#and then you SHOT HIM DOWN IN THE MIDDLE OF IT

[niccolites]

febrile (or; input vs output)

He expects some kind of betrayal, for you to hiss and snap at him. Image of the NCPD, accepting your cyberware one week and raiding your clinic the other.

Instead you stand to the side and watch with him as the other officers dig through your stuff. They’re a bit too enthusiastic, your tray gets flipped over and your bench kicked over to check underneath and it isn’t righted again.

Simon watches you, uncaring that he should be watching his men. You tilt your head back and look up at him, you aren’t half his size but it’s a close thing. He thinks he likes that, watching the top of your spine disappear into your neck just to look at him, the arch of your throat. Traces his eyes over it, tendons and a vulnerable jugular, pushed out for him.

-

or: Simon is a member of the Night City Police Department and you're a ripper doc. It is his job to catch criminals, but even he can admit, he's taken a different approach for you. CYBERPUNK!AU

TAGS: Dubious Consent, Power Imbalance, Size Kink, Unhealthy Relationships

read here on ao3

Simon’s got a bug in his system that is turning his vision white at the edges when he finally visits you.

Not that he has much of a morality regarding visiting ripperdocs. Sure, they’re criminals and as a member of the NCPD, it is his job to arrest and charge criminal activity, but that was a rigid rule set decades ago. These days, the split between the NCPD and a common gang is that the rules the gang lives by aren’t written into the law. But, allowances are allowed on both sides.

Simon has never cared much to think about it. He sees some other officers have that blank look in their eye after they finish a shift, others who seem to revel in being able to do whatever it is that they want. Simon just does as he’s told. If he’s told to save the woman who survived a cyberpsycho attack then she is tossed over a shoulder and brought to the ambulance. If otherwise, a nod is all he needs to know that there are no witnesses. Finger, gun, trigger. The explosion in the palm of his hand, kicked back and caught. Delivered.

Maybe it has left a screw loose in his head. Not his job to analyse that.

Flouting the law as and when it suits the law is a part of the job. Not one that Simon has much indulged in, he must admit. Any murder, extortion, crime that is involved in the ‘etcetera’ part of his work, has been asked of him. His fellow officers flout the law as and when it suits them. Illegal weapons, killing a perp who gets too mouthy, maybe getting a bit too handsy with a victim. Simon hasn’t been much interested in the ‘benefits’ he can reap with his badge.

However, after a job where the NCPD took down a group of scavengers, Simon’s vision starts getting spotty. He’d had to jack into one of the victims to see if they were still alive. Horrible static, bad channel. They hadn’t been. And seemingly willing to haunt him from the afterlife, leaving a pesky virus in his system.

There are NCPD designated docs that he could go and visit, but the idea of letting one of their starched, freshly pressed hands go worming around in his cyberware makes his skin crawl. Years before his official service, he’d had all his kit installed by a ripperdoc, and he hadn’t had an issue he couldn’t fix himself since.

He spends a few days just trying to deal with it, still able to hit his shots using the noise that all criminals insist on making. He can still mostly see, even a few days in. Maybe not make out features, but people are blurry and morphed shapes that approach him and he puts them down with the same accuracy as before.

It’s not long before his captain pulls him up, though. Forces him to admit the bug, and issues a new command. Sort it out.

Standing in the doorway of your clinic, hidden in his civvies, here he is. Sorting it out.

You’re in the middle of muddling around with some of your equipment, humming to yourself before you must catch sight of him. The blur of your figure jumps, as your face comes into profile. You must be intimidated by the sight of him, something that he registers with a cool type of pleasure. Even not in his uniform and clearly strapped with all of his weapons, he blocks the light coming in from your doorway. You must see the metal of his left arm, nothing human left there. The gas mask that covers half of his face, black and stark against the pale of his skin.

“Hello. How can I help?” you ask, shifting something up your forehead. It distorts ths shape of your head and he realises that they must be massive goggles. Ridiculous, he imagines you must look like the image of the crazy scientist from old stories; you probably have a lab coat on. He wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for your reputation, known as one of the best ripperdocs in Watson, even if you are as cheap as they say.

Ripperdocs are the gray area in Night City. Criminals, yes, but the hassle of actually taking down ripperdocs is more than it’s worth. Not that Simon tends to give a fuck about the politics, or the give and take of crime vs law. He is a bullet, pointed in a direction and shot out.

“I got a bug in my system,” he says, taking another step into your clinic.

You nod, gesture for him to take a seat on your bench. Something out of a dentist’s nightmare, he imagines, but he takes a seat nonetheless. Despite lying down, everything in him is as tense as a straight line. Gaze landed and caught on you, lazy as he watches you drift around your clinic. His vision is filtering your clinic as starkly white, the outline of your light grey. You both may as well be in void, he can only see the outline of objects as they get close to him.

You swing your chair around and pick up a wire. “You cool if I take a look?” you offer, gesturing with the wire. His forearm is already tense with the instinct to catch your hand before you can plug that into the side of his neck. His metal gasmask covers the slot anyway.

A beat, in which you look back at him. He considers making it awkward, telling you no or something. Settles on nodding and watches the way you flounder for a moment when you realise you can’t reach the slot. You’re paused, flatering in the space between the two of you.

“Can you take off your mask?” you ask. Your voice is deliberately light, but he can hear the catch of annoyance underlying your tone. It makes him want to grin, wonders how you look right now, if you’re frowning at him or trying to hide it with a smile.

“No,” he tells you. A beat. You don’t move or attempt to say anything else. Stalemate, when he can’t see how you look. “There’s a catch on the side, you unlatch that to reach the slot.”

You don’t say anything else, and he’s irritated by that. Relying on noise when the other individual doesn’t want to make any noise just leaves him listeless. You reach up, click open a section of his mask and plug in. You turn away, pull what must be a tray towards yourself. You must have plugged him into your laptop, your figure hunched towards it.

You cluck your tongue, goggles shifting across your brow as you gaze at your screen. “This is a nasty one, how’d you catch this?” He decides that’s not relevant and watches you instead. You give him a quick glance, head tilting his way, but decide to shrug off his strange silence. “I’ll just be a moment while I clear it. Seems to have caught onto a lot of your neural sensors, I’m surprised you can still walk.”

His chest doesn’t puff out with pride, but it’s a close thing. You tinker away at it, finally clearing it from his system. The whites that had clouded his vision clears, and he can see you in high definition finally. Can see the pores next to your nose, the frizz around the strap of your goggles as it disappears into your hair. You’re giving him an evaluating look, your eyes intent even as the rest of your body is deliberately loose. You don’t seem to have much chrome on you, thin lines of metal around your eyes, and a scanner on your right palm. He doubts you have much more.

“There we are, good as new,” you tell him, leaning back in your chair with a pleased huff. You give him another long look, but this time he can see the widen and pinprick of your retina. He wonders how he comes up in the scan that you must’ve pulled up the second he was in your doorway. Cop, ex-army, de-commissioned, KIA but here, in the (mostly) flesh. You don’t give any of it away, just shut your laptop and unplug him.

You hadn’t asked for payment upfront, and he imagines just walking out. Wonders if you would scowl at him, if you would expect it, maybe scowl for once. Drop that calm look on your face in exchange for something a bit uglier.

There is a long beat that he draws out to see what you will do, but you only sit patiently. You turn back to your laptop, tapping away on something else now. It’s not fun if you’re not biting, he sends you what he decides must be your standard fee, watches you tilt your head to the side at the chime of money exchanged.

He doesn’t thank you, just gets up and leaves. You didn’t close the latch on the side of his mask, and he considers marching back and making you do it, but decides to save it for another day. He closes it himself for now, and fancies that he can feel the finger print that you left behind on it, evidence.

-

The first warrant he comes back with is legitimate. Cyberpyschos are going mental over the bridge, and they have a faint enough lead that shows some of the cyberware tracing back to yourself. He knocks on your door and watches your face when he presents it to you.

He expects some kind of betrayal, for you to hiss and snap at him. Image of the NCPD, accepting your cyberware one week and raiding your clinic the other.

Instead you stand to the side and watch with him as the other officers dig through your stuff. They’re a bit too enthusiastic, your tray gets flipped over and your bench kicked over to check underneath and it isn’t righted again.

Simon watches you, uncaring that he should be watching his men. You tilt your head back and look up at him, you aren’t half his size but it’s a close thing. He thinks he likes that, watching the top of your spine disappear into your neck just to look at him, the arch of your throat. Traces his eyes over it, tendons and a vulnerable jugular, pushed out for him.

He imagines reaching over and holding his hand over the soft column of your throat. You’ve left it bare, you’d likely barely have any time to start flailing before he’d squeeze with intent and you’d drop, caught in the palm of his hand. If you can sense his thoughts, you don’t give it away, just watch him in return, blinking like a stray cat. Curious but wary.

“You know, Officer Riley, if you wanted to see me again, you didn’t have to bring the official signed document,” you say, gesturing with the hologram that was on the chip he presented to you. It’s slightly flirty, but cautious, like you’re padding around an interrogation room, but you don’t know what he’s done yet.

He doesn’t say anything. You smile back, as if he had responded, and let it lie. Your eyes are sharp, he imagined he could hear the whir as you scanned each of his men as they came in, but your smile and limbs are loose, like you are unaware of everything. Your teeth are blunt, but he imagines the cut of one against the metal of his forearm.

They don’t find anything, and one of his men huffs, giving you a dirty look. You’re asked what you work as and your smile doesn’t slip. “I help those with addiction, this is a place for them to speak, to be treated,” you answer.

“Treated?” one of his men pushes, giving Simon a look. It’s a terrible lie, so bad that Simon reckons they’ll have a hard time proving it’s not true. This is a shitty area, there’s likely 3 gonks in the alleyway outside lying in the gutter, high. You’re also liked enough that they could grab a random off the street and they’d lie for you easily enough.

“Simple brain dances, meditations,” you explain, rolling your head back to give Simon another look. The smile is gone, eyes gone guileless. He squints at it, suspicious and the corner of your mouth gives the faintest twitch. “Honestly, officers, whatever it is that you’re looking for, I’m sure I would not be of any help.”

One of his men steps forward as if to grab you by the arm but Simon barks at him to step back. You haven’t looked away, but you look analysing again, like you had looked at the virus in his system. “We’re done here,” Simon announces and steps back before you can say anything else. Leaves you with your trashed clinic and his warrant on the chip he gave you.

Simon falls asleep later and dreams of you with a scalpel in your hands, and when you cut into him, there is no blood.

-

Simon sees you again, but this time you’re outside. It bristles him, seeing you standing on an open street. Your sides are bare and before he can think about it too much, he’s cut his eyes around every alleyway around you. Making sure that there is no one on the rooftops. Traffic roars past and he grits his teeth. There's been a spike in drive-by shootings, gangs nipping at each other’s heels in a show of territory.

He’s over to you before he can stop himself, a hulking mass at your back, shielding you from the view of the road. He would tell himself that he is doing his duty as an officer, but he has always been a self-interested man, and never cared much to lie to himself. 

You startle as his shadow swallows you up, turning around to blink up at him. You squint at the sight of him. “Officer,” you greet. He grunts in response, which makes you almost roll your eyes.

You turn back to the stall you were standing at, humming over some mods for sale.

The man at the stall is terrified at the introduction of Simon, pale and nodding mindlessly as you start to barter. Simon imagines if he flashes his holster then you would even get the mod for free, a thought which amuses him. You'd likely get even more annoyed, which he does want to see.

As if you can sense his thoughts, you wrap up the exchange quickly and step away, Simon following at your back. “There something you want from me, officer?” You ask, giving him a look over your shoulder. He stares back at you, unyielding.

He’s unsettled suddenly, imagining how often you must be outside of your clinic. He hadn’t thought of it, had only imagined you were constrained in those four walls. The door had shut behind him and he had left you there, a still picture until he would return eventually. Waiting, like a good girl, sat by the door.

“You going home?” he asks you. Tells you.

You give him another look. He wants the crack of your skull in his palms, like the clean split of a watermelon. Wants to parse through your thoughts, wants to have them before they even fully form on your own.

“Yeah, I got what I needed,” you reply. He grunts, follows you until you tilt towards the side streets that lead back to your clinic. Barely any safer, but at least it’s not the open street, and he has his orders to patrol here. He watches you as you disappear around a corner. His gums itch, his tongue flexes in his mouth. He is a wild dog held back with a tattered leash, but he respects it all the same, heads back to his post, but keeps his ear tilted in the direction you went in.

-

He comes back again, and the warrant isn’t even real. He stares you down, wants you to open it, wants the reaction to his baldfaced lie. You take the chip and step aside to let him in. There’s a cut across your brow, purple bruising around it and he can’t look away from it. White in his vision again, he’s starting to suspect you’ve put another virus in his system, infecting him. He blinks and it clears, but the distrust stays like a rotting in his core.

He wants to dig his teeth into the edge of the metal in your palms and peel it up, wants the imprint of his teeth somewhere on you that you couldn’t replace with technology. He thought about you while he fucked his fist in the shower, and you had been beneath him, teary-eyed as he broke you in on his cock. He wants to fuck you until you drop that questioning look in your eye and bare your throat for him again.

“Look at the warrant,” he tells you. You smile up at him, like he is someone charming. He’s not, and he wants the reaction that he has sought out of you.

“Won’t it just say what all of them say?” you point out, leaning back against your desk. “Something that may have something to do with me, and here you are.” He stays silent, stares you down. “Do you want me to be a criminal?”

“You are one,” Simon rebuttals. That’s why he’s here. You need to be, he needs to catch you. He dreamt of chasing you down a network, jumping between wires and static until he caught your hips in his hands and crushed them. His desire for you is entwined with the dichotomy of your identities. He isn’t much interested in forcing you to become a legal law-abiding citizen, as he is pushing the two of you further into the roles that you are in.

“You know what I mean,” you add, pushing off of your desk and stepping towards him. A step away and he reaches his metal hand out, clamps your jaw in his palm. You let him, like you always seem to do, and it’s like pure heroin, lights something up in him.

“Who did this?” he asks, your chin in his palm, his thumb on your eyebrow. Right on the cut. He thinks if it was him that put it there, he might dig in a little, but he wasn’t. It’s hidden from view like this, with the edge of your eyebrow, disappeared behind his ugly, metal thumb.

“Got jumped by some asshole who thought he was hot shit,” you say, easily. The way you say everything, no pit-stop between your brain and your mouth. He wants to dig his tongue into the back of your throat and catch the words there, drink them down.

“Who?” he asks. You shrug and he shakes your jaw like a bad dog. “Who?” he repeats, tone biting. There’s a twitch in your eye at being roughhoused but you don’t step back.

You give a name, raising an eyebrow at him. He vaguely recognises it, some asshole who’s been causing trouble in Watson. Some wannabe gangbanger. He butts his head against yours, too hard to be truly affectionate before he leaves. His gas mask bumps against your cheek, leaves a red mark on your jaw from where his metal fingers dug in.

He shoots the fucker who jumped you, and dumps his body in the river. He watches it float, knowing it’ll be found. When they see the NCPD bullet extracted from his brain, he’ll be dumped back out again. Simon thinks about allowances, thinks about ropes of wire and how they snap. Rubber ripped, coil exposed.

-

He comes to see you again, this time in the middle of the night, wanting to see what you look like when you’ve just woken up. He imagines you’ll be pliant, let him shift you around as he wishes, sleep in your eye and a dream still dragging on your limbs.

You open the door and rub your eyes. Your hair is a little ruffled from your bed, blinking up at him with thick-cottoned eyes. He smiles with teeth beneath his gas mask at how awareness flickers into your eyes before you force a yawn. You’re so quick, which is why it’s always so satisfying to catch you.

“Something I can help with, officer?” you ask, leaning against the doorframe.

“Let me in,” he tells you. Demands it of you. It would be so easy to force his way in, but he likes it when you do as he tells you to.

“You got a warrant for that?” you ask, scrubbing a hand over your jaw. Eye him like he’s your patient again, like you’re finding that virus in his system and cutting it out.

“No,” he replies. Watches your expression, the subtle tick of your brow at his bold-faced honesty.

He wonders if you’ll shut the door on him. Make him peel the metal back to get in anyway. He would, he’s saved up his allowances and he plans on cashing them out on you.

You give him another long look before you step to the side and let him in. The door slides shut with a wheeze and a soft thunk.

“Is there something that you would like to say, Officer Riley,” you say, as if it’s a question but your voice doesn’t lilt at the end. He wants to catalogue every one of your reactions and keep them to himself, squirrelled away, out of the sight of anyone else. That is something beyond liking you, beyond attraction. Simon feels possessive of everything about you, like he might cave someone’s skull in if they saw too much of you.

Simon’s never been too much of a talker, he steps forward and crowds you into the desk that has all of your equipment on it. You blink up at him, perfectly still in the way that prey animals are, when they know they’re caught. The rabbit-like flutter of your heart, caught in the palm of his hand as he cups your neck. Thumb against the soft give just beneath your chin. “Simon,” he tells you, although he knows you already must know. He never told you he was Officer Riley, knows that you must have pried your way into whatever confidential information that you could find on your scan of him.

“Well, that doesn’t feel appropriate, Officer Riley,” you point out. Your calm tone is undermined by the kick of your pulse. His fingers flex, held back with a trained restraint. He likes knowing you’re afraid of him, like that you talk back to him anyway. Like watching a kitten yowl at a beast. Cute.

“Simon,” he repeats, bending his head closer to you, A hunch in his shoulders, and his face still isn’t that close to yours.

A quiet beat. “Simon,” you repeat. Your voice is flat, as if you’re trying to take the enjoyment out of it for him. He huffs with something like amusement. He gets his rocks off here, having his way in your clinic, the feel of your skin against the scar tissue of his human hand. You could be scowling or smiling, and he’d like either once he’s got his fingers in your mouth.

He reaches his other hand up and undoes his gas mask, lets it drop off and sets it on the desk next to your hip. Hoists you up, catches the kick of your leg, steps into the cradle of your thighs. “There we go,” he tells you. Your eyes have taken in the exposed section of his face. Ripped skin, some replaced by chrome, most of it left to heal as is. He knows that he is an ugly sight, a hulking, horrible man, hunched over you. He doesn’t care much what you have to say about it.

He ducks his head and looks you in the eye, even playing ground. You glare back at him and he grins with teeth. He hopes that you bite him, seals his mouth over yours. Your tongue is wet and he tilts your head back, wanting to get into your throat. You bite his tongue and he groans, his other hand pushing your hips into his. He grinds into you, huffing into your mouth. He memorises each point of your teeth, sucks your tongue into his mouth and blinks at you with half-closed eyes.

He pulls back with a wet smack, which leaves your cheeks flushed. “Show me your tits,” he tells you, hands flat on your desk, framing your hips. You don’t move, glaring up at him again. He gives you a lazy look, like you’re boring him now. If anything, the hateful look in your eye has made him even harder, if it were possible. “Now.”

“Such a dick,” you mutter to yourself, reaching for the buttons of your pyjama shirt and slipping it off. There’s a fine tremble in your hands before you still them with a calming breath. He was right on his first impression of you - that you barely have any chrome on you. Your skin is soft looking, no harsh metal on your torso. Restricted to the framing of metal around your eyes, your right palm. 

He smooths his metal hand up your side, watches gooseflesh and vellus hair raise in its wake. Cups one of your breasts in his cold metal palm. Almost coos at the sight of your nipple pebbling as his thumb swipes over it. Restrains himself at the last second, but gives into the urge to give you a mean pinch as retribution for your filthy mouth. You jump, a hitch in your breath. He smirks at you, hopes you can see the chip in his canine. “Behave,” he tells you, reaching for the waistband of your bottoms. Maybe once he’s drunk his fill, he can indulge the bite of your mouth, but his skin feels stretched thin over chrome and bone, and he wants what’s his and he wants it readily.

There’s a jump in your abdomen as his hand dwarves your hip, tugging your pyjama bottoms off and tosses them behind him. He spreads your thighs, peaks at the curls the cover your sex. All of the dolls in Night City are clean shaven. He likes this better, likes that you hadn’t been expecting him, and here he is anyway. He makes a mental reminder to bin all of your razors if he gets a chance.

He parts your sex with two fingers, huffing at the sight. So sweet, even with your strange looks and your filthy mouth. Sweet as sugar down here, your hole fluttering, your clit hidden under its hood like it’s shy. His hands are a cage around the span of your waist, squeezes in warning before he thuds to his knees and flattens his tongue against you. You whimper at the contact, manage to strangle the noise just barely. When he seals his mouth over your clit and sucks, you yowl, thighs kicking out. He squeezes them in place over his shoulders, barely jostled.

He brings one hand down from your waist, lifts his head, a string of saliva connecting him to your clit. It’s out now, throbbing and awake. He spits on it, watches you flinch with it. Spittle drips down, sits on the slick that has gathered at your hole. He feeds you one finger, groans as he watches your flesh part for him, and feels how hot you are inside. You're tight, he can feel muscle clamp down around his index, clinging to him. “Need to relax, sweetheart, or my cock’s gonna break you,” he tells you. It almost feels like a struggle to even feed you one finger, something that leaves a strangled feeling in his chest.

“Do one,” you reply, eloquently. But you don’t kick him off you or anything, so he just gives you another look. He’s being too indulgent with you, he knows. But, it’s better to let a puppy misbehave so they know what’s not tolerated. Training for another day, he lowers his head and licks at the stretch of your pussy around his finger.

He slides his finger in and out of you, gives you another when your panting starts to hitch up, rubbing his thumb over your clit when you whine at the stretch. You start whining out swears, hips jolting forward and then back again as if you want to come, but don’t want him to give it to you.

His third finger is pushing it, he knows because you start clawing at his scalp, sharp little nails. He groans hot onto your clit, which has you shaking. You’re wet with sweat, he can see the shine of it on the curve of your belly, on the strip of skin between your tits.

