Something closer to a scar. "Checks out," she added, the sarcasm mechanical, practiced.

But the conviction behind it was thinner now. Worn down by nights she never spoke of and wounds he had cut too deep to dress properly.

He stayed silent, his fingers still absently tracing the shape of her face—memorizing her like a man trying to remember the feel of sunlight before stepping into the dark. Without thinking, he cupped her face fully, palms bracketing her cheeks, anchoring her to him.

"Look at me, little dove," he said, voice low, breaking apart at the edges. Not a command. A plea.

Slowly, like dragging herself through quicksand, she opened her eyes. And there she was.

Raw. Wounded. Beautiful in a way that felt almost holy and almost cruel.

A half-smile tugged at the corner of his mouth—sad, reverent, devastating.

"There you are," he murmured, the words cracking against the silence like a prayer he had no right to say. “There is no world,” he added, voice barely audible, “in which I don’t ache for you.”

The confession hung between them, raw and bleeding. And for a few seconds, neither moved. The world shrank to the pounding of their hearts and the faint, ghostly hum of the fluorescent lights overhead—an eerie symphony for the unraveling happening inside them.

Slowly, In-ho tilted her chin up with his thumb and forefinger, a touch so careful it might have shattered glass.His gaze dragged down to her mouth—soft, parted, trembling slightly with each shallow breath.

He took her in completely. The way her lashes cast trembling shadows across her cheeks.The way her breath mixed with his—warm, uneven, magnetic.The frantic pulse beating beneath his fingertips, betraying her, betraying both of them.In ho leaned closer, their foreheads brushing. The contact was featherlight, but it stole the breath from his lungs.

His other hand found the small of her back, resting there, warm and grounding, the quiet weight of it pulling her imperceptibly closer.Closer than either of them should allow.

He could feel her hesitate—feel the war raging inside her.But she didn’t pull away.She stayed. In-ho’s fingers slipped from her jaw to her cheek, brushing a stray strand of hair away with aching reverence.She closed her eyes at the touch—just briefly—and when she opened them again, he was already there.

Hovering. Waiting. A heartbeat away from ruin.

And then, impossibly slowly, he closed the distance.Their mouths met in a kiss so soft it was almost a question. A brush of lips—hesitant, reverent, as if he was asking for permission even now.Testing the fault lines between them, afraid that one wrong move would collapse everything. But when she didn’t pull away—when her hands fisted lightly into the fabric of his shirt, anchoring herself—he deepened it.Just slightly. Enough to taste the breath she had been holding.

The kiss wasn’t violent. It wasn’t desperate. It was aching.

In ho tilted her deeper into him, his hand pressing firmer against her lower back, molding her against the steady thrum of his body. Her lips parted under his without hesitation now, and he drank her in—slow, methodical, like he had all the time in the world to memorize her this way.

A sharp knock at the door shattered the fragile spell between them.

In-ho broke the kiss first, tearing himself away with a sharp inhale, retreating a few steps like the air itself had become too dangerous to breathe. His hand reached for the mask lying on the table, and in a single, practiced motion, he slipped it back on—covering not just his face, but everything he had just dared to feel.

The Frontman returned the moment the cold metal kissed his skin. The man who didn’t bleed. The man who didn’t falter.

He slid his gloves back on with mechanical precision, each movement severing what little intimacy remained between them.

“Come in,” he called out, his voice cutting through the room, harsher than he intended—laced with annoyance he no longer had the luxury to show.

The door creaked open. A pink-suited guard entered, the square insignia stamped across his mask stiff with apprehension. He glanced between them quickly—her standing by the table, gathering her things with practiced indifference, him rigid and unreadable behind the featureless mask.

If the guard sensed anything off, he knew better than to comment. She, of course, was already perfect again—buttoned up, composed, her movements casual and efficient, as if nothing had ever happened.She had always been good at pretending, In-ho thought grimly.Better than him, sometimes.

“Well?” In-ho snapped, the word a whip crack across the silence.

The guard stiffened.

“Pardon me, Frontman,” he stammered. “We have a situation involving one of the previous winners... You asked for constant updates regarding Seong Gi-hun?”

The guard’s gaze flicked nervously between the two of them again, though the black mask hid most of his expression. In-ho didn’t hesitate. Duty devoured everything else.

“Lead the way, Manager 013," he said, voice cold, final.

But before he moved, he allowed himself one last look at her.

She met his gaze with infuriating poise, a faint tilt to her chin that made the moment feel less like an ending and more like a battlefield truce.He gave her a small, imperceptible nod.The kind of gesture that would mean nothing to anyone else—but between them, it was an order, a warning, and a promise all at once.

“I expect your report regarding progress in the Hongdae area on my desk by the end of the day, Dancer,” he said, voice stripped of anything but professionalism.

His words were steel. Impersonal. Because they had to be. She responded without missing a beat, slipping into her role like a second skin.

"I’m scheduled to be in the field tonight, sir," she said smoothly, her tone polished and deferential, perfectly crafted for ears that might be listening. "The best I can offer is a completed report by tomorrow morning. I’ll be heading to Hongdae either way this evening."

For a fraction of a second, In-ho almost allowed himself to break character. To tell her not to go. To tell her to stay, to stay here, where he could watch her, keep her close, keep her safe. But that wasn’t the mask’s place. And the mask always won.

He gave her a curt nod.

"Very well," he said, voice iron. "Tomorrow morning, first thing. Dismissed."

And without another glance, without another word, he followed the pink guard out of the room. Leaving her behind, once again.

Leaving the wreckage of what almost was scattered like ash in his wake.

Hongdae area ; 11:22 PM ; Pentagon club

The club reeked of stale beer, sweat, and regret. Usually, she liked the scene—the chaotic pulse of it, the easy thrill of the hunt for new players, the simple, ruthless calculus of survival.But tonight, it felt like a chore.Her lips still tingled from In-ho’s kiss, her heart hammering against her ribs in a chaotic rhythm she couldn't control. She should have been elated.

He had been vulnerable with her. He had admitted what he felt. He had let the mask slip—for her.

So why did it ache? Why did it feel like something inside her had cracked, not healed? And worse: Why was her first thought after the kiss not of In-ho at all but of the Salesman?

God, you are such a mess.

She pressed her fingers lightly to her mouth, as if she could wipe the memory away. But it lingered—electric, haunting.

Was I really stupid enough to fall for him too?

The thought made her chest tighten in disgust.

Gong Yoo had been a choice.Calculated. Safe, in the most dangerous way possible. She had picked him precisely because he was a monster in a tailored suit—because with him, there were no illusions. No broken promises.No chance of being wounded by anything as foolish as hope.It had been simple.Flesh and games.Mutual destruction dressed up as pleasure.

So why did it all feel so fucking complicated now?

The thought turned her stomach.She had always prided herself on being smarter than this. Sharper. Immune to soft touches and lazy smirks and predatory stares.Immune to men like Gong Yoo, who wore violence like cologne.Immune to men like In-ho, who built walls around their hearts and dared her to climb them anyway.

And now?

Now she was caught between two men who despised each other and somehow, impossibly, she had managed to betray herself with feelings for both.If there was a god out there, he must have had the cruelest sense of humor imaginable. She tipped back the cheap tequila in her glass, the burn a poor substitute for clarity.

Focus.You know how to do that, at least.

Recruit. Manipulate.Survive.

That’s what she was built for.Not this.Not hearts and bruises and battlefield kisses that left her feeling more broken than whole. She set the glass down hard enough to crack the thin rim, straightened her posture, and let the mask of professionalism slide back into place like a blade into a sheath.

She would do her job.She would do it perfectly because if she couldn’t control what was unraveling inside her, then she would damn well control everything else. Her eyes found her target immediately. 

Roh Nam-gyu.Twenty-seven, barely older than her. Black hair that brushed the ends of his ears, black eyes as cold and empty as a busted neon sign. A tough Hongdae boy wannabe—cheap leather jacket, ripped jeans, the stink of desperation and secondhand fame clinging to him like cheap cologne. Club promoter at Pentagon. Addicted to a cocktail of whatever powder or pill would keep the high sharp and the crash manageable. Mean streak a mile wide when he didn’t get his way.

And most importantly: three hundred million won gone in a scam cryptocurrency scheme.A financial wound still raw, still festering. And it had just happened that Gong Yoo had recruited the same man who endorsed the scam last week. And nothing entertained the VIPs more than player who knew and hated each other’s guts. 

She had spent months gathering intel on Nam-gyu. Months coming to this club, sipping watered-down tequila, letting herself be seen.Not enough to draw attention—just enough to exist on the periphery.To become familiar.Recognizable.She had let the wolves circle her without biting, cultivating an image that hovered somewhere between temptation and ghost.A reputation carefully spun from sweat, smoke, and the slow, deliberate erosion of defenses.

And tonight was the night she chose to finally strike. She had dressed for it like it was war. A short red dress that clung like a second skin. Signature red-soled heels that clicked like gunshots against the floor.And a blood-red lipstick that turned her mouth into a weapon.

When she saw Nam-gyu saunter up to the bar, all fake swagger and cheap confidence, she made her move.She leaned over the counter, ordering a shot she wouldn’t drink, letting the hem of her dress ride up just enough to catch the eye.The lighting caught the curve of her thigh, the arch of her back.A siren song written in flesh and fabric. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught it.

The glance. The smirk. The hungry hook of his gaze dragging over her like a brand.

Perfect.

She smiled—small, knowing, dangerous—and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear with calculated innocence. Not too much.Just enough. And then turned back to the bartender, as if she hadn’t noticed him at all. Letting him watch. Letting him want.

Because that was the trick.You didn’t catch a wolf by running. You caught him by making him think he caught you.

And just like clockwork, she felt the shift in the air the way the man's body angled toward her, the way his gaze latched on, the way the false confidence thickened his voice as he slipped onto the stool beside her.

"I'll have a glass of whiskey," Nam-gyu said, signaling the bartender, "and whatever the lady's having."

The words were delivered with a smirk, like he thought he'd already won something.She turned to him slowly, tilting her head, letting her hair fall slightly over one shoulder. Her lips curved into a soft, sweet smile—the kind men like him mistook for submission.

"Ah, no, thank you," she said, her voice light, airy, just a little bit slurred. "One more tequila shot and I might not even find my way back home."

She giggled then, a sound that melted easily into the din of the club, and looked up at him through her lashes, eyes wide and guileless. Easy prey or so he would think.

"Nonsense," Nam-gyu drawled, leaning in, the scent of cheap cologne and stale cigarettes rolling off him in waves. "It's Friday night. Live a little, sweetcheeks. Come on—for me?"

She let her laugh bubble up again, a little louder this time, drawing a few eyes from nearby tables—just enough to make him feel special. Wanted. Seen. She bit her lip, pretending to deliberate, fingers idly tracing the rim of her empty shot glass.

"Fine," she sighed, like he’d worn her down. "If you insist. But.." She pointed at him, playful, accusing "you're paying."

"Anything for you, gorgeous," he said with a wink that probably worked on easier prey.

The bartender poured two fresh shots of tequila, setting them down with slices of lemon. Nam-gyu lifted his glass toward her with a cocky grin. She mirrored him perfectly, glass poised between elegant fingers, her smile a mirror of his—just a little softer, a little more promising.The glasses clinked together, a sharp, hollow sound swallowed by the thudding bass of the club. They both threw back the shots.

She grimaced—overacted the sharp burn she didn't actually feel—scrunching her nose adorably before grabbing for the lemon slice. Another tiny performance, another thread wound tighter around his neck.Nam-gyu laughed, pleased with himself, already leaning closer like a moth drawn to the flame he didn’t know would burn him alive.

"I've seen you around," he said, voice thick with intent. "You like this place that much?"

She turned toward him, smile slow, syrupy, dripping with feigned shyness.

"Maybe," she said, plucking the words delicately from the air between them, "I just like the promoter."

His grin widened—greedy, victorious. Exactly the reaction she wanted. Exactly the trap she needed him to walk right into.

“How about I take you upstairs to the VIP section? Much more quiet, only the best crowd. There is a pool table, I could teach you how to play.” he suggested.

Jackpot. If there was one thing she enjoyed was when made her job so much easier for her. 

“Okay, but I warn you, I am shit at pool” she said laughing.

As they made their way upstairs, his hand found the small of her back and she hid the repulsion she felt exceptionally well. She leaned into his touch and even blush slightly to make it all the more believable.

As promised, the VIP section upstairs was quieter but not cleaner.The lighting was dimmer here, filtered through red glass and cheap opulence, casting shadows that seemed to linger too long. The air was dense with cigarette smoke, stale cologne, and the chemical tang of synthetic perfume.A cluster of mismatched sofas and low tables lined the perimeter, all upholstered in faux leather that stuck to bare skin.

Pool tables sat beneath flickering light fixtures, most of them empty, save one, where a small group was hunched over the felt. She caught the flash of a credit card, the glint of glass, and the unmistakable sound of sniffing. A fine line of white powder vanished in seconds, followed by forced laughter and twitchy movements.

She resisted the urge to roll her eyes.This was the scene.This was the rot. Exactly where desperation bloomed.

Nam-gyu strutted ahead of her, moving like he owned the place, calling out greetings to a few familiar faces with performative charm. He stopped at the edge of the group, leaned in, exchanged a few words and just as quickly, the mood shifted.Voices dropped. Body language stiffened. She caught the tail end of what was clearly a hushed argument—fast, clipped, full of veiled threats and paper-thin alliances.

She leaned one hip against a nearby table, crossing her legs slowly, watching him from across the room as if she had all the time in the world. Her body language screamed ease. But inside, her mind was already calculating. Drug debts. Bad deals.The web around Nam-gyu was woven tighter than she’d even realized. Good.

He returned to her after a few minutes, brushing imaginary lint from his jacket like nothing had happened. But his jaw was tight, and his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.

"Sorry about that, sweetcheeks," he said casually. "Just some business partners."

She tilted her head, lips curving into a smile that didn’t pretend to care.

“Of course,” she said lightly, stepping in beside him. “Business always comes first.”

They made their way over to one of the unoccupied pool tables. The wood was scuffed, the felt uneven, but it would do. She picked up a cue stick, weighing it idly in her hand.

“How about a game, Nam-gyu?” she asked, her voice smooth as silk sliding over a blade.

He glanced at her, grin returning as his confidence crept back into place.But then he paused.

“Wait—how do you know my name?” he asked, brows drawing together slightly. “I never told you.”

She didn’t blink.

“Ah,” she said with a small shrug, racking the balls with deliberate slowness. “How and why are such boring questions, don’t you think?”

He watched her, expression flickering between suspicion and intrigue. She turned to him, smile sweet and disarming.

“You seem like the type who enjoys a little risk,” she added, chalking her cue tip. “So here’s the game…” Her eyes met his, gaze level.“For every round you win, I give you 100,000 won.” She let the number hang in the air, heavy with false generosity.“And if I win… well, I get to slap you.”

Nam-gyu blinked, taken aback, but intrigued.He laughed, a low, greasy sound.

“You serious?”

Her smile widened, teeth white against the red of her lipstick.

“Deadly.”

She handed him the cue with a smile that promised mischief, stepping back with the kind of easy grace that only came from complete control.At first, she let him win. She missed shots just wide enough to seem real.Laughed lightly at her own ‘mistakes.’ Bit her lip when he pocketed a ball, clapping with mock enthusiasm.

Each time he won, she handed over a crisp 100,000 won note without hesitation—playful, generous, like she couldn’t wait to lose more. He bought it.Every last inch of it. His chest puffed up.His swagger returned. The cocky smirk came out in full force, and his glances toward the table of drugged-out “business partners” grew bolder, like he was showing her off.She let it ride.

Until she didn’t.

Then came the turn.Subtle. Quiet. Deadly.She chalked her cue differently. Slower. Her eyes changed—no longer wide and playful, but focused. Cold.The next break cracked like a whip. And she didn’t miss.

Not once.

She ran the table in silence, the click of balls and the thrum of bass beneath their feet the only sound.When the last ball dropped into the corner pocket, she looked up at him—expression unreadable—then stepped forward.

And slapped him.

Not hard enough to draw blood, but sharp. Clean.A sting meant to burn.His cheek snapped to the side, the sound of it turning a few heads.

He blinked.Eyes wide.Didn’t speak.

She placed her palm against his cheek right after, a gentle press that only made it worse.

“One-all,” she murmured, then moved back to rack the balls again.

Round two, she won faster. More brutally. Not even a pretense of mercy. Another slap.Harder this time.The sound cracked like a gunshot. His jaw tightened.She saw the twitch behind his eye, the way his hand curled into a fist.

Still, he didn’t stop.

Because deep down, men like Nam-gyu would rather be owned than beaten.

Third round. Another win. Another slap.This time she smiled when she did it—soft, slow, fingers brushing his cheek like an apology she didn’t mean.

By the fourth, the whole room was watching. His business partners leaned back on their filthy couches, smirking. Not helping. Just enjoying the show.Nam-gyu’s face was flushed with humiliation, with something that wasn’t just rage. She could feel it—under his skin, pulsing like a second heartbeat.

The desire to dominate her had twisted. Now, he just wanted to earn her attention.By the fifth slap, his cheek was red and hot beneath her palm, the skin swelling faintly He hissed through his teeth.

“You little cunt,” he muttered, breath ragged, voice trembling with fury, and something else he’d never admit.

She leaned in, mouth just an inch from his ear. And laughed. Then, without a word, she pulled a thick stack of won from her clutch, more than he deserved, and pressed it into his hand along with a business card.

Plain. Matte brown. One side engraved with the three black symbols: ◯ △ ☐. The other: a phone number.

“Aww,” she cooed, mock-sweet, brushing her fingers across his sore cheek. “Don’t pout. You’ll wrinkle that pretty face.”

She turned to leave, red heels clicking like a metronome of judgment.But just before she disappeared into the shadows of the stairs, she looked back over her shoulder.

“If you want a real chance to win,” she said, voice like silk over broken glass, “call the number. It’ll change your life.”

Then she was gone.

And Nam-gyu stood there, breathless and burning, his cheek stinging, his pride in pieces and the card in his hand like a curse he was already too tempted to resist.

[xxchaosjojoxx]

I want to make a request on penguin, I want it to be a little scenario of penguin x Medusa reader(but the reader can transform in to Medusa.) Where like the heart pirates are in a battle and while fighting, penguin had noticed what the reader would call her “bad” side, then reader would notice penguin and get worried that he would be like disgusted or scared and run from but penguin would chase after the reader trying to reassure her. With fluffy ending.

Thank you so much. I hope you will like it. Don't look at me (Penguin x f medusa! reader)

It wasn’t supposed to happen. Not like this. You were talking with Penguin and Shachi while eating dinner. Making plans for tonight. You planned on asking him out tonight. And now? Now he was made of stone in front of you.

Before the sun went down Hakugan shouted that you are under attack. All of you stormed off towards the deck.  They were just no names pirates and still they were so many. Everyone knew you had devil fruit power but no one knew what i was, except for your captain Trafalgar Law. You had this strange feeling inside you, your power wanted to be out. All of your enemies surrounded you guys and you couldn’t help it. You muttered something, trying to control your power, your bad side who wants to destroy all of them.

You could feel that your ability awakens inside you, reaching the surface. How this power takes over your body and mind. You were like a medusa, could turn everything into stone just by locking eyes with them. 

The words that left your mouths sounded like a mantra. “Help me but be careful. Don’t hurt them.”

Shachi and Penguin were beside you. “Hey is everything ok, y/n?” Penguin asked concern and Shachi looked at you in disbelief. “What the fuck is this?” Your opened your eyes, now blood red, letting this power control you completely. Your eyes wide open, you turned every enemies in front of you in stone. “Y/N-YA DAMNIT! DON’T!, Law shouted at you. He turned around, looking at the ground. “Don’t look at her right now. THIS IS A COMMAND!” Everyone tried to avoid their gaze. Penguin could hear the enemies in front of them whimper, while turning into stone more and more. “Y/N-ya, guys…don’t attack the stone figures. Otherwise you will kill them completely.” As your enemies turned to stone completely you smirked, walking towards them, ready to crash them completely. Law tried his best to use his room ability to warp the enemies towards their ship. “We will handle this later.” You were close enough to smash one enemy completely, Penguin stormed towards you, touching your shoulder. “SNAP OUT OF IT!” he shouted and locked eyes with you. As he turned into stone, you awoke from this. “Peng---no…NO!!” But it was too late. He turned into stone, smiling at you. You exiled this power back inside you. “Captain…CAPTAIN!” you cried out. “Got it!” Law walked towards you hugging you tight. “It’s ok. You can undone this you know that.” You were crying. “I…I hurt him..I turned him..I used my power on him…” Law tried to comfort you. “It’s fine. You can undone this. He will be ok. I promise.” You cried into his chest. Your crewmates were looking between you and Penguin in shock. Shachi was the first one who snapped out of this. “What the fuck was this. What did you do?!” You flinched and Law glared at Shachi. “She can turn him back to normal.” “What the hell did you even do? Why did you attack him?! I thought we were your friends!” Shachi was mad, looking at the stone figure of Penguin. Bepo and Jean-Bart were walking towards Shachi. “Don’t yell at her like that, Shachi. She feels bad enough.” Jean-Bart tried to calm Shachi down. All of them were looking at you, a hint of worry and panic in their eyes. “I didn’t mean for it to happen. I ..I lost control over it…” Jean Bart sighed. “Maybe you shouldn’t use it until you have mastered it.” You were still sobbing. Shachi was restless. “Can you turn him back to normal? And everyone else as well?” You nodded. “Then do it please.” You pulled away from Law’s embrace. With a deep breath you used your power to return your spell. As everyone looked at Penguin, they noticed that he turned back to normal. With quick steps, you ran back inside. "Hey, wait!" Law and Clione shouted at you.

Penguin was back to normal. “Holy what…was that?” Shachi and Bepo hugged him. “It was her devil fruit power.” - “She was like a Medusa.” “And how am i back to normal?” Law sighed. “Y/N-ya did it as well…” Penguin looked around. “Where is she?” Everyone looked at the ground. “She ran inside….” Clione said. “I guess she feels bad enough doing this to you.” Ikkaku answered. Penguin nodded silently. “I will talk to her.” Before he could enter, Law gripped his shoulder. “She didn’t do it on purpose…remember that.”

Penguin knocked on your door but you were silent. He slowly opened your room, seeing you crying and packing your things. “What are you doing?”  he asked, confused and you flinched at his sudden words. “I need to go…I can’t stay here…” Penguin walked into your room. “You won’t leave us just like this.” He wanted to touch you but you slapped his hand away. “DON’T LOOK AT ME!” You shouted and were trembling. “I…I nearly killed you…” Penguins heart broke and even so you didn't wanted it he closed the distance hugging you tightly. You tried to break free, but his grip around you was firm. “I will never let you go.” “You should hate me. Be disgusted by me…” “I won't ever hate you or be disgusted. I wished you would’ve told us sooner. We could’ve managed. We could’ve had a plan on how to react when you use it.” You sobbed, trying to escape from his embrace. But he didn’t even move for a millimeter. “It’s my fault. Captain warned us and I still was in your way. It was my fault not yours.” “No it was mine..i used it even so i can hardly control it…” “But you managed to control it… I saw your panic when you realized it.” You didn't even try to break free anymore. Instead you were hugging him back. “I am so sorry.” His hand was stroking your hair. “I will be there for you always. We will find a way for you to control it. I promise.”

He gave you a gentle kiss on the top of your head.

[sciderman]

well - webtoons is over, gang

[kanene-yaaay]

one day i will sit down and actually write all the mdzs tickle headcanons I have and then it will be all over for you guys (<3)

For the moment tho:

Lan Zhan taking his sweet time to copy all the rules of the Lan sect in Wei Ying's back. Sitting on his legs with a book in one of his hands and the other holding one the softest brushes he has, movements precise and serene as ever as he keeps his strokes the straight as possible with his husband squirming and trashing non stop under him, giggling and snickering all the teases and provocations and begging and promises he can imagine. Lan Zhan huffs in a light kind of exasperation when another character gets crooked and he has to put his book down to take the damp, fluff fabric he brough just for this and srubs the paint before he can continue. Wei Ying's laughter get just a tad more hysterical, quickly descending back into high pitches giggles as Lan Zhan dutifully goes back to his work, lips twitching into a soft kind of smile reserved just for those moments. He dips the brush in the ink and continues, almost hipnotized by the way his lover's laughter and reactions changes with every new character, but he refuses to get distracted.

There is still 2,000 of rules left to copy, after all.

~~

And since we're talking about the Lans and everything. No one can convince me that Lan Xichen is NOT simply the biggest tickle monster that ever existed. I can perfectly picture him walking calmly, kind and calm smile on his face as he follows his next prey, reminding them that it's forbbiden to run in the Cloud Recess when they realize what is about to happen and are caught in between running away anyway - not the smartest choice, he will catch you anyway even before you can blink - or staring him with wide eyes while trying to back away - also not the best choice, he is getting closer and the antecipation is a killer - OR just accept the fact that their fate is going to be a very giggly and tickly one in a few minutes. Full of teases and smiles and kind words and a sweet 'thank you for expanding my collection with all of your lovely reactions'

[pencey]

IM IN TROUBLE MAKING A SCENE A BUZZKILL PARTY KULLJOY FOR COMMANDING A SECURITY GUARD TO UNHAND ME. I WAS WALKING OUT WITH A CUP OF WATER. W A T E R.

UNHAND ME. I COMMAND YOU BY TO POWER OF GOD TO LET ME DRINK W A T E R, YOU USELESS WASTE OF SPACE.

It's water, and I'm evil for commanding you off of me. Unnamed "friend" who brought me over. You're a fucking coward. You don't know sexy if it hit you in te face, you incel UGLY CREEPY LOSER. THIS IS WHY YOUR SINGLE. DEFEND ME OR DIE ALONE, UGLY. HOW DARE YOU LOOK AT ME LIKE YOUR ASHAMED OF ME. FOR BEING POOR? A SMOKER? NOT SEXUALLY ATTRACTED TO YOU? YOU INVITED ME INTO MY HOUSE. I PAY YOU MONEY FOR A BEDROOM. YOU INVITE ME TO HANG WITH YOU AND YOUR FRIENDS.HOW DARE YOU LOOK AT ME LIKE YOUR ASHAMED OF ME. YOU TELL ALL YOUR FRIENDS THAT YOUR MY "SAVIOR" AND YOU ARE "SAVING ME FROM HOMELESS AND YOURE SAVING MY MENTAL HEALTH." IM NOT A DEAD FUCKING DOG YOU RESCUED ON THE ROAD. IM A FUCKING RAPE VICITM. IM A FUCKING WOMEN. IM A FUCKING HUMAN BEING. I HAVE BEEN ON THE RUN FIGHTING FOR A SAFE SPACE SINCE 2021.

Give me fuckin dignity for allowing you to sit in my presence. I'm a very beautiful women (conventionally attractive, just broke up with a meathead firefighter, so I'm mathematically not ugly), you should be fucking GRATEFUL YOU GET TO LOOK AT MY BEAUTIFUL FACE. I SAY NOTHING BUT KIND WORDS TO YOU. I AM NOTHING BUT A DECENT FRIEND. I NEVER JUDGE YOU. YOU DESERVE TO BE GRACIOUS FOR HAVING THE PLEASURE OF LOOKING AT MY BEAUTY AND GRACE. I AM SO FUCKING BEAUTIFUL THAT ITS ILLEGAL TO LOOK AT ME. I WILL LIVE IN THE FUCKING WOODS ETH A BROWN BAG OVER MY HEAD JUST BECAUSE I REFUSE TO GIVE YOU THE PLEASURE OF LOOKING AT ME FOR FREE.

I AM A KIND WOMEN. I AM A PASSIONATE FREEDOM FIGHTER. I AM NOTHING BUT COMPASSIONATE. IM A FUCKING INTELIGENT BITCH. I AM COOL AND SWAG. I AM A CASINO DEALER, AN ASTROPHYSICS MAJOR, AND A COMIC BOOK AUTHOR IN THE MAKING. I SURVIVED SEVERE ABUSE AND SEXUAL TORTURE, AND I STILL SHOW UP TO WORK EVERY DAY WITH A SMILE ON MY FACE. FROM WHAT IVE BEEN THOUGH AND CONSIDERING HOW SUCCESSFUL AND COOL I AM, I STILL MAKE IT A MISSION TO BE GRACIOUS AND KIND. YOU DONT KNOW WHOS CRYING THEMSELVES TO SLEEP EVERYNIGHT. BE FUCKING GRATEFUL FOR WHO YOU ENTERED IN YOUR FUCKING HOUSE. IM GOING TO BE FUCKING FAMOUS ONE DAY WHILE YOUR A SINGLE INCEL WHO GETS TO DIE ALONE BECAUSE YOU CANT APPRICATE A WOMEN WHO KNOWS HOW TO STAND HER GROUND.

[brucespringsteensborntorun]

Please Read

I am speaking on behalf of @eslamfa1, who has her own campaign for her and her family so they may survive under the harsh conditions in Gaza. She is very thankful for all the support she's had, but she needs more help.

She has asked me to host a fundraiser for more of her family, namely for her parents and siblings who desperately need funds for food, water, and medical treatment. They have been displaced multiple times and have only been able to contact Eslam through an unreliable internet connection.

Here is their story as written by her sister, Aya:

"Hello friends, we will tell you our sad story

I am Aya, an outstanding high school student. I was very happy to be on the verge of achieving my dream of finishing my school studies and achieving what I aspired to, which is to become a doctor.

My family of 8 and a beautiful cat named Katie were living a beautiful and peaceful life, each of us striving to achieve our dreams.

We had our beautiful house in Khan Yunis. Recently, we were celebrating my sister Heba’s fourth place in the Gaza Strip in the Arabic language recruitment exam. Our life was like material and emotional perfection. We did not feel deprived or lacking anything.

My sister Lina is a university student. Her dream was to become a psychologist to help mentally ill people in the Strip.

My brother Ahmed was the most beautiful gift from God. He came after 20 years of being deprived of male siblings. After completing his studies, he became a water carrier and took on a great responsibility beyond his capacity.

We also had two little butterflies, the apple of the house, and Jana, the favorites of their teachers and friends at school.

Then the war broke out and everything was turned upside down. We were forced to leave the house after quadcopters surrounded us, tanks surrounded us, and we saw death right in front of our eyes, but we miraculously escaped.

We were displaced several times on foot. Feet, then our end was in a tent that did not protect us from the cold of winter or the heat of summer, and there were poisonous insects and scorpions around us, there was no clean water or healthy food, so my family and I got hepatitis and a lot of intestinal infections.

We were shocked that our house was bombed and destroyed and the features of the house disappeared from the face of the earth, so we felt very sad and despair took over us.

Life here in Gaza is expensive, we cannot buy the minimum necessities of life, imagine that the price of a kilo of tomatoes is $50, and the price of a bag of flour is $200, life here is like a famine! My father is a nervous patient and my mother suffers from chronic pressure and they need continuous treatment and medications. We suffer from bringing water from long distances, and from the high prices of food and cleaning materials and water pollution. What we have suffered most in this war is the loss of members of our family, and this is the hardest thing we have been through. We have lost 20 members of our family. Please help us bear the very high cost of living until we evacuate from Gaza and save our lives. The cost per person is $5,000. Help us, you are the only hope left."

These are some of the photos she's managed to receive of some of her family (Aya, Ahmed, Hala, Jana, and their cat) and of the conditions of the areas they've been displaced from and to:

Note: Due to mentioned lack of internet connection, Eslam has not been able to receive more photos yet. There will be more updates to come when, hopefully, more communications are made.

PLEASE DONATE !!!!! Aya, Lina, Ahmed, Hala, jana, and their parents' well beings are at stake! Starting goal is $10,000

@90-ghost @gaza-evacuation-funds @gazavetters

[not-neverland06]

we're dating? ♡

logan howlett x fem!mutant!reader

One-shot A/N: I've decided using the same X-men name/powers for the reader in my Logan fics is easier because coming up with superpowers is hard and stupid. They call you flux, like once, it's really just a nickname incoming warning for fluff so bad you'll get a cavity Summary: You're on probation from the team and official house arrest after a little accident with your powers. Logan knows you're going stir-crazy so he takes you to the arcade for some fun. And then your friendship takes a weird turn. (80's timeline in mind, but characters not from the 80’s will be mentioned) Clueless!reader

You’d had an accident, a few weeks ago. Well, accident might be downplaying it too much. You’d destroyed the garden and left a ten-foot crater in the backyard of Charles’ prestigious grounds. In your defense, you had warned them all that it wasn’t a good idea to take your cuffs off. 

The metal bands are entirely necessary to make sure you can’t lose control and wipe out everything around you. Manipulation at an atomic level is beyond fatal. You don’t want to think about what would have happened if you’d had the meltdown and the kids were anywhere near you. 

Charles had been able to shut you down, but now he’s keeping you on probation. You’ve been locked up in the mansion, unable to leave until you managed to get your abilities under control. There’s never been a problem with wearing the cuffs before. You don’t understand why he’s so against them now. 

You’re going stir-crazy. There’s only so many times you can pace your room before you start to lose your mind. He’s not even letting you teach classes anymore. You’re stuck training, all day, every day. 

“Focus!” Charles snaps and you resist the urge to turn his bones liquid. Maybe that would get him off your back. 

Instead of killing your friend, you glare at the large tank of water in front of you. You do what you’ve been doing for the past half hour. It fluctuates from liquid to gas to solid, and then liquid again. An endless cycle of repetition that makes you want to melt your brain so you don’t have to do this anymore. 

You drop your hand and huff. “This is pointless, Charles. What’s this even teaching me?”

He crosses his arms, walks over to you, and pointedly glares at the tank in front of you. You roll your eyes and look back at it. “Shit,” you hiss. In your frustration, the glass has cracked and splintered into dust. Water pools around your stool and leaks through the wood of the floor. You flick your wrist, the glass swirling around you before reforming into the tank. The water follows along, droplets lifting from the floor and dropping back into the container. 

“One moment of frustration, of distraction. That’s all it took.” Charles shakes his head and walks back over to his desk. He picks the cuffs up and you slip them silently back onto your wrists. “How can you be trusted to protect your team on the field if you can’t control this? What are you going to do when you’re panicked and fighting for your life?”

Shame bubbles in your gut. It makes you nauseous and forces your eyes to the floor so you don’t have to face him. He sighs, placing his hands on your shoulders and squeezing gently. You glance up at him briefly and he offers a strained smile. 

“This is for your protection, as much as you hate it, Flux. It’s necessary.” You scoff at the use of your X-Men name. Not much of an X-Man if you’re not even on the field anymore. 

“Right,” you mutter. “Thanks for the lesson in incompetency,” you don’t let him respond and slam the door to his office closed behind you. You feel bad the second you get outside and onto the porch. He doesn’t deserve your bitchiness. It’s your own fault you can’t get a handle on this. You don't have anyone to blame but yourself. 

You let out a dramatic sigh, throwing yourself into a rocking chair and running your hands over your face. The once comforting weight of your cuffs is now oppressing. It just feels like a constant reminder of your failure. You should already have a handle on all of this, but you struggle to even manipulate water. 

“Rough day?” You don’t open your eyes as Logan walks by. He takes a seat on the rocking chair beside you, letting out a low groan as he stretches. 

You let your hands drop into your lap, staring at the sunset so you don’t have to face him. You’ve already dealt with enough dejection today. You don’t need to look at him and be reminded that you want him in a way you can never have. 

“Mhm,” you hum, propping your head in your hand as you watch the sun disappear behind the clouds. The sky is painted in hues of pink and orange that seem too hopeful for how you feel right now. 

Logan chuckles, the sound low and gravely. It makes your heart stutter in your chest and you cringe in embarrassment. You know he can hear the way your heart practically beats free of your ribs when you’re around him. You’re sure with that nose of his he can smell some sort of hormonal change in you every time you lay eyes on him. 