He slows the pump of his fingers, idly toying your clit with his tongue. He debates if you should be allowed to come. He doesn’t want you knowing that he finds your pissy words amusing, doesn’t want to overly encourage it. However, you haven’t tried to run, or punch him or anything of that ilk. He knows that you can’t help the kick of your hind legs. He pinned you down with teeth at your throat, and he knows that you’re trying so hard to behave. Besides, sinking his cock into you is already going to be a struggle, nevermind if you aren’t loose and pliant for him.

He curls his fingers, sucks your clit, chasing your orgasm like it’s his last meal. A test in his restraint. He thinks that he wants this more than you do. Your lungs stutter, shaking as your hands cradle his head. You’re muttering to yourself, ‘please’ spilling out of you, again and again. Another mean suck and your shriek, back bowing and he feels the clench of your cunt around his fingers.

He fingers you through it, until you are almost sobbing, trying to crawl away from him, but held in place with his metal hand that has slipped to the small of your back. He gives your clit a kiss, mean and hard just to watch it throb before he gets up off his knees with a groan. He;s getting too old to be kneeling on tile like that. He’ll fuck you in a bed next time, if you’re good.

He slides his fingers out of you, unbuttons his trousers. You stare at him, vaguely out of it as you try to catch your breath. Awareness seems to slam back into you as he fishes his cock out. He’s big, he knows this, but the way your eyes widen like he’s pulled a gun on you has him chuckling to himself. “That’s not going to fit,” you tell him, tone dead.

“Enough flirting,” he tells you, catching your legs over his forearms and dragging you to the edge of your counter.

“You’re deranged,” you snark. He’s amused, watching the anger tugging at your scowl, naked beneath him, and your slick caught in the curls between your legs.

He gives the side of your thigh a firm smack, catching the jump of your body. “Watch that mouth, or I’ll put it to use,” he warns you. You glare up at him, but don’t say anything else. A shame, but he does have to have a firm hand with you.

He takes his cock and grinds it against you, parting your curls to get to the hot, wet flesh beneath. He catches the head of his cock against your clit, slicks himself up, knowing that he’ll need it if the greedy suck of your cunt around his fingers is any indication. He pulls back and lines himself up. He understands what you’re saying, the mushroom shaped head dwarves the small hole that flutters as he presses against it lightly. It’s hard to imagine fitting in there, even given that he has tried to prepare you.

You don’t seem to understand how bullheaded Simon is, though. He hasn’t chased anything that he hasn’t caught yet. A tense of his wide bicep and he starts to push into you, metal hand on the base of his cock, the other lightly rubbing your clit in circles to get you to give way.

There’s a moment where he thinks it might not happen, you’re starting to flush, face shining with sweat. Then there’s a shudder and your cunt parts, splits, sweet fruit halving and the head slips inside. You both groan, his head dropping onto your collar as he pushes further into you. You’re slick, he can feel your cunt sucking at him.

You start to whimper as he pushes further into you. His thumb rubs up and down on your clit, insistent even as if you try to cringe away from him. Shallowly thrusts, keeps pushing until you start to give way. You thump your fist against his chest, the impact bouncing off of chrome. He barely acknowledges it, and continues grinding into you.

He bottoms out, groans into your collarbone. “There we go, there we are, sweet girl,” he tells you. The muscles in your back loosen at the praise, feels tense flesh give out into his metal hand.

He pulls fully out and slams into you, and you whine, hands on his shoulders and clinging. “Simon -” you start, but he shifts both his hands onto the back of your knees and pushes them up to your shoulders. He can see the stretch of your cunt around him like this, the spread of your legs for the monstrous size of him. He feels dizzy with it, can’t stop himself from pulling almost all of the way out of you before slamming inside. His eyes almost roll back into his head, and you sob, nails digging into the flesh that he has on his back.

Your knees over his forearms, he braces his hands on your hips and he starts thrusting into you, pleasure zipping up his spine. Breathy sounds are punched out of you each time his thighs slap into yours. There’s a heat rising in him, catching and flaming.

He lifts his torso up, looks down on you. It’s like he thought, the prick of tears in the corner of your eyes, the swollen spread of your pussy around him. He drops one of your legs in favour of flattening his palm against your throat. Your pulse is fat in his palm. He catches it there, feels the ricochet into the meat of his hand.

You clench down on him and he groans, bares his teeth at you. “You like that, huh?” he asks you, flexing his fingers over the tendons of your neck. Your mouth is open, he can see the pink flash of it in your mouth. You try to shake your head but another hard thrust just sends it rocking back instead, another moan gritting through your teeth again.

He digs into you, flexes the metal in his legs to thrust into you hard and fast. Exertion is an old friend, and he takes it into his stride. He is only starting to pant a little, but you’re running hot and have been for a while.

Pleasure is molten hot at his pelvis, and each time his hips meet yours, cock kissing your cervix, his vision whites out at the sides. The virus that you must have planted in him is deteriorating in his system, leaving him almost mindless. He’s chasing you, still, even with you caught between his body and your desk. Breath like steam pouring out of his mouth, saliva pooling under his tongue as he realises that you’re within reach.

You stare up at him, eyes wide. The vision of your head held up by his hand is enough to finish him off. He slams into you a few more times, groaning deep in his chest while you squeak, spills hotly in you, grinds to draw out the spark that glares in his vision until he stills.

A moment of quiet, air thick with sex and sweat. He drops his head against yours with a thunk as your skulls collide. Feels the buzz of your grunt in your throat with his hand still nestled there.

“You got a bed back there?” he asks, temple against yours.

“Not telling you,” you mutter, sounding wrung-out and gutted. He snorts, scoops you up in his arms, stepping back from your desk, holding you up. Still have a smart mouth. But, he has the patience to get that out of you. Not all of it though, but he won’t tell you that.

-

A week later, a missing report for a ripperdoc in Watson hits Simon’s desk. He shreds it, and it sounds like the chime of an allowance, cashed in.

[tpwk-formula1]

Hello, can I please request Charles jealous smut?

AN: Definitely went a bit of a different route than normal but I enjoyed writing this! Started it right before I went to the hospital and was able to finish it tonight! I hope you guys enjoy. I know its a bit shorter but I'm running on melatonin and oxi so bare with me haha

TW: multiple orgasms, unprotected sex, low-key asshole Charles (very beginning)

WC: 1.2K

Y/N POV

"Charles, what's wrong?" I ask for the third time since getting back into the car after leaving the end of year Ferrari dinner.

"God damn it, Y/N! Nothing I said nothing was fucking wrong," Charles snaps at me making me gasp slightly at the out burst.

"Charles Leclerc, do not ever speak to me like that again," I shout at him when we finally get back to the apartment.

I had chosen to keep quiet the rest of the way home, hoping it would help cool the both of us down but when we walked through the door and Charles instantly beelined for our bedroom mumbling to himself I finally snap.

"Then don't ever talk to Carlos Sainz again," Charles snap back while turning around to show he had fire in his eyes.

It finally had clicked for me. Charles was jealous which isn't something that happens often but when it does he tends to turn into the green monster.

"Charles, are you fucking kidding me! Carlos is leaving Ferrari, and I was telling him about how I've enjoyed his time with Ferrari," I shout back at him making Charles roll his eyes before stomping his way into the bedroom and slamming the door. The whole dramatics

A part of me just laughs softly at his childish antics but the other part of me is still raging with anger at the way he had spoken to me.

I make my way into the kitchen grabbing myself something to drink before grabbing the bottle of tequila and taking a shot of the bitter liquor.

When I feel myself cool down just enough I march into out bedroom to find Charles already under the covers ready for bed but instead of him laying in the middle of the bed like normal he's on the very edge as far away from my side as possible.

"I hope Leo pushes you off the bed," I scoff when Charles doesn't even acknowledge me.

"Maybe if you slept in Carlos's bed like you want I would have more room to cuddle with Leo," Charles replies back in a sheepish mumble showing me that he's getting close to crumbling and apologizing.

"It's actually why I came in here. Need to pack an overnight bag," I comment with a smirk on my face but before I can even make it into the closet Charles is up from his spot on the bed and storming towards me before pushing me against the wall.

"You think this is funny?" Charles seethes making me shrug my shoulders.

"I mean ya kind of Charles, we both know damn well I have never and will never be into Carlos, so ya you being jealous and threatened by him is hilarious," I reply back making Charles's eyes narrow slightly at me before I see his should relax slightly.

"I- 'm sorry," Charles mumbles clearly letting the embarrassment sink in.

"I don't know why it upset me so much tonight. I know it's not an excuse but I am sorry for getting jealous and even more sorry for how I spoke to you," Charles admits softly while pulling my face into his hand.

"I don't even care when you get jealous, if anything I find it hot as fuck, but I do care about the way you speak to me," I tell him softly feeling my anger slowly start to ease.

"I know and it was wrong, I really am sorry," Charles says again making me smile softly and nod my head.

"You're forgiven, but I demand 3 orgasms," I say with a smile and a nod.

"Deal," Charles says with a laugh before pulling me in and placing a soft kiss on my lips and pulling me by my waist towards our bed.

When Charles drops me down on the bed he quickly climbs up to join me pulling off his shirt at the same time.

When Charles joins me on the bed he wraps my legs around his hips before he leans down and pulls me in for a kiss while grinding his hard cock down into my dripping core.

"Charles please, I need you," I whine when I can feel my pleasure soaking through my flimsy panties.

Charles finally pulls back and quickly pulls my panties off before wasting no time attaching his mouth to my sensitive clit. He knew it wouldn't take long to throw me over the edge but when I feel him slipping his fingers into my soaked pussy I can't help the loud cry that falls from my lips.

"Fuck! Charlie," I cry when I feel his fingers grazing my G-spot while his lips are still sucking on my clit.

"Cum for me," Charles mumbles into my pussy making me cry out and cum all over his finger.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," I moan in a chant as Charles continues to fuck me through my first orgasm.

"Too much," I cry when I realize Charles isn't letting me come down from my high but rather throwing me right into another orgasm.

"You want three no?" Charles asks with a smirk on his face before speeding his fingers up even more and attaching his mouth back to my overly sensitive clit.

"Charles," I cry out when I feel his start speeding all his actions up clearly with the intentions to bring me to another orgasm.

"Charlie," I cry out when I feel myself fall over the edge again not expecting the orgasm to hit me so fast.

"Fuck, good girl," Charles groans while fingering me harder and letting me squirt all over the bed and his face.

As soon as I started to come down from my high Charles is quickly pulling his boxer off before climbing back into bed and quickly rubbing the tip of his hard leaking cock through my soaked folds before finding my dripping hole and quickly pushing his whole cock deep into my pussy making me whimper the the stretch of his cock.

"Fuck!" Charles and I both groan put at the exact same time while he starts slowly thrusting his hips in and out of my soaked pussy.

It doesn't take long for me to fully adjust to Charles's size and once I do he quickly speeds up his trusts while making sure to hit all the good spots deep within my pussy.

"Fuck Charlie," I cry out when I feel myself crawling closer and closer to another orgasm.

"Fuck, feel so good," Charles cries out as his hips start to shutter a bit letting me know he was getting close to cumming as well.

"Fuck, I'm cumming," I cry out when I feel Charles bring his fingers down to my clit and teasing me until I fall over the edge pulling him with me.

"Fuck," Charles grunts out when I feel his hip shutter one final time before filling my pussy up with his hot cum.

As we are both trying to catch our breath I wrap my arms around his neck pulling him down to rest his body on top of mine.

"Fuck, that was good," I breath out making Charles laugh softly.

"I'm sorry for the way I spoke to you in the car and when we got home," Charles says while slowly slipping his softening cock out of me and laying on his back and pulling me into his chest.

"You're forgiven, I guess," I tease making Charles roll his eyes softly but still pull me in tighter to his chest.

"I love you and thinking about losing you makes me a bit insane," Charles admits making me smile softly. I definitely couldn't imagine my life without him either.

"I love you too," I reply back softly while curling into his side a bit closer.

[barnesafterglow]

the art of missing someone

summary: bucky barnes was a lot, but he would always be yours

pairing: bucky barnes x fem!reader

word count: 3.2k

warnings: brief college then modern au, little bit of angst, don't ask if this is based off personal experience i will cry, smut (MINORS DNI!) [unprotected sex, oral (f receiving)], confessions, idk man i'm just here

a/n: first fic of 2025!! this was a bitch and i still lowkey hate it but it is what it is

main masterlist - i no longer have a taglist but you can follow @theafterglowlibrary for updates!

The thing about Bucky Barnes was, well, he’s kind of an asshole.

In a funny way, really, but an asshole through and through and, for some reason, that did it for you.

It did it for you so much, in fact, that you had been going in circles with him for years now. You met him originally at a party in college; you didn’t know anyone except for your roommate, Natasha, and she introduced you. You immediately gravitated towards him, with his quick wit and sharp opinions, you felt like you could talk to him about anything. He kept close to you the entire night, getting more touchy as the evening dragged on, until the tipping point came.

You were finishing up a game of beer pong where you and Bucky absolutely dominated, and as you sank the last cup, he picked you up, swinging you around before setting you back on your feet. The thing is, he didn’t really let you go. You stood there, in the middle of a crowded party, with his arms around you and it was like everyone else disappeared.

Searching your eyes for permission, he bent his head down and his lips met yours and that was really the beginning of it all. It was unlike any kiss you had ever had, sweet but a little desperate and you craved more.

It became a thing, after that. You would see Bucky at a party, make nice for a few hours, then end up in a closet or empty bedroom making out until someone came to find you.

But more than that, Bucky became your friend. He was who you talked to in your darkest moments, who you sent stupid videos to, everything, and you liked it like that.

That is, until everything got turned on its head.

It happened right after graduation. You had just moved into your own apartment and were waiting for Bucky to come over for movie night. You hadn’t seen each other in a few weeks, the communication very much lacking, but you figured it was just a busy time for both of you and once you got settled, everything would be fine.

That is, until you got a phone call as you closed the microwave door and started the popcorn. Immediately seeing Bucky’s name, you wiped your hands and answered.

“Hey, you almost here?”

There was a moment of silence on the other end, then a sigh.

“I- I don’t know how to say this,” Bucky started, and you found yourself growing nervous. There was nothing you and Bucky couldn’t talk about. Well, almost nothing. “Me and Dot, well, we’ve been talking and…”

His voice trailed off, the line going quiet again. But you were going to make him say it.

“We’re getting back together. She really wants to make it work this time.”

And there it was. Dot was Bucky’s on again-off again for the last several years, stretching back to before you even knew him, and it was a sore spot in your friendship. They had mostly been ���off” in the time you’d known him, save for a few memorable occasions where she wormed her way back into his life for a couple weeks just to break his heart all over again. It was safe to say she was not your favorite person, and you certainly weren’t hers.

“Bucky…” you started, but he cut you off.

“No, I know what you’re thinking.” He actually probably had no clue how evil the thoughts you had were, but you weren’t going to enlighten him. “But it’s serious this time, we’ve been talking since graduation and we’re both ready to give this a real shot, without all the bullshit.”

He sounded so sincere, and he was your best friend, so you took a deep breath and sighed, accepting the fact that if you wanted Bucky in your life, this was just something you would have to deal with.

You could hear his relieved laugh on the other end, and you felt your stomach give an odd lurch, like someone had pulled a carpet out from under you.

“I knew you would understand, thank you.”

“Of course, Buck. Now, what about movie night?”

Another beat of silence, then, just like you knew it would happen:

“I can’t, Dot is coming over.”

You wanted to argue, to scream, to make him feel bad about choosing her over you, but hadn’t he already? So instead, you mumbled a quiet agreement and hung up, not wanting to talk to him any longer. Already, it felt like the beginning of the end.

And you weren’t sure you were ready for that.

-

It didn’t even happen slowly, is the worst part. You didn’t see Bucky that night, or any night for the weeks that followed. It wasn’t until you saw him at the coffee shop by your apartment that you were able to talk to him.

You sat down at his table, no longer interested in placid excuses and apologies, and asked him point blank what was going on.

“I’m just trying to keep Dot happy.”

“By staying away from me?” You were frustrated, sure, but under that really you were just hurt. “Listen, you know I don’t like her, but I would never ask you to choose between us. That’s not fair and if she cared about you like she said she does, then she wouldn’t either.”

“It’s not like that!” His voice was raising, just a little, so you knew he was just being defensive. He must have heard it too because he cleared his throat, voicing going back to normal. “I just don’t want to cause any problems.”

You nodded, grabbing your coffee as you stood up, and headed for the door. If he was willing to let your friendship go, then you weren’t going to fight him on it. So you left, face heated with embarrassment and tears threatening to spill over.

As you passed the threshold to the coffee shop back onto the sidewalk, you pulled your headphones on, ignoring the bustle of the city and Bucky still watching you leave through the window.

-

Adjusting to a life without Bucky was weird, you had to admit, but you did it anyway. The first few weeks were the hardest, when he was the first person you wanted to text during any occasion, but eventually that muscle memory faded until you were reaching out to the people who actually valued you in their life. 

Almost a year passed, and you moved on in all the ways you could. You heard Bucky moved back across the river to Brooklyn and that was about all you knew; your friends avoided the mention of even his name if they could help it, even though you knew at the very least Steve and Natasha still talked to him.

You just hoped he was happy, no matter what he was doing.

It was a cold January night when the notification came through. Wanda had recently convinced you to get on a dating app, even though you were perfectly content being single, thank you, but you had to admit the attention didn’t hurt.

You weren’t expecting much when your phone chimed and you unlocked it without even looking at the notification. Which is how you came face to face with Bucky’s Hinge profile, and a message attached to a picture of you that you knew he had taken saying: hey, you look familiar.

Was that really how he was going to make amends, on a dating app?

You supposed it was kind of funny, in that asshole way of his, and you stared at the message for another moment before responding.

oh, i know you?

if you want to

And, well, that was the thing. You did want to. No matter what he did, no matter how much he hurt you, he was still your best friend. Your Bucky.

Instead of answering, you pulled up a contact you hadn’t opened in months and pressed call. It rang one time before a familiar voice flooded the other end.

“Hey, stranger.”

“Hey, Buck.”

It was a healthy conversation, if you were being honest. Bucky apologized, told you he and Dot were done for good this time and, against your better judgment, you accepted it. You talked for hours after that, catching up on life and reminiscing on old memories, until you checked the time.

“Shit, it’s late,” you said as you put the phone back to your ear. “Almost midnight.”

And then, the words you dreaded but wanted desperately.

“Come over.”

“To Brooklyn? Buck I can’t take the subway this late.”

“I’ll pay for your Uber. Just come over.” You could hear the words he wanted to say, the ones on the tip of his tongue that he just wouldn’t force out.

“Well, I did miss you.” You tried to press it, to make him say it, but he only hummed on the other end.

“So is that a yes?”

You looked down at yourself, cozied up in sweatpants and a hoodie that you were almost entirely sure was Bucky’s, and sighed.

“Yes.”

“Perfect, your Uber will be there in 8 minutes.”

You didn’t have time to wonder how he got your new address - probably one of your mutual friends, maybe he had been keeping more tabs on you than you had on him - and shot up from the couch. With no time to change, you headed to the bathroom and brushed your teeth before taming your hair in the best way you could. As you were stuffing some clothes in an overnight bag - just in case, you told yourself - your phone chimed with a text from Bucky that your Uber had arrived. 

In a whirlwind, you rushed to the car where the driver seemed very put off at having to wait a whole 90 seconds for you to walk four flights of stairs, and slid in.

The whole ride there you were nervous. The thing with Bucky was, despite many drunken hookups, you’d never actually had sex. You weren’t really sure why, just that it had never happened and you had been grateful for it in the long run. You weren’t even sure if it would happen tonight, if he still wanted you like that. Even with all your talking and catching up, you hadn’t been brave enough to ask what this meant.

At nearly 1am, your Uber pulled up outside a beautiful Brooklyn brownstone and, there on the front porch, stood Bucky.

He wrapped you in his arms as he stood in front of you, and it all felt so heartbreakingly familiar you gave in immediately, all the tension leaking from your body at the feeling Bucky gave you. 

“Hey,” he said softly into your hair. “Come on in.”

Bucky’s house was so far from his old college apartment it was frightening, yet it couldn’t have felt more like Bucky. More like home. 

You took in your surroundings, shelves of books and vintage furniture and warm tones, it was almost like stepping back into your own place, the aesthetics were so similar. That was the funny feeling in your chest, you were sure.

Eventually, you ended up on Bucky’s couch with some superhero movie on, not really watching it but still grateful for its background noise to fill the room with each lull in the conversation. Not that there were many, one thing that came easy with Bucky had always been talking - although neither of you did much of that when it really mattered; you figured you could put that out of your mind for now. 

Over the course of the movie, you and Bucky shifted closer together until your thighs were pressed flush and you could feel the air from each of his exaggerated hand movements. It wasn’t until a wayward wave nearly grazed your nose that you truly realized how close you had become, and the sight of Bucky’s eyes shifting subtly to your lips has your self restraint at an all time low.

Fuck it, you thought. You had wanted this for so long, but you also knew you could live without Bucky if everything went tits up. It was a sad thought, that, but you couldn’t let this opportunity go. With every bit of courage you had, you let your hand float up to cup Bucky’s cheek, eyes searching for any sort of hesitation. When you found none, you leaned forward to close the admittedly small gap between your lips.

It was electric. Never had a kiss from someone else ever lit a fire inside you the way one from Bucky did. It started off slow, searching, a chance to reacquaint yourselves. But the second Bucky’s hand reached to tangle in your hair, everything shifted. 

Suddenly you were pulled in Bucky’s lap, legs straddling his, lips desperate for a taste of what you’d missed for so long. It was everything you hadn’t let yourself wish for, and you had a feeling you weren’t going to be missing it again anytime soon.

It wasn’t until your shirts were on the floor and Bucky was making quick work of your clasped bra that you thought maybe it would be smart to just slow down. Just for a second, just to get your bearings. 

An honest to god whine fell from his lips as you pulled back, stopping his hands from undressing you any further. 

“Buck,” you whispered, forehead pressed to his, hands cupping his face as if he was something precious. Though you supposed he was, to you at least. “What’s going on?”

“I just…” His voice trailed off, obviously unsure of himself even though this at least was familiar territory. What was to come next, however, was not. “I can’t go another day without making you mine.”

Your core tightened at the words, vivid memories of what Bucky’s hands and mouth could do; fantasies of what else he could do invaded as well as suddenly talking didn’t seem like a priority anymore. 

“Take me to bed.” And that was all he needed. 

Bucky scooped you up bridal style, carrying you across the threshold of his bedroom and laying you gently on his bed. Your eyes darted around, wanting more of snippets of the life Bucky had built here, but you were quickly distracted by his body covering yours, the weight of him pressed between your thighs was comforting and intoxicating. 

Bucky’s touch proved even more distracting as he shed you of your bra, mouth immediately latching to one nipple, the little nips and sucks enough to drive you crazy on their own, while his hands pinched at the other. He continued his assault until you were dizzy with want, then he trailed down your body with his mouth, not leaving an inch of skin undiscovered until he reached the waistband of your sweatpants.

He pulled them down just an inch, then his eyes shot up to meet yours at the discovery. 

“No underwear?” His voice was deep, husky, almost fucked out if you really thought about it. It was a thrill that your hold on him was so tight that just the thought of you without underwear was enough to leave him reeling just a little bit. 

You batted your eyes innocently. “Someone didn’t give me much warning about my Uber, I apologize.”

The giggle in your voice suggested the insincerity of your apology, but it didn’t deter Bucky as he pulled your pants from your body, mouth and hands still exploring. 

His fingers traced unknown patterns along your inner thighs, gently pushing them apart until you were fully exposed to him. You felt nervous all of a sudden, like you had never been in this position before. You had, of course, but never sober, and never with Bucky looking at you so attentively - like he was going to eat you alive. 

It was intense, having Bucky’s eyes bore into you as he lowered his mouth to your core, starting with gentle kitten licks until your hips were bucking, searching for more friction. One of his hands pinned your hips to the bed, while the other slipped through your folds, spreading spit and slick, before he slipped one inside of you. Then two, then three, until you were begging for release.

All it took was a soft whisper of come on, baby and a crook of Bucky’s fingers and you were falling apart, the intensity of your orgasm whipping through you, and as you floated back down to your senses, Bucky was still going. 

It was feverish, like he couldn’t get enough of your pleasure, and each twitch and moan encouraged him until your hands tangled in his hair, pulling him away from your spent body.

He let out a protest, but you silenced it by pressing your lips to his, moaning at the taste of yourself as his tongue pressed into your mouth. You were lost in the sensation, letting yourself be manhandled until you were once again in Bucky’s lap. Sometime while you had been transported to another planet, his pants had been shed and you were oh so close to getting everything you ever wanted. 

With your mouth still pressed to his, you rolled your hips, feeling the weight of him sliding along you. You kept at it, teasing and grinding until he thrust his hips and there it was; one slight adjustment and the feeling of Bucky stretching you out to was more overwhelming than you could have imagined.

Your hips stilled, as did Bucky’s, letting you adjust to him until you pressed a chaste kiss to his lips, your way of telling him that you were okay, that he could move.

His thrusts started slowly, letting you feel every inch of him until you were begging for more. When his hands stopped roaming to grip your hips tightly, you knew you were done for.

Bucky held you in place, his hips snapping up to fuck into you and all you could do was hold on for the ride. 

You were so overwhelmed you almost missed Bucky’s words, mixed in with his moans, but once you caught them, they were as clear as day:

I missed you.

Over and over, Bucky was repeating the words, interspersed with groans and heavy panting, but your heart restricted regardless 

He missed you. Bucky missed you.

With your thoughts such a jumbled mess, reveling in the fact that this was really happening, your orgasm snuck up on you. One second you were floating on the high of Bucky and the next you were crashing, falling, and he was right there to catch you as you came down.

His hips slowed, stuttering as he spilled into you with one final thrust.

For a moment, the world around you didn’t exist. All there was was this moment, with Bucky’s arms around you and your head buried in his shoulder. Everything came back at once: your harsh breaths, the noise of the TV far away in the living room, and Bucky’s hushed whispers as he held you.

“I missed you so much.” You didn’t respond for a moment, but you lifted your head to meet Bucky’s eyes. In them lay the sincerity of his words, vulnerable now that they weren’t being said in the heat of the moment.

“I missed you too, Buck.”

[myownwholewildworld]

A DARK COMFORT ― a Boston QZ!Joel oneshot

series masterlist | ao3 pairing: Boston QZ!Joel x f!reader. summary: it is that time of the month and Joel helps you by fucking the pain out of you. a/n: joel is the type of man who loves his woman every day of the month and i will die on this hill. this is purely self-indulgent, sorry not sorry? as always, comments, likes and reblogs are much appreciated <3 take care! x warnings: 18+, mdni. pwp honestly. period sex. period blood. use of a menstrual cup. reader is dealing with period pain, cries a fair bit. cock as pain management. cockwarming. unprotected piv. creampie. mind the hefty age gap (reader is 19, joel is 56, oopsie). pet names (kiddo, daddy's girl, little girl, etc). daddy kink. dom!joel, sub!reader. ddlg dynamics. a bit of mean!joel too. a sprinkle of slut shaming. reader is a blank slate with no backstory, has hair. only reader's pov. no use of y/n. w/c: ~2.5k. divider by @\cafekitsune

You squirmed, pain radiating from your womb in all directions, your toes curling under the bedsheets and fingers tight into fists.

This didn’t happen every month, but when it did, it hit you like a motherfucking truck, almost rendering you unconscious. Your period could be a bitch sometimes, making you feel moody and restless. Like now. Your uterus had a mind of her own, wanting to escape and run free into the world. The pain was blinding, disarming you until you were a sobbing ball on Joel’s bed, desperately clutching at your lower belly, begging for this to be over.

But your cramps were not the worst part of it, no.

Your boobs were. They were so sensitive, the light brush of your bra hurt like hell. Heavy and swollen, they were extremely sore to the touch. Your nipples had tautened, buds painfully wrinkling — your areolas were so oversensitive it felt overwhelming. You couldn’t even touch them without tearing up.

“Kiddo?” Joel called from the living room, but you didn’t answer.

You were focusing all your energy on keeping the pain at bay, couldn’t think of anything else right now. So out of it you were, you hadn’t noticed Joel had entered the room until he sat beside you on the mattress.

“What’s wrong?” he husked, the palm of his calloused hand rubbing your back.

Your brows furrowed, the pain from your lower back momentarily chased away by his caress.

“I'm hurting real bad, daddy. My belly, my back, m-my boobs...” You whispered, pouting, trying to stop the tears.

“My little girl is hurting?” he tsked, his hand moving from your lower back to the swell of your ass. “Can’t have that. Let daddy help you, kid.”

Without voicing your agreement, Joel’s fingers hooked around the elastic hem of your pyjama pants and tugged at them whilst curled up on your side.

You writhed a little when your bottoms and underwear were pulled down to your ankles.

“Daddy... I-I’m on my period...” you sniffled, glassy eyes following the motions of his hands as he untangled the clothing from your feet and threw the items to one side.

Joel didn’t even flinch.

“So? I’m still gonna help. C’mere,” Joel palmed his lap.

You quietly obliged, sitting up on bed while pain shot in all directions. It was so intense it caught you off guard, bending over at your waist while you wailed and hugged yourself.

Joel stood up in front of you, scooping you up. Driven by pure instinct, you laced your hands behind his neck, holding on as he walked you both to the bathroom.

Once there, he put you down on the toilet bowl and coaxed your thighs apart whilst kneeling in front of you. You looked at him shyly, trying to press your thighs together, feeling really exposed right now.

“Nuh-uh,” Joel tutted at you, warm palms on your inner thighs as he pulled your legs further apart. “Nothing to be shy about, kiddo.”

As he spoke, his middle finger had found your clit and pressed it gently. But despite the softness of his stroke, it still hurt.

You hissed in pain, hips bucking up as you grabbed his shoulders, your nails leaving bloody crescent moons behind. You shut your eyes and tilted your face to the ceiling, mouthing a silent prayer.

Luckily he didn’t insist, and instead his fingers travelled further down until they found the removal ring of your menstrual cup.

When he started pulling, your eyes shot open, and your fingers wrapped around his wrist to stop him from removing your menstrual cup.

“Joel...” you mumbled.

This felt so intimate, so personal, you didn’t think your hormones could take it.

“Trust me, kiddo. It’s just blood. It’ll make you feel better,” he whispered in reply at the same time he tugged at the removal ring and the cup broke its seal.

The splashing underneath sounded vile, a stream of blood dripping from your hole until the water in the bowl turned a deep shade of red.

You looked away, ashamed right now of your own body. But Joel wouldn’t let you feel the embarrassment, his words reassuring.

“I’m here to take care of you, baby. Even when you’re all moody and giving me the silence treatment for no reason whatsoever,” he said while standing up to grab a towel and wet it under the sink. Joel then crouched down in front of you again and wiped your pussy clean delicately. “You gotta learn to voice your needs, kiddo.”

“I'm sorry I’ve been a bitch to you the whole day, daddy. I just... I don’t know what I need,” you sobbed apologetically, sweeping the tears from your cheeks.

“I’ll show you what you need, so next time you know to ask for it,” he replied matter-of-factly, throwing the cup and the towel in the sink. “Can you walk?”

You nodded and submissively followed him back to the bed. Still standing there, naked from the waist down and a white tee shirt covering your chest, you watched Joel make himself comfortable on the bed.

When he unzipped his jeans, his hard erection sprung free, slapping his lower tummy. Joel scooped up his balls too, spilling over the worn fabric, and then stroked his length a couple of times.

Your pussy gushed, and you were not sure if it was your arousal or period blood. The sudden contraction of your inner walls sent a shiver up to your abdomen, another cramp making your tear up.

“Sit on him,” Joel purred, extending a hand towards you to help you get onto the bed.

“But...” you hesitated, hugging your shoulders with uncertainty. “I’m dirty, daddy.”

“Sit. on. him,” he growled, punctuating every word. “Don't make me repeat myself again.”

Still hesitant, you accepted his hand and jumped onto the bed, turning around on his lap so you were straddling him backwards. Joel’s broad hands rested gently on your hips as the flushed tip of his throbbing dick flicked your clit. You bit down your bottom lip, eyelids brimming with tears again. It was just too much, so your pussy hovered over his manhood indecisively.

“You’re not dirty, little girl. It’s blood, ain’t nothing wrong with that,” he croaked, kissing your neck.

Joel guided your hips, wiggling them a bit until his cockhead hitched in your wet entrance. Slowly he pushed you down his shaft, your cunt eagerly swallowing him whole until he was fully seated inside you, his balls kissing your swollen pussy lips.

Your walls burnt as they parted to house him, a sting of pain shooting up your body again as you gripped Joel’s forearms for support. You sobbed quietly, feeling full to the brim.

“Relax, kiddo,” Joel muttered, peppering your neck with kisses.

You took in a big breath and leaned your back against his chest. Joel didn’t move at all, letting you get used to the intrusion until you finally calmed down, the pain dissipating with every passing second. A few minutes later as you cockwarmed him, your cramps were completely gone.

Joel’s hands roamed your body, massaging your flesh gently — your thighs, your hips, your lower belly. He was so delicate but still put the right amount of pressure on your muscles to slacken.

You let go of a throaty sigh when his palm pressed against your lower belly and remained there for what seemed to be a long time. The added pressure on your womb felt good, but felt even better because now the presence of his thudding dick in your pussy was staggering. The only thing you could think about.

You circled your hips, grinding on him, but his hands were quick to clasp on your hips and stop you right in your tracks.

“I said relax, don’t move,” he ordered from behind you.

You did as told, squirming a little but remaining still.

After a while, the dull ache in your womb was gone, but the one on your breasts and nipples became more prominent. Joel felt your restlessness and without telling him what you needed of him, both of his hands drifted up your frame and below the tee shirt until they gently cupped your underboobs.

You whimpered when the textile of your bra brushed harshly against your sensitive buttons.

“Get rid of the bra and the tee shirt, they are not doing you any good, sweetheart. The fabric is just gonna hurt your pretty nipples even more,” he advised, tone raspy.

Leaning forward a bit, you removed your tee shirt and the bra quickly followed after that, flying across the room as you slouched back again against him. The moment you did, Joel began massaging your boobs, gentle but firm squeezes moulding your flesh but completely avoiding the nipples.

At first, it hurt too, your prickly buds so painful it was almost unbearable. You whined again, but that didn’t stop Joel, who kept on kneading your breasts, working and easing the swell of your bosom slowly but steadily.

“M-my nipples hurt, Joel… It’s like they are on fire… It’s too much…” you sobbed, resting the back of your head on his shoulder, little breaths reaching your lungs as you hiccupped.

“They are so sensitive, aren’t they?” You nodded, eyes shut and wet. “I know, kiddo, I know. You poor little thing…”

His tone wasn’t mocking but tinged with worry. He did care about you, otherwise Joel wouldn’t be taking all this time to ease your pain, to soothe you. And it was working, because his cock, deeply furrowed inside you, was keeping the cramps away.

“I’m gonna touch them, alright? Might hurt a little first, but the pain will go. Okay?” he husked and you shook your head yes. “Daddy’s girl is so good, so strong. Just push through the first sting of pain and you’ll be fine.”

The moment his thumbs flicked your nipples, you hummed in pain, squeezing your eyes shut, your nose wrinkling with effort as your top teeth sank into your bottom lip. You even stopped breathing as Joel pressed gentle circles on your sensitive, taut nubs.

“J-Joel… God… They hurt so bad… Please make it stop,” you sobbed and begged, tears running down your warm cheeks.

“Shhh, it’s alright… Deep breaths, baby,” he coached you by inhaling and exhaling loudly so you would follow his lead. “Attagirl, keep going.”

When your breathing stabilised, Joel covered both of your nipples with his palms, fingers gently digging in your meat as his hands moved in circles, rubbing your painful buttons until they were warmed up and soft again. You sighed heavily, the pain slowly disappearing whilst his rough palms smothered your nipples.

Finally, you had no pain at all. Your womb felt tight warming his girthy cock, squeezing him sweetly, and your boobs, although still swollen, were like putty while Joel cradled them. With the pain gone, now there was room for something else — a warm pulsing in your core, commending you to look for the final release that would wipe out any background ache.

“You’re ready now, aren’tcha?” Joel gritted out, biting your shoulder as his cock pulsated between your vibrating walls. “My little bitch’s in heat. This is how you deal with it, kiddo. You just need my cock ruining your pussy and then you’ll feel better.”

You squirmed in agreement, moving your hips in circles on his lap. Suddenly your skin was extremely hot to the touch and your pussy was clamping down around his girth.

“Daddy, please,” you implored, your clit burning with desire now.

“I don’t appreciate how moody you’ve been today, so much fucking attitude. You gotta behave better than this,” he scolded you, gripping your breasts tighter. “I’m letting it go this one time, but next I won’t be as understanding. Got it?”

All the gentleness he had showered you with until now was gone, anger simmering under the surface of his skin. You could feel it irradiating from him.

You were so overwhelmed, so horny now, you couldn’t reply.

“Use your words, kiddo. I want to hear you apologise,” he snarled, one hand releasing your boob to travel down your chest until it reached your puffy pussy. Joel rubbed your clit and you screamed, seeing stars behind your eyes. “Speak.”

“Yes, daddy. I’m sorry. I’m so s-sorry. I’ll behave better next time I’m in heat. Please forgive me,” you beseeched, feral with lust.

“Good girl,” his fingers left your clit and clutched your unattended breast again. “Now bounce on me. Make me come.”

You didn’t need any further instructions. With the push of your knees, you began bouncing on him while Joel cradled your breasts. Your drenched pussy was so wet with your arousal and your own blood, the squelching sounds lasciviously filled the room. You jumped on his shaft as fast as you could, his mushroom head kissing your cervix every single time, sending you over the edge to the point where your eyes were constantly rolled back and your agape mouth drooled.

The whole thing felt sinful, but so damn good. So good, a few minutes later you were both coming. Joel’s warm spent filled your pussy to the brim as he moaned behind you uncontrollably, your cunt clenching around his circumference to milk him completely dry. Your own climax hit you like a brick wall as you fell to the abyss of your pleasure, heaving like a maniac.

Joel’s rugged breathing told you you had met his expectations, his hands gently roaming your body again. When you came down from your high, you leaned forward to unplug your gushing opening, but Joel’s hands on your hips stopped you from doing so.

“No, kiddo. Stay where you are. You don’t want the pain to come back, do you?”

“But the blood…” you trailed off, looking down to where you were joint like mating dogs.

Dark blood pooled on his empty nuts, mixed with the slick of your shared arousal. A red trickle ran down his thighs, staining the bedsheets underneath. Now that the haze of pleasure had dissolved, it felt ungodly, dirty, shameful even.

“How many times do I need to say it? Don’t worry about the fucking blood,” he sneered, slightly exasperated with you. But you couldn’t help yourself.

Your bottom lip trembled with his reprimand, the hormones rushing through your system with free will.

Joel sighed, hugging you until your back was resting on his chest again, his cock still plugging your opening.

“Don’t cry. Sorry, kiddo,” Joel nuzzled your cheek before kissing it. “I know this is your first time with period sex, but it’s been good, hasn’t it?” You nodded shyly, looking at him askance. “If you ain’t hurting now and feel satisfied, don’t worry about anything else.”

His words calmed you again. Joel was right. It’d been good — more than good, if you were to be true to yourself. The pain you had been suffering for hours was now a ghost of the past all thanks to Joel.

“Thank you, daddy,” you hushed, tilting your head in an invitation.

Joel bowed down, his tongue meeting yours, wrestling until you were out of breath. When the kiss broke, you giggled.

“Don’t mention it, kiddo,” Joel replied, his hands finding your breasts again to massage them as you cockwarmed him.

[bomber-grl]

— Robin is Totally Cooler

Pairing(s): Damian Wayne x Gn!Red Hood Fan!Reader

Word Count: 1456

-

You and Damian were lounging around after school. It was one of the rare chances you got to hang out at Wayne Manor and spend time with him. You were sprawled out on the floor near a beanbag in his room, and he was on his bed, chilling with Titus. You were scrolling through your phone absentmindedly, while Damian worked on some school assignments in the background.

It was nice—quiet. You didn't always need to be talking to enjoy each other's company. But then, as you were mindlessly scrolling through TikTok, you stumbled upon an edit of Red Hood. You were, without a doubt, one of Red Hood’s biggest fans. You couldn’t lie, the guy was definitely hot—even with that mask (maybe especially with it). There was something about him that was just... Well, y’know. And, of course, you couldn’t ignore how, despite his connection to Batman and the Batfamily, Red Hood always seemed to be working on his own terms. He definitely had a different way of fighting crime, and there was something so intriguing about that.

Damian seemed to notice the audio looping on your phone, and after a second, he sat up, prompting Titus to leave the room (sadly). "Let me guess," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "An edit of your latest celebrity crush?"

He raised an eyebrow, already knowing the answer. It wasn’t like he didn’t know you well enough at this point to predict what you were up to. To be fair, Damian didn’t really care about your celebrity or fictional crushes. He was used to you being... Well, you.

You laughed awkwardly and nodded, showing him the screen. The video was a montage of Red Hood clips, ranging from news footage to civilian-captured videos of him taking down bad guys with his signature ruthless style. As soon as Damian saw the screen, though, his face immediately dropped—and you weren’t exaggerating when you thought it soured so much, it was like you’d just mentioned his worst enemy.

“Really?” Damian’s tone was sharp, his eyes narrowing as he looked at the screen. “Him? Of all the—” He cut himself off with a frustrated sigh, clearly trying to hold back his irritation.

You raised an eyebrow, a little confused by his reaction. “What’s wrong with Red Hood? He’s amazing” You grinned, scrolling through more clips, shamelessly gushing about how cool and badass Red Hood was.

Damian scoffed and threw himself back onto his bed, arms folded across his chest, a scowl on his face. “He’s reckless. Uncontrolled. And he’s basically a criminal, for God’s sake.”

You shrugged, still not seeing the issue. “He’s just—he’s different. I mean, who else is out there giving Gotham the middle finger and still getting the job done? He’s like... a darker Batman. That’s so cool.”

Damian, clearly bothered by the way you were swooning over his older brother, gritted his teeth. “Robin is cooler. He’s disciplined, strategic. And he doesn’t go around causing chaos like Red Hood.”

You stared at him, deadpan. “Are you… Are you a Robin fanboy or something?” You couldn’t help the teasing tone that slipped into your voice.

Damian flushed, but it was hard to tell if it was out of annoyance or embarrassment. He scoffed, turning away from you. “I’m not a fanboy. I’m just saying Robin is superior. His methods are better. More effective.”

Before you could respond with something snarky, there was a knock on the door. “Dinner time!” Duke’s voice filtered in from the hallway.

You sighed and set your phone aside, standing up. “Guess we can argue about this later.” You shot Damian a playful smile, then made your way down the hallway to the dining room, your heart still racing from your silly teasing.

Downstairs, the atmosphere was warm, and the table was full. Tim, Dick, Jason, and Stephanie were all gathered around, chatting and eating. Damian followed you in, still sulking a little, and sat down, glaring daggers at anyone who looked at him. Very much leaving everyone confused.

It wasn’t long before you casually brought up the subject again. “So, Damian hates Red Hood. Isn’t that weird? I mean, the guy’s a huge badass, and he can’t stand him.”

Duke, who was sitting next to you, raised an eyebrow. “Why does he hate him so much?”

You smirked. “Because he’s jealous,” you teased, leaning into the statement. “He knows I love Red Hood. You know, I think it’s funny that he gets all jealous about it.”