You swear you’ve never felt this way about a man before. You haven’t had many boyfriends before, it’s not really common among mutants. Not many people are accepting of you when they know what you are. And some people are too into you. 

But you've had crushes, and none of them have been as bad as this one is. You want to gnaw on him. It sounds fucking insane every time you think about it. But when you train with him and he tears his shirt off, you want to sink your teeth into him and never let go. 

You feel feral around him, a side of you surfacing that you’re not used to. Maybe it’s because of his mutant abilities. They are very animalistic, it’s easy to blame that on how desperately you crave him. 

You hate being around him and despise not being in his presence. It’s conflicting, and more often than not you sound like a bumbling idiot when you speak to him because your brain is going in a million different directions. 

You hear the familiar click of his lighter and then he shifts again. You risk a peek over at him and regret it the second you do. His head is tilted back, eyes closed in relaxation as he stretches across the porch. Smoke leaks out of his lips as he groans in satisfaction. 

You have to pick your jaw up off the floor and make sure there isn’t drool on your chin. This is insane. You’re a grown woman, how does he have this much of an effect on you? He’s not even doing anything! He’s just sitting there and you want to jump his bones. 

You whip your head around, mumbling incoherently to yourself to get it together. Logan peaks an eye open and you miss the mischievous tilt to his lips. “Something wrong?”

I need to have sex with you or I’m going to explode. 

You stutter for a few seconds, getting your mind back together. “Just training with Charles,” you mutter. 

He sits up a little straighter and quirks a brow. When you don’t continue he sighs. “And?” He prods, impatient for your answer. You hope you’re not reading into it, but you think he’s been as disappointed by your absence from the team as you are. He always complains about being partnered up with Scott. You like to think it’s because he misses you. But you’re probably just delusional. 

“And, nothing,” you sigh. Your hands flop against your legs and you glare at the bands on your wrists. “No progress. I still can’t control them without these on, and my abilities are watered down and useless with the cuffs.”

Logan huffs, you’re caught off guard by the sudden warmth on your thigh. You glance down, eyes widening ever so slightly when you see his hand on your leg. It nearly covers the whole thing and when he squeezes your thigh you think you’re going to pass out. 

You’re friendly. But you’ve never been touchy. At least not like this. The placement of his palm is very intimate and you are struggling not to just get on your knees and profess your undying love. You take in a deep breath, looking up at him so you can get your heartbeat under control. 

But looking at him just makes it worse. Because there is so much faith and fondness in his gaze as he looks at you. His lips are tilted up, eyes soft, and you’ve never had someone make you feel so warm and secure from just a look. 

“You aren’t useless,” he tells you. He squeezes your thigh again before he retreats back to his chair. You have to clamp your jaw shut so you don’t beg him to keep touching you and never stop. “You’re just stuck in this house all day. You’ve got nothing to do but sit in your failure.”

You scoff and throw yourself back in your seat. “Don’t remind me. I’ve begged Charles to let me out.” Your gaze drifts to the crater in the backyard. Some of the kids have been working on filling it in, but whatever energy you’d let go of has left a permanent mark. “He refuses to give me permission.”

Logan laughs, the noise teasing and a little mean. Your brows furrow and you glance over at him with a questioning look. He tilts his head in disbelief like you’re an idiot. “Seriously, Flux? Just fuckin’ leave, who gives a shit?”

“Uh,” you think on it for a minute before weakly settling on, “Charles?”

His face falls and you sink lower into your seat. He looks out at the yard, gaze distant. His jaw clenches a few times before he puts the cigar out on the ashtray beside him. He gets to his feet and you think he might just leave. Instead, he turns towards you. 

You’re caught off guard by the little smirk on his face. “Wanna have some fun?”

Only an idiot would say no. 

You grin and place your hand in his, yelping slightly at how easily he pulls you to your feet. You stumble into his chest and are hesitant to back away when his hand drifts to rest on your waist. He looks down at you, smiling, he squeezes your waist once before he backs up. 

“Come on, kid.” He tugs you inside the house, leading you downstairs to the garage. You already know what he’s going for before the door is even open. 

“Didn’t Scott tell you to leave his bike alone?” Logan takes a step inside. He pauses, glancing over his shoulder and grinning at you. It makes your breath catch in your throat, the happiness on his face. You never see him like this around the others. 

You hate thinking like that. Placing too much importance on your relationship with him will only lead to heartbreak down the road. But, you never see him act the way he does with you with anyone else.

“Since when have I ever listened to Cyclops, sweetheart?” 

“Good point,” you mutter, moving to stand next to him. 

He straddles the seat and looks over expectantly at you. “Don’t you need a helmet?”

You shake your head, “Oh, no, it’ll ruin my hair.” You laugh but he gives you a deadpan look. You don’t regenerate the way he does. An accident would be a lot more fatal for you than it would be for him. You huff, “Relax, Lo, I can use my powers.” When he looks like he’s not going to drop it, you let some energy swirl around your fingers. It solidifies the air around your skin, you reach up and flick at his skull hard enough to hear the metal ding. 

He grunts, glaring down at your hand while you grin. “See,” you whisper, sliding onto the back of the bike and wrapping your arms around his waist. “I’m perfectly safe.” He shakes his head and starts the bike. 

The ride to the arcade is spent in silence. Logan always seems to break every speeding law known to man whenever he takes Scott’s bike out. You’re not sure if he does it to purposefully piss the man off, but it makes you cling to him like a wild animal. You feel like if you hit one speed bump you’re going to go flying. 

By the time he parks your legs feel like jello. He laughs a little at the way your face has blanched. Again, he offers you a hand and holds the door open to lead you inside. You’re trying not to look a gift horse in the mouth, but this whole thing is odd. 

You guys are friends. And you’re friendlier with each other than most of the mutants in the school. But this feels different somehow. For one, Logan kind of despises the arcade. It’s an amalgamation of bad smells and loud noises, and it overwhelms his already sensitive senses. You’ve heard him complain about the smell of body odor and fake cheese enough times when you went on a field trip with the kids. 

Secondly, he’s being more touchy than he normally would. You’re not complaining. You weren’t exactly hugged a lot as a kid, mainly just passed between different mutant fetish clubs. Logan isn’t known for handing hugs out so easily. But right now, he doesn’t seem to be ready to not have at least one hand on you. 

Maybe he’s just cheering you up. You need to stop drifting so far into your mind and just enjoy the night. “Alright, what’s first bub?”

You grin and drag him towards the claw machine. “I’m horrible at these things,” you inform him as you put your quarters in. “But, I hold out hope that one day I’ll be able to actually beat this monster.”

Three failed attempts later, it’s become embarrassingly clear that you will never beat the claw machine. Logan isn’t even trying to hide his amusement as you become increasingly more frustrated. There’s a certain point where this game stops being fun and starts to be an affront to your character. 

Logan peers into the machine and asks, “What are you going for?”

“The pigeon,” you mutter. Your tongue pokes between your lips, and your eyes narrow in concentration. You aim the claw over the pigeon perfectly and slam your hand down on the big red button. 

You’re allowed five seconds of celebration before the damn thing slips out of the claws grasp and tumbles into the pile of stuffies below. “Dammit, Bart,” you let the ridiculous name you’ve come up with for the toy slip.

Logan snorts, leaning against the glass while you jam another quarter in the slot. “Bart?” He teases. 

You shake your head and give him a look out the side of your eye. “What, you think I call myself Flux because I’m good at coming up with names?” You give up after the last failed attempt and turn to face him with a huff. 

He clicks his tongue and shakes his head. “Tough luck, kid.” He slings an arm over your shoulder and pulls you towards the concession stand. 

“Shut up,” you laugh, slapping lightly at his chest. 

The rest of the night is nice. He doesn’t play much except for the strength-oriented games. And then you kind of just exploit him for more tickets. By the time you get back to the mansion, you’ve forgotten all about why you were upset in the first place. 

Nothing had gone wrong, you didn’t have a total meltdown and wipe out the entire arcade. You don’t know why Charles was so afraid of letting you out. 

Logan walks you back to your room, his hand heavy on your lower back as you head up the stairs. You’re talking endlessly, filling up any gap of silence with rambling you’ve lost track of. You don’t know what it is about him that invites you to yap the way you do, but you’re always embarrassed by it the second he leaves. 

You reach your door and smile up at him. “Thanks, Lo.”

He gives you a soft smile, his eyes wrinkling endearingly at the corners. He reaches up and brushes some hair off your shoulder. There’s a certain shift in his expression that has your breath stopping short. Whatever else you were going to say to him tumbles off into an incomprehensible whisper. 

He leans down and every inappropriate thought you’ve ever had about him suddenly surges to the front of your mind. Your lips part in anticipation, thinking he’s going to kiss you and your fantasies are going to come to life. 

His lips brush against your cheek so gently you almost don’t feel them. “‘Night Flux,” he leans back and your body goes with him. He backs off with a smile, walking down the hall to his own room. You feel dazed, eyelashes fluttering rapidly as you fan your cheeks and try to come to terms with what just happened.

He didn’t kiss you, but you oddly aren’t disappointed. You go to bed that night with a lovesick grin on your face. Well, you would have. Were it not for the annoyingly British voice ringing out in your head, “Training’s at four tomorrow morning. Consider it your punishment for sneaking out.”

“Fuck,” you hiss to yourself. Stupid fucking telepaths. 

You thought the arcade was a one-off moment. But Logan keeps sneaking you out of the mansion. Charles hasn’t officially lifted the house arrest, but he’s given up trying to keep you inside. Besides, you’ve essentially got a chaperone since Logan is always with you. 

You make lunch for the two of you and he’ll take you out to the woods for a picnic. Or you’ll go to the movies together. Sometimes you don’t even do anything, just linger around each other. You enjoy the company, and you love having these quiet moments together with no one else around. 

Your favorite part of all of this has to be the way he’s started touching you. He’s always got a hand on your leg or back. And if he can’t do that, then you’re tucked into his side. It’s feeding into a starved part of you that you’ve left neglected for far too long. 

It’s only been about two weeks of these fun little adventures and odd behavior. You’re dreading the moment they’ll stop. You’re not sure when Logan’s going to deem you properly cheered up, but you’re hoping it’s not anytime soon. 

There have been a few more moments where you think your friendship might turn into something more, and every time you’ve been interrupted. You’re actually starting to feel a little edged. You’ve been considering just grabbing him and planting one on him. But every time you think about it you get sick to your stomach. 

You don’t want to make a move on him and end up getting rejected. You know he’s just being a good friend and taking care of you so you don’t end up spiraling too far in your head. It’s happened before, when you’ve been struggling with your abilities. He’s just keeping you from shutting down again and you don’t want to make him uncomfortable because you’re hopelessly in love. 

When you walk out of your room this morning you’re immediately smacked in the face. “What the fuck, guys?” You yell at the two kids running past your room. Not the best language for someone who's supposed to be a role model. You can’t be bothered though, not when they’re running around throwing pink rolls of streamer at your face. 

“Sorry!” Mary calls over her shoulder, laughing as she pins a heart up onto the wall. You’re sure Charles won’t appreciate the hole in his old ass mahogany wood. It’s only as you watch her run down the stairs that you register just what is going on. 

There is pink and red everywhere. It looks like Dollar Store Cupid has thrown up all over the mansion. You’ve been so caught up in your attraction to Logan that, ironically, you’ve forgotten what month it was. 

You grumble bitterly to yourself as you trudge down the stairs. Another Valentine’s Day alone and single. How lovely. You spot two kids giggling to themselves by the banister, they lean in like they’re going to kiss and you gag. “Hey!” You snap, and they jump apart, eyes wide with fear. “Quit it, get out of here.” They scramble off and you feel just a little bit vindicated. 

“Not a fan of young love, Flux?”

You groan and roll your eyes, turning around to find a very smug Scott watching you bully teenagers. “Shut it, Summers,” you warn. You point an accusing finger at him and he raises his hands in surrender. Faux innocence played across his insufferable smirk. “When you’re in a committed relationship, you don’t get to judge me.”

His brows turn down in confusion, “Wait, but aren’t you and Logan-”

He’s cut off by the sound of a loud crash down the hall. You both turn around just as one of the classroom doors slams open. A bright pink explosion hurtles from the doors and a throng of coughing students follows. 

Jubilee walks out a minute later, a guilty expression on her face. “Sorry, I was just trying to make it more Vanetine-y.” 

You glance over at Scott, grinning widely at him while you pat his shoulder and walk past him, leaving him to clean up the mess. “Enjoy the young love, Summers.”

You actively avoid Logan all day. You’re already facing constant reminders of how lonely you are. You see kids walking around with baskets of bears and chocolates. Or you catch them passing notes in class with scribbled hearts all over the front. 

There’s only so much a girl can take before she loses it. The last thing you need is to be faced with the man you have the worst unrequited crush on in history. But he doesn’t seem to get the hint. He’s everywhere you go, popping up around corners and trying to catch your attention. 

You keep brushing him off and pretending like you have something urgent you’re going to be late for. Eventually, though, he was going to catch up with you. 

It happens in the kitchen. Most of the kids are in their rooms or the library. The noise has died down and you’re alone. You grumble to yourself, ripping down a pink streamer that keeps drifting across the top of your head and pissing you off. You grab a frozen meal from the fridge and are about to microwave it when he speaks. 

“Huh, thought you’d want something a little more romantic than a frozen burrito.” 

You gasp, clutching your chest and whirling around on him while your heart races. “Logan, Jesus, you scared me.” He’s frowning at you, eyes glaring at the frozen package in your hand. “Um,” you toss it back in the freezer but the look on his face isn’t going away. “Yeah, I might just go with cereal instead.”

He looks at you and then glances behind him. You peer around his shoulder but you don’t see anything. Without much warning, he grabs your wrist and pulls you towards the stairs. “Logan?” There’s no point in trying to resist him, he could just toss you up the stairs if he wanted to. Still, the silence is kind of creeping you out. 

You call his name a few more times but give up when he makes it clear he’s not going to be answering you anytime. There’s a rotten feeling in your stomach. You have this awful idea like you’re in trouble for something. Like a little girl who's gotten her hand caught in the cookie jar too many times. 

He stops you in front of his door and nods towards it. “You want me to go inside?” He crosses his arms and glares down at you. You huff and mutter, “Jesus, fine.” What the hell is wrong with him?

You grab the doorknob to his room, glaring at him while you do. You throw the door open dramatically, taking a step inside and surveying the area. “Wow,” you suck your teeth and shake your head. “You have not decorated at all.”

“Shut up, smartass,” he mutters in your ear. Chills prick at your skin from his proximity. A shudder goes down your spine as the low tone of his voice reverberates through you. “Look a little harder.”

You roll your eyes but acquiesce. Another run over the room finally shows you what you missed. You gasp and rush towards his bed, “Holy shit, Bart!” He chuckles behind you as you pick the stuffed pigeon up. 

“Went back for him after we left,” Logan tells you. 

You glare at him, eyes narrowed in suspicion. “How many tries did this take you?” He mouths a smug one and you roll your eyes in irritation. You look back down at the pigeon and smile.

He smells like the inside of a claw machine. His head is sewed on crookedly and you’re pretty sure he’s missing an eye. But he’s absolutely perfect to you. You’re about to thank Logan when you spot something metal wrapped around the stuffie’s neck. “What’s this,” you mumble to yourself. 

You slide your fingers under the chain and tug it off Bart’s neck. Logan’s dog tags dangle off your fingers and you stare at him in shock. A sudden cold dread washes over you and you find yourself immobile. “Logan,” you trail off, an unspoken question following his name. 

He smirks, walking towards you and slipping the tags out of your hand. “I wanted you to have this,” he says, his voice low like this moment is too precious to break, “so you know you’re not alone. You’re always so afraid of what’s going to happen if you lose control out in the field. But you forget, you’re not alone. You have me, you’re always going to have me.” He places the tags over your neck, untucking your hair from the chain. 

You don’t even have words for him. It’s such a deeply personal gift. But this also feels incredibly intimate. There’s no possible way for you to reason this away. This isn’t something “just friends” do. 

He seems to prefer your silence, anyway. One of his hands drifts from your neck and cups your jaw. With the utmost tenderness, he lifts your face to his. “Wanted to do this for a while,” he whispers. You almost ask what he’s talking about, but his lips are already covering yours. 

It’s incredibly soft, this kiss, softer than you’re used to. He’s barely putting any pressure on you and it makes you realize that you’re still not moving. You’re just standing there in shock, eyes wide open while the man you’ve wanted since you’ve known him kisses you. 

You drop Bart to the floor and your arms come up to twine around his neck. You finally close your eyes, let your body melt into his knowing he’ll catch you. The second you reciprocate he really kisses you. Neither of you hold back, each of you pouring all the pent-up desire you’ve felt for each other. 

You’ve spent so long dancing around this, around each other. It’s like a missing puzzle piece is returned to you as Logan holds you. You feel full, complete, warmer than you ever have before. 

You part from him - needing air - painfully slow. You don’t want to spend a second away from him now that you have him. You wish you didn’t have to breathe. Wished you could have kept kissing him and never stopped. 

Logan chuckles, pressing a kiss against your forehead like he can read your thoughts. You can feel the dorky smile that’s about to split your cheeks. You bite your lip, hoping it might suppress it, but you know it’s pointless. 

You look up at him with a cheeky twinkle in your eye. “Are you asking me to be your Valentine, Lo?”

He scoffs and pulls away from you slightly. “Do you have to ask your girlfriend to be your Valentine?”

Your eyes widen and your mouth opens and closes rapidly. “I- Well- I mean,” you take a full step back from him and shake your head. “What?” You finally settle on. “I mean, I’m not objecting, at all, but what?”

Logan tilts his head, a disbelieving look on his face. “What do you think we’ve been doing the past three weeks?”

You shake your head, stuttering and struggling for an answer. “I don’t know. I thought you were being a good friend!”

He smiles, there’s no irritation on his face at your cluelessness. If anything he seems to be more endeared to you. “You think I take all my friends on romantic picnics in the woods?”

You sigh, letting out a long disappointed breath. You can’t believe you’ve been so blind. When you think about it, his behavior lately makes a lot more sense. You’re not sure how you were able to trick yourself for so long. 