Tim almost choked on his food as he tried not to laugh, his face turning red. Dick just looked at Damian with an amused smile. Even Jason seemed to lean into the whole thing. “I mean, Red Hood is way cooler than Robin anyway,” Jason said with a smirk as if the words were the most natural thing in the world.

Damian’s face turned into a perfect storm cloud, eyes rolling back as he muttered under his breath. “Ridiculous.”

“Hey,” Jason said, leaning forward. “I’m just saying, Red Hood’s got the whole ‘gritty anti-hero’ vibe going on. The whole ‘I don’t follow rules, I make my own’ thing? Much cooler than Robin’s boy scout routine.”

Damian let out a loud exhale, slouching in his chair as if the conversation was physically exhausting him. “You’re all insufferable.”

Dinner carried on, but the teasing didn’t stop. It was all in good fun, and it made the meal more entertaining for everyone else—except, of course, Damian, who barely touched his food. You were pretty sure he was planning out a murder plan for everyone there.

-

A few weeks later, things hadn’t changed much. You were on your way to school with Damian, and Alfred behind the wheel of the car, driving through the streets of Gotham. Damian had been going off for what felt like hours about how "unusual" you were for being so obsessed with Red Hood.

“Do you even know how many teens have crushes on Robin?” he asked, voice dripping with frustration as he stared out the window. “Why can’t you be normal and like him?”

You turned to him with an innocent look. “I mean, I do think Robin’s cool, but Red Hood? Way more interesting. You know, with the whole redemption arc and the fact that he’s just—” You shrugged. “I dunno, cooler?”

Damian looked like he was about to say something, but Alfred chuckled softly from the front. “Master Damian, I don’t believe normal is quite in your vocabulary, is it?” His voice was playful, though he clearly wasn’t trying to get involved in the sibling squabble.

Damian shot a glare at Alfred, but the older man just smiled and mindfully kept his eyes on the road.

You couldn’t resist the urge to tease him a little more. “Besides, I’m way more into Red Hood than Robin. I’d never choose between you and Red Hood, though. I mean, we both know who I’d choose.” You gave Damian a nudge, knowing it would get under his skin.

-

Later that afternoon, you found yourself back at Wayne Manor, idly chatting with Duke while Damian was nowhere to be found. You made your way up the stairs and just as you stepped into his room, the door slammed closed with Damian standing in front of you, wearing Robins's signature hood and mask.

You blinked, a little confused. “Uh... what’s going on?”

Damian froze, caught off guard for a split second before the mask came off, revealing the smirk on his face. “Surprised?”

It only took you a moment before the realization hit you like a freight train. “Wait... are you—” You gestured at his outfit, the familiarity of it dawning on you.

Damian’s eyes narrowed, but you interrupted him with a smile. “Robin?”

Damian’s face twisted into a slightly amused but still annoyed expression. “Obviously.”

You were silent for a moment, your brain catching up. “So... Robin is you?”

Damian just stared at you, his expression unreadable for a split second before he sighed. “Yes. But don’t get too excited. I'm the coolest, I know.”

You blinked and smirked. “Well, well. I still like Red Hood better, though.”

Damian groaned in frustration, but you added quickly, “But I like you more than him.”

Damian seemed flustered for just a moment before he huffed. “You’re impossible.”

And, despite all the teasing and arguments, you couldn’t help but laugh. Maybe Damian had a bit more in common with Red Hood than he was willing to admit after all.

-

Word spread quickly about Damian’s jealousy pushing him to reveal his secret identity to you, and before long, he became the target of relentless teasing. Even Bruce couldn't help but give him a few scolds for being so reckless.

[lightseoul]

CHAPTER 9 | ALL OUT OF LUCK

w.c. 7.4k (hoo boy. i did say i would end this with a bang. i wrote and edited this in two days.)

tags. minors dni. fem!reader, pro-hero!katsuki, aged-up (26), lots of cussing, mentions of canon-typical violence, mentions of food, mentions of physical & mental health issues, explicit...themes. y'all see for yourselves what those are

a/n. and here we are. a little over two months since i posted the masterlist in the hopes that it would motivate me to see this series through, and i actually did it!!! i poured my heart and soul into this chapter, specifically, so i hope you enjoy it and find it a great way to wrap up the story. see the end for a message <3

links. masterlist, ao3

You shoot up at the sound of a honk—a blaring sound that you think can only be from one of those humongous passenger buses that circle the city.

Except they never really pass by your neighborhood—your apartment being located in the outer peripheries of Musutafu.

So why, all of a sudden, are you hearing these noises?

Wasn’t it just recently that you shot up awake like this?

Clenching your eyes back closed, you shake your head vigorously. The dull thumping that stretches from your parietal straight to your frontal lobe is unmistakable, such is the dryness of your throat. You look to your left, letting out a sigh of relief when you see a glass of water on the nightstand. You quickly grab it and take a sip, finally eyeing your surroundings as you do so.

The room is dim—the city lights emanating through the window the only source of illumination within the four walls, enough to cast a faint glow on what you’re now sure is Bakugou’s bedroom. You’ve only been here one night, but the plush mattress beneath you feels familiar, and you’re a hundred percent sure that’s your suitcase in the corner right next to his wardrobe. The wardrobe where he retrieved the futon…last night?

You shift to be on all fours, wincing to a halt when your back screams in protest at the motion. You try to rotate your neck next, grateful when all you feel is a slight strain and a sting—like you’ve got some bruising at the front. The rest of your body seems to be working alright—fatigued, yes, but not enough to cause you a new wave of pain with every maneuver.

And so with that thought, you slowly crawl toward the foot of the bed, right until you catch a glimpse of the said futon. It’s somewhat undone—arranged exactly how you think Bakugou left it the morning of the mission. Well, how you two left it. You remember accidentally stepping on it once or twice while trying not to invade Bakugou’s personal space as you simultaneously got ready, making a mental note to fix it before you left.

You guess you never got to. Apparently, neither did Bakugou.

Which only means one thing.

It’s still D-Day.

Only then do the events from earlier today come flooding at you, and you find yourself stumbling out the door, barefoot and maybe still a little too out of it to be rushing like this.

Regardless, you burst out of the room—fully expecting the twins to be there—although you’re not hit with a sobering visual confirmation, nor are you hit with a menacing glare followed by a ripping out of your tracker, which you note has already disappeared from its spot in the middle of your chest.

Instead, what hits you is the heady yet comforting smell of ramen broth.

You glance in the direction of the kitchen, and sure enough, Bakugou’s standing there—decked out in lounge clothes under an apron with a ladle in one hand—staring at you, surprised.

“Hey,” he finally gets out after a beat of immobility, before facing back toward the stove and turning down the heat. “You’re awake.”

You nod, although he doesn’t see it with his back turned against you. You pad toward the kitchen as quietly as you can, stopping a few feet away from him where he looks so normal, like he didn’t just wrestle a murderer a couple of hours ago.

What the hell is going on?

Bakugou glances over his shoulder, eyebrows raised in question—and it just dawns on you that you said that last bit out loud—before spinning to fully face you again.

“You had an anxiety attack,” he says as a matter of factly, and you feel yourself flame. “They told me to take you home after they did first aid on the both of us.”

So, he got hurt, too.

You tamp down the shame from your breakdown and note the bandage on his cheek, right where his scar is.

Still, it’s not exactly the two of you who you’re most concerned about right now…

You gulp, willing yourself to hold Bakugou’s gaze. “What about Masaki?” you ask. “D-did he—make it?”

At that, Bakugou sighs, and it’s enough for you to know the answer. Despite yourself, you feel a surge of guilt wash over your body.

“He was rushed to the hospital,” the pro-hero explains, solemn, “But he didn’t make it.”

And when you don’t say anything: “It’s not your fault, Y/N. You didn’t kill him,” he huffs, “I did.”

You shake your head decisively, before tossing him a stern look. “You did what you had to do.”

Bakugou stares at you for a second, an inexplicable expression on his face, although you don’t get to study it further because you look away first. “Did you know he was a consul?” you inquire, suddenly feeling the obligation to change the topic.

Bakugou turns, once again busying himself with the stove. “I heard.”

You pull a stool from underneath the kitchen island and hoist yourself up into it. “Explains why he was never around in the headquarters.”

“Explains why he was never home, either,” he piles on.

You feel your brows furrow. “What do you mean?”

“Apparently, he just went through a divorce and lost custody of his daughters to his ex-wife, who that guy Hiroto described to have a pretty weak quirk. Said the man always had supremacist views, but changed for the worst when the woman filed a case against him.”

Huh.

“Speaking of quirks,” Bakugou continues, stirring the broth, “I’m sure you figured it out, but his was called retaliate. He could absorb attacks, especially explosions, and redirect them with—”

“Double the power, yeah,” you finish for him.

“Quadruple if he’s feeling confident—an ironic clause for a relatively meek guy like him,” Bakugou remarks. “Explains why he still took you with him despite suspecting we were doing something behind his back. He needed your luck and was planning to blackmail you into boosting him.”

That makes you frown. “But they didn’t figure out it was actually manipulation, did they? He mentioned luck to me, too. In the car, before we went into the building.”

“No, they didn’t,” comes Bakugou’s cool response. “Masaki and the rest still thought it was luck, just that you may have been using it beyond their instruction. Plus, at that point, they already had my bombs, so they could easily dispose of me and use my life as leverage to get you to do what they said.”

Bakugou reaches for one of the condiments in the rack, lightly shaking the contents out of the container and into the soup. “Explains why they told me last night to follow suit and get dressed in normal clothes. Didn’t matter that I’d be easily identified in them—I was never gonna get to the Prime Minister’s Office anyway.”

That fucking reminds you. “Where did that bastard even take you?”

At that, Bakugou stiffens. “An industrial-grade refrigerator,” he mutters.

“What?”

“You heard me,” he spews, perhaps a bit miffed. You can tell he’s not enjoying talking about this. “I was bolted in, and Kouki disappeared before I could wrangle him into letting me out.”

You can only gawk at him as he drawls on. “Took me a while to gather enough sweat for one massive blow to break the lock.”

“H-how?” you manage to croak out.

“Push-ups,” he answers curtly, still stirring. “I lost count at around 300.”

He takes your stupefied silence as a sign to continue.

“After that, I figured the old geezer couldn’t have gotten me too far—otherwise, he would’ve depleted his capacity to conduct mass teleportation if things went south for them. I boosted myself up to get an aerial view and find a landmark, and got going when I did.”

“Were you still wearing your tracker?” you can’t help but probe.

“I had to,” Bakugou responds, “If I wanted him to come to me. When he found out I was on the move, he teleported to where I was—probably to teleport me to my death, leverage be damned—but I was faster, and he couldn’t catch up.”

“I blasted him unconscious before he could retreat and bring everyone else with him,” Bakugou says as he takes what looks to be a lid and puts it over the pot, leaving a small gap for the steam to come out. “He’s in custody now. Shitty hair’s talking to him as we speak.”

At the mention of the redhead’s nickname, you straighten up. “How is he? And Sero?” you say so quickly you almost stumble over your words, “Are they okay?”

“Yeah,” comes his prompt retort, and you find your shoulders sagging in relief. “The twins put up a fight, but they eventually had them wrapped in Sero’s tape and chased you to the elevator. But then somebody pulled the fire alarm and they got stuck.”

“It was Masaki,” you swiftly supply. “He did it just as he hauled me out of the elevator.”

Again, you watch as Bakugou visibly tenses, but he doesn’t say anything. At least, for a moment, before he sighs.

“Yeah, well, they couldn’t get out for a while because the system needed manual operation to send the elevator back to ground floor, and nobody was around to do it. They couldn’t smash their way out of there, either. Could’ve caused the entire thing to crash down.”

“Wasn’t there any other hero besides them?”

“No,” Bakugou says almost regrettably as he takes the bowl of uncooked noodles into his hands. “They thought I’d be there just as planned, so they assigned the rest of the pro-heroes involved to the rest of the schools.”

You hum in acknowledgment. “I guess that explains why they went for the twins first instead of Masaki. Maybe they thought you’d be there to handle him?”

“No, they had eyes on you,” he corrects, just as he pours the noodles into the soup. “Shitty hair said they prioritized the two because they seemed stronger than Masaki. His packing that much fucking strength came as a shock to everyone.”

You chuckle dryly. “Even you, right?”

He grunts, unamused. “Even me.”

You let yourself sit in silence as Bakugou continues to tend to what he’s cooking. It goes on like this for a little while, before it hits you belatedly.

“Did anyone else get hurt?” you suddenly ask, “You know, aside from Masaki?”

“None, unless you count property damage,” he quips, and you let out a half-hearted laugh. You can hear him smirking when he adds: “Luckily, Kirishima and the others had enough foresight to evacuate the place entirely.”

“I’m guessing you know how they did it?”

At that, Bakugou nods. “…Although, I can’t say I agree with it.”

You cock your head to the side. “What do you mean?”

“They used government surveillance information to send targeted texts to the potential victims—parents on behalf of the students, staff, employees,” he reveals, voice low. “Something about a suspension that they needed to be quiet about for their safety. Except the guards, who had to be there at the entrance.”

“But—”

“That would’ve meant Masaki and the twins would receive the message, too, I know,” he interjects. “Good thing I managed to put their names on that piece of paper. Otherwise, we would’ve been fucked.”

“No shit,” is the only thing you can mumble, head reeling from the revelation just now.

“…We barely made it, huh?” he rejoins, quiet.

“Yeah…” you reply.

A pause.

Then—

“I’m sorry,” you blurt out of the blue, startling Bakugou. You refuse to meet his gaze, though, even as you continue. “For losing it back there.”

At that, Bakugou whips to look at you, and you have no choice but to look up at him. “Hah?”

“I didn’t think I’d use everything up, and it’s been so long since I last depleted my quirk like that,” is the only thing you can get out.

You let your eyes fall to your enjoined hands in front of you. “I couldn’t control myself. I’m…sorry.”

Another pause.

“Tsk.”

Your eyes widen at the unexpected sound, and despite yourself, you find your line of vision going back to Bakugou, who’s now scowling at you.

“The only thing you should be sorry for is that unnecessary as shit apology,” he spits, before turning back to the stove. “Now, come on. Help me with the plates.”

You do just as Bakugou says and assist him.

You end up situating the placemats and cutlery just as he finished up the dish, serving it not even a few minutes later in a luxurious-looking, suspiciously Todoroki-esque bowl that you’re sure costs more than a well-functioning arm.

You try to ignore it as you navigate yourself in his kitchen, although it eventually becomes apparent that a peculiar kind of tension lingers in the air still, but you figure it’s not entirely unfathomable.

It’s only been a few hours, after all.

You repeat this like an incantation in your head—again and again until it somehow sticks—even as you quietly say your thanks and dig in. Not one word is uttered in between spoonfuls of food, the silence reminiscent of yesterday’s dinner—even though yesterday now feels like a whole month ago.

At least, that’s what you were thinking, until a booming voice erupts throughout the room, entirely juxtaposing the earlier stillness. You startle, then ease up when you realize it’s All Might’s, and that it’s merely a ringtone. Bakugou scrambles to fetch his phone from the island, although whatever urgency he had just now goes out the window when he sees the caller ID.

“It’s Asahi,” he grumbles.

You hurriedly swallow your noodles. “Aren’t you gonna answer that?”

Bakugou glares at his phone for another second before shaking his head and turning it off, walking back toward you.

“Isn’t he gonna get mad?” you ask just as he reseats himself.

“We’ve been on duty for over two weeks,” Bakugou snarls, picking back up his chopsticks. “He can kindly go fuck himself.”

That makes you snort, which earns you a smirk, although his face falls almost immediately after.

You swallow the discomfort that shoots to your throat at the sight of it.

You try not to get caught, but you secretly sneak glances for the rest of the meal, and only by the end of it do you notice that his hair’s gone back to its normal, unruly state—probably due to a shower that he took after you got home.

That, and there’s definitely something weighing him down.

You just don’t know what.

You don’t attempt to comment on it as you help him clean up the plates, or even as you start drying the dishes after he washes them beside you. He doesn’t try to start a conversation, either, focus seemingly trained solely on the task in front of him, although you know better than to believe what your eyes are telling you.

It’s that thought that ultimately emboldens you to speak up a few minutes in.

You clear your throat, eyeing him as subtly as you can. “…Something on your mind?”

To your dismay, he doesn’t answer you, only passing a plate without sparing you a single glance.

Well, then.

Despite yourself, you feel yourself deflate at his snubbing.

You had your doubts about coming forward and asking him, although that’s when the memories of the things you had to go through together came in and you thought he’d trust you enough to share—but you guess you’re getting ahead of yourself, because there’s no way he’d—

“You used your quirk on me, didn’t you?

You freeze, all thoughts wiped out from your brain.

You feel his gaze on the side of your face, but you don’t dare turn to look at him, nor do you open your mouth.

He turns away, nodding. “I knew it.”

Fuck this.

“People don’t normally notice—” you blurt, and he shifts to face you again, “—when I use it on them.”

You scratch at your cheek, feeling weirdly restless. “I think it’s only because you’re perceptive to begin with, and because you know about me and what I can do.”

“Why’d you do it?” is his immediate response, catching you off guard. You splutter, although—to your chagrin—he only raises an eyebrow at you, expression nothing less than expectant.

What the hell are you supposed to say other than the truth, then?

“Fine,” you hiss, pulling your lips into a thin line. “It was because I noticed you were getting frantic.”

At that, Bakugou’s eye twitches. “You calling me sloppy?”

“No!” you exclaim, then backtrack. “I was just—I just did what my instincts told me…”

And really, you did.

That’s all you could’ve done in that situation, for a person with your experience.

And you’re about to expound on that to a skeptical Bakugou when, to your surprise, he nods.

“Good call,” he mutters so silently, but you hear it anyway, and your eyes widen.

You must be gaping at him like he just said you are the greatest person to have ever graced the earth because he immediately looks away, embarrassed, a sudsy bowl still in hand.

“It’s stupid,” he continues, and you barely clock him having resorted to aggressively toeing his house slippers—the pair you bought for him. “I’ve never really lost my cool like that before.”

Now, that you’re not sure of.

Still, you force out a decent reaction.

“R-really?”

You’re instantly granted with a side-eye. “Don’t sound so fucking shocked.”

“It’s not that—” you choke, “It’s just that—”

“I have a short temper, I know. Sue me,” he spews, shutting you up.

“But I never let that get in the way of my work,” Bakugou pushes, suddenly serious. “Never.”

You frown, placing the plate you’ve been holding in the drying rack. “Well, they did fool us by separating us last minute,” you offer just as you look back at him, “I’d be pissed, too, getting betrayed like that.”

Bakugou doesn’t say anything in reply, opting to stare at you—borderline scowling—for what feels like a minute. He eventually sighs, and you find yourself mentally sighing at the break in eye contact as he puts down the dish he was in the middle of washing.

But then he turns to you again, face blank, and says the strangest thing.

“Tell me. Are you playing with my emotions right now?”

“What?” you cry, “No! Why would you even—”

You’re cut off when—without warning—Bakugou coaxes the towel from your hand and takes a step close, invading your space.

“Good,” he rumbles, voice low and gruff as he leans even closer. “Just wanted to make sure.”

That’s all the warning he gives you before he grabs your neck and dives in, pressing his lips firmly against yours. You instantly shut down at the contact, your body going rigid against his just like when he kissed you out of the blue this morning. But unlike earlier today, you don’t relax, and he must’ve sensed it, because he quickly pulls away, the hand that was just on your nape now resting on your shoulder.

“Shit,” Bakugou curses, a mortified look on his face. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“No!” you interject, “I mean, it’s okay. It’s just…”

“Just what?” he breathes out, releasing you from his hold, and you don’t know if you’ve finally gone crazy, but did he just sound…hopeful?

No, he didn’t.

Which is why you muster up the courage to say the next thing.

“You’re just confused,” you finally get out, looking him straight in the eye.

His reply is instant.

“Believe me, I’m fucking not.”

That makes you frown, because why is he giving you such a hard time? You’re giving him an out, for god’s sake. A wake-up call, if you will.

That none of these is real.

And that he’s confusing make-believe with reality.

These very thoughts must be evident on your face because he studies you closely for a bit, a similar frown etched on his features. He then shakes his head, the same way he does when he’s getting impatient.

“You don’t believe me?” he finally says, and you’re about to say no, you do not, when he suddenly takes a step closer, and you find yourself stumbling back.

“What if,” another step forward for him, another one backward for you, “I tell you that I’ve been wanting to kiss the crap out of you, even when no one’s watching?”

Yet another step, and he finally stops. “Especially when no one’s watching.”

You can’t help it—you sputter, and to that, Bakugou only flashes you a devilish smirk. “Nothing?” he taunts, “You’ve got nothing to say?”

“J-just kiss?”

The second you say it, you know you fucked up.

His crimson eyes widen in surprise. “I mean, I want to fuck you, too, but—”

“No!” you cry, and he shuts up, “I mean, not like that. What I meant was, is this thing you’re feeling purely physical? Not that I think I’m all that—” you quickly disclaim, “—but is there something else, or…?”

At that, the motherfucker chuckles, and you’ve got half a mind to bury yourself in the very ground you’re standing on. But then you remember you’re on the top floor of a high-rise building, so that would only mean—

“I want to date the crap out of you, too, dumbass.”

“…Oh.”

A raised eyebrow. “Just ‘oh’?”

You flush. That was too soon of a reference.

Still, you have to respond.

“Oh, as in, oh, great,” you croak, “Because, believe it or not, I feel the same way.”

You can only watch in delight as Bakugou releases a breath you think he didn’t know he was holding, utter relief written all over his body. There’s no controlling the smile that breaches your mouth at the sight of it, earlier’s dreadful anticipation now morphing into a hoard of rabid butterflies. Bakugou sees the change in your countenance and grins.

“Does this mean I get to kiss you now? And that you won’t just stand there like a fucking corpse?”