“Well,” you start, walking back towards him as he pulls you into a hug, “certainly not Scott.” He huffs and shakes his head. You give him a sheepish smile, brows knitted together. “I can’t believe we’ve been dating this whole time.”

He just presses another kiss to your temple and shrugs. “It’s alright, sweetheart, you can make it up to me by being my Valentine again next year.”

There’s something unspoken in his voice. A promise that he’s planning to be around for a lot longer than a year. You smile at him, silently promising the same. “Only if you’re mine.”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

a/n: i’m gonna gag actually. Made myself cringe there at the end. I want a valentine next year so bad, it’s sad. But what’s the point of a valentine if it’s not going to be Logan?

end. — I do not own the characters or the comics/movies Wolverine/X-Men, but this writing is my own all rights reserved © not-neverland06 2024. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

dividers by @/thecutestgrotto

[murdrdocs]

come into my bedroom

description. you and JOAQUÍN TORRES take a week long vacation to the beach together. just a week on the coast, spending time in each other's bubble, without falling for each other ... probably. visuals

includes. coworkers to friends to lovers, SMUT 18+ MDNI, reader has been kept as ambiguous as possible (hair type, skin color, body type, place of birth, etc), reader is able to tan, the location is ambiguous, slight spoilers for brave new world, takes place after bnw, protected p n v sex, oral (f receiving), soft dom! joaquín, reader is called "baby" a couple of times

wc. 12.3k+

a/n: title from champagne coast by blood orange. i tried to keep where they vacationed as ambiguous as possible, but it's definitely at least a little bit obvious. for my bsf who recently got back from miami. thanks to @luckypunklemonade for beta reading :D

You’re drunk. 

No, you’re not drunk. You’re too drunk, inching towards shitfaced. You’re still here, at least here enough to walk beside Joaquín down the street towards your hotel, but you’re not really here. You know you’re not exactly walking in a straight line, and you know where you’re heading, but you don’t know how long you’ve been walking. You could’ve left the club five minutes or 50 minutes ago. 

You weren’t going to get this drunk. Honest. You and Joaquín were just going to go out, have a few drinks, and go back to your separate rooms. 

But the music was good, and the drinks were good, and the people were good, and suddenly you and Joaquín are drunk and navigating your way down the street. Well, he’s navigating your way. You’re just trying to keep up with his long strides. 

He walks a little in front of you the entire time, slightly more rigid, and a little less drunk than you are. You’ll probably be at his level in another half hour, that is if you get something in your stomach by then. Every so often, he looks over his shoulder to make sure you’re still there. You thought about hooking a hand around his elbow to keep him close, but the thought entered your mind and left before you could act on it. 

There’s not much small talk happening, but you don’t mind it that way. You’re focused on making your feet pick up and land one (mostly) in front of the other. Actually, you’re focused on walking and finding an open food spot on the way. 

One part is going fine, the walking part, but you’re still blearily searching for something to eat. You pass bars and closed businesses, restaurants that require reservations weeks in advance, one of them you think you and Joaquín actually have a table at later this week, but nothing quick and greasy. Which is exactly what you need before calling it a night. 

Joaquín calls your name and you hum. 

“You up for stopping in right here?” He points to the side and you look around his wide shoulders to find your saving grace. It’s like he read your mind, or maybe you’d been audible harping on about wanting something to eat the entire time. Right now, either seems plausible. 

Either way, you nod and let Joaquín hold the door open for you. 

You and Joaquín end up sitting across from each other at a tiny outdoor metal table. With the wind blowing against your skin as you’re sipping freezing cold water from a to-go cup, you finally realize how hot you’ve been this entire time. You lift your skirt up a bit to press your thigh against the cool metal and a sigh pushes out front your lips. Your eyes fall shut as you just sit in the moment. 

“You still drunk?” Joaquín speaks from across the table. 

You open your eyes and destroy your brief peace to glare at him as you wrap your lips around your straw. “What do you think?” you ask him only when the cool liquid has slid down your throat. 

He laughs. “First night here and you’ve already gotten shitfaced.” He shakes his head as if he’s ashamed of you, but the playful glint in his eyes keeps you at ease. 

“It’s your fault!” you accuse. “You’re the one who made friends with that couple. They kept buying us drinks.” 

Joaquín throws his hands out to the side in a surrender. “I’m not going to say no to free drinks. Don’t blame me!”

He’s right. Even if he wasn’t, you aren’t in the arguing mood anymore. You would rather finish the greasy taco sitting limp in your hands. And you do.  

You’re not being very attractive about it, though, you can tell from the way the juice slides down your fingers and around your mouth, but that’s not really the point to all of this. 

Besides, you and Joaquín are just coworkers and friends. Just two coworkers/friends on vacation together. Sitting across from each other in front of a taco spot, fighting for sobriety as you occasionally lock eyes between large bites. There’s no reason for you to be attractively drunk eating when you’re only with your coworker/friend. 

You finish the last bite, wipe around your mouth with a crumpled napkin and throw it onto your empty tray, looking up to find Joaquín already looking at you. He has this look on his face, nothing different from the one he usually wears—soft eyes and a softer smile—but it feels different this time. Maybe it’s the city lighting and your drunkenness that’s skewing the meaning. You’re going to blame both factors for the flutter in your heart, too.

Neither of you say anything for a moment and in that moment, a thought flashes across your mind. It’s quick and fleeting, but still strong enough to evoke a reaction. Just a thought of you leaning over this small table and pressing your lips to Joaquín’s. And the thought was truly fleeting, but you bring it back and sit in it to imagine how he would reciprocate with his hands on your lower back, big palms resting on the strip of skin between your top and skirt, and he would taste like lime and alcohol and when you pulled away he would have a look almost identical to this one on his face. 

Joaquín’s eyebrows push together, skewing the soft look he wore before and knocking you out of your drunken trance. 

“What’s that look?” he asks. 

You shrug, feigning nonchalance. “What look?”

His gaze lingers for a moment, but then he licks his lips and cleans up his area. “You think you’re sober enough to walk back now?” 

You scoff and attempt to make a point by quickly standing to your feet. When you wobble, it’s because your shoe didn’t land right on the concrete. Honest!

You have a crush on Joaquín. 

You don’t know why you’re realizing it here and now—laying in a hotel bed on vacation first thing in the morning. You don’t even know how long this crush has been here, but you know for sure you have a crush on Joaquín Torres, your partner/coworker/friend. 

You thought your little image from last night was fleeting, nothing but a drunken thought that you let yourself imagine for less than a minute, but it proved to be way more than that because when you got back to your room, you couldn’t stop thinking about him. 

As you took your makeup off, you thought about Joaquín waiting in your room for you to finish, snuggled under the blankets and scrolling through the channels on the TV until you came out of the bathroom in his shirt. As you climbed in the shower you imagined him standing at the sink brushing his teeth and humming that song he’s always singing but you never ask the name of. As you finally climbed into bed and clicked the lights off, you imagined fighting for covers with him and sleepily talking about your plans for the next day. 

It was so domestic and loving and absolutely sickening and unexpected. 

Well, maybe you should have expected it. At least a little. 

Joaquín is kind of the perfect guy. Everyone in your life made sure you were aware of it. He was funny, attractive, hard working, and easy to get along with. Even his flaws—his incessant nature and occasional annoyance for one—was quickly reworked as lovable in your head. 

You struggled with falling asleep for at least a half hour last night, and as soon as you knocked out, you were out. You might not have remembered your dreams but you knew deep in your mind and body that he was there. 

Just as he is here now, standing in front of you early  in the morning, wearing a bright smile and an athletic set. 

“No,” you sternly shut him down before he can even say anything. 

Joaquín’s jaw drops and he wears a mixture of shock and humor. “C’mon, you didn’t even let me say anything.”

“I know what you’re gonna say, Torres. I’m not going to some ‘sick workout class’ when we’re supposed to be on vacation.” 

“Oh, so we’re on last name basis again?” He crosses his arms over his chests and widens his stance. “I thought we moved past that.” 

“If you ask me to come with you then we’re back to last name basis, yeah.” 

He pouts and it’s so stupidly cute that you want to slam the door in his face. “Don’t let the hangover speak for you. I know you secretly wanna come workout with me.” 

You squint at him accusingly, leaning into the doorframe. “‘m not hungover.” 

“Uh-huh. How’s the headache?” He’s obviously not buying your shit.

“I don’t have a headache.” Bullshit and you both know it. 

“How’d you sleep?” He asks you instead, this time lacking any suspense. For a moment, he seems like he’s actually wondering how you slept. 

“Like a baby.”

“Then that means you should be energized enough to go for a workout. It won’t be bad. It’s only an hour.” 

You shake your head. “That’s an hour that I could be sleeping.” 

“And basically waste the whole day away? That doesn’t sound like the partner I know and love.”

You don’t let your mind linger on that word, especially when you know he doesn’t mean it like that. But still, knowing that Joaquín has some sort of love for you makes your chest feel all airy and glittery. 

“Yeah because that partner isn’t here right now. We’re on vacation.” 

Joaquín doesn’t respond. Not verbally at least. Instead, he tilts his head and fully pouts, lips pushed out and eyes big. He’s not backing down and truthfully, it might be better for you just to say yes and halfass the entire session. 

Finally, he reasons with you. “I’ll buy you a smoothie afterwards. Whatever overpriced shit you want. Fair?” 

Fair enough. 

Compared to what you’re used to, the workout is quick, but it’s certainly not painless. The instructor, some woman with much more energy than you’re willing to exert on vacation, seemed to find pleasure in kicking your asses. For a brief moment there when you were catching your breath and wiping your forehead on a towel, you wondered if she could be some big and bad super villain hiding in plain sight. That would explain the inhuman stamina, and the almost eerie cheery personality, but other than that your theory didn’t make much sense. And even if it did, you were on vacation. Now wasn’t the time to seek out trouble that wasn’t presenting itself. 

The only thing that pushed you through the entire thing was looking over at Joaquín, one because of how attractive he looked with sweat glistening along his tanned skin, and two because you refused to let him show you up, even if the workout was his idea. 

You will admit, though, that every time he lifted his shirt to wipe his forehead, your knees did feel just a little weaker and your last rep in a set was not nearly as strong as it could’ve been when you heard him grunting beside you. 

You couldn’t understand it. You and Joaquín workout together all the time. You train together, sometimes with Isaiah and Sam, sometimes with friends of friends, sometimes with just each other. You’re used to seeing him sweat, you’re used to hearing his grunts and breaths, you’re used to all of it. But something about all of this happening now is making you lose your mind. 

As soon as the class ended, relief entered your entire body. 

The relief certainly didn’t last for long, though. 

Since you did what Joaquín wanted to do that morning, he did what you wanted to do right after. Before you could even really think about it, you happily suggested sunbathing on the beach until you were too hot or hungry to continue, whichever came first. 

It wasn’t until Joaquín slyly grinned and sang your name that you realized what you signed up for. 

“You tryna see me shirtless?” he teased at the time. And you rolled your eyes and called him a freak and continued walking down the hall towards your rooms, but as soon as you were behind the closed door you were digging into your suitcase to find the cutest swimsuit you brought. 

Not that you were trying to impress Joaquín or anything. 

As soon as your bare toes are sinking into warm sand, you slowly feel yourself relax. Slowly. 

Laying on your back in a swimsuit that was a nice mix between cute and attractive, your eyes closed, your ears full of a playlist you made just for this occasion, the sun radiating down on your skin. It’s easy to forget everything laying just like that. The breeze cools your skin as soon as you get too warm, the sun heats you back up as soon as you get too cold. Absolutely nothing to worry about except how long you’ve been laying on one side and when you should flip over. 

Absolutely no stressors. 

Until Joaquín speaks. 

“Do me a favor and get my back?” 

You peek an eye open and lift your sunglasses up to see Joaquín standing next to you, holding out a bottle of sunscreen. 

You don’t mean to hesitate, but you still do. It takes a moment to process his question, and it takes another moment to find an answer, even though the clear one is yes. If he wasn’t standing there without a shirt, wearing forest green trunks that hung low on his hips, and his skin wasn’t glistening in the daylight, it wouldn’t have taken nearly half the time to help him out. 

“What would you do without me?” You try not to let your voice falter while you watch him massage sunscreen onto his chest, but you’re sure the little dip at the end of your sentence was noticeable. 

Joaquín just tilts his head and tosses the bottle into your lap.  

It’s not awkward. At least you don’t think it’s awkward. You rub the sunscreen on Joaquín’s skin as quickly as possible, trying to ignore the sturdiness of his muscles beneath your hand. You know how fit he is, it’s impossible for you not to know since you’ve been working with him for a while now. But knowing and knowing are two different things. 

Seeing is not the same as feeling. 

Feeling his muscles as you work them beneath your fingers, feeling the warmth of his skin under your fingertips, grazing your hand lightly over the scars littering his skin, only lingering for a second on the life altering scar that trails down from the side of his neck to his shoulder. You try not to touch it too much. He hasn’t talked to you much about the accident, not since you visited the hospital with high quality food instead of flowers for him. Even then, he joked around it, even if you saw sorrow in his eyes like you’d never seen Joaquín wear before. 

You rubbed the sunscreen down his back and finished above the waistband of his trunks. Not even a second later did he look over his shoulder and down at you through a squint. “Now let me do you,” he urged without leaving much room for argument. 

Doesn’t mean you wouldn’t make room. 

You shook your head. “‘m okay, I already got it.” 

Joaquín turns around to face you completely. He laughs through a quick puff of air, his lips pulled up at the corners. “Barely. I saw you struggling over there. C’mon, let me top it off for you.” 

His hands take the sunscreen bottle from you, but he doesn’t put any in his palm. Not yet. For now, he stares at you, eyebrows lifted, waiting for you to give him the final answer. 

You turn around, moving whatever needs to be moved to give him basically full reign over your back. 

The first touch makes you jump, even if you were expecting it. You hear him quietly apologize under his breath, and you quietly brush it off, but you aren’t sure if your response was heard or if it was carried off with the wind. 

He continues in silence. 

You’ve had Joaquín’s hands on you before. A hand clasped in yours to pull you up, a touch fixing your posture when he was showing you a new trick Isaiah taught him before, a finger jabbed into your side when he walked past you. But again, this is much different. 

Having Joaquín’s bare hands on your bare back makes you tense up, and you hope he doesn’t notice it. He rubs with a lot more attention to detail than you did; he reaches beneath the straps of your top with curt permission, and even asks if he can get the backs of your arms too. 

By the time he finishes, you’ve started to relax just a bit, to the point where the expected disappearance of his hand on your back feels unwanted. Joaquín’s hands are big and soothing, you could do with them on your skin for the rest of your life. 

Of course, you don’t tell him that. Not just because it would be completely inappropriate, but because he would never let you live it down. He would go the lengths to change his phone contact to Joaquín “best hands there ever were” Torres. 

Which is just a step below Joaquín “best co-worker there ever was” Torres. 

Somehow, you manage to make it through the rest of the beach day without much trouble. You tan until you don’t think you could tan anymore. Joaquín lays next to you most of the time, besides when he began to feel fidgety and he ran to grab both of you drinks, and pre-cut fruit for you, as an excuse to stretch his legs. You used the few minutes of solitude to text your group chat about the agony you accidentally put yourself into. Agony that was only made worse by Joaquín coming back with two drinks in one hand, fruit still in its rind in the other, and his newly tanned skin glistening from sweat in the sunlight. 

Shortly after, you had to leave and take a cold shower to get your head on straight. 

You think you’re doing pretty good at ignoring your feelings. You know you have a crush on him, but acting on it would change nearly too much, and a lot in your lives—his especially—has already changed. It’s not a leap you think you’re ready to make yet, so you’ve been ignoring your feelings. 

Over the course of the past couple of days, you and Joaquín have been spending your time doing every relaxing thing you could think of. Decompressing at that same club from the first night, but leaving as soon as the crowd proved to be very different from before—more rowdy for the hell of it and less generous in general. Eating at trendy, overrated lunch spots, or underrated hole-in-the-wall dinner spots. Spending a little too much money on new clothes but enabling each other anyway, because the shirt might look similar to another one that you already have but that shirt back home wasn’t that shirt there in your hands, so you needed it. 

There were just two nights left and then you would have to pack all your stuff, somehow fit in more new clothes than you anticipated, and return to the real world. One that entailed mission debriefs and learning how to work new tech. The only thing you were looking forward to about the real world was Sam, since he happened to be a natural barrier between you and Joaquín. It’ll be hard to focus on how badly you wanted to be underneath the Falcon whenever Captain America was in the vicinity providing tasks that required your full attention. 

But that is days away. For now, you’re going to try and enjoy the remainder of your all too quick vacation as much as possible. Even though you’re becoming more and more tense as you go on, a tension that your fingers beneath your panties hasn’t been able to fix yet. 

You didn’t think your behavior was noticeable, but Joaquín notices more than you thought. 

The two of you are walking side by side down the boardwalk. You’ve been fairly silent throughout, but not for any particular reason. Silence made sense to you, there wasn’t much to talk about right now. 

Apparently, Joaquín felt different. 

“What’s up with you?”

You furrow your eyebrows, quickly trying to figure out if you did something wrong between the walk from your hotel to the walk at the start of the boardwalk. Coming up short, you ask for clarification. “What do you mean?” 

“I mean why’re you so tense? Isn’t this relaxing for you?”

Yeah, this is relaxing for you. Walking side by side, letting the beach breeze blow your dress in the wind. Showered, fed, at the end of your vacation, this moment you exist in is like heaven. It’s a little too much like heaven, a perfect plane where the guy you’ve been crushing on is wearing a button up with the first two buttons undone so you can see the fresh tan he has and the gold glint of the chain he wears instead of his dog tags. 

It’s hard to relax when right beside you is someone you’ve wanted so badly, and he looks like everything you’ve ever wanted. 

“I’m not tense,” you finally respond. Although it’s a lie. 

“You so are,” Joaquín counters, “let me show you what you look like walking around here.” He takes a few quick strides ahead of you, and then pulls his shoulders up to his ears, straightens his spine, and walks with a little too much purpose. He looks odd and menacing. And definitely not like you. 