That earns him a punch to the arm, which he takes in stride, laughing. “Can’t you just do it without teasing me?” you grumble, “You’re such a dickhead.”

“Got it, princess,” is the last (pestering) thing he says before reaching for your neck again and pulling you toward him, wasting no time in bringing your lips to his.

It doesn’t elude you that you’re still somewhat tense, but you eventually manage to will yourself to ease up just as his other hand shoots up to hold your cheek, tilting it so he can deepen the kiss. You can’t help it—you groan when he does, and he takes that as an opportunity to slowly enter your mouth with his tongue, and you squeak at the intrusion. He only laughs at that, but he doesn’t let up, his tongue seemingly having a mind of its own as it swirls and explores without restraint.

You don’t know how long this goes on—your brain filled with nothing but the sensation of Bakugou’s soft lips against yours—but he eventually pulls away, and you have to stop yourself from ogling at how debauched he looks with just his flushed face and swollen lips. You guess you aren’t any different, because Bakugou’s eyes rove over your face—hungrily—almost as if he’s drinking you in.

“You’re a good kisser,” you offer lamely, desperate for anything to fill the tense air.

At that, he coughs, as if he didn’t expect you to say that of all things. “T-thanks. You, too.”

You flash him a grateful smile, although it’s quick to falter.

A beat.

“So…” you try again, “What now?”

Bakugou looks down at his feet, suddenly shy. “I—uh, meant it, you know.”

You gulp. “Meant what?”

“That I want to fuck you.”

Shit.

“But I understand if you don’t want to, or if that’s moving too fast. It’s only been two weeks and—”

“Correction,” you cut in, “It’s been over two weeks. You said so yourself.”

That makes Bakugou pause, who only looks at you in bewilderment. “What are you trying to—”

“I’m ready,” you declare, voice nothing short of sure. “I want this.”

That seems to set something off in the pro-hero, because his entire demeanor shifts. You don’t get to comment on it before he’s back on you in an instant, encasing your lips in a searing kiss. You stagger back from the sheer force alone, grabbing onto his shirt for purchase as you stumble across the living room, not parting ways for even a second, his mouth hot against yours. He seizes you by the waist just as you almost crash into the wall, expertly maneuvering you through the door and into his bedroom, lips still molded together.

He only pulls away when you reach the foot of his bed, letting go of his grip on you to lift you bridal-style, the brazen display of effortless strength sending a shot of arousal into your veins. You loop your arms around his neck as he climbs over the mattress, inching toward the headboard before gently placing you down into the pillows. You waste no time pulling him back closer to you, initiating the kiss this time, and you think he must like that, judging by the way he groans quietly.

“What,” you mumble against his lips, “You like it when I take charge?”

“Fuck off,” he mumbles back, although he doesn’t break away, only biting your lower lip as if in punishment. You wince, but he’s quick to lave over it with his tongue. “Hurry up and—” a kiss, “—take off—” another kiss, “—mm—your clothes.”

That makes you laugh. Of course, he’d order you to strip after just cussing you out.

You don’t complain, though, lightly shoving him away so you can pull your shirt over your head. You glance at Bakugou when it’s off of you, and sure enough, he’s staring at your chest.

“Aren’t you gonna undress as well?” you ask pointedly, hoping your embarrassment isn’t showing on your face.

“Shit, right,” he blubbers, and you find yourself smiling as he hurries to take off his shirt.

Only that smile doesn’t get to last for too long before it’s instantly replaced with an ‘o’ at the sight of his ridiculously defined abs.

You point to it, honestly perturbed. “How the fuck is that even possible?”

Now that makes him laugh, the motion causing his abdominal muscles to flex and you blanch. “What if I tell you I’ve had them since high school?”

“Liar.”

Bakugou grins. “Had you known, would you have forced me to listen to your confession?”

“That’s it,” you make a move to get out of the bed but he tugs you back, flashing you a boyish smile that you don’t want to admit makes you—kinda—all weak in the knees.

“That was the last one,” he promises, still grinning, “I swear.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “Why do I feel like you’re lying straight out of your ass.”

“Me?” he asks, feigning innocence as he crawls closer, towering over you again until you’re back to lying on the bed. “Never.”

“Ha ha,” you deadpan, looking anywhere but at him or his broad chest. Although, your efforts are all for naught because he lifts one hand and takes your chin, forcing you to look at him.

“Can I take off your bra?” he inquires, the earnestness in his tone almost causing you to squirm.

You thankfully don’t—you’ve decided you’ve embarrassed yourself enough for today—and instead, nod. He doesn’t bother to say anything else as he reaches for your back, and you arch—slowly, Masaki did a number on you, after all—just in time so he can feel your clasp. It takes him a second to undo it, and a few more to lift it off of you, but when he does, the first thing he says is—

“Fuck.”

You snort. “I’m guessing that you like them.”

“Obviously, dumbass,” he spits, although it’s more playful than scathing. Then, he’s back to staring, like he can’t quite believe this is happening. “Wow.”

“What, is this the first time you’ve seen boobs?” you joke—because there’s no way a guy like him has never been with a girl—although the jesting lilt in your voice immediately dies out when his face falls and he looks away.

Shit.

There’s only one thing for you to do.

Reaching out for his nape, you tug him down until he’s only a few centimeters away, taking his lips into yours before he can protest. To your relief, he melts into your touch, back to eagerly returning the kiss in a matter of seconds. Wanting to make him feel good now more than ever, you let your other hand snake up to his hair, grabbing a fistful before pulling tentatively—as if to test the waters. You don’t end up disappointed—in fact, you’re far from it—when he groans against your mouth, louder than before. Emboldened by his generous reaction, you pull again—harder this time—and it’s your turn to be surprised when his hips buck involuntarily against your own, giving you the slightest bit of friction that’s nowhere near enough.

You rub your thighs together in an attempt to quell the ache as discreetly as you can, although this motion doesn’t go unnoticed by Bakugou, who withdraws ever so slightly to study you.

“You okay?”

“Yes—it’s just,” you hesitate, before deciding you owe him the truth. “…I want you.”

Whatever Bakugou expected you to say, it sure wasn’t that—and so candidly, too—because he splutters, face evidently flushing despite the dim lights. “I-I want you, too,” he says honestly, “But I should warn you, I’ve never really done this before.”

“I thought you were gonna say you were massive,” you quip.

“Yeah,” he smirks without missing a beat, and you choke, “That, too.”

You slap his chest, which you instantly regret. “You’re the worst!”

He doesn’t say anything to that, only grinning as he leans in and—to your surprise—latches his lips onto your neck. You barely stop yourself from jolting in pleasure when he finds and nips at your pulse point—no doubt leaving a mark that you’re going to have to color correct tomorrow if you don’t want to get any funny looks. To your chagrin—or delight, you don’t fucking know at this point—Bakugou doesn’t stop his assault on your neck, instead bringing one hand up to graze the skin below your breast.

Suddenly tired of all the teasing, you grab his hand yourself and place it right on your boob, smiling when a curse is immediately muttered against your neck. You don’t let go of your hold, choosing to guide him on how to grope and fondle it instead. Bakugou catches on quickly, and before you know it, he’s already playing with your nipples, twisting and pulling them just the way you like.

“You can use your mouth, too, if you want,” you tell him a few moments later, stifling a moan when he sucks on a spot at the crook of your neck one more time, before nodding and easing down so he can be face to face with your chest.

He doesn’t let you get another word in before he takes a nipple into his mouth, and this time, you can’t stop yourself—you jerk against him—which only pushes it further. He takes the opening and starts sucking, and you’ve got half a mind to push him away. You don’t, though, and you doubt you could’ve anyway, his grip on your waist unrelenting as he switches between breasts, doing all sorts of things with his tongue that have your mind swimming.

“Still think I’m the worst?” he eventually looks up and asks roguishly, lips even more swollen and glistening with saliva.

“Jury’s still out—” you hiss when he pinches a nipple, and you swat him away. “Never mind, you are the worst.”

“Even when I do this?” he drawls, and you’re about to clarify with him what he’s going off about this time, when he unexpectedly slips a finger underneath your panties, and you barely, barely manage to bite back a moan.

“Fuck,” he rasps, “you’re so wet.”

You fight back a shudder even as he traces the outline of your sex, seemingly entranced. “Are you—are you sure you’ve never done this before?”

“What, you saying I’m a liar?” is his snarky retort, although he thankfully doesn’t stop his ministrations. In fact, your question only seems to provoke him, causing him to apply more pressure.

“N-no, it’s just that, fuck—” you huff, “I-I wouldn’t be surprised if you went d-down on me and you’d be good at that, too.”

That makes Bakugou pause, and you almost whine at the loss.

But then he practically rips your underwear out of the way, and you somehow don’t find it in you to care at all. They were granny panties anyway, and you’re too engrossed in how the pro-hero urges you to open your thighs for him, and then prying them open himself when you take too long to do it.

Not to mention the look on his face when he finally sees you.

“Stop staring at me, Bakugou,” you can’t help but grumble.

“Katsuki.”

“What?”

He doesn’t shift to look at you, gaze still focused between your thighs. “Call me Katsuki.”

That’s all the foreboding he offers before he dives in and licks a long strip along your slit, and you almost scream, if not for the hand you slap over your mouth the second that he does. He’s relentless—even as you squirm and tremble underneath him—lapping on your wetness like a man who hasn’t had a drop of water for days. You jolt when he flicks his tongue right at your clit, hands instinctively shooting up to grab at his hair. But then he makes the mistake of pushing the wet muscle into your entrance, and you inadvertently pull—hard—hard enough that it causes him to groan against your core, sending a surge of vibrations straight into your pussy.

“Fuck,” you warble, looking down at Bakugou only to see him peering up at you with half-lidded eyes that’s got you almost moaning again. “Keep on doing that.”

Fortunately, Bakugou doesn’t tease you for sounding pathetic just now, only choosing to do as you say. He resumes, with renewed vigor, paying particular attention to your clit this time. He keeps on licking it, and then sucking, before licking it again, that you almost don’t notice when a finger presses against your hole. But then he’s inching it slowly and you’re suddenly all too aware of the intrusion.

The first thing that registers is that his fingers are definitely bigger than yours.

The second thing is that fuck—did he just insert a second one?

You look down to where he’s stuck to your body, but you can’t see anything beyond his head of ash blonde hair.

But then he does a scissoring motion inside you just as he suckles at your clit, and that’s all the confirmation you need. You can’t help it—you finally moan—and you barely miss him grinning against your pussy at the sound of it.

“Fucking finally,” he breathes out, lifting his head a bit so he can speak. “I thought you were never gonna moan for me again.”

“Again?” you barely manage to answer, already missing his mouth on you. You may be out of it, but you’re certain you haven’t cracked until just now.

“Already forgot?” he goads, pulling his fingers out of you. “Let me remind you then.”

Before you can get up and coerce him to just shut up and continue what he was doing, he’s back to towering over you, smashing his lips against yours.

And then he does it—the thing he did before. The first day in your shared bedroom. You still don’t know what it is, but he does something with his tongue, or his mouth? His teeth? You don’t fucking know, but it’s coupled with his scalding hold on your body, and despite yourself, you moan.

He promptly pulls away, a proud smirk on his face.

“Now, don’t hold back,” he commands cooly as you gape at him in half offense, half shock. “I want to hear how good I’m making you feel.”

He then makes quick work of taking off his boxers, and at this point, you can only stare at him as he eases it off.

He wasn’t kidding.

If he’s noticing you practically eye-fucking him, though, he doesn’t comment on it, although the faint tinge of scarlet on his cheeks is undeniable. Instead, he only crawls over you again, right until he’s hovering over your pelvis.

Wait.

“Bakugou—” you start.

“Katsuki,” he corrects petulantly.

“Katsuki,” you force yourself to say, suddenly feeling a bit self-conscious, “Let me make you feel good, too.”

“Next time,” he quickly responds, and you feel your heart lurch at the promise of a continuation. “I just need to be inside you, or I’m gonna fucking nut.”

You frown, although his honest admission sends an undeniable thrill down your spine. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” he seethes, “Now, come on.”

You don’t waste another second, opening up your legs just enough for Bakugou to position himself between them. He’s got an arm propped at the side of your head to support his weight, while the other reaches down to finally grab his cock. He instantly hisses at the contact, and you don’t have to look to know it’s his pre-cum that’s dribbling down your thighs.

He then mutters a curse to himself, but it’s not exactly laced with lust just as it has been the past how many minutes.

And that’s when it hits you.

The guy is nervous.

You reach up to touch his cheek, his eyes shooting up to meet yours when you do. You offer him a small smile, one that you hope says ‘I’m alright’ and that ‘I want this’. But then you remember this is Bakugou freaking Katsuki, and the last thing he needs is to be placated.

“Relax, Katsuki,” you coo, grinning when he shoots you a glare.

“And you’re gonna have to do that on your own,” you tease, “I’m all out for today.”

That lights a flame under his ass, because the glare just now morphs into a look of determination, and one glimpse of it is enough to tell you you’re fucked.

“Spread your fucking pussy,” he growls, and you immediately do as he says. He’s back to gripping his cock in an instant, giving himself a few pumps before he’s aligning it with your entrance.

And just like that, he pushes in.

You both groan when he does, his massive dick barely breaching your hole, and yet, it already feels like your nerves are on fire. You sneak a peek at the pro-hero, and you’re glad you do, because you’re met with the glorious sight of Bakugou with his eyes clenched close, lips bit in a fierce attempt to stay quiet.

“Tell me when to move,” he rasps out, refusing to open his eyes.

“Katsuki,” you whisper, bringing your arms up to wrap them around his torso. “Look at me.”

“I can’t,” he seethes, just as you feel his cock twitch inside you. “Or else I’m gonna finish.”

Knowing better than to press him, you nod instead, before wiggling your hips slightly. That grants you a curse from him, but before he can cuss you out, you speak up.

“I think I’m ready. You can move no—” you hiss when he pushes without warning, and he freezes.

“Fuck, I’m sorr—”

“Just—slowly, Katsuki. Go on, move.”

He pushes again—slowly, this time—and you can only sit there and take it as he eases in, inch by inch—stopping sometimes when it gets a bit much for you—until he’s finally, fully sheathed in.

“Shit.”

“God.”

“You’re so fucking tight,” Bakugou grits out, head nestled within the crook of your neck. He still refuses to look at you, but apparently, that doesn’t matter as long as you’re being praised, because his comment inadvertently causes you to clamp down on his cock, and his breath hitches.

“Jesus,” he drones, burying himself further into your neck. “You’re fucking unbelievable.”

You don’t answer him, choosing to tentatively roll your hips against his instead. He moans in your ear, and this time, you can’t help but whimper.

“Move, Katsuki,” you plead, “I can’t wait anymore.”

That seems to sober him right up, because he grunts in acknowledgement, before slowly lifting himself with his arms. Only then does he opens his eyes, and it takes everything within him not to cum at the sight of you.

He knows better than to fucking give up, though—not when he’s come this far—so with renewed purpose, he starts with small, shallow thrusts that have you mewling at him and him grunting at you, until he gradually builds speed and he’s pulling almost all the way out only to slam back into you again.

He does this again and again—somehow deeper and deeper each time—all the while panting and moaning above you, until he prods at a particular spot that has you jerking violently against him, cursing. “Fuc—”

“Shit,” he freezes, “What—”

“No, no, no, no,” you cry out, clawing at his bare arms, “Don’t stop!”

At your request, Bakugou’s back to pounding into you in an instant, and you barely miss him looking at you with feral eyes before he hits the spot again, and you scream.

“Right—fuck—right there!”

At that, Bakugou rolls his hips once more and hits your G-spot squarely, and you moan.

“Right there?” he breathes out in question, chest puffing in pride as he watches you bob your head desperately, too blissed out to even care what you look like.

But then your walls are clamping down on him again, and Bakugou curses. “I’m not gonna l-last any l-longer,” he manages to get out, choosing to look at anywhere but your face.

“P-play—fuck,” you choke out, “—play with my c-clit.”

And when you don’t immediately feel his finger on your bud: “Hurry.”

That has Bakugou rushing to rub your clit, and you can only beg for more as the overwhelming feeling of his cock inside you mixes with the euphoria brought by his fingers—until you feel the tell-tale signs of your impending orgasm.

“K-Katsuki,” you shudder, “I’m gonna c-cum.”

“I’m g-gonna—” he grunts, eyes clenched closed, “—fuck—I’m gonna cum, t-too.”

“Katsuki,” you call again, and he turns his head to face your direction. “Look at me.”

And when he does—open his eyes—you roll your hips against his as best as you can, and you say it.

“Give it to me, hero.”

And just like that, he cums.

Hard.

And you cum right with him, digging your nails into his biceps as you moan, so loud you wish he’d kiss you to shut you up, but he doesn’t.

Instead, he moans with you—a strangled one that strangely sends a pang of longing straight to your chest, a longing that you can now finally admit is for the very person in your arms, who you so ardently wish would stay there, even if the mission is long over.

You don’t say any of this, though, even as he kisses your forehead before slowly pulling out, or even as he silently pads to the bathroom to get a towel so he can get you cleaned up. You thank him as he does, and watch him as he puts it away and hesitates for a moment—as if the manual he’s read about sex as a high schooler ends at physical aftercare and he’s run out of instructions.

It’s after a few more moments of awkward silence do you finally sit up and move, scooching over to make space beside you. Bakugou’s eyes trail your movement, widening when he realizes just what you’re doing. He’s stiff even as he crawls to the spot next to you, promptly taking the duvet cover that was tossed to the side in the middle of…everything, before laying it on top of your bodies.

“Thanks,” you murmur, not knowing what else to say.

“‘s nothing,” is his reply, voice equally quiet.

Neither of you says anything for a while, even as Bakugou gently tugs your head so you can rest it on his shoulder.

It’s you, though, who breaks the silence.

“You know, had I known things were gonna end this way, I would’ve just slept in the same bed as you.”

“Fucking tell me about it.”

a/n. :') first off, i want to thank you, friend, for taking a chance on this series and reading it up 'til the end. this has been the biggest endeavor i've ventured into as a writer, and it still feels surreal to me that i'm writing this now as i am about to post the last chapter. that being said, the biggest thank you to everyone who's shown love to all out of luck, especially the ones who left even just a single-worded comment. with the series having reached its end, it would mean the world to me if you let me know what you think about it / how it was for you <3 thank you so so much!!!

˖⁺‧₊ as always, reblogs, replies, and tags are appreciated <3 feel free to drop an ask, too—i'd love to chat with you. have a nice day!

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[fclsebnnyodair]

. ۫ ꣑ৎ . finnick odair and his unwavering love for seeing his gorgeous girl in a sundress.

pairing: finnick odair x fem!reader.

summary: you are heading out to the market when your husband can’t help but stop you in your tracks just to shower you with compliments as he sees you in a pretty sundress.

warnings: another fluffy one. finnick being finnick (gentle, loving and overly sweet).

a/n: guys, im a mush. i love fluffy fics. i think finnick adores whenever you wear a sundress, but not in the weird way other guys do, yk? like this is finnick odair.

it was a warm summer day in district 4, the kind that made the sea glisten like glass and filled the air with the scent of salt and sun. finnick lounged on the porch of the small cottage you and him shared, a fishing net tangled around his fingers as he half-heartedly mended it. the task was menial, his mind wandering to his favorite distraction —you.

he heard the creak of the door behind him and the soft shuffle of your bare feet across the wooden floor. "sweetheart," he called without looking up, a lazy grin spreading across his face. "what are you up to?"

"I was thinking of heading to the market," you replied softly, your voice carrying that quiet tenderness that always made his heart stutter. 

he turned his head to glance at you and froze.

you were standing in the doorway, sunlight pouring in behind you like a halo. you wore a simple sundress, a pale yellow that made your hair and eyes shine. 

the fabric flowed over you like water, clinging in all the right places and swaying around your knees. you looked like you’d been plucked from a daydream, and finnick was utterly helpless against the sight.

he dropped the net, forgetting it entirely as he stood. "sweetheart," he breathed, his voice thick with awe. "pretty girl... you're gonna kill me."

your cheeks flushed a soft pink, and you fidgeted with the hem of the dress, your usual confidence retreating under his intense gaze. "It's just a dress, finnick," you said shyly, your lips curling into a small, nervous smile.

"just a dress?" he crossed the room in a few long strides, his sea-green eyes locked onto yours. "no, no, no. sundresses aren't just dresses when it's you wearing them." 

he stopped in front of you, towering over your frame, his hands immediately finding your hips. his fingers kneaded the soft flesh there, holding you as if to keep you from slipping away or keeping himself from falling forward.

"you look like the ocean in the middle of summer," he murmured, his voice low and reverent. "warm, bright, and completely irresistible."

you let out a soft laugh, shaking your head. "you're ridiculous."

"and you're stunning," he shot back within a second. his lips were on yours before you could protest further, a slow and deep kiss that made your knees buckle. he held you close, his hands firm and sure, anchoring you to him as he poured every ounce of his admiration into the kiss.

when you broke apart, your cheeks were flushed, your coy smile back in place. finnick took advantage of the moment, peppering your face with kisses, starting at your forehead and working his way down to your jaw.

"my love," he murmured between each kiss. "my pretty girl. you don't know what you do to me."

your laughter bubbled up, light, and you swatted at his chest. "finnick, stop! you're going to make me late for the market."

"let them wait," he replied, grinning as he pulled you closer. "this dress deserves my full attention." 

he lifted you off the ground, spinning you once as you laughed and clung to his shoulders.

you buried your face in his neck, the heat of your breath sending shivers down his spine. "hopeless," you mumbled, but the affection in your tone betrayed your word.

"hopelessly in love with you," he corrected, setting you back on your feet. he cupped your face in his hands, brushing his thumbs over your flushed cheeks. "and hopelessly weak for this sundress. you should wear it every day."