You tell him as such. 

He turns around to face you, grinning and walking backwards. “Okay I did take some creative liberties there, but you do look tense.” He turns back around and slows until he returns to a stride right beside you again. “What’s wrong? Do you wanna do something else?”

You shake your head. “No. This is fine. I like doing this.” 

Joaquín takes a moment and you see him look down at you from the corner of your eye. “Then what’s up? Anything you wanna get off your chest?” 

God, you should just tell him the truth. Well, not the full truth. 

Joaquín is chill personified. If you told him that you’re wound up sexually, he would likely make a joke about it, then brush it off and avoid asking you about it again. Friend to friend, you could just let off some steam—verbally!, although the other option is much more preferable—and then hopefully feel better. 

But just imagining yourself saying those words makes you tense even more and you have nothing to do but shake the thought out of your mind completely. 

“No. ‘m okay. I was just … thinking. But not anymore.”

He doesn’t say anything for a second and you don’t know if he believes your lie. But he moves past it. He points to an ice cream shop to your right, and you swerve for the window. 

You and Joaquín end up sitting side by side on the beach, willingly letting sand press into your nice clothes but neither of you care much. You have a dinner reservation soon, and you’ve just been killing time—and also your appetite, but you and Joaquín both swore to eat dinner. Even if you’re devouring ice cream cones. Truthfully, this is a perfect way to end your night, sitting by your partner's side, letting the world exist around you both. 

The breeze blows against your skin. You and Joaquín sit with your bare toes digging into the sand, shoes having been discarded to the side, your shoulders close enough to brush against the other if either of you move. You’re looking off at the ocean, watching people enjoy the evening air around you both as you sit in a moment of stillness. There’s paragliders, a few jet skis, some boats, and a large cruise ship sailing into the port. 

Joaquín points off at the ship with the hand not holding his waffle cone.

“We should cruise for our next vacation.”

You turn to face him, tilting your head to the side. “Our next vacation?”

Joaquín nods. “Yeah. We should make this a regular thing. You know we work well together.” 

That you do. You grin and knock your shoulder into his.  “Let’s hope Sam doesn’t start feeling left out.”

Joaquín laughs with a quick exhale through his nose. “He’s definitely having the time of his life back home.” 

You’re unable to stop yourself from grinning as you imagine it—Sam working back home, likely enjoying the rare lull in the terror that the three of you have been fighting and will continue fighting. “He’s probably blasting Marvin Gaye over the speakers in the office.” 

This gets a real laugh from Joaquín, likely because he, too, can see it perfectly. 

Your laughter dies down and for a few moments, you and Joaquín sit in comfortable silence. 

Then, “You been having fun?” 

You hum. “Yeah. It’s nice not having to deal with—” you gesture vaguely in the air and Joaquín nods beside you. “Especially after everything.” You don’t say it exactly, but you know Joaquín still understands you. He knows you’re talking about his accident. 

You weren’t even the one in danger, having stayed grounded on the ship, but the horrors still settle deep in your heart some nights. Things are repaired, or currently being repaired in the case of D.C, but everything still feels so fragile to you sometimes. 

Which is why you’re so glad to be here with him at your side, reminding you that he’s okay. Everything’s okay. 

Joaquín takes a breath as if he’s about to speak. You turn to look at him. He’s staring off at the sunset, his face mostly stoic except for a slight twitch in his eyes, a flare of his nostrils, and his jaw clenching. “For a moment there when I was falling out of the sky, and when I could barely move my body on my own in the hospital I was worried that I wouldn’t get the chance to see places like this again. To … you know…” he hesitates and you’re about to tell him that he doesn’t have to keep going if he doesn’t want to. You and Joaquín have avoided talking about the day his heart stopped, and you don’t have to start now. But then he inhales through his teeth and continues. “To see home.” 

Your breath hitches and your eyes sting. Without thinking too much about it, you scoot closer into Joaquín’s side, tilting your head and resting it on his shoulder. Immediately upon contact, Joaquín wraps his arm around your waist, pulling you fully into his side. 

“I’m glad you’re here with me, Joaquín.” 

“I’m glad you’re here with me,” he says your name at the end, echoing you but somehow sounding more earnest. More meaningful. 

He places a kiss on the top of your head and in that moment you decide you could stay here just like this for the rest of your life. It all settles in your body at one time, the realization that you want Joaquín, you’ve known that for a while, but you want more than his body. 

You want Joaquín Torres in his entirety. 

“Is that what you’ve been thinking about?” he continues, “Is that why you’ve been tense? Because I promise I’m okay. It was scary for a bit but my heart’s fine and I feel fine physically—”

“No. It’s not that, Joaquín. I promise I was just a little tense but I’m good now, too.”

He nods once. “Okay.” He pulls his phone out and checks the time. He doesn’t say anything for a while as if he doesn’t want to disrupt the energy, but he speaks eventually. “If we wanna make our reservation we gotta leave now.” 

He stands to his feet and puts a hand out for you to grab. You take a moment to look at the sun setting and to finish the rest of your ice cream in one bite, then you take another moment to look at him. With resolution, you place your hand in Joaquín’s and let him pull you to your feet. 

Yeah, ignoring your feelings isn’t working anymore. 

It’s not like you’re exactly able to ignore how bad you want Joaquín when you’re at dinner with him, sitting in such an intimate setting—sat at a small table tucked in the corner of the restaurant next to a window looking out on the street, his tan skin lit by candlelight and ambient low lighting around the both of you. 

Having just come from the beach, the two of you are still wearing the same outfits (now without as many grains of sand as possible), meaning you have an even better view of Joaquín’s chest and the chain sitting right below his collarbones. He looks so nice and put together—his curls out more than you’ve ever seen them before, his face a little unshaven and adding an older look to him. 

God, he’s so pretty, it’s impossible for you not to think so. Not when you’re faced with him like this. 

Joaquín’s looking at the menu, acting like he didn’t look at it on his phone two hours ago. You’re holding the menu open, acting like you’re still deciding between two options, when really you’re just trying to decide if you should make a move or not. 

When Joaquín looks up, you quickly look down, furrowing your eyebrows and pouting as you stare at words that aren’t processing.  

Joaquín calls your name and you hum without lifting your eyes. When he doesn’t say anything immediately, you glance up. Not only is he already looking at you, but he’s looking at you with a certain look in his eyes. Infatuation, admiration, something else that you don’t wanna name, for it feels like too much of a jump.

“What?” you ask, a shy grin splitting your face open as your skin starts to warm. 

Joaquín shrugs like he’s going to say the most casual thing ever. Instead, he tells you, “Nothing. I just wanted to tell you how pretty you look.”

Oh my godddd. 

What are you supposed to say to that? Everything thus far on this vacation has been widely platonic, and anything crossing that barrier has been nothing but a hopeful figment of your imagination. But his words, paired with the way they were delivered, feels like a step towards a future you want to live in. 

But maybe you’re overthinking it. Joaquín is honest and earnest when he wants to be and maybe now is one of those moments. 

You wrap your hand around your glass of ice water and bring it to your lips, pausing just long enough to respond. “What is it? The tan?”

Joaquín nods but that look in his eyes is still there. Chocolate brown dances across your figure before settling back on your own eyes. “Yeah … among other things. The tan and the color of your dress,” a bright colored fabric that hung loosely over your body and dipped around your back, you chose it especially because you knew it would look good on your skin, “and just you.” 

You gulp down water, trying to contain yourself. 

“Thanks, Joaquín,” you finally respond, trying to remain as casual as possible. “You look good, too.” 

Joaquín grins and you can see the man you’re used to coming back to himself. He tugs at the collar of his shirt and dusts off invisible particles. “I clean up well don’t I?”

You halfheartedly roll your eyes and return back to the menu. That interaction has already been catalogued for you to hyper analyze in the shower later. 

You thought that interaction was mind boggling, but the one you find yourself in later is ten times worse. 

You’ve both steadily worked through your plates, giggling and laughing about any and everything you could think of. The waiter mentioned the option of drinks at one point, and you looked to Joaquín for his reaction, wanting to see if that’s how the night was going to go. Not exactly as drunk as you were the first night, but at least a little buzz. When Joaquín politely shook his head, you did the same, and continued to sip your water instead. 

You do, however, decide to split two desserts. 

“Can I say something?” Joaquín speaks whenever he scrapes his fork across the decadent chocolate dessert sitting in the center of the table. 

You hum, grabbing a forkful of the fresher, citrus dessert instead. “Depends. How stupid is it gonna be?”

“Um … let me say it and then we can decide.”

You sit back in your seat, thereby giving him the floor. 

He takes his time chewing and swallowing before he goes to respond. “I’m shocked that we’ve been together every day and night of this trip.”

Your eyebrows furrow. “What d’you mean?”

“Like we haven’t … been with other people.”

His words shock you. “Is that what you think of me, Joaquín?” 

You don’t feel upset, or particularly offended. You’re just a little confused on why Joaquín has been thinking about your sex life while the two of you have been on vacation together. Sure, you’ve been thinking of the same thing, but his sex life hasn’t exactly crossed your mind. Besides whenever you pictured the two of your sex lives merging into one. 

But now that he’s presented the idea, you, too, are shocked that things have been contained to just the two of you this entire week. It’s not that you expected Joaquín to sleep around, you actually didn’t know what to expect when it came to his dating life. You did know that Joaquín was attractive and people other than yourself thought so, and he obviously knew it as well, but it’s unexpected that you didn’t see him intentionally ogling at least one other person on your nights out. 

You don’t know why he would think the same of you, though. 

“No!” he’s quick to defend himself, “But I wouldn’t judge you if that’s how you wanted to spend your vacation. I mean I wouldn’t blame you.”

“You’re digging yourself further and further into a hole, Torres.” 

He laughs. “Yeah, I can tell.”

A moment goes by and you sip your water. The air here feels open, but certainly not casual. You feel like you can tell the truth in this intimate atmosphere, and your words would hold intentional weight. 

You take the jump. “I didn’t wanna be with anyone else. I liked being with you.”

Joaquín looks surprised. “Really? So you preferred beach trips and coffee shops and working out over a hot hookup?”

You shrug. “I haven’t been interested in hooking up with anyone else.” 

His eyebrows lift in the center. “Anyone else?”

Fuck. 

It seems you have joined Joaquín in that hole, but you don’t mind being here. It’s about time you did something, right? You don’t bother responding, at least not verbally. Instead, you just look at Joaquín over the rim of your glass, sincerely hoping that he’s starting to understand. 

Before any more progress can be made the waiter comes back with the check and you’re already reaching into your bag for your wallet, verbally chastising Joaquín before he can even reach for the bill. 

Quiet returns to you both during the walk back to your hotel. It feels natural this time, likely because you’re not speaking, but it isn’t silent. Cars against asphalt as they drive down the street beside you, music spilling out of establishments that line the way, the automated voice of the pedestrian crossing pole when Joaquín presses the button for the both of you. There’s not anything being said, but there doesn’t need to be; much is being communicated through the energy radiating off of your body. 

Walking closer to each other than you had ever before, elbows grazing, a lightness to your bodies even if you both indulged a little too much over dinner. Everything just feels so right, even if there’s still an emptiness inside of you. Even if you leave this trip without getting laid, you’ll still feel fulfilled because you and your partner are closer than you’ve ever been before. Though, after existing in this bubble with only him, it’s going to be hard to return to your normal life and let other people in. 

A car honks and skirts to a stop. Before you can even realize what just happened, Joaquín’s already throwing an arm over the front of your torso, his face turned to the car that almost (wrongfully) hit the two of you. He yells something at them and blindly grabs your hand, pulling you in front of him and pushing you to the sidewalk and out of the street. 

He mutters something under his breath, but you don’t hear it. “You good?” he asks at full volume. He stands next to you but still holds onto your hand. 

“Yeah. We’ve been through worse than almost getting floored by a Benz, right?”

He laughs and continues leading the way back to the hotel. 

Your hand stays in his the entire time.

You and Joaquín make it all the way inside of the hotel with your hands still clasped together. They don’t part until an unattended child runs between your bodies, forcing you to separate. 

You end up standing in front of the elevator with the up button pushed. It dings every few seconds, an indicator of its steady descent, but it makes a few stops along the way. While you wait, you lean your shoulder into the wall next to it, crossing your arms over your chest and your legs at the ankle as you look at Joaquín standing across from you. 

He speaks first. “You wanna go out again tonight?  End the week with a bang?”

You shake your head. Your eyes are big, your lips are pulled into a soft smile, your entire expression is soft. Fuck hiding it, you’re done pretending. 

“Nah. I’d rather stay in tonight.”

Joaquín nods and tucks his hands in his front pockets. “Alright. Together or separate?”

“Together.”

His eyebrows lift as if he’s shocked, but there’s a little glint in his eyes. You think he’s starting to catch on. 

“Okay,” he drags the last syllable out and shifts his stance. He clears his throat before he speaks again. “What d’you wanna do?”

The elevator door opens and you and Joaquín stand out of the way to let people come out. As soon as everyone has cleared out, the two of you enter the elevator alone and you push the button to shut the door before anyone else can come around the corner. With the doors closing you turn to face Joaquín to see him already looking at you. 

You smile up at him and he smiles down at you. 

You take a step closer to him and he takes a step closer to you. 

You reach a hand out to his face, hesitating, and then he nods just before he reaches a hand out and places it on your waist. 

And then finally, your lips press against his. 

The first kiss is tentative. It’s testing. Your lips press together, you stay like that for a moment, and then you pull away. The two of you stare at each other, Joaquín’s expression as soft and docile as it always is. You think you’re mirroring him in this moment. 

Then, without any words exchanged, you both move towards each other again. Your heads are tilted and without much trouble at all, your faces slot together nearly perfectly. This kiss is more exploratory. It’s open mouthed, teetering towards a messiness that you’re sure you’ll both fully succumb to by the end of the night. At least, you hope so. 

You don’t have much time, you’ve realized that as soon as the elevator dings the first time to indicate its ascent, therefore you’re trying to get what you can while you can. You throw your arms over Joaquín’s shoulders and hook them around his neck, pulling him down towards you as you tilt yourself up into him. His body curves to engulf yours in his warmth, but he kisses you like he has all the time in the world. 

He kisses you like he means it, like there’s more than one mutually shared goal at the end of this motivating him. 

It’s hard not to give in to the slow and longing way Joaquín kisses you. You don’t even try resisting it at a certain point. Instead, you press your chest up into his and lean up on your toes to get more of him, yet not initiating a change in the pace at all. You like the slow way Joaquín’s lips move against yours. You feel much more this way. 

Your fingers lay across the back of his neck and just as they start to inch up into the faded part of his haircut, the elevator dings and announces your floor. 

You and Joaquín separate with clear hesitance in the movement. The two of you stare at each other, unmoving, just looking in each other’s eyes. His eyes look darker than you’ve ever seen them before. If you got closer, you think you would see his pupils blown out. From here, though, you see his desire in other ways—the flush on his cheeks, the prominence of his chest rising and falling, the hint of your lip products that have rubbed off on his lips. 

The elevator door starts to shut and Joaquín is forced into making the first move. He slots his arm between the doors just before they close and he stays there when they open. He turns to look at you, tilts his head in a beckon, and holds his hand out for you to grab.

The walk to your rooms feels much longer than it usually does. You try to make it go as fast as possible, skittering ahead of Joaquín as fast as your impractical sandals would allow, but you’re trying not to look too eager all the while. Still, when you reach the number you’ve memorized for the week and turn around to look at him, he has a slight smile of amusement on his face. 

You’re already searching into your bag for your key when you ask, “Yours or mine?”

Joaquín reaches around you for the handle to the door without speaking. You watch him press the key card to the sensor and push the door handle down just as you feel your fingers find the piece of plastic. 

“We gave each other one of each when we checked in, remember? Just in case.” comes his unprompted explanation. And now that you’ve been reminded, you do remember. Your key to Joaquín’s room has been sitting on the dresser forgotten the entire week. You know he wouldn’t have done it, not without your explicit consent, but you wish Joaquín had used the key to his advantage once this week. You wish he would have acted on the tension between you both, the tension that you’re finally realizing has been reciprocated this entire time. 

But now it’s happening. There’s no reason to complain when you’re getting what you wanted. 

His hands are on your hips as he leads you into the room, your bag is thrown to the floor and your shoes are kicked off of your feet. Your body is turned at his will, your eyes meet his as he lazily grins  down at you. His tongue flicks out over his lips in a quick and smooth movement, and at a much slower pace, you lean back in to press your lips back to his. 

Joaquín’s hands automatically latch onto your lower back, one warm palm pressed into the thin fabric of your dress and the other settling right on your bare skin in the opening. Meanwhile, you start working on his shirt, popping button after button through the holes. You stop when you’re halfway down, not on your own accord. 

You’re forced to stop when Joaquín slots his hands behind your thighs and he easily lifts you up. You squeal into the kiss on instinct. 

There’s a moment where both of you are grinning against each other’s lips and it just feels so right. It feels incredibly natural to be doing this, to be smiling when you’re kissing Joaquín, even though nearly everything else about this situation isn’t natural for the two of you (your erect nipples rubbing against his chest, your panties stuck to your cunt, the very faint brush of his cock stiff in his pants that you get on the journey up). 

“You’re just showing off,” you half-heartedly chide. 

Joaquín shrugs and walks you back to the bed. “Maybe just a little.” He places you down, kneeling between your legs and finishing off the remaining buttons on his shirt. “You love it, though.”

You don’t admit it verbally, but the way you shamelessly ogle his chest when he pulls the shirt off says everything. 

As soon as his shirt is gone, he places a hand on your ankle, slowly inching your dress up a few inches before he stops and looks at you. His expression is open, you can tell what he’s asking without words. But for good measure, he includes them. 

“Can I keep going?”

You nod, eager and unashamed. “Yeah. Keep going.”

He starts to push the bright fabric further and further up your legs, speaking to you as he continues. “You gotta let me know if …” his words taper off when he sees the first hint of your panties, and you don’t know exactly what he’s seeing, but it makes him speechless for a moment and your ego inflates. 

“I’ll let you know if …?” Cockiness is audible in your words but he doesn’t comment on it. 