"I'll think about it," you teased, your eyes sparkling with mischief.

his grin widened. "you better, sweetheart. because every time you wear it, I'm going to remind you how much I adore you." 

he leaned in, kissing you once more, long and lingering, as if the world beyond your little cottage didn't exist, —and maybe it didn’t for him the moment he got his hands on you.

finnick couldn't tear himself away from you.

he pressed his forehead to yours, his breath warm against your lips. your hands rested on his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your fingertips. It was wild, rapid, and entirely because of you.

"you make me sound like some goddess in this dress," you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

"you are, sweetheart," finnick murmured, his thumbs tracing slow circles on your hips. "you don't see it, do you? how everything about you makes my world stop. the way the light catches your hair, how your smile -shy or not- makes me forget my own name. and this dress?" he let out a low whistle, his grin turning boyish. "It's like it was sewn just for you. they must've had my pretty girl in mind."

your cheeks flushed again, but there was a flicker of something else in your eyes now, —something playful. "you're laying it on thick, odair," you said, your lips curving into a small smirk.

he feigned a gasp, his hand dramatically clutching his chest. "me? thick? honey, I'm just speaking the truth. besides..." he leaned in, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. "you can’t really put the blame on me when you look like that?"

you laughed, the sound warm and bright. you tilted your head, studying him with mock seriousness. "you really do have a weakness for sundresses, don't you?"

"only when you're in them," he admitted shamelessly, his grin so wide it made his dimples deepen.

you shook your head, but the smile tugging at your lips betrayed you over and over again. "fine, I'll wear more of them," you teased. "but only if you promise not to make such a big deal every time."

"not a chance," finnick said immediately, his hands sliding around to the small of your back. "making a big deal about you is my favorite hobby. especially when you're standing here, looking like this."

your soft laughter bubbled up again, and you rested your head against his chest, your body molding perfectly to his. finnick wrapped his arms around you, holding you close as the two of you swayed gently in the warmth of the day.

"do you remember the first time you wore a sundress around me?" he asked, his voice quieter now.

you hummed, your fingers toying with the fabric of his shirt. "I do. It was the one with the little daisies, wasn't it? the one l borrowed from mags because all my clothes were too plain for the harvest festival?"

"that's the one," he said, his lips brushing against your temple. "you walked into that festival, and I swear the whole world stopped. I couldn't take my eyes off you."

"you tripped over a table trying to get to me," you pointed out, your voice laced with amusement.

he chuckled, shaking his head. "worth it. I'd trip over a hundred tables for you, sweetheart."

you tilted your head up to look at him, your eyes soft and full of affection. "you're such a fool," you murmured, but you leaned up to kiss him anyway, your hands tangling in his golden locks.

"a fool for my pretty girl," finnick whispered against your lips.

the kiss deepened, slow and tender, your world narrowing until it was just the two of you, wrapped in each other. the sea breeze flowed around you, carrying the sound of gulls and the faint crash of waves, but finnick barely noticed.

he was too busy memorizing every little detail-how the sundress felt beneath his hands, how your lips curved into a smile mid-kiss, how your laugh seemed to echo in his chest.

eventually, you pulled back, your face flushed and your breathing uneven. "I’m really going to be late for the market," you said, though your tone was reluctant.

he smirked, brushing a strand of hair from your face. "they can wait. besides, I think the market's seen enough of you for one week."

you raised an eyebrow. "oh? and what are we supposed to do instead?"

his grin turned mischievous, and he swept you up into his arms effortlessly, ignoring your surprised squeal. "stay right here. just us. I can't think of anything better, can you?"

you laughed, your arms looping around his neck as he carried you inside. "my god, you're impossible, finn."

"Impossible to resist, you mean," he teased, kissing the tip of your nose as he set you down gently on the couch.

as you settled together, the sundress bunched around your knees and your laughter filled the room. and as far as he was concerned, the world outside your little bubble could wait forever.

[gor3sigil]

I first came out as trans to my father in 2020, after almost 2 years of living as a man with my friends and partners. He told me I could do whatever I wanted but he’d never called me by anything but my deadname. After thinking about it a bit, he then added: “Wait, but if you have a beard, I’d look like a fool if I called you that !”.

This isn’t a wholesome story.

In 2022, when Laurier, a trans illustrator, made his series of posters to educate Planned Parenthood staff, the whole country was outraged by one that depicted a pregnant trans man. It said “At the Planned Parenthood, men can be pregnant too.” and was made to be used for training and communication, not for the general public. And yet, mainstream medias torned it appart to shreds, red-faced on the news channels during peak hours, screaming “WHAT SHOULD I TELL MY 6 YEARS OLD KID IF SHE EVER SEES THAT ?”.

My father was part of the right-winged crowd, Facebook posts by Facebook posts, a wall of stones carved out of the farce that was my existence.

I explained it to him, reminded him the beard, what if I had one and was also pregnant ? Wouldn’t I be a man, yet carrying life ?

He deleted his posts.

This isn’t a wholesome story.

He came to visit me in 2017, when I was his daughter still. We went grocery shopping. I complained about my stomach hurting. He asked me if I used protection with my partner. I said I did. And he said, “you better”. Two aisles down I picked up a bag of frozen spinach and he punched me in the guts, in the middle of a crowded store, in front of his girlfriend. When I told him it hurt, he told me “that’s the point”, and he laughed.

It’s 2025. I’m carving the silhouette of my brother, the son my father used to call a repressed faggot. I carry in my skin a dying fecundity, faltering like my sister’s after her first baby, as if it heard my dad say that she “shouldn’t ever spawn”. And as I do my shot, I hand over what’s left of my vial to a trans friend, proving how my dad was right when he called me

a parasite.

[astermagnolia]

Danny and Peter run into Jason: one-shot based on my most recent post

\/\/\/\/

Danny sighed as he shivered, still trying to get used to the spider-sense. From what he and Peter could tell it's barely only been a month since their situation and by far Spider sense has been the most annoying ability to try and learn.

"Peter tingle sucks, man," Danny mutters under his breath lest he get confused stares.

"Please for the love of everything, stop calling it peter tingle." Peter begged. If he was in control of his body at the moment he's sure his head would be on his head.

Danny's... housemate? Body...mate? Ew, no not that one. Headmate. Yeah, headmate, tried his best to explain how his sixth sense worked and how to deal with it but Danny still gets freaked out by it. Even when he's not driving the body

"Well, maybe if i didn't get tingles and shivers every time i would call it accordingly."

"It's just warning you of danger."

"Dude, we're currently staying in an area called crime alley near a place called the narrows in a city where crime is rampant. Gotham is ranked number one for 'one of the most crime-ridden cities'," Danny ranted, trying to keep his voice low and head down.

That little nugget of information was great to learn when they were doing their research. On top of learning that aliens exist and the police were corrupt. Though that last one wasn't too surprising.

"I mean, if we moved..."

"We barely have enough to feed ourselves plus your crazy metabolism. We can't move and then struggle to find a good place to bunk." Danny sighed again.

Trying to find a job is the most difficult thing at the moment considering they didn't have any ID—or any proof of existence in this world—and the fact they looked so young.

Danny took stealing from people, much to chagrin if Peter. He swore up and down he was stealing from wealthy people.

Peter on the other hand, when he was in control of his body, would try and fix anything from anyone within the area. People have started calling him 'tinkerer' and. Funnily enough, the guy who buys the stuff Danny steals calls him 'furittus'.

"Hey, look." Peter grabbed Danny's attention to what's ahead of them.

In front of them is a nice red motorcycle, the glossy coat reflecting the soft glow of the nighttime city. It was just sitting idle and unattended with no one near it or in sight.

Danny whistled appreciatively and walked closer to it. "D'ya recognize it, Pete?"

"Hmm, I think it's a Honda CB750 but...it looks heavily modified. That would cost a lot." Peter noted with a hint of admiration in his voice.

Danny hummed in thought, a playful smile growing in his face.

"Think i could steal it?" He joked.

"No!"

Danny blinked as the word practically echoed in his head, "Ow."

Pete huffed. If he had his body he would cross them and he would have a frown on his face. "Sorry for yelling, but also, that's a horrible idea. It would have cost the person so much time and money to modify the bike."

Danny rolled his eyes, "If it meant so much they wouldn't have left it here in the middle of crime alley. Just the wheels at least."

Peter sighed, "You don't even have any tools. How are you going to take the wheels?"

Danny smirked as he lifted their hand and turned it intangible. At least, that was the attempt. Their whole arm turned intangible instead.

Peter huffed, "I'll try to keep a lookout as you take the wheels then. Just like to say again, this is a horrible idea."

Danny grinned as he quietly worked to get the wheels off the rest of the bike and carefully left the bolts near the bike. It's the least he could. He has one wheel off when he pauses his work to get a better look at the engine.

"This sure is a nice looking bike." Danny says absentmindedly. "I'm really curious who it belongs to."

"I would say thank you but it looks like I'm being robbed." The gravel behind them makes noise.

Danny gasps—blue mist leaves his mouth—spinning to face the man behind them and some of the bolts fall out of his hand.

"i found it like that." Danny blurts out.

"Oh for the love–I can't even be mad, i would say the same thing. But i told you it would be a bad idea! Do you see him?? Look how huge he is!" peter ranted and hoped that Danny could feel him disappointment.

The man in front of them is huge, built like a tank and wearing a leather jacket. He has black hair with some of the front part being white. He definitely knows how to fight.

The man crossed his arms, raising an eyebrow. "Why does this feel like deja vu?" He mutters. "Alright, wanna explain yourself, kid?"

Danny tries not to pout as he's called a kid, "...I just needed some money for some food." He says instead, hoping the man will take some pity.

The man stares at him, scrutinizing him and trying to come to some conclusion.

"What if he kills us?" Peter whispers.

"Welp, sorry pete but you would have erased yourself for nothing." Danny dryly replies as quiet as he can.

"Dude! Uncalled for."

"Alright, come on, follow me." The man suddenly says.

Danny jumps, his mouth dropping open "huh?"

"Food. I know a good place. The names' Jason, by the way." The man, Jason, simply says. He puts his hands in his jacket and starts heading in a direction.

"We're not actually following him, right? That's like, stranger danger one-oh-one and–nope we're just following him. That's great. That's cool. Lets just follow the guy we were stealing from."

Danny shrugged. "Free food."

Peter sighs and can only watch as Danny follows the guy. He would take control if he could, but if he forced a switch, that would only cause extreme dizziness, and it would be hard to explain their physical change, too. Peter and Danny still haven't figured out how to safely switch who is in control of the body. They just wake up and whoever is in control of the body is in control for the rest of the day, unless they're knocked out. Once, Danny was in control for three whole days.

Jason led to a fast food place called Bat Burger.

Once at the register, Jason tilted his head, "Order whatever you like and however much you like."

Danny and Peter are stunned hearing what Jason just said.

"However much I like?" Danny slowly repeated still trying to make sure he heard right.

"no way he's serious, right?"

"Yup, however much you like." Jason confirmed as he finished his order. "I'm using my old man's credit card anyway."

"...Alright, what do we want," Danny mutters and decides not to question Jason's odd decision. If they can order however much they want then they'll be able to take whatever they don't finish back to their little base, though he doubts they'll leave much.

Peter rattles off what his order, which Danny repeats and then he orders what he wants.

One thing Peter is grateful for, despite their circumstances, is that when he is stuck in his head, he can still taste whatever Danny is eating and vice versa.

The cashier stares in horror but then deeply sighs. They ring up their order, gives them their cups, and tell them to sit anywhere.

They grab their drinks and the two sit in the corner booth.

Jason places his hands on the table, "So, kid, what can i call ya?'

Danny jumps at the sudden question and stutters out, "Uh, our name is–I mean, my, my name is Danny."

The rest of the night goes by strangely but nicely. Jason asks one too many questions—about their non-existent home life which is nice—and that leads Danny to tell Jason to shove them, much to Peter's horror.

Danny does pretty much eat everything and as much as he wants to ask Jason about his strange ecto signature, he lets it go in favor of being left alone.

"That guy was weird. My spider sense didn't, you know, sense him." Peter admits, suspicion and weariness oozing from his voice.

Danny shrugs, "It's a big city. I doubt we'll run into him again."

\/\/\/\/

Peter luck strikes again.

If peter ever got the chance, he'll hang Danny up by his feet. He will find some way to neutralize his abilities and web him up.

"Hey, you're welcome to try, pete!" Danny says through his laughing.

In front of Peter is Jason, the man that fed them just a few weeks ago.

And is currently staring down at Peter with an intense stare.

Next to Jason is another man with tanned skin, black hair, and blue eyes. He's smiling widely, coming off as friendly.

"Do you two know each other?" The man tilted his head, trying to start a conversation.

"Uh, no, sorry, it's my first time seeing him...and you," Peter replies and looks down at the watches he's holding. He'd been told to fix them and the people they belonged too were loyal customers. He didn't think one of them would be Jason.

"Nah, i don't know 'em. He just looks familiar." Jason replies. He squints, scowling in thought. "You don't happen to have a twin do you? One with Black hair and blue eyes."

Peter wants to shrivel up and die.

Danny definitely isn't helping as he wheezes, laughing at Peter's misfortune.

Danny, what do I say?!

"Tell them yes and that we've been separated and you have been living with your uncle!"

By some miracle, Peter was able to sell his grief and ask Jason if he'd seen him. He's not sure how he did it since his lying pretty subpar most days. He was still baffled about lying to Aunt May for as long as he did.

"Oh, that's so sad," The man, Dick Grayson, stated with empathy in his eyes. "Why don't you file a missing person report? They could help..." He weakly says.

Jason sighs, placing a hand on his forehead. "Dick i swear to god..."

Peter stares baffled. Did this man not know Gotham police? How does he explain why going to the police is not a good idea, for one, the corruption, and two because Danny—by extension Peter as well—do not exist. So he cant file a missing person report.

"ACAB, bitch!"

"ACAB, bitch!" Peter blurts out the only thing in his mind and slaps a hand over his mouth. Danny's loud voice was the only thing on his mind. He couldn't think of anything else.

Danny was laughing hysterically about the situation Peter found himself in.

Dicks mouth dropped open, shocked by the sudden exclaim.

Jason begins to snicker which turns into a full blown belly aching laughter. He leaned on the counter and slapped Dick's shoulder.

"He–HAHAHH! Ohhh man. Kid I just met, you're incredible. heehe–" Jason erupted into another fit of laughter.

Peter stands in embarrassment and tired of this whole thing. He just wants the world to open up and swallow him. Saves him from the embarrassment.

"You're stuck with me Peter, whether you like it or not!" Danny exclaims through laughter.

At the very least, Peter isn't alone.

\/\/\/\/\/

This is all i had running through my head. I cannot promise any part 2 or anything

Some notes:

Jason's personal bike and red hood bike are different. And obviously hard to find an exact model since they change with different iterations and, ya know, trademark law and all. The bike i mentioned is one iteration that seemed the most obvious since someone was able to name it.

I think the earliest spiderman gave peter Parker a bike. I haven't seen anyone put an exact name on it but, funnily enough, its also a Honda

I hope I did the characters justice <3

[satoruswifeyyyy]

taking care of sick toji (drabbles)

masterlist

requested by @totallygyomeiswife

toji fushiguro swaggered into the house like he hadn’t just been caught in the middle of a monsoon. his black shirt clung to his skin, droplets of rain sliding off his ridiculously muscular frame, and his hair was a dripping mess.

he looked like a drowned cat—if the cat was six feet tall, stupidly attractive, and had the ego the size of japan.

you, meanwhile, took one look at him from where you sat on the couch and sighed dramatically.

“oh, wonderful. the storm dragged in an idiot.”

toji scoffed, kicking off his boots with a wet squelch. “relax, mama. i’m fine.”

“no, you’re soaked. go take a warm bath before you get sick.”

he smirked, running a hand through his wet hair. “cold’s got nothing on me, babe.”

megumi, all of five years old and already sporting a permanent scowl, deadpanned, “you’re literally shivering.”

“am not,” toji shot back immediately, despite the visible tremor in his hands.

tsumiki, the true voice of reason, crossed her arms and frowned. “papa, listen to mama.”

“pfft, what’s the worst that can happen?” toji waved them off and flopped onto the couch like a wet rag. “i’m built different.”

you stared at him for a long second before shaking your head. “alright. don’t come crying to me when you—”

the next morning.

toji fushiguro, walking muscle and self-proclaimed immune-to-sickness warrior, lay sprawled in bed with a raging fever. his face was flushed, his usually sharp green eyes were bleary, and his entire existence radiated pure, unfiltered misery.

you stood over him, arms crossed, smug as hell.

“good morning, ‘built different.’”

toji groaned. “don’t.”

“oh, no, no, please, let me say it.” you cleared your throat. “i told you so.”

he let out a suffering sigh, turning his head into the pillow like a dramatic teenager. “leave me alone.”

megumi climbed onto the bed, looking down at his father with an expression that was far too judgmental for a five-year-old. “so. turns out you can get sick.”

“shut up, brat.”

tsumiki giggled from where she sat beside you, holding a cool towel. “papa, mama says you need to drink something warm.”

“i don’t need—”

you pressed a spoonful of soup against his lips, cutting off his protest. “open up, big guy.”

he scowled. “i can feed myself.”

“oh? can you?” you raised a brow. “because you look like you’re five seconds from passing out.”

megumi nodded sagely. “he does.”

“traitors,” toji muttered, but he begrudgingly let you feed him.

“wow,” you teased. “toji fushiguro, feared bounty hunter, being spoon-fed by his loving wife. how adorable.”

his face, already red from the fever, somehow managed to darken. “y/n.”

“shh. say ‘ahh.’”

“this is humiliating.”

“this is necessary.”

tsumiki, ever the responsible one, patted his forehead gently. “mama’s just taking care of you, papa.”

toji sighed, accepting his fate. “…you guys suck.”

megumi poked his arm. “we’re the only reason you’re still alive.”

“…fair.”

you chuckled, pressing a kiss to his burning forehead. “next time, listen to me.”

“yeah, yeah,” he mumbled, eyes already slipping shut as exhaustion took over.

megumi pulled the blanket up to his chin, and tsumiki tucked in the edges. you smoothed back his messy hair, smiling softly.

yeah, he was an idiot. but he was your idiot.

a/n: honestly i am kind of disappointed with this one :( this didn't slay as much as i wanted it to. and i know I AM SORRY 😭🙏 for not posting.

[tashism]

bartender!patrick…

you’ve both been working at this disgustingly pretentious restaurant for longer than you’d like to admit. it’s got a tank of live lobsters and some ugly water feature for people to marvel at and servers to get misted with every time they walk by — you both hate it, but not as much as you hate each other. patrick belongs there. he’s loud and cocky and loves flirting with rich moms. he’s got the same five mixer tricks that he’s been using for years, but no one ever gets tired of him and those dimples. it makes you nauseous. you’re a waitress, not that bussing tables is exactly your passion, but it keeps a roof over your head. professional and polite and reserved — he hates all of that about you. he hates how you scowl at him when he makes too big of a scene behind the bar, he hates that you turn your nose up at everything he does, and he hates how good your ass looks in those black slacks.

“c’mon, just one shot” this is your least favorite part of closing together; everything is a game to him. you want to wipe down the tables, sweep the floor, and get the fuck out. patrick, on the other hand, seems all too eager to get you to loosen up. whatever, it’s just one shot. that is until one shot turns into four and you end up on the bar with his body slotted between your legs. “do you always have to be so fucking annoying?” you pant, your fingers working sloppily to undo the buttons of his shirt. “do you always have to be so uptight” he retorts, his mouth stuck to your neck like a fucking vampire. his fingers are digging into your skin like a lifeline, all the anger and resentment bubbling up and flowing out of the two of you — the only right way to take it out is on each other.

one more shot and you’re back on the floor, bent over the bar, and grasping at the sleek stone for dear life. his hand is wrapped around your throat — god, how he wishes it was tangled in your hair, but you only ever come to work in those stupid little pony tails. “you this much of a whore for all the guys here?” he grunts, his eyes trained on your cunt, how greedy you are for him, how you’re dripping onto the floor. “or am i special?”. a part of you wants to make him feel special, wants to tell him that you get off to the idea of this all the time, but you refuse to give him the satisfaction. “i fucking hate you” the words are punctuated by his thrusts, the sound of skin slapping skin starting to flood the dim restaurant. “oh fuck, say it again” and you do. you say it over and over until your insults are mixed with pleas for him to let you cum.

in true patrick fashion, he doesn’t. he pulls out and cums on your pussy, watching you clench around nothing. he admires his work, how red your skin is, how wet you got, how you’re pressing back into him like he’ll do anything else for you. he laughs at your neediness before leaning down to kiss the middle of your back, his hand patting at your thigh.

“you should finish wiping the tables down… and don’t forget to mop back here”

[multi-fandom-imagine]

Could you write something for George Weasley where he has nightmares after the battle of Hogwarts about losing reader and Fred (but they are alive) and then he wakes up in the middle of the night and doesn't see her so he thinks it was true but then she comforts him?

A/n: I thank you for not having me off Fred 🤣 because I do not think I could ever do it.

It was one of those nights, one of those terrible nights that brought back terrible memories of a night that he knew he'll never forget.

His body slicked with sweat, brows furrowing as he tossed and turned in his sleep.

The nightmare started out how it always did, he was running through the ruined castle of Hogwarts. He could almost taste the smoke as he spotted his twins body, Percy hovering over him begging for him to wake up.

It made him sick, made him dizzy knowing how he just lost his other half and then things shifted. His heart dropping in his stomach as he watched out protect some first years but you didn't see it coming, a green light hitting you square in the chest. Your body crumpling to the ground.

A yell taring through his throat as he shot up in bed, sheet's tangled around him as his chest heaved while tear's steamed down his cheeks.

"George...."

Not respond, George could feel his hand's shaking, he felt sick.

"George! Look at me." Your hands on his cheek to calm him down. Your fingers running through his hair as you watched his chest rapidly rise and fall. "Shhh...shh I'm here."

Shaking his head, George folded into your embrace as your fingers then ran down his back to calm him down as his tears soaked your skin. "You were gone....you and Fred were gone. It felt like I would never be happy again."