Joaquín blinks and comes back to himself. “If you wanna stop, or if you want something changed. We gotta communicate.” 

“M’kay.” 

And with that, Joaquín pushes the fabric completely over your hips and he’s met with your panties. They’re a bright color that compliments the color of your dress, and, consequently, your tanned skin. He swears under his breath and although you don’t hear him clearly at all, you’re pretty sure it wasn’t in English. 

You sit up fully and slip your dress over your torso with Joaquín’s help. He lets the fabric drop to the floor without looking, his eyes are focused solely on your chest. 

You’re laying back on your elbows, elevated just enough to look at him. You stare at his eyes, even if you aren’t making eye contact, while he leans up to hover over you. His head dips and he presses a single kiss in the center of your chest and repeats the action right over each side of your ribcage. The tip of his nose grazes your breast and instinctively you arch up towards him. When he pulls away just enough to look up at you, you see him smiling.

You could beg, but the night has only begun. You decide to save that for later. For now, you huff and stick your spine back to the mattress. 

Joaquín places a hand around your side and dips his head back down, this time higher than before. When he latches his lips around your nipple, a little gasp breaks from between your lips. He lets his teeth scrape against the bud, alternating between giving you pressure and giving you wet heat from his tongue. By the time he switches to your other nipple, you’re already desperate for a true relief focused on your cunt. His lips travel upwards, brushing against your skin throughout the journey, until he’s pressing them into the side of your neck and under your jaw. You let him continue upwards, you let him kiss you a bit more, but you can only go so long without real, fruitful stimulation. And maybe another time after this (circumstances willing) you would love to prolong everything. 

But right now you need to get fucked, whatever that could entail. 

You buck your hips up and end up catching the bulge in Joaquín’s pants where his zipper lies. You think he’ll catch on that way, and maybe he does, but he just chooses to ignore it. Either way, you send him a hint and Joaquín doesn’t do anything about it. He continues kissing you, he tweaks your nipples and slots a knee between your legs, all of which you’re grateful for since it is a stepping stone in the right direction. But you need stimulation, you need to get off, and the slow crawl is slowly driving you crazy. 

You pull away from Joaquín to call his name. He responds with a gruff yeah that immediately settles deep in your gut. 

“I need more. Please.” 

He grins right in your face. The expression almost looks wicked on him for the first time ever. He has the power here right now and he’s obviously letting it go to his head. 

“Why didn’t you say anything?” he asks while his hand slides down between your bodies until his thick fingers can slip between your clothed folds. 

His question was rhetorical (and smug but that’s besides the point), yet you still find yourself going to respond. Your lips part, you can feel the corners turning down as you prepare to say something just as smug back to him, but then he presses down and quickly finds your clit after a moment of fumbling. As far as words go, you’re silent. Nothing but sounds slip from your mouth from that point onwards. 

Joaquín toys with your clit. He starts with one finger, just the pad of what you think might be his middle finger, and when that has you forcing your hips up into his touch, he adds a second finger. With two fingers, he has more space to work with, resulting in larger circles right over the most sensitive part of you. He speeds up, too. 

Your back arches and you dig your nails into the sheets. You know what you want to ask for, it's simple and you’d already said the word in this space, but it gets trapped in your throat this time. You’re close already. Yeah, you’d been getting yourself off throughout the week, but finally having Joaquín do it for you has made you so much more responsive. 

You get the first syllable out, the ‘M’ vibrating in your throat before you open your mouth to round it out in an ‘O’. 

Joaquín picks up where you left off. 

“More?” he asks, eyebrows lifting as he holds your heavy gaze. Before you even respond with a nod, he’s already sitting back far enough to slip his hand in your panties and repeat his emotions. 

The first real touch dizzies you for a moment. You pinch your eyes shut with the pure intention of orienting yourself, but then Joaquín chastises you in a soft, but firm voice. 

“Look at me. I wanna see you.” 

You do as told, of course. 

He nods. “There we go.” His fingers get just a little faster, the circles tighter. You’re so wet that there isn’t any uncomfortable friction at all, his skin easily glides against yours. 

“You close?” he asks after a moment. When you nod, he continues, “If I give you this one, you’ll be able to give me another, right? You can give me more?” 

“Yeah. Yeah, I can.” You’re breathless when you speak, and it certainly doesn’t help that it’s then when Joaquín decides to pull his fingers away completely, pull your panties to the side, and sink down completely until his face is level with your cunt. 

Just the image below you is enough to twist that section deep into your stomach into a knot. He’s barely able to give you anything before your back is arching off of the bed and everything in you mounts to a peak. 

When you come, it’s from the controlled and effective licks Joaquín delivers to your cunt. You don’t know when your hand moves on its own, but you feel silk-like strands between your fingers. It helps anchor you, gripping his hair helps keep you sane, especially when Joaquín keeps going. 

He broadens his reach this time. His mouth opens wide enough to slide his tongue down from your entrance and back up towards your clit. And he doesn’t just lick this time, you hear the audible suck from him. He’s slurping that shit, and you can already feel the introduction of another orgasm. 

If you were with anyone else, you’d be shocked at how soon another is on the precipice. But it’s Joaquín, and aside from the fact that you’ve wanted him for a while, you’re not exactly shocked that he knows what he’s doing. 

He slowly sinks one finger into you, pumping the digit in and out of you with meticulous ease. It’s a stark contrast from the almost sloppy way he’s eating you out. But it works. 

One finger is nice, it’s thicker than your own, rougher, too. You could get off just like that. And then, he adds a second. 

“Fuck,” you swear without any conscious intention. 

Joaquín comes up for air, releasing you with an audible smack. “Yeah?” he asks, the word coming from right in his throat. 

You nod as you take in the way he looks—cheeks flushed, hair tousled and hanging over his forehead, pink lips shining, his eyes wide and nearly doe-like. 

“Yeah,” you confirm. You see a look flash in Joaquín’s eyes then. It’s a look similar to the one he has whenever Sam affirms his work with a clap on the back—self-satisfied, delighted, proud. It occurs to you then that he doesn’t know what he’s doing to you. He can read your body language, sure. It’s obvious from your cunt, along how good he’s making you feel, but you know verbal affirmation is different. It’s better, especially for Joaquín. 

As he goes back in to finish you off, you speak to him.

“Just like that,” you tell him. Just this little bit encourages him, you can feel it in his movements.  “Keep going. ‘M close, so close, Joaquín. Please, don’t stop. You’re so … you’re so—” Before you can even get it out, all noise dies completely from you. Your mouth uselessly hangs open, not even air comes out as your entire body stiffens. Nothing happens for a moment, Joaquín continues, you’re stuck, and then a nanosecond later everything knocks into you. 

Sound emits from you, moans and groans and breaths. You’re digging into whatever you can find—the heel of your foot into Joaquín’s back, your hands in his hair, the rest of your body into the twisted sheets beneath you. You’re simultaneously trying to escape and trying to keep Joaquín from parting with you for even a moment. It’s hard to decide which you prefer, you don’t even think your mind has any say in the dilemma, your body is in control at this point. 

Ultimately, your body decides to let go, releasing both of you at the same time. Still, Joaquín takes a moment to pull from you. He continues licking and sucking, but his fingers slowing down indicates his intent to free you. It comes after a few drawn out moments where you’re stuck twitching beneath him until finally, he pulls his fingers out of you and presses one final kiss right onto your clit. 

His head lifts and the evidence is more obvious than you expected. It’s gathered all over his chin, stuck along the beginnings of facial hair that will likely be gone first thing Monday morning. It’s gathered on his lips and along his tongue when he uses the muscle to pull the remnants of your arousal into his mouth. 

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and only then does he realize how much of a mess you’ve made of him. He pulls his hand back, brown eyes big as he stares at the evidence. 

“Shit,” he laughs. 

All you can do is agree through labored breaths. 

He tries to clean you off of his mouth, but not much is done. He leans in tentatively after that, as if you’re going to shy away from him. You don’t. 

You kiss him back eagerly, although a bit lethargically. You’re trying to hide it from fear that Joaquín could think that you’re done. But your body needs a moment to recover from that. 

When Joaquín pulls away from you with a small smile on his face, you know he’s onto you. 

“You need a minute?” The way he says it isn’t much different from the way he asks you those same words when he’s kicking your ass in the gym. 

And just like when you’re in the gym, you shamefully nod. 

Joaquín chuckles and leans in to kiss your forehead. “That’s okay. You want anything? Water maybe?” 

“Water sounds good.” 

You watch him leave and then your eyes are focused solely on the ceiling. You can’t even let what’s happening sink in when you’re still a little spacey. But you can handle more. You want more from him. 

Joaquín comes back with a glass of water. He stands next to the bed and passes the full glass to you. You don’t question the source, you just drink until there’s half left. You offer it to him and he gladly takes it from you. 

“Are you … do you wanna stop?” He speaks when the glass has been emptied and placed on the nightstand. For the most part he looks like he would be unaffected by whatever answer you gave, but you think you can detect some premature dejection in his features. Quickly, he adds, “Because it’s fine if you do. I’m okay with that.” And he’s being honest. You don’t feel any pressure coming from Joaquín at all. 

It’s what you truly mean and want when you immediately shake your head. “No. Let’s keep going.” 

He nods once to himself. “Alright. Cool. Yeah.” 

Excitement leaks from his pores but you don’t comment on it. You felt just as he did not long ago. You still feel like that, but you’re under a haze right now and that’s what your emotions are being led with. 

Joaquín hooks his thumbs into his already-loosened jeans and goes to pull them down. First, though, he pats at his pockets. When he doesn’t feel what he’s looking for, he swears. 

“One second.”

You watch his form retreat until the door of your room is pulled open. Not even a minute later he comes back in with a foil pocket brandished between his fingers, the same fingers that were in you not long ago. 

“You came prepared?” The question comes out more judgemental than you meant it to. 

Joaquín shrugs. “I keep an emergency bag full of … stuff. You know, in case of an emergency.” 

“Freak.” You don’t mean it. 

“You’re about to get fucked by a freak so, wouldn’t that make you a freak by association?” He seems to mean it. 

“I don’t think that’s how that works.”

He holds the packet between his teeth while he slides his jeans off of his legs, stepping out of them and leaving them at the foot of the bed. He comes back around to the side, pulling the packet out from his teeth and staring down at you. Like this he looks more imposing than he ever has before. 

When he’s been out in the field, when he’s training, when he yelled at the car earlier tonight, he didn’t look as imposing as he does now—staring down at you over the bridge of his nose, hair tousled, cock tenting in his black briefs. 

“That’s definitely how that works,” he claims as he leans down. He presses his hands into the bed beneath you to leverage himself as he kisses you, slow and passionate. You wonder if he’ll fuck you like that too. 

You reach a hand up and pull the elastic away from his waist. When he doesn’t react, you tug the fabric down. You feel it get stuck around his cock just before you feel his cock spring free. It brushes against your wrist and you make a little noise into the kiss. 

As soon as Joaquín’s briefs are laying at his feet he assumes his previous position, this time sitting right on his haunches. You avoid looking at his cock for a moment, but when you watch him tear the condom packet open, you get the first glimpse at him. 

Even this part of him is attractive. He’s thick, that’s the first thing you notice. Thick and heavy, if the way he hangs to the side is any indicator. There’s a vein leading from his taut stomach down towards the dark and trimmed thatch of hair at the base of his cock. You hadn’t noticed the vein ever before, not when you had been too busy ogling the v-line chiseled into his torso instead. 

Now that you’ve seen all of Joaquín, you can easily conclude that he’s perfect. Just as you have that thought, Joaquín takes an inhale as he prepares to speak. 

“You’re so perfect,” he says. 

The warmth instantly floods your body. 

“I was just thinking the same thing about you,” you tell him. 

He dips his head almost shyly and doesn’t say anything. Instead, Joaquín pulls the condom out of the packet. 

“Wait. Lemme do it. Can I do it?” 

He looks momentarily surprised at your request, but he passes you the condom and politely places his hands on top of his thighs. 

It’s truly an excuse to feel him beneath your palm as you glide the latex barrier down his length. You revel in the warmth beneath your hand, because as soon as you’ve secured the barrier around the base of his shaft, Joaquín's leading you back without even having to touch you. He leans forward and in response, you lean all the way back until you’re nestled amongst the pillows at the head of the bed. 

“Ready?” 

You nod, letting your legs fall open for him. 

One warm hand falls to the inside of your thigh while the other disappears between your legs to line up his dick. Then, slowly, Joaquín pushes forward. The stretch is instant, you can feel yourself opening up wider and wider to fully fit him in. If you weren’t as soaked and prepped as you were, you’re sure the burn would’ve been way worse. 

For a few moments it’s like the length of him keeps going and going, but then you feel his thighs press up against the back of yours and there’s the faint feeling of his balls resting against your ass and you know he’s bottomed out. He looks at you, gauging your reaction, and your response comes in the form of linking a leg around his back.

Joaquín smiles through nothing but the twitch of the corner of his mouth upwards, and then he wastes no more time. He rests his weight on his hands at either side of your head, and pulls his hips back just to roll them forward and slide his cock back into you. 

And for a bit, Joaquín does fuck you slow and passionate. He fucks you in full strokes, a nice tempo that doesn’t overwhelm you too quickly. There’s punctuation at the end of each thrust, followed by a nearly agonizing pull back out. Whether intentional or not, Joaquín’s introducing you to the feeling of his cock filling you up, just as he’s introducing the concept of another release to you. 

But you’ve had your fill, it’s his turn now. 

You press your hands into his shoulders. They glide back, one hand grazing over the raised skin of the scar that leads down his back, the other following a smooth path, but they meet in the same place—back around the front to where his chain hangs. You hook one finger into the gold link, the other going behind his head. You pull him closer until you can nudge your noses together. 

His eyes flutter shut and his eyebrows pinch together in the center. You kiss him once and pull back to tell him, “You can use me, Joaquín. Take what you want.”

His eyes open to stare at you with confusion written on his face, bordering on hope, as if he already has an idea formed in his head of what he really wants to do to you. 

You nod assuredly. “It’s what I want.” Just as you’re about to add a quiet plea to seal the deal, Joaquín adjusts his position and then he pulls nearly all the way out of you, only to forcefully drive back into you. 

The switch is immediate. He still fucks you in complete motions, but they’re shorter, no longer the tip to the shaft each time. These are faster, much faster. It feels like he’s reaching up into your guts each time, just to pull back and do it again and again and again. 

You’re forced to find purchase again, hands digging into whatever you can find. One hand attaches to his hair and the other holds onto his chain, your legs have linked around Joaquín’s hips, your head has craned backwards, leaving the area between the base of your neck and your chest open for Joaquín to rest his forehead on. 

You can’t hear his sounds over yours, but you feel them—quick breaths let out onto the sweat coated area of your chest. You would try and silence yourself to better hear him, but you couldn’t even if you tried. 

Luckily, though, Joaquín lifts his head and notches his nose against the side of your neck instead. He kisses you right beneath your earlobe, but when he can no longer complete that action, his jaw goes slack and every single noise he makes travels directly to your ear. 

You swear and it comes out as a whimper, not even a second later Joaquín swears and it’s a deep groan all the way from the back of his throat. You call his name and he calls yours. He’s affecting you, and you’re affecting him, even just by laying back and urging him to get himself off by using your body.

“Are you close?” you eventually gather the strength, and will, to ask. 

You feel Joaquín nod against your neck. “Yeah,” he confirms, “yeah, baby, ‘m almost there.” 

Your reaction is instant. You groan, a sound that could be interpreted as frustration if you weren’t having your guts completely rearranged right now. 

He chuckles deeply against your skin. “What? What’s up?”

“C…Call me that again.”

“What? ‘Baby’? You like when I call you baby?” 

You hum affirmatively. 

Joaquín lifts his head and slots one hand against your cheek. His pace slows as he stares at you. “You’re my baby? Hm? Are you?” 

You nod, whining out an “uh-huh”. 

“Yeah?” he grins as he says it, as if he’s shocked that you agreed. You don’t know if he’s serious, if he knows that his words are holding weight even if you’re a little dumb right now, but you do mean it. 

He licks his lips and you see an idea coming to his head. “You gonna be good for me, too?” When you nod, he continues. “Be good for me, baby, and touch yourself, alright?”

He gives you the space needed and watches your hand slide down your stomach. When you use two fingers to tweak your already overstimulated clit, Joaquín nods. 

“That’s right. Just like that.” 

He resumes his original pace, this time with his eyes fully locked on your cunt. He pulls one of your legs up and throws it over his shoulder, leaning forward to get even deeper into you. 

You’re close, you’re almost there, and the erratic way Joaquín practically jackhammers into you as he chases his own release is what pushes you over. You finish just after Joaquín buries himself into you and curls his body over yours. This orgasm truly feels like a release. Everything in you melts into the world around you, just as Joaquín’s body melts on top of yours. 

He kisses the skin closest to him, first in small almost discrete pecks, and then they gradually get bigger and more audible until he’s clearly making them ridiculous on purpose. 

His cock is still nestled in you and his head is still resting on your chest when he speaks. “You think you’ll be up for a shower?”

You hum, letting the question run through your head for a minute before responding. “In about ten minutes, yeah.” 

“Take your time.”

In the meantime, Joaquín slowly slides out of you. The emptiness is immediate, but after all you’ve been through since getting back to your room, you don’t exactly hate it. Your eyes start to feel heavy but you let them close for a little while. You rely on your other senses throughout. 

The feeling of Joaquín kissing over where you think your bikini tan lines are, the rim of the glass that he brings to your lips, the sound of his voice as he gently urges you to drink, the feeling of cool water sliding down your throat. He holds you steady as you drink with a hand behind your head. Your lips turn up tiredly, and you feel his thumb at the corner of your lip catching a stray drop of water. You don’t have to open your eyes to know he’s wearing that same soft look on his features.

You’re so pampered there that you don’t force yourself to get up until you hear the shower running. 

Joaquín’s already there waiting for you at the door. He smiles when he sees you as if he’s shocked that you came, even though this is your room and your bathroom. Still, he reaches out and grabs your hand, pulling you into the bathroom and in front of him. His hands push at your back, guiding you towards the shower. He pulls the door open for you and lets you step inside before he follows after you. 