"I'm here George." You placed a kiss to his temple as he relaxed into you, his heart beat slowly retuning to normal but has yet to release you. "And we'll phone Fred in the morning okay...have a nice little lunch together."

George nodded his head, a sniffled then let out a weak laugh as he rested his cheek against your palm closing his eyes. "I love you."

"I love you too."

[marifilue]

Jeopardize

Pairing: Logan Howlett x GF!Mutant!Reader (no use of y/n)

One shot: Following Logan on his mission gone wrong. He scolds you, but the tension turns into playful intimacy as he takes care of your wound.

Warnings: Fluffs, violence, blood, wound stitches, suggestive content (MDNI), romantic tension, established relationship, language.

Word Count: 3.4k

Quiet! Please be quiet! You had been screaming it mentally for the past few minutes, though you weren’t sure how long. A fabric was tied over your eyes, your mouth plastered shut, your entire body slumped weakly against a chair. Your hands were secured behind the backrest, bound tightly with a series of dead knots. You should've realized this was a bad idea.

Having telepathic abilities isn’t always fun. Accidentally poking into people's heads and stealing their jokes? Fun. Accidentally stumbling into your dear boyfriend’s thoughts about his upcoming mission? Not fun.

What was a girl supposed to do? Professor Xavier always sent Logan off to the middle of nowhere, alone, for days. And you? You’d count every second until he came back, just to have him in your arms again—to feel his breath against your skin.

Every time you woke up in the middle of the night, even for just a moment, you'd take the chance to look at him. Just seeing him relaxed, no cigar in his mouth, no furrowed brows. Just Logan. Your Logan.

A small, sleepy smile would always find its way onto your lips. If you were more awake, you might have even kicked your feet in excitement. But the steady rhythm of his breathing was always enough to lull you back to sleep.

Last night, while he rested his head on your lap, you ran your fingers through his hair, gently massaging his scalp. He had been grumbling about Bobby being a bad influence on Marie.

With his head down, you accidentally caught a glimpse of his recent conversation with the Professor. Logan will be leaving for a mission tomorrow night, just for the night.

Saturday night. Your Saturday night. The one you had already planned—a movie night, takeout, just the two of you. And now? Gone. And he still hadn’t found the heart to tell you.

You realized you had crossed a boundary, one you promised never to overstep without permission. So, to cover up your slip, you scoffed and teased him about acting like Marie’s overprotective dad. You found it cute, he was being a little too much, but they were just teenagers.

Logan didn’t respond much. Instead, he just pulled you close and spooned you for the rest of the night, his thoughts wide open but his words unspoken.

He finally told you the next afternoon, and like always, you had to act surprised—act disappointed, tell him you hated the Professor. He had just laughed, kissed you, and promised to make it up to you later.

And then, at exactly seven that evening, he left.

Thirty minutes later, fully aware of what you were doing, you followed.

You had managed to sneak out in casual clothes, just a sweater and baggy pants but underneath, you wore the black leather of the X-Men suit.

Taking your motorcycle, you followed the information you had gathered from Logan’s head, hoping you were hanging by a thin enough thread that the Professor wouldn’t find out. Besides, it was a harmless mission.

A simple task. Some facility had been developing a mutation-suppressing cure, designed to be weaponized. All Logan had to do was destroy their stock. Maybe burn the place down. Nothing too complicated. Just a fun Saturday night out with Logan—except he didn’t know it yet.

The ride took about an hour, leading you to an off-grid facility. You parked your bike about a hundred yards away, shedding your outer layers and leaving them by the bike. Your boots crunched against the dirt as you scanned your surroundings for any sign of Logan.

Nothing.

You crouched under a tree, watching and waiting. The plan was simple—every night at 10 p.m., a package was delivered to the facility. Logan was supposed to sneak into one of the trucks.

And so, you waited.

He had to be out there somewhere, probably hiding too.

Finally, the truck arrived on schedule, just as the Professor had said. As it rolled past, you broke into a sprint, catching up just in time to grab onto the back and haul yourself into the trunk where various pieces of equipment were stored.

The space was dark and cramped.

“Logan?” you whispered, not too loudly.

Silence.

Frowning, you called out again, slightly louder. Still no response.

Without hesitation, you ducked behind a stack of supplies and waited.

Well, you’ve always sucked at hiding, haven’t you?

Within minutes, everything had escalated out of control. Logan never got into the truck. You got caught instead.

Your combat skills were no match against a dozen armed men. You had managed to stab one of them in the chest with your pocket knife—only for him to return the favor, driving your own blade into your bicep and pull it out immediately, leaving the blade scattered on the floor and your arm became a quick blood flow.

You took down a few of them, forcing them into unconsciousness by invading their minds. But it didn’t last long. One of them managed to catch you off guard, yanking a rough fabric over your head. It scraped against your skin, burning like sandpaper.

The worst part? Your powers were useless now. You needed to see someone to manipulate their mind, and with your head covered, you were blind.

A heavy voice barked at you, demanding, “Who are you? Who sent you?!”

You didn’t answer.

So, they silenced you—plastering something over your mouth when they realized their questions were pointless.

And now, here you were.

Eyes covered. Mouth sealed. Hands and legs bound tight. An open deep wound in your left bicep.

Your mutation was screaming, bombarded by voices with no faces, no images to ground them. Every thought that forced its way into your head blurred together into an overwhelming storm of noise.

You were drowning in it.

And it was driving you insane.

A sharp noise cut through the haze in your mind. You couldn’t make it out completely, but it was there, chaotic shouts, gunfire, men barking orders into their comms. Then came a metallic clink—a sound you knew all too well.

And then, one by one, the bodies hit the floor with heavy thuds.

A rough hand tugged at the fabric covering your eyes, and suddenly, you were staring into familiar brown eyes filled with panic.

"You're okay?" Logan muttered, voice tight as he ripped the sticky plaster from your mouth in one swift motion. He stepped behind the chair—then cursed. "Fuck me."

His claws made quick work of the knots binding you, but his eyes were locked on the wound in your bicep.

Your body trembled, adrenaline crashing into anxiety all at once. "Lo, I'm so sorry, I didn’t mean to—"

"Save it." His tone left no room for argument. "We’ll talk later. Can you run?"

You nodded. "Yes."

"Good. Let's go."

With thick crimson flow in your arm, you pushed yourself to your feet and ran. Logan, who could’ve easily outpaced you, kept his position behind you, his protective sense evoke.

Your heart pounded violently, your breath ragged. Shit—when was the last time you ran this fast? It felt like your chest was going to explode.

Then, you spotted it. "That's my bike!" you gasped.

"Hand me the keys," Logan ordered, voice firm. No arguing.

You fumbled into your pocket and slapped the key into his palm before climbing onto the passenger seat.

Before mounting the bike himself, Logan grabbed the sweater you had left behind and tied it around your shoulders. Then, he tore the fabric of your pants and wrapped it around your wounded bicep to staunch the bleeding. You grunted in pain as he pulled the fabric tight.

For a second, he just looked at you—your blood is all over the place, your face flushed from the sprint, your breaths uneven.

His heart clenched.

"How’re you holdin' up?" he asked, brushing sweat from your forehead with his rough palm.

You inhaled deeply, then exhaled, forcing yourself to nod. He was going to be furious later when he figured out why you were really here. Hell, he was probably confused as fuck right now. But for now, his focus was clear—get you out of here.

"I'm fine," you reassured him. "Let's go."

He cage your jaw with his palm and pressed a brief, firm kiss to your temple before climbing onto the bike. The gesture was simple yet you can always felt your inside melt everytime he does that.

The engine roared to life, and in a heartbeat, you were flying down the dirt road. You clung to Logan’s waist as the cold night air cut through you, the wind whipping your hair and sweater wildly behind you.

It must’ve been around midnight when the two of you finally arrived at the mansion. Logan parked the bike by the front gate, avoiding the garage in the hopes of not waking anyone. The two of you walked in dead silence, Logan hyper-aware of his surroundings, making sure no one had followed you.

The mansion halls were quiet, almost eerily so, making it feel like you and Logan were the only ones there. He kept glancing your way every few seconds, his expression unreadable. He didn’t know what to say—hell, he wasn’t even sure if he should say anything yet. His anger was simmering beneath the surface, and the last thing he wanted was to take it out on you while you were already hurt.

As you made your way toward your shared bedroom, his thoughts raced. There has to be a reasonable explanation for this. How the hell did you end up on a mission meant only for him? Did Chuck have something to do with this? Oh, he’s gonna have a word with the bald bastard.

When you reached your room, Logan pushed the door open, and you immediately crashed onto the sofa. He shut the door behind him, resting his back against it.

"What happened?" His voice was calmer than expected, careful.

You sighed. Lying wasn’t your strong suit, especially not to him.

"I accidentally looked inside your head," you admitted quietly, fidgeting with your fingers.

Logan’s brows furrowed. "What?"

"You heard me," you said, avoiding his gaze as he took a step closer.

His arms crossed over his chest, his jaw tight. "I thought we agreed—you don’t do that without my consent."

"I know, I know." You lowered your head, feeling cornered. "It was a stupid plan. I just thought we’d have the chance to—at least—hang out."

"Hang out?" Logan's voice hardened. "That’s why you put yourself in danger? For a damn night out?"

Your head snapped up. "Sorry your girlfriend wants to spend time with you because Charles keeps sending you away for days!"

Logan closed his eyes, inhaling deeply, his hands still folded across his chest. He needed a second to regulate his emotions.

You pushed off the couch abruptly and stormed toward the bathroom, rummaging through the cabinets for a first-aid kit.

"Oh no, you're not walking away from me now." Logan followed, leaning against the sink with his arms folded, watching you tear through the cupboard aggressively.

He called your name once.

Twice.

The third time, you finally stopped, your body trembling from exhaustion.

"What, Logan?!" you snapped, frustration bubbling over.

"Look at me."

You hesitated. You hated when he did this—because you were weak for those damn eyes.

Slowly, you turned to him.

"Look, baby," he said, his voice softer now.

"You know our relationship is important to me, right? Of course, I always wanna spend my time with you. You know that." His hands moved, one gently squeezing your shaking arm.

"But I need to know you’re with me in this world. Our world. There are so many mutants out there suffering, and Chuck gives me the chance to help them. And I always take it gladly. Because if not me, then who?"

You swallowed, your anger fading into guilt. "I'm sorry. I was being selfish."

Logan gave a small, approving nod. "Atta girl. So—we’re good?" He leaned in slightly, his face inches from yours.

You nodded. "We’re good."

He pressed a brief, chaste kiss to your lips before resting his forehead against yours. But his eyes flickered down to your blood-soaked sleeve, and the concern returned instantly.

"I need to wake Jean. Or maybe Hank. You need stitches."

"No." You shook your head quickly. "It's midnight. I don’t wanna explain myself to them."

"Darlin’, you're bleeding real bad. You don't have another choice."

"Yes, I do." A bad idea formed in your head. A really bad idea.

"You can stitch."

Logan blinked. "I can?"

"Yeah. You told me that story—back in the ‘60s, a Navy nurse taught you how to stitch. You did it a couple of times."

Logan raised an eyebrow. "I stitched up two fella. That’s it."

"Perfect! Then I’ll be your third!" you said, far too excited for someone with a knife wound.

Logan stared at you like you had lost your damn mind. "Darlin’, no."

"Why not?" You dragged the words into a dramatic whine, nudging his chest. "C’mon, I think it’s romantic."

"Romantic?" He scoffed. "First of all, I only ever stitched up my buddies. Second of all, you’re my girl. I’m not experienced enough, and I love you way too much to screw that up."

You grinned sheepishly. "I love you too, Logan. But you’re being dramatic. You won’t screw up."

You turned back to the cupboard, pulled out the first-aid kit, and shoved it into his hands.

He sighed, shaking his head. "Baby—"

"Don’t baby me. You can do it. I trust you."

Logan exhaled through his nose, muttering a quiet curse before finally giving in.

"Fine," he grumbled, pulling out the medical scissors to cut away the fabric. "Your wish is my command."

Logan sliced the fabric apart, exposing the nasty open wound. The crimson liquid flowed freely again, trailing down your arm.

Without a word, he unzipped your suit from the back, helping you peel off the tight material—smearing blood across it in the process. Well, you thought, guess I’ll just have to ask Scott for a new one after this.

You kicked the rest of the leather jumpsuit off, leaving you in nothing but your underwear. Logan closed the toilet seat and gestured for you to sit while he prepared the needle and sutures by the sink.

Sitting behind his towering figure, you rested your chin on your hand. "Logan, strip off your jacket it’s annoying."

He paused mid-motion, giving you a sidelong glance before shaking his head. With a reluctant sigh, he shrugged off his thick leather jacket and let it drop to the floor before continuing his work.

You smirked. "Your shirt too… please?"

His hands stilled again, fingers tightening on the edge of the sink. Through the mirror, his sharp eyes locked onto yours. Without another word, he grabbed the hem of his white shirt and pulled it over his head, tossing it aside. Now, he was left in just his jeans, the buckle of his favorite belt glinting under the dim light.

"Happy?" he asked, catching your awe-struck expression in the mirror and how you grinned widely by his question.

"You might as well ask if the jeans could go too." Logan tease continuing his work.

You shake yout head, biting your cheeks to stop yourself from smiling "Nah," you exaggerated the word in a playful manner.

Logan scoffed. "No? Why not?" he asked, rummaging through the cabinet for rubbing alcohol.

You shrugged playfully. "I like ‘em on. Really enhances your muscles."

Logan exaggerated a pout. "Is that so? You don’t like what’s under there?" He turned, walking toward you with a metal tray of medical supplies.

You gave a nonchalant shrug, but the way your eyes darkened betrayed you. "Not particularly, no."

Logan chuckled, shaking his head. "Didn’t seem that way this morning when you were whining that my fingers weren’t enough and begging me to be balls-deep inside you, huh?"

Your lips parted slightly, heat rushing to your face.

"Now that you mention how good sex can be with you…" You leaned in, cupping the back of his head, your lips brushing against his. "Can’t we just forget the stitches and get freaky instead?"

Logan groaned into the kiss, savoring you for a long moment before muttering against your lips, "Stitches first. Freaky later."

You pulled back with a sigh, biting your lower lip. "Fine."

Logan smirked before refocusing on the task at hand. "Alright, first step—sterilize the wound. Now, I think Jean usually does it gently, dabbing around it with gauze. I, on the other hand, used to just pour the damn alcohol straight onto the wound. Fast and efficient."

Your eyes widened slightly. "Logan, no—"

Logan tipped the bottle over, and the cold burn of alcohol hit your wound like fire. A sharp gasp escaped your lips, and you instinctively jerked, but Logan was faster—his firm grip kept your arm steady.

"Easy, darlin'," he murmured, though there was little gentleness in his method. "Better this way—quick and over with."

"Quick and over with my ass," You gritted your teeth, eyes squeezing shut as the burn spread like wildfire. It wasn’t just a sting—it felt like your skin was being peeled back, raw and exposed.

Logan swore under his breath, watching you tense up. His jaw clenched, and for a brief second, hesitation flickered in his eyes. He could heal from anything, but you? You weren’t built for this kind of pain.

“…Damn it,” he muttered, grabbing a glass of water instead. He soaked a clean cloth and gently wiped away the excess alcohol, his touch much lighter this time. “Should’ve started with this.”

You exhaled, the cool water soothing the burn slightly. “What, Wolverine suddenly growing a conscience?” you teased, voice strained.

“Shut up,” he grumbled, but there was no heat behind it. He tossed the cloth aside and grabbed the suture kit. “Alright, sit still.”

You watched as he threaded the needle with steady hands, but the way his Adam’s apple bobbed slightly told you he was more nervous than he let on.

“Last time I stitched someone up, it was a warzone. No anesthesia. Just a bottle of whiskey and some bad decisions,” he said, positioning the needle over your wound.

“Sounds like a fun Saturday night.”

His lips twitched, but he didn’t take the bait. “Deep breath,” he instructed.

"You ready?" he asked.

"Yeah," you exhaled, bracing yourself.

Logan worked fast, but damn, it was not painless. The first pierce of the needle sent a sharp sting radiating up your arm. You hissed, gripping your thigh with your free hand.

"Shit, Lo—"

"I know, I know. Just breathe, baby," he muttered, his voice surprisingly soft. His forehead creased in focus as he pulled the thread through, knotting it tightly before moving to the next stitch.

You tried. You really did. But it hurt like hell. His hands were steady but not delicate—he was used to slicing things apart, not putting them back together.

Logan worked in silence, his brow furrowed in concentration. The stitches weren’t perfect, but they were holding. He was careful, his fingers surprisingly gentle as he tied off each suture.

"Almost done," he murmured, his tone shifting into something more tender. "You’re doin’ good."

A few more stitches, a few more pained exhales, and finally, Logan tied off the last knot. He cut the thread with a swift snip of the scissors before sitting back, exhaling as if he had just gone through the ordeal.

"Not my best work," he admitted, surveying the mess he made, "but it’ll hold."

You looked down at the uneven line of stitches. "Barely."

Logan shot you a pointed look. "If you wanted it pretty, you shoulda let Jean do it."

You smirked despite yourself. "But then we wouldn’t have this romantic moment, would we?"

Logan scoffed, shaking his head. He reached over, brushing a few strands of hair from your damp forehead. "You’re insane."

"You love it."

He smirked. "Yeah. I do."

His thumb brushing lightly over your cheek. “You scared the hell outta me tonight,” he admitted, voice lower now.

You leaned into his touch, exhaling softly. “I know.” you rested your arm on top of his and kissed his palm.

His eyes flickered to your lips, then back to your eyes. “You ever pull a stunt like that again—”

“You’ll kill me?” you joked.

Logan huffed, shaking his head. “Nah. Just gonna make damn sure you don’t sit right for a week.”

You snorted, leaning forward to kiss him. “Noted.”

And then, as if to make up for every crude stitch, every sharp sting, he leaned in, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your lips—soft and warm, the kind that made you forget the pain entirely.

A/N: As you can see I've been so obsessed doing one shot with Logan and mutant reader recently, thank you for reading this <3

[lieutenantbatshit]

CHAPTER 07 - once you go in, there's no turning back (hwang in ho x reader)

>> MASTERLIST

previous chapter | next chapter

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You woke up to the sound of classical music playing over the speakers, as you stretched your arms out. You seemed to sleep comfortably, feeling energetic. You didn't worry too much about the next game, in fact, you were ecstatic.

You rubbed your eyes as you climbed down your bed, greeting Gi-hun and Jung-bae. You looked around to find In-ho, seeing him across Gi-hun's bed who was already sitting up on his bed. You carefully walked over him as he noticed you.

"Hi," you said shyly, giving him a small wave.

In-ho shot you a look, raising his eyebrow. "Do I know you?"

You tilted your head in confusion, furrowing your eyebrows. You couldn't deny the feeling as if your heart was stabbed. Did he really have no idea who you were? You knew he heard you last night, your eyes meeting knowing that something was there, that you go way back. He held you during the voting process, the same way that he did back when you were kids.

You opened your mouth to speak, but no words came out. In-ho stood up and walked past you, his arms brushing against yours softly, but brief. You looked at him, seeing him interact with Gi-hun and Jung-bae. You stared at him intently, trying to figure out if he didn't know you at all, or if he was pretending not to.

The alarm buzzed, a voice on the speaker echoing through the room. "Attention, please. The second game will begin momentarily. Please follow the instructions from our staff."

You shook your head and fixed yourself up, walking down the stairs just when Dae-ho calls out to you. "Miss, you should join us. Let's go up together."

You felt In-ho's eyes on you but you kept your gaze at Dae-ho, whose eyes were jolly, despite the brutality of this place. You gave him a nod as Gi-hun, Jung-bae. In-ho, you, and Dae-ho fell in line out the door.

Players started to walk up the labyrinth stairs, hearing Jung-bae mutter "triangle" in every step. You couldn't help but feel your heart heavy as you made your way upstairs, knowing you were just behind In-ho. You tried to keep your distance or at least not trip, or you would bump into In-ho.

You were led to a room that seemed like a play area, the ones you would see in school. You looked around as if you were in the middle of an activity center in an elementary school. Two circles were formed in the middle, bordered with rainbow colors. You tried to look for any signs if this would be the Dalgona game, but you didn't see any small containers.

"Welcome to your second game. This game will be played in teams. Please divide into teams of five in the next ten minutes."

You see Gi-hun's mouth drop in shock, his eyes with a hint of worry. Jeong-bae spoke up, "Is Dalgona a team game?"

"It shouldn't be," you said, sighing. Though you've already foreseen how the games could be different now, but you couldn't help but feel guilty for Gi-hun, knowing how the other players depended on his words.

Suddenly, Player 100, who you know as Jeong-dae, appeared from behind, his tone harsh. "Aren't we playing the Dalgona game?"

"No, it doesn't look like it," you noticed Gi-hun's lips tremble a bit, looking down in defeat.

"What's the game then?" Jeong-dae asked rudely, his voice starting to raise.

"I'm not sure," Gi-hun replied, his voice evident with worry.

Jeong-dae snapped as he talked to Gi-hun. "What? You said you'd done this before. That triangle was the easiest. Was that all bullshit?"

"I'm sorry," Gi-hun looked down, not knowing what to say.

"Sorry won't cut it!" Jeong-dae continued, earning the attention from the other players as he raised his voice. "You talked like you knew everything. All these people believed your bullshit. What are you going to do? Will you take responsibility?"

"Hey, hey!" You raised your voice back, much to the group's surprise. "Stop blaming him for everything. You demand too much. You should've thought that the games were gonna be different this time."

"Then you can go and die here, lady," Jeong-dae retorted. "Why don't you just go suck his dick as you're kissing his ass already?"

You glared at him as he tried to walk towards you, only to be blocked by In-ho's body, his eyes staring intently to Jeong-dae as his fists clenched. His voice was low, but enough to be commanding. "That's enough."