You reach for the towel and soap, but stop when he tuts behind you. 

“I got it,” is all he says. So you let yourself completely relax with the feeling of Joaquín dragging the cloth up and down your limbs. He talks to you throughout, mostly asking you to lift an arm or turn around, sometimes bringing up small bits of conversation, every now and then singing bits of songs—some that you recognize, some that you don’t. There’s a familiarity now that you’ve gained since his hands had massaged sunscreen into your shoulders. 

Eventually, though, he finishes with you, leaving you to lean against the wall and watch him shower.

“You know what I realized like a few minutes ago?” he says when he’s rinsing the soap off of his body. 

“What?”

“Remember the couple from the club that first night? The one who kept buying us drinks?”

“Yeah, how could I forget?”

“Yeah well I’m pretty sure they thought we were like … swingers or some shit.”

You’re startled awake. “Huh? Why do you think that?”

“Oh I don’t think, I know. The guy gave me his number and everything. Plus you saw the way they were looking at us, and the woman kept cozying up to you.”

You frown. “I thought she was just drunk or friendly.”

“She definitely was drunk and friendly. And she also wanted you.” 

You blink. “I thought she wanted you.”

Joaquín shrugs and rinses the last of the soap from his back before he shuts the water off. “She probably did. That’s sort of part of the whole swingers gig, isn’t it?”

You laugh through a quick exhale of air. “Come on, Joaquín, let’s go to bed.” 

You step out of the shower and wrap a towel around your body. Joaquín follows after you. 

“Oh, I get to sleep with you tonight?” He sounds giddy when he says it, as if he wasn’t just fucking you so good that your legs are still getting used to walking again. When you tell him that, you see the unintended compliment go straight to his head. 

You end up getting exactly what you wanted. Joaquín leans into the bathroom counter with the towel hung low around his waist and his eyes watching you do your skincare routine. As soon as you’re finished, he’s trekking off to his room for a change of clothes and to do whatever he needs to do, and he comes back in nothing but boxers with a big shirt in his hand. He lays it on the counter for you casually, but you see the tips of his ears tinted just a tiny bit red when he retreats back to your room. 

You come out in his shirt to see him lying on your side of the bed, the remote in his hand and pointed at the TV. As if the entire trip had been going like this the entire time, he instantly scoots over when you come to the side of the bed and lifts the sheets for you to climb under. You lay curled into his side, telling him to click a channel playing a movie that you know he likes. 

The remote is placed on the nightstand, the lights are clicked off and you’re snuggled up next to Joaquín, wearing his shirt and talking about how the two of you are going to spend your last day of vacation. 

Not everything goes how you thought it would, though. Joaquín ends up being pretty mindful with his blanket usage. 

[vinnyvamppp]

To Be Desired PT 2

⭐:ViltrumMark, OmniMark, Hooded Invincible, Masked Mark, HeadCap Invincible (Requested!), Mentions of Invincible. (PART 1 HERE)

Commenter: Can u write some viltrumark n Omni mark. Pleasee. (Special at the end!)

Synopsis: Variants of your childhood best friend spawn across the globe, and you find yourself in the crossfire of their previous lovers. What happens when you experience the parallel pleasure they can offer?

Warnings: Power Struggles, Dom/Sub Dynamics, Morally Grey, Nipple Play, Fingering, Pussy Eating, Overstimulation, Public Sex, Ejaculating Inside, Rough Sex, 69, Car Sex, Switch!Reader, Switch!Invincible Variants, Plot changes for convenience, Matching Freaks, Position Changes, Porn w a Plot, etc.

Invincible Variants x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 6,079

Previously on 'To Be Desired' ... Helping where you could, you began assisting in fighting off the weaklings who figured now was the best time to attack Earth. Micro tears riddled your uniform as you tore through them mercilessly, all through a look of pity. There were days you'd resent this “job” you'd granted yourself, the little recognition and appreciation you'd receive from the public. How selfish of them and you. You wanted an excuse to have this world fair alone, without a need to rebel when no one would notice. As luck would have it, a voice suddenly dawned behind you, his body floating midair and adorned with the appearance of your dearest friend.

ViltruMark

Gazing upon the malignant figure, his jaw ticked ever so slightly at the sight of you. A mangy mutt of a man was within his grasp, its maw bludgeoned with the imprint of his knuckles. The sound of a body hitting the ground beside you was like a heavy, wet slap, followed by a faint whoosh of air being forced from its lungs. It was a sickening thud, like a ripe melon dropped from a great height, and you froze with a sense of unease.

The impact was startling and violent, and for a moment, you forgot about the raging havoc being reaped around you. The suddenness of it all made your heart race—you were almost certain he could hear it—as every instinct shrieked within. Your body language became defensive, his gaze hardening in response.

"I've killed you once, and I'll kill you again," he proclaimed, yet it held little intent. His uniform was a staple of the Viltrumite Empire, its clad symbol emboldened in the sky’s smoke like a false beacon of hope. "Then get it over with. You won't be the first variant who dies tonight." The snarky remark was met with a confident scoff. His padded feet landed in front of you, his eyes absorbing your features as if to reminisce. "I won’t. That was my first mistake," he replied, his fingers finding themselves tangled in your hair.

It was sudden; you couldn't help but grimace at his words. A Viltrumite admitting their mistakes? Unbelievable. That was until his grip suddenly tightened, cocking your head to the side as he whispered in your ear. "I've come to right my wrongs and take you with me." The man's grip was a hold of domination, a vice-like clamp that strangled the last vestiges of hope. It was merciless, like that of a warlord who wielded power with an iron fist. Yet the soothing hand around your waist and the calloused fingertips that scratched against your costume told the story of a starved man.

It wasn’t a debate, nor did you intend to argue, as your annoyance with your reality simmered. "Right your wrongs…?" you questioned, a wicked grin slowly spreading across his face as you two suddenly took flight. Tears bubbled at your waterline from the speed, your fingers clinging to him as you could’ve sworn he nearly melted. You always did talk too much, so he figured he'd show you. The underground vibrations beat against your eardrums as he cradled you. Your gaze was fixed upon a newly formed crater within the valley, only destroyed rubble offering privacy. "We’ll do it here. You’ll be my new beloved and will give me children."

His fingers traced down your abdomen as they tore through the fabric, gooseflesh rising from the exposure. It was a depressing past, really—having to murder you in cold blood so soon due to his agenda—but not this time. You would stay ignorant of his past, and he would provide it, given your indulgence.

His hands grasped the spandex material of your suit, prying it open as his lips began their pleasurable assault on your neck. The wet warmth of his tongue tickled your skin as he harshly nipped the welcoming flesh. Your faint pulse beneath it enticed him to experience what he had yet to. So alive and welcoming.

Head resting against the soft soil, his hardened cock imprinted beneath the loincloth. His body did little to hide his excitement, though his expression remained cold. Once the clothing was peeled from your body, his lips continued their journey south, pausing to lavish attention on your breasts. He took one nipple into his mouth, swirling his tongue erratically around the hardened peak while his hand kneaded and caressed the other.

You moaned at the sensations, your hands instinctively tangling in his hair as his hips ground against your clothed cunt. He didn’t stop. He worshiped your breasts until you were writhing beneath him, the skin tender and reddened from his teeth. As he traveled lower, you could feel his warm breath on your most intimate area, his pre-cum now staining the cloth of both his and your costume. Just before his lips could reach your sex, he pulled away in satisfaction. All mild waves of pleasure were ripped from you, and a feeling of annoyance bubbled within.

Pressing back against him, your eyes pleaded seductively, a hand resting against his chest. "It’s not fun when it's just me; let me please you," you muttered, watching as the faintest smirk graced his lips. He sat on his knees as you shuffled yourself forward, hands eagerly tugging at his clothing. His costume splintered as it fell from his form, your mouth practically watering at the sight of his swollen cock eagerly awaiting your touch. You leaned in, inhaling deeply and savoring his musky scent. You ran your tongue along the underside of his veins, from the base to the tip, feeling it twitch against your lips. He shivered.

You circled the head with your tongue, dipping into the slit to taste his essence before taking him into your mouth. Instantly, he sucked in a deep breath through gritted teeth. The man was more sensitive than expected. As your throat relaxed and another inch slid inside, the soft lining of your esophagus welcomed him so fruitfully that his eyelids began to twitch. His pride had failed to forewarn him, and his temperament began to crumble.

As his hips bucked forward, you gagged, only to see a placid grin etched onto his face as his nose crinkled with restraint. He groaned loudly with every bob of your throat, his dick twitching with each contact. Suddenly, his hand gripped your hair, pulling you back. "Enough," he muttered, his voice carrying enough command to make you pause.

Before you could process it, you were flipped onto your hands and knees, panties being lowered as his eyes devoured the sight of your pussy. "You’re soaked… I would’ve fucked you sooner if I knew you’d be so willing." The mumble seemed more to himself than to you. His tip glided down the skin of your folds, the squelching sound causing his grip to tighten as he pushed your head into the ground. Just as he pressed himself inside, the quietest whimper slipped.

Your eyes met his with a smug expression; he returned it as a warning before your velvety walls swallowed him whole. He sighed, like a man being gifted after a long day of work. He didn’t give you time to adjust, immediately pulling out and setting a brutal pace, pounding into you with a force that rocked your entire body. Each thrust pushed you forward, your hands scrabbling for purchase in the burrow of grass. His balls slapped against your clit with every stroke, sending sparks of pleasure through you.

One of his hands left your hip, wrapping around your hair and pulling your head back, forcing you to arch your spine. He fucked almost with a hatred. With every stroke, your body bounced forward, and you could swear you heard your vertebrae popping. Does he not know what gentle is?! No! He’s a Viltrumite, born and raised!

Unbeknownst to you, the dual stimulation of his balls slapping against your skin and the soft twitching of your pussy had him hunched over. He began to chase his own release, loud growls echoing in your ears as you could barely formulate sound. His free hand rested against your ass, enjoying its recoil as a pathetic whine scratched his throat. He was hellbent on burying himself within you, each thrust deepening with the swivel of his hips. His muscles tightened as his jaw clenched, heavy pants echoing between groans. It was beginning to sound needy, a rough greed that consumed him.

Your moans were muffled, his hearing sharp enough to catch every one, his tactics shifting subtly to bring you the utmost pleasure. God, why did he kill you? He could barely remember as his brain began to fizzle out from the pleasure. “Mphm… Mark… can’t breathe,” you muttered, his eyes finally snapping into focus. In a last-ditch effort, he tugged you back, ripping a hiss from you as your spine curved. Your back rested against his chest, and although the sex was rough, this was a moment of gentleness. “Aah—ugh, mm, fuck, I’m going to fill you,” he whispered, sheathing himself one final time as he came.

You two remained still as his stamina recovered; he pressed a chaste kiss against your lips, both of your suits ruined. No matter, he couldn't care less about flying into space naked. It was short-lived as he abruptly readied himself from a voice buzzing within his ear; you remained seated in absolute awe. “How long can you hold your breath?” he asked, a plan to return home brewing.

OmniMark

His gaze remained fixed on you, expression unimpressed as he observed. You had just defeated another swarm of enemies, their blood coating the streets. As you stumbled toward him, your breath came out in labored gasps, and your vision blurred, making it hard to focus on his figure. Mark—or rather, this mysterious figure in similar fashion—seemed to be studying you intently, his eyes piercing through your facade.

The sound of his cape billowing finally caught your attention. Roving over his figure, you observed his costume. A dried patch of blood littered his hand, pink lint from the fabric clinging to it. It resembled Omni-Man's and only struck you with confusion as your mind rang from your probable concussion. "Hey, are these giving you any trouble?" he asked, his body idly bobbing midair as he awaited an answer.

"Who are you, really? If you're Mark, why are you dressed like... well, like him?" You gestured to his costume, a near-perfect replica of Omni-Man's, complete with the red and white color scheme, only missing the distinctive 'O' emblem. He sighed, almost regretfully, as a realization seemed to dawn upon you. Omni-Man in his world was dead; just why did I have to run into this one?! He glided toward you with a strangely disturbing grace.

"I've come to defend you. There are many of us gathering over Chicago." Your question was swatted away like a fly as he continued. His response made you drop your guard, albeit naively, since there was no reason to trust him. He landed in front of you, dark goggles showing your reflection as he contemplated. "Why? What happened to me in your dimension?" you inquired.

He replied with the slightest look of pity and weariness. "She… was like a pet. Served her purpose and got in the way after I killed my father." His words made your heart drop. "I've been looking for you… for a new pet. So, understand me this time, and we can conquer together." The tone of his words was low, almost careful, like it somehow softened the demeaning blow. Every word was woven in silk, but underneath lay a quiet demand. His fingers gently wrapped around yours, his gloved thumbs ghosting over your knuckles.

Truthfully, he hated his dimension's version of you. Such a nuisance, but you were already proving to be more favorable. A glimpse into what you could've been.

"But you have more to offer than she did. She had no powers, no abilities… but she was cute while it lasted." A sense of sadness lingered in his voice as his eyes focused behind you, on the destruction your battle had caused.

"Fine, I'll let you protect me," you said, releasing his fingers.

"It’d be best if we stayed together at all times," he replied.

"I don’t think I could stomach being around you." It was a petty jab, spit with unintentional venom.

"I could change that," he quipped with the cockiness of his father, his palm outstretched to you.

Just how did you allow yourself to be swept away like this? Yes, the Mark you knew was the son of Omni-Man with morals; this one went against every principle you had when becoming a hero. Like father, like son. His words were sensitive, meticulously put together to string you along—not that you cared now, not with his fingers buried deep inside your cunt.

Somewhere along the way, he had flown you to Paris like some fancy vacation. The leveled city burned brightly, the embers painting your skin in a dewy orange that made you look so divine. The Eiffel Tower stood tall, almost as a harbinger of justice, and here you were, on the structure, being fingered by him. You let out a sharp cry as he started to stroke, his digits gliding through your wetness with ease. The very sight of your cunt had him in a hedonistic trance, his thumb slotting over your clit. He teased and circled, applying just the right amount of pressure to have your hips bucking beneath him. His pace quickened ever so slightly, reveling in the ridges of your pussy that he anticipated to hug him so snugly.

"You like that, don't you? You like it when I touch you like this?" he purred, watching as your face scrunched in pleasure. It wasn't like he needed a response; seeing your reaction was enough. Your abs began to tighten as your orgasm built, and just as your body lurched forward, his hands pulled away, leaving you clenching around air.

"You said that would be it," you whispered, watching as he smiled faintly, almost pleading. "I know, but it would be better this way… I can't monitor with just my fingers." He excused himself, and your eyes rolled sarcastically. "Last thing." It was a harsh spat that crawled from your throat and into his ear. "Last thing," he agreed—when you both knew he was the type to say that while fucking you senseless for the tenth time.

Against the cold metal, he spread your legs wide, his free hand freeing his weeping cock from its confinement. It's been punished enough for now. Clothes were shed quickly, eagerly, until you were both naked and pressed together, skin against skin. He hovered over you, his eyes roaming your exposed body hungrily. Circling his tip around your entrance, he finally pushed in, jaw clenching with a shaky exhale.

His hips began to build into a relentless pace, your bouncing legs wrapping firmly around him to pull him in deeper. He was becoming lost within you—quite literally—as your pussy swallowed him balls deep. No wonder his father remained active with Debbie; this was fucking godsent to him. Perhaps his words from earlier were no longer manipulation but the truth. He would vow to know you on a personal level later.

Moans of pleasure from you both echoed. He was shameless about his noise, enjoying the sound of skin slapping in the air. You could have sworn his particularly deep thrusts sent the tower shaking. Sweat formed on his brow as he concentrated, ab muscles flexing as he withheld his orgasm. Mark loved it here. He would do anything not to pull out. His body began to tremble with restraint, nearly convulsing with the overarching effort. Your bodies shifted with each powerful thrust. Lost in your own pleasure, you barely noticed your head now dangling from the structure.

His attempt at being romantic after destroying a city was dreadful. "Mark…!! Ah! I'm gonna fall, fuck—!" you wearily shouted, and he grimaced slightly, his fingers shoving themselves into your mouth to simulate sucking his cock as he watched you gag on them. "You know better… swearing doesn’t make you cool." He stated it so casually, as if he weren’t balls-deep inside you.

Flying you both into the air, his hands gripped your ass, fucking himself into you. His thrusts grew erratic, his whimpers barely contained. It was obvious—his toes curled in his shoes, his feet flexed, his eyes rolled back into his skull, the veins in his neck prominent. Clasping his chin, you focused his attention on you as your insides nearly squeezed him dry. It was your minute revenge. "T-Take what you… what you want." His lips were caught between his teeth. "I wo… won't stop you."

The words were weak, both of you heaving, breath fanning against each other's faces. Wrapping your legs tighter around him, and with bated breaths, he buried himself inside you, his cock pulsing as he came with a shout. Your fingers dug into his shoulders as he hissed, unable to stop himself. After realizing what he had done, he ironically cursed under his breath.

"S… shit, I should’ve come in your mouth; it would’ve been better," he muttered, disappointed in himself. Wrapping your bare body within his cape, he gingerly kissed you with praise. His lips parted, as if to utter something sentimental, his gaze hardening. Suddenly, he observed heroes gathering within France to save the people. A grimace enveloped his face. He had enough decency to place you securely at your apartment before taking off. HeadCap Mark

“Oh…? And who do we have here?” he asked rhetorically, one hand resting at his side. His overzealous grin gleamed beneath the obscurity of his features. Not to mention… was he bald? His appearance was a far cry from his better counterpart. You kept raking over every detail, unsure what unsettled you more.

“I… I don’t want to fight you. You look like my friend… I couldn’t,” you replied timidly, tension stunning your body. He landed without a sound, the silence eerie—like a grinning cat toying with its prey.

There was dried blood riddled through his costume, his demeanor confident as he strutted toward you with his head held high. You were awfully perturbed, not noticing him already in front of you. “Well, this is gonna be fun,” he chirped as he gazed expectantly at you, his amusement only growing. “You know how hard it was to find you? Your friend's bug brother straightened me out on my way here.” A series of sharp, satisfying cracks from his spine echoed through your ears, each pop releasing tension like bubble wrap as they twisted. His octave dropped a notch as he leaned in.

“Now it's time to straighten you out.” The words were of insincere politeness, their meaning striking you upside the head. His fingers curled around your neck as he guided you backward. The cold metal of a now disheveled and crumpled car met your back. “Ah ah ah, don’t even think about it,” he whispered, your ear tingling from its warmth, your fingers relaxed at your side.

The smile on his face was almost sweet as you complied, only begrudgingly allowing his touch. “Then move before I change my mind.” You snorted in response. It was scandalous; you’d never admit that the hand around your neck nearly made you weak. Just how could you reject a man so desperate to have you? He wasn’t going to deny you either; in fact, he felt almost obligated to show you he deserved this.

He shoved you roughly against the hood of the car, his fingers tracing the length of your curves. The loud creak of the vehicle settling, the sputtering electricity of nearby landline wires, and the open air of dust filling your lungs made you feel truly exposed. Even without the removal of clothing. His tongue flicked over his lips, a brief, deliberate motion—like a cat after cream. The elastic fabric of his costume fell down his muscled legs, his hands eager as they jutted forward. It was rushed—he stripped the latex from your body with the urgency of a man digging for gold.

Only then, when he saw the pretty lace covering such delicate areas, did an audible groan of delight scratch his throat. “Pretty,” he teased, his hands reaching into his boxers as they clung to his thighs. His dick was flushed a pale pink, longer than it was girthy, as bulging veins pathed their way to his tip. “Pretty,” you mimicked, legs spreading as he closed in like a moth to a flame. He left your bra and panties on, enjoying the sight too much to tear them off. Instead, he pulled the fabric aside to watch your tits bounce, your pussy lips already weeping.

His tip parted you like a river, his head hanging back as he bottomed out. Your walls fluttered to accommodate his length; if he wanted to, he could kiss your cervix. Your legs crossed over his shoulder, and his hips reared back before driving into you. Each thrust pushed you further up the car's hood, your breasts bouncing with the force of his movements.

Your hands reached to clasp at anything behind you, only to find a shattered windshield to dig your fingertips into. He couldn’t help but chuckle to himself as he watched you bounce on his cock; it was something deserving of a painting. His head turned, tongue slithering across the soles of your feet in a gesture of worship. As much as he didn't care about this world, in this moment, he was determined to make you feel like a goddess. His pace quickened, each stroke pushing you closer to the edge of ecstasy.

The movements were entirely guided by lust; broken chuckles bubbled from his throat as moan after moan was ripped from him. Your eyes nearly lost focus, and every stroke caused a slight bulge to imprint in your lower abdomen. Your moans encouraged him—urged him to go deeper, to claim you completely. “So… so much is d-different about this world, but this… t-this was made for me.” His lips grimaced as his hips purged through the trembles riddling his body. The car creaked as it rocked violently, his fluid motion throwing you against him in time with his thrusts.

The street fills with the unfiltered sounds of your moans and the slap of skin against skin. You could feel your throat becoming raw; he was practically silenced, communicating with the tightening of your cunt and its impending orgasm.

Propping yourself onto your hands, you leaned back slightly, one leg gingerly switching to his other shoulder, giving him a full view of how you drank him in. His thumb rolled tight circles around your clit, watching as your hole puckered so vigorously around him.

A ring of your juices—mixed with what he couldn’t tell was pre-cum or cum—sputtered against his pelvis. The sight was enough to tip him over the edge. “Come… all over my cock—mmm—like the good l-little ssslut you are!” he groaned, eyes darting between your folds and your eyes as he inhaled your intoxicating scent.

As he thrust into you with increasing fervor, you felt your body begin to tense, your walls clenching around him as your orgasm approached. He seemed to sense it, his movements becoming more erratic as he chased his own release.

You cried out, fingernails scraping against the car's metal; his jaw clenched wearily as his knees grew weak. A grin etched across his face once more, eyebrows knitting upward as he sighed shakily. With frantic pacing, he waited until his eyes nearly crossed before pulling out and ejaculating on your stomach.

You were winded, arms giving out as you rested against the car; he stared at you, unnaturally tired himself. But as he watched your juices bubble around your entrance, a new energy suddenly surged to his cock. “W-What do you think you’re doing?” he asked, stroking himself with a strangled whimper. “Mmm, I plan on using every inch of this car while I’m here.” Hooded Invincible

The momentary silence was deafening; the veiled mask drifted ever so slightly to show the grin lurking beneath. His costume had blood leaking down the front; the amount would suggest he’d been bested, yet he stood defiant and cocky before you. Just how powerful was he to remain standing? As you readied yourself for another battle, a sigh leaving your lips, his hands suddenly bound together over his head before slamming his full weight onto the concrete road. The rubble cracked beneath your feet, and a strong gust of wind slid you back. It wasn’t nearly as strong as anticipated. He was holding back.

“You won't be enough. You’re not even a fraction of my power!” He enunciated every other word, making the insult feel a little more scathing. “No wonder you get jumped so often, you fucking asshole,” you chided with annoyance. The dull ache in his head was the last thing he registered; the blow landed with a sickening thud, its crack making him stumble back slightly. “Oh, fuck off.” His return strike was swift, a flash of movement followed by a grunt of pain.

You nearly crumpled, the floor rushing to meet you before you regained stability. He was quick to compliment, almost too eager. “Okay… I’ll admit, you’re stronger than I thought.” The feeling of his hands cupping around your wrist, dried blood flaking from his palm. “That’s not why I’m here though,” he finished, his yellow-tinted goggles reflecting off the sunlight, a faint glimpse of his eyes meeting yours.

Just why did they have to have the warmth of your friend's? This was making it difficult to hate him. “Not interested,” you deadpanned, arms tugging within his grasp. He sucked his teeth with an exasperated sigh. “I don’t remember you being this fucking mouthy.” His head cocked slightly to view your expression change like his personal performance. “Wrong dimension; I’m not her.” Your words made him pause as that grin made its Broadway appearance. “Nah, you’re better; I love it when my girls are a bitch.” He taunted, your eyes searching for an escape route as you mentally dismissed him. “C’mon, give me a chance.” The words dripped from his lips, less of a plea and more of a certainty.

You couldn’t deny he had certainly piqued your interest in more ways than one. Suddenly, a pair of calloused fingertips ran a strip down the center of your costume, the fabric outlining a faint camel toe. His fingers pressed against the indent of your pussy lips, a desired dampness nearly causing him to groan. “Oh, you’re fucked,” he said with mocking restraint. In almost an instant, you were dragged into an alleyway and, with the weight of a feather, flipped upside down. “Put me down! What are you doing?!” you grit out, but the words lacked conviction, lost in the echo of his ragged breath.

He ignored your plea, fingers now deftly parting your swollen lips, teasing the clit that throbbed insistently through your costume. Your question was more of a criticism of his crassness. “Relax, you’ll like this.” He brushed off every critique, his focus narrowing to the only thing that mattered—his next dessert.

A firm finger dug into the fabric above your cunt before the screeching sound of fabric tearing. It was better than he imagined; his tongue already sought a taste as he admired the view. “That's it. I know you want this.” His tongue flicked out, tracing a wet path from your clit to your swollen opening. A jolt of electricity shot through you, silencing you momentarily as your hands dug into his hip. He chuckled again, pleased with your reaction. “See? Already loving it.” His response made your pleasure-filled veins run cold.

Returning the favor through shaky moans of your own, your fingers tore through the fabric of his clothing, leaving little time for him to react as your teeth sorted through the pocket of his boxers before his cock sprang out. Its tip was greeted with fervent kisses as a guttural growl rumbled from behind his veil. His tongue, hot and demanding, flicked out, tracing the sensitive flesh. A gasp escaped your lips, a mix of grit and nascent pleasure. He lapped at you with deliberate strokes, teasing and testing your limits. The fluttering of his tongue grew desperate to draw more sounds from you as you writhed.

That was until his toes curled upon a pair of nails dragging down the length of his swollen, veiny cock. He grumbled a string of curses, his tongue pursuing to ravage you in the wake of this being a competition. With practiced ease, your lips parted, bubbles of spit gathering around his tip as you toyed with him. “Fuuuuck me,” he sighed.

You took him in, the softness of your mouth enveloping him as you began to move, your head bobbing rhythmically. The swirl of your tongue was like pleasant lashings against his cock. Your throat relaxed as your nose met the tightening sack of his balls; he was losing his ability to resist. Every so often, you would flatten your tongue, ruining what might’ve been the build-up of his orgasm.

Your combined groans echoed mindlessly in the alleyway. With a clenched jaw, he flipped you right-side up, your hands dragging across the pavement momentarily. The sight of him frazzled you, his hair disheveled from the clenching of your thighs, and the front of his veiled mask drenched in your taste.

“How do you even have the energy to still hold me?” you asked, bewildered as he chuckled. “You underestimate my power.” His response made your eyes roll, and you both were winded nonetheless. He shifted again, his hands now gripping your thighs, spreading them wider. He positioned himself between your legs, his hard cock pressing against your clit, a tantalizing promise of what was to come. As he penetrated the twitching valley of your warmth, you both responded to one another with a moan—a sound of pure, unadulterated need.

Holy fuck, was he glad you couldn’t see his face. He was holding on by a thread, eyebrows furrowed with a quivering lip. “You probably… would’ve made me cum a-already if you didn’t keep playing,” he rasped, somewhat annoyed. “Shut the fuck up and keep going.” He couldn’t argue; his grip tightened against your upper thigh. With every drawback, you tightened around him, threatening to suck him in. Through labored breaths, his jaw went slack as his body nearly locked up on him. “Haa… ha… haa! You r-ready?” he drawled, dick pumping into you with his last shrivels of energy before his dick milked him dry inside you.

You both remained in somewhat of a daze. That’s when the familiar clang of Cecil's reAnimen echoed in the distance. Setting you down with a strange gentleness, he promised his return… leaving you with a hole in your pants. “Fuck.”

Masked Invincible

“Finally…” he whispered; you could’ve sworn his eyebrows creased beneath his mask—the full obscurity of his features made him difficult to identify. “Mark…?” you questioned, his shoulders drooping slightly as a relieved sigh left him. His costume was barely recognizable if it weren't for the signature black and blue; his frosted lenses left little to be discovered.

The instinct for danger—and to fight—was suddenly drained from you as he spoke. “We didn’t all make the same deal.” He approached, desperation weighing down his shoulders. “It doesn’t matter, Mark. You all murdered thousands… I don’t know you. I don’t care to hear you plead your case.”

Your response stunted his movements as the sound of padded feet quickened their pace.

“I—I know, but it was for a good reason, I swear,” he continued with a slight stutter, his hands gesturing to his chest. This somehow felt manipulative. “I liked it here… I came back to bring you and my mom back with me. We can start over.” His hands clung to your shoulders as he spoke, fingernails digging into the flesh. “And why would I do that?” you inquired, your gaze hardening as you anticipated a response. “Because… because I need you.” The delivery was purely pathetic, a voice cracked, edging his words as he nearly pleaded.

Considering the whole ordeal, it didn’t sound like an awful offer. However, it would be unsafe to assume the woman you once loved in the past was the same in every dimension. His submission might’ve unlocked a new kink you were unaware of, the sentiment tugging at your heartstrings. He was similar to the Mark you knew—emotional—but this one felt far more dangerous, a dog off its leash. You began to lie through your teeth. If it meant having a variant as an ally rather than an enemy, then so be it.

“Okay. I’ll come with you if—” Your words were abruptly sawed off as his hands hastily lifted half his mask and his lips found yours with fever. He brushed his lips against yours, featherlight, as if testing the moment—savoring it. He sighed into the kiss, his hands cradling your face, drawing you closer, deepening the space between breath and bliss. His fingertips dug into your skull as he was encased in your warmth.

Just how could he have ever let this go? Not this time. No, he would do better. He’d imagined this countless times.

Hands quickly shifting to your hips, he decided your apartment was best. Being on his best behavior would convince you more, right? Landing on the balcony, he slid open the door as you shuffled backward into the kitchen. You both pulled away, erratic breaths dampening one another's faces. Interestingly, as his costume loosened and pooled around his ankles, the mask remained. He seemed truly hellbent on keeping it on—not that you paid any mind.

Slowly tugging each article of clothing from your body, he watched as if hypnotized. It was nearly comical watching him progressively become aroused as seconds ticked by. His mind and body were one. His ragged gasps produced a small cloud of condensation through his mask. His dick a red, irritated mess with smeared pre-cum. Messy. Desperate. Guiding him into a chair, he manspread to allow you plenty of room once you straddled him, feet hooking against his inner thigh.

His tip pierced through you, giving you little time to adjust as gravity pulled you downwards. Your puffy lips cushioned him between hungry blows, combined arousal leaving a stringy mess in his lap.

Gripping your hips, his jaw clenched as he assisted you in riding him, the pace solely reliant on his stamina. "Wait, wait, slow down," you gasp, trying to regain control. But he's too far gone, his lust clouding his judgment. He grips your hips tighter, slamming you down on his cock with bruising force.

The pleasure is intense—bordering on pain—but you can't deny how much you're enjoying it. He leans forward, his masked face inches from yours. "I—I can't slow down," he pants, his breath hot against your skin. "I've wa… wanted this for so long. Needed this."

You can feel him throbbing inside you, his desire for you evident. But you need to take back control, to show him who's in charge here. You grip his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin as your ass meets the meat of his thighs from your efforts to ride him.

He groans, his head falling back as you take what you want from him. "F-fuck, yeesss," he hisses, his hands moving to your ass, squeezing and spreading it. "Take it all; take everything I have to give."

It was his most coherent sentence—just barely—as his voice cracked with a whimper.

Your moans began to mingle until it was a harmony unable to be differentiated. The sound bouncing off the walls sounded ten times louder than it was. His nose scrunched from beneath his mask, jaw flexing with an effort to remain sane.

"I am. And I'm going to use you until I'm satisfied." He shudders beneath you, his cock twitching inside you at your words. You can tell he likes this—likes being used and controlled by you. After all he’s done, he’d gladly let you go for today.

Your hips slammed against his with every downward thrust. The sounds of skin meeting rang in your ears, a whine of pleasure filling your lungs as unrestrained sounds began to filter. His pubic hair caused delicious friction against your clit as he began to grow sloppy.

He reaches up, his hands cupping the back of your shoulders to hold you in place as he rams into you. The added stimulation sends you closer to the edge, your body tensing as your orgasm approaches.

"C-...Cum for me," he growls, his eyes watching you intently with the goal of watching your face contort in lust. "Fuck… fuck… fuck, yes! G-Give it to me! Please…!"

His voice nearly gave out as he came with a shout, finally being able to make you his.

You soon followed after, collapsing on his chest as remnants of a moan leave your lips. It takes a while for you two to finally gather your bearings. He pulls his mask down, a smile etched into the fabric, before that damned voice calls out within his ear. “I’m sorry… I—I have to go. I'll come back for you,” he stutters, reluctantly leaving and flying into the murky horizon.

This was actually fun to type up. (If interested in Mark's subplot (same scenario), it's linked: here.)

MasterList ོ༘₊⁺☀︎₊⁺⋆.˚

[queenpiranhadon]

So, it's basically canon that Pro Heroes come to assist heroes in training at UA, right?

Just imagine the horror the new generation of heroes would face when they realize that their opponent for training that day is none other than the Number Two Pro Hero, Dynamight.

It's a hero team vs villain simulation - a joint practice between both hero course classes - Katsuki basically has free range to destroy the mock city UA had built and the students had to prevent him from doing so, which was really just a waste of money because of the Pro Hero's already destructive tendencies.

He already had to regulate himself for Pro Hero work, so this was really just waving the reg flag in front of the bull.

Needless to say, they all got their asses kicked, all 40 of them. Whether it was due to falling debris or evading explosions, all of them were forced to wave their white flags eventually.

The students weren't so much in shock, they were in awe, of how a Pro Hero could be so powerful and intimidating, and well...badass.

Their main takeaway? Katsuki Bakugou was an impenetrable force to be reckoned with.

Or... at least for a few minutes.

You can imagine the shock on their faces when the grim and serious expression on Dynamight's face melts instantly when he hears a voice speak up behind him.

"Katsuki, if you keep frowning all the time, you're going to get wrinkles."

He turns around, a rare smile stretching across his face as he stares at you, his wife, like you're the only person in the world at that moment, like you're the only one that matters.

"Tch. I don't get wrinkle lines, woman. Yer just seein' things."Despite his slight harsh words, they're softer, somehow, and the happy twinkle in his eyes is unmistakable.

The students gape at each other. The Dynamight, Katsuki Bakugou , in love? The same pro hero that was wreaking havoc and creating carnage in his wake was the same one now staring at his wife with a dopey grin and peppering kisses across your face.

"Katsuki!" You whine, but it looses its credibility as you start to laugh at his antics. "What's gotten into you, huh?" you ask, a little softer, so that only he could hear.

He looks at you, a soft look in his eyes as he kisses you gently and lovingly pulling away to admire your pretty face.

"M'just feeling sentimental I guess... We were probably their age when we started dating huh?" He says, referring to the students.

You snort, recalling the time when Katsuki first asked you out. "Aww...is my baby feeling sentimental? You were a dork back then."

Katsuki looks offended and his grumbles, nipping your jawline in annoyance."Oi. I was not a dork back then. If anything, Izuku was the dork."

You smile teasingly, kissing his nose, effectively shutting your explosive husband up.

"Is that so? Because I recall you had your All Might posters set up in chronological order of his costume eras."

Katsuki's ears turn red and his large hand wraps around the back of your hand, burying your face in his chest.

"Shaddup woman. Yer the one who fell for this dork in the first place."

You laugh, your voice muffled by his chest, but he can still hear you just fine. Looking up at him you smile.

"You may be a dork, but you're my dork."

The students watch is abosolute shock, mouth gaping open as they wonder how the hell you were able to render Katsuki Bakugou to the sappy man they saw in front of them.

A/N: He's so silly I love him 🥰