Jeong-dae seemed to be taken aback, flinching as In-ho kept his gaze at him coldly. You kept your glare at Jeong-dae as you clenched your jaw.

"Please divide into teams now," the voice on the speakers instructed, a digital timer ticking.

"Yeah, just drop it," the other players said, pulling Jeong-dae behind. "Don't waste your time talking to these nutjobs. We shouldn't have fallen for his nonsense."

Jeong-dae eyed you from up and down, a smirk forming in his lips. You shot him a disgusted look. You noticed In-ho stood still, his eyes not leaving Jeong-dae. The old man scoffed as he brushed Gi-hun aside. "Previous winner? What a lunatic." He stopped in front of you as he glared at you. "Whore your way out of this game."

Your eyes flared with anger as you followed your gaze to Jeong-dae. You felt a hand on your shoulder, his thumb circling around it. You looked up and saw In-ho, looking at you. You averted your gaze and removed his hand from your shoulder. If he could act like he didn't know you, then you could too.

"I'm sorry," Gi-hun turned to you and In-ho, looking down.

"I still trust you," In-ho said as Gi-hun looked at him, giving him a reassuring smile. "I'd like to play the game with you, if that's okay?"

Gi-hun nodded and turned to you, giving him a nod back to let him know that you'll be joining. Jung-bae and Dae-ho joined as well, completing the team of five. You could see In-ho looking at you, but you tried hard not to meet his gaze, as you didn't want to deal with his mixed signals. If anything, your life in this game depended on it, and you had to stay focused.

The time seemed to pass by fast as you see players forming groups. You noticed Player 120 still looking for a team. You looked up the time, there was only two minutes left. You cheered for her on your head, hoping she would at least form a team to win.

"Excuse me," a young woman approached you, as you felt a poke on your shoulder. "Can I join you?"

Jung-bae looked at her worriedly, his fingers counting your group. "Sorry, we've already got five people."

"Please help me," her voice pleaded as she touched her belly, earning a small gasp from you. "I'm pregnant."

You needed to think fast. You couldn't risk a pregnant woman to join the other groups. You wouldn't know how the other groups would react if a pregnant woman joined them. She was fragile. If something happens to her, especially her unborn child, the guilt would eat you up to your grave.

"You can join them," you spoke up, as Dae-ho stared at you in horror. "I can find another group. I see Player 120 who doesn't have a group yet, I'll join her instead."

"Are you sure?" Gi-hun asked, a hint of worry evident in his voice.

You touched his shoulder, giving him a reassuring smile. "Don't worry, I'll manage." You turned to the rest of the group, giving In-ho a subtle glance. You noticed him looking at you intently, but you started to speak. "Take her in."

You gave them a wave, making your way towards Player 120 who was with Player 095 this time. As you were about to approach them, someone grabbed your arm from behind, stopping you on your tracks.

"What are you doing?" The familiar voice said, knowing it was In-ho.

"Go back," you said, looking at him in the eye, but you wished you didn't. You forgot how narrow his eyes were, illuminating its brown color, close to a coffee bean. You swallowed, trying to compose yourself. "There's only a minute left. Let me go."

You removed his hand from your arm and walked away, successfully approaching Player 120 and 095.

"Hi," you said, giving them a small smile. "Will it be okay if I can join you?"

Player 120 nodded. You gave Player 095 a smile. You noticed your team needed two more people. Looking around, you saw Player 149 and 007 approaching your team, their faces catching a hint of hope as they noticed you only needed two from your team.

"Come join us," you extended your hand, motioning for them to join. Player 149 sighed in relief, a wide smile forming in her lips.

"Time for team selection is up," the announcer's voice echoed through the room. Each teams formed a line from each circle. To your luck, your team went at the back of In-ho's group, his back facing you. "The game you will be playing is Six-Legged Pentathlon. You will start with your legs tied together. Each member will take turns playing a mini-game at every ten-meter mark, and if you win, the team can move on to the next one. Here are the mini games, ddakji, flying stone, gong-gi, spinning top, jegi. Your goal is to win all the mini games and cross the finish line in five minutes. Please decide players for each mini game."

Player 120 turned her head to you, your eyes hinting a bit of shock when she spoke. "I'm Hyun-ju. Choi Hyun-ju. What's your name?"

"Y/N," you said. "I'll play what you pick for me, Hyun-ju."

Hyun-ju nodded as she turned to the others, asking what they were more confident in playing. 149, who introduced herself as Geum-ja, will be playing gong-gi. Yong-sik decided to play flying stone, then Young-mi wanted to play ddakji. Jegi was picked by Hyun-ju, leaving you with spinning top.

"We're all set," you said, giving them all a reassuring nod. "Let's do this."

You felt Geum-ja's hand rubbing on your back, bringing comfort to your spine. She gave you a smile as you smiled back. "Thank you so much for letting us join you, Y/N. You're an angel."

"We're here for each other. It's the right thing to do," you said. "Are you sure you can play gong-gi?"

"I played gong-gi with bullets back in the Korean War," Geum-ja said with determination in her voice, which you chuckled. "These stones are nothing."

You bowed your head and turned to the set in front of you, seeing the first two teams gather in front. Though you couldn't help but see In-ho despite his back turned to you, stealing glances at him. You see his head turned to Gi-hun, hearing them strategize.

"That leaves jegi and spinning top," you heard Gi-hun say. "Which are you good at?

"Well, I'll play what you pick for me, Gi-hun," In-ho replied, earning a confused look from Gi-hun.

"You know my name?" Gi-hun widened his eyes, much to his shock. You noticed In-ho glancing at you as he pointed his finger at you.

"Oh, your friend was calling you by your name, so I thought I'd try it," In-ho said as you squinted your eyes a bit, confused with the sudden acknowledgement. "Does it bother you?"

Gi-hun sighed softly, shaking his head. "No, it's fine."

In-ho shot you a brief look as he kept his attention to Gi-hun, waiting for Gi-hun's decision on which game he'd like to play. You hear Gi-hun say that he would be playing jegi, leaving In-ho with spinning top. You felt a bit of butterflies on your stomach, a small smile forming in your lips as you thought the both of you would be playing the same game. You quickly shook your head to suppress those thoughts. You were in a dangerous place, playing a deadly game. Instead, you turned your head to the players who were setting their locks to their legs. All players motioned their bodies to the first two teams to get a better view. That meant you and In-ho sat side-by-side, his knee brushing a bit against yours.

The first two teams lined up in each circle with each guard positioned with the games. Five games for each player with a five-minute timer. You calculated that each mini game should be completed in a minute, much better if less than of it. You see the players holding each other as their legs were locked. Their movement should be precise, with one wrong leg, everyone could stumble, eating more of their time.

Communication is key in order to complete this game. You figured gong-gi would be the most nerve-wracking game of all. You were never good at playing gong-gi despite In-ho teaching you back then a lot of times.

"Let's go!" You hear Thanos shout, the sound of a gunshot echoing through the room. Both teams chanted as they walked towards the first mini game, ddakji. The first team flipped it on the first try, the other team failing to do so. You can't help but feel a shack of nervousness into you, wondering what would happen if the other team doesn't make it on time.

A thought sprang on to you. This game is played by groups, meaning it would also be a group elimination. You stared in horror as the second team still failed to flip the paper, cheering for them internally as you hoped for them to make it out.

The first team made it out to the second mini game, flying stone. The announcer instructed to not step on the line, seeing the team move back a bit. Player 198 aimed at the stone as he threw it, only to not reach the stone. You heard the other players gasp, as he asked the guard for another stone, only pointing to the one he threw.

You figured you had to move fast. If you had to pick up whatever game you failed, you had to do it fast. You felt the pressure build on to you, knowing how you have to spin the top in just one try. You were confident, sure. But the last time you played spinning top was with In-ho.

You didn't realize the second team already made out ddakji and flying stone already, advancing them to the third mini game, gong-gi. The first team continued to miss, eating more of their time. You knew right then and there that they wouldn't be able to survive, knowing how the three remaining games can take too much of their time.

This is where you realize how time truly is of the essence. Back when you were kids, you played the whole day and enjoyed every single bit of it. Right now, you were playing to survive, to see more of the light outside.

You couldn't see much of the players playing gong-gi, as it was played on the ground with a small table on it. You only heard the sound of stones being raised and thrown. If you had to play this game on your own, you would require silence. The thought of having to play that in a room where all eyes were on you would definitely end you up dead, a relief washing over you that you wouldn't be playing it this time.

"Y/N," You heard Yong-sik call out, turning your head to him. You could see the worry in his face. "You can play spinning top very well, right? Are you sure?"

"I played it a lot when I was a kid," you replied, giving him a reassuring smile. Though you wouldn't disclose that it had been a long time since you played it. "I even used to teach someone how to play it."

Yong-sik nodded, seemingly satisfied with your answer. He seemed to whisper something to himself as if he was comforting himself. You briefly looked at In-ho, seeing him looking at you at the corner of his eye. He seemed to look away immediately, brushing his hand on his knee as he fixed himself up.

You noticed Dae-ho practicing the stones he found on the ground, training himself for gong-gi. You looked at the first team who was still stuck in flying stone. There was only two minutes left. The second team was already in spinning top.

You noticed how the teams were focused more on cheering for themselves than advancing on to the next game. You couldn't blame them, knowing how playing these games could be at the expense of your life. Maybe you would understand it more if you were in their shoes.

Time seemed to pass by so fast in this place, seeing the timer leaving with only five seconds left. You can't help but stand, the tension rising to your body. You saw the first team successfully hitting the stone, though they couldn't make it to the next game. You braced yourself as you heard the timer beep.

"Your time is up."

The sound of gunshots filled the air, hearing the bodies thud to the ground. It didn't even give you time to breathe, seeing blood splattered all over the ground. You didn't notice you were holding on to In-ho, gripping his jacket as you looked away and covered your eyes. You felt his hand grip on your hand, placing yours inside of his pocket.

"The following players have been eliminated: Players 016, 045, 178, 189, 198, 254, 286, 341, 395, and 416."

You sighed deeply as your hand trembled. You felt your body to the ground, pushing In-ho as well. As much as you've seen the evilness in this place, calculating its next moves, you couldn't help but still feel scared. You buried your head to In-ho's chest, your eyes still closed. You felt his hand on your back, rubbing it gently as if to comfort you.

----

The more you stayed in this room, the more you felt immune to the sound of gunshots.

It took at least fifteen minutes for the workers to clean up the bodies, revealing a casket but designed to be some sort of a pink gift box. Though you could see the eliminated players still moving despite being gunned down. You thought of it as nothing, knowing they would succumb to their wounds the more they stayed alive. You can't help but think they were simply losers who lost the game, though deep inside, you knew the killings will never be justified.

"The next teams, please get ready."

You stood up, fixing yourself as you felt your breath trembling. It was your turn, and you were determined to make it out of this game.

"Y/N," Dae-ho called out as you turned around. He gave you a thumbs up. "Good luck!"

You nodded and glanced at the others, with Gi-hun, Jung-bae, and Player 222 looking at you worriedly. In-ho looked at you as if he wanted to tell you the same, his stare longing for more, keeping your gaze. You were going to survive this game, you're pretty sure of it. You still had a lot of questions for In-ho. There's no way you would die at a place like this.

You felt Geum-ja grab your arm and Yong-sik's as the rest of your team's legs were locked together. You felt the tightness near your ankle, but there were still enough room for your skin to breathe.

"Let's show everyone else here that these games are no big deal," Hyun-ju stated, her voice motivating your senses.

You heard the gunshot sprung in the air as both your arms with Geumja's and Hyun-ju's, marching towards ddakji. You focused on your steps, trying to be as equal as their pace. You panted as your team cheered, reaching the ddakji mini game.

Young-mi grabs the ddakji paper as the guard put the other paper on the ground, ready for her to be flipped. You stayed silent in attempt to not pressure her, seeing her hands tremble. She motioned her hand in a swing, aiming to the paper to the ground.

"Fail."

The paper only moved a bit. You felt yourself groan as Yong-sik exclaimed, "Come on, again. Smash it!"

Another aim.

"Fail."

Third attempt.

"Fail."

"Shit!" You exclaimed, staring at the timer. Only 30 seconds have passed, there was still time to flip it.

Young-mi grabbed the paper again as she breathed heavily, panic evident in her face.

"Hang on, Young-mi," Hyun-ju called out, though her voice was calm. "Try it with the other side. The other side."

Young-mi followed, flipping the paper on her hand. With all her might, she swung her arm and aimed to the ground.

"Pass."

You can't help but scream, cheering for the win. You quickly crossed your arms with Hyun-ju and Geum-ja, marching towards flying stone. You panted as Yong-sik grabbed the stone and aimed it to the one on the ground.

"Fail."

"I'm sorry!" Yong-sik cried out. Geum-ja, being the mother she is, comforted Yong-sik reassuring him that it was okay. You had more time, one setback won't probably bring you down.

"All right, we'll go pick it up," Hyun-ju said as your team walked over the stone, as Yong-sik successfully picks it up. "All right, now walk backwards."

You went back to the line as Yong-sik motioned his arm to aim to the stone on the ground, though he was panicking. He breathed nervously, his hands trembling. Geum-ja pointed out to the stone as she held her son's back, "Yong-sik, look. Imagine the stone is the face of the crook who scammed you."

That was a good motivation, you thought. You noticed Yong-sik's eyes falter with anger as he cried, "That asshole ruined my fucking life!" His arm swung as Geumja eluded her body, giving way for Yong-sik to throw the stone.

"Pass."

You glanced at the timer, seeing there were still four minutes and thirty seconds left. You knelt down along the others as Geum-ja immediately grabbed the stones, her eyes focused on the game. You stared in awe as you see her doing it fast.

However, she failed to catch the fourth stone. She sighed softly but wasted no time. She rolled the stones again, successfully catching the rest of the stones. It was time for the second set, only for her to fail again.

"That's okay," you assured, placing a hand on her back. "These stones are nothing compared to the bullets you've played before, right?"

Geum-ja swallowed her throat as she nodded, seemingly motivated once more. Her eyes seem unfazed as she caught each stone successfully, reaching the fourth set.

It was time for the fifth set as she successfully caught all five stones. The stones landed perfectly on her fingers, she just have to flip it on the other side and catch them all.

"Mom, just imagine the stone is Dad's mistress' face," Yong-sik said, motivating his mother.

She looked at Yong-sik for a second and looked back at her hand. This time, her expression with wrath. "Rotten bitch!"

You held your breath as you kept your eyes on the stone as she flipped it.

"Pass."

You cheered, grabbing your team as you stood up. You locked your arms together once again, now advancing to spinning top. You grabbed the top from the guard as you wrapped the fiber thread around the axle first, then wrapping it around the top as you held it with your thumb. As much as possible, you kept your attention away from the blood on the ground and kept your gaze on your top.

You glanced at the timer, seeing there was only two minutes and ten seconds left. When you felt the thread tighten on the top, you held your breath as you looked in front of you. The blood on the ground wasn't a pretty sight at all. You gulped, trying to hold in the fear.

You glanced on your right, seeing In-ho from afar. His eyes seemed to shot up as if he wasn't expecting for you to look at him. As much as you hated how he acted as if he didn't know you, well, two can play in that game. You don't know what came to you, but you felt a rush of relief seeing him, giving him a wink. In-ho's eyes widened, his mouth dropping.

You turned your attention to your top as you flicked your wrist, smirking as you did. The thread unwinded as it propelled the top to the ground, successfully spinning.

"Pass."

You screamed as you dropped the thread to the ground, locking arms with your team again. Your team had more time, and now it was Hyun-ju's time. You heard the other players cheer for your team, your heart pumping hard to your chest. You glanced at the time, only one minute left.

The jegi must be kicked five times. Then, Hyun-ju turned to your team. "Please, look away."

"What?" Geum-ja asked in confusion.

"Please," Hyun-ju pleaded. She turned to the other players watching. "You guys too."

Confusion was evident on everyone's faces, but there was no time to think. There was only one minute left for you to survive. You cried out, "Don't look! Turn around, please!"

You looked away as you heard Hyun-ju breathe heavily before starting. You heard the jegi land on Hyun-ju's foot, kicking it up in the air successfully.

One.

Two.

You held your breath as you continued to count.

Three.

Four.

You closed your eyes, bracing to hear the last one.

Five.

"Five!" You screamed together with the rest of your team, seeing the jegi now on the ground.

"Pass."

You cheered with your team as you lock your arms together once again, seeing there were ten seconds left. The crowd cheered as well, as if forgetting the evilness in this place. Your team marched towards the red line, the finishing line.

You hear the timer beeped as the crowd erupted with cheer. You noticed the other team successfully made it out just like you did, feeling as if everyone had won already.

For a moment, every player united with each other, seemingly happy with the wins. You grabbed your team in a big hug, crying out as you realize that you've made it. You jumped cheerfully despite the guards unlocking your legs, not caring if you kicked them a bit.

It felt like you were part of the olympics, if only there were no killings involved. You remembered your conversation with In-ho, with him asking you before if there was an olympics held for games like this. Though you promised to team up with him when the time comes, only to fail at a time like this.

The gates opened as the teams exited the room, glancing a bit behind you as you saw In-ho, his gaze fixed on you. Although this time, you could see the relief in his face. He pressed his lips into a small smile, so brief that you wouldn't be able to notice much.

You hoped for him to come back in one piece as you walked away, terrified of the next things to happen.

----

A/N: I'm publishing this chapter now since I'll be doing a small group work for my college. I'll try to have the next chapter up as fast as I can since I, too, am excited for this series hahaha 😂 Feel free to leave out your thoughts here, and I'll gladly interact with each and everyone of you. 🫶

Don't forget to leave a comment in this post to be tagged on the next chapter! ✨

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[chilling-seavey]

Land of Hope and Glory (ls2)

↳ Timeless: F1 Grid Masterlist

↳ Summary: As the son of a governor, Logan's life is meticulously planned out for him. Yet all he wants to do is be like the other young men paving their own ways in the new century.

↳ Title Song: Land of Hope and Glory by Edna Thornton (1902)

↳ Word Count: 1.4k

↳ A/N: Oh I'm so excited for this lil series! Starting off strong with Logan <3 

↳ Warnings: Mentions of societal divide accurate to the time period (Logan's family has servants), mentions of a controlling father, and a very brief mention of child abuse.  

May 1902

Logan always felt small in the shadow of his father’s looming portrait. It hung on the wall of the wood paneled office in their Florida mansion, above the crackling fireplace and peering down menacingly at any visitors that sat opposite the governor at his home desk. 

Governor Sargeant ran his home like a tight ship, not unlike the way he ruled his elected land, and he held his two sons to impeccable standards. Both would follow in his footsteps into politics and use their platforms as hope to Floridians for the new century. It was now the 20th century, of course, and they were to be ahead of the field in all aspects, striving to make Florida a state as strong and substantial as any of the others. 

Despite this fate that he had been given upon birth, Logan resented every ounce of it. He hated the rulings his father took, hated the conservative outlook on society and life, and frankly, would rather contract scarlet fever than have to stomach politics for his own lifelong career. And yet, there Logan sat, beside his brother and opposite his father in his home office, listening to him drawl on about this or that.

Logan couldn’t stop staring at the portrait above his father’s head; his likeness having this unsettling stare about him that perfectly mimicked his real-life counterpart. Portrait paintings nowadays were truly ahead of their time. 

The brothers were soon released by their father for lunch, during which the servants would bring them full meals on fine china in the dining room. While his brother headed to wash up and his father stayed behind to reply to some letters, Logan slipped into the kitchen undetected. 

The cramped kitchen was bustling with chefs and servants; so many people just to serve and cater to a family of four. Logan stayed out of the way as he navigated his way along the wall and ducked under the arm of one of the chefs when he passed by.

“Master Logan, what are you doin’ in here again?”

Logan straightened up, caught, at the sound of the lead housemaid’s voice. He turned on his toes to face her, dropping his hands on the edge of the stone island with a sigh of submission and, yet, that cheeky smile stayed ever present on his face. 

“Why, simply looking for you, Miss Ada,” Logan buttered her up, tilting his head sweetly in the direction of the older woman.

Ada, a short and stout middle aged woman with hair like salt and pepper that was peeking out from beneath her white uniform bonnet, tried to keep a serious expression as she prepared the rolls for lunch. She shot a glare in Logan’s direction that didn’t quite meet her eyes and, even still, her lips played into a small smile as she arranged the homemade rolls in their basket, “You’re gonna get yourself in a whole lotta trouble one of these days, boy.”

“Not quite,” Logan protested, cut off as one of the chefs went whizzing past with a hot pot and Logan had to duck to avoid getting hit. When he straightened up again, he rested his forearms against the stone countertop, leaning towards her, and continued, “I know you’re too sweet to go ratting me out to father.”

“Maybe so, but at this rate, your reprimanding won’t be by the likes of me,” she warned. 

Logan reached over to grab a roll out of the basket, right out from under her hand. Before she could grab it back, he had taken a bite. 

“Oh, you!” Ada grabbed the tea towel laying beside her and swatted him with it. “You will spoil your lunch.”

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, Miss Ada,” Logan said through a mouthful of bread, still draped casually over the corner of the counter, “Do you think I may take my lunch for a picnic today?”

Ada’s eyebrows raised. With her age came her wiseness…and her ability to read Logan like a book. She had known him all his years, of course, having even been in the room where he was born and had been his wet nurse for the first year of his life. Logan was most special to the middle-aged housemaid and she often saw him like her own son. 

“A picnic?” she questioned, lifting the basket of bread to bring out through the swinging door to the dining room. 

Logan followed closely behind her like a pleading puppy, unflinching as the noise of the kitchen turned into the eerie silence of his family’s lavishly decorated dining room and he pleaded his case, “Oh, please, Miss Ada, you know how I loath to eat here. And it is such a beautiful day outside and I would love to sit by the ocean and—”

“Master Logan,” Ada turned back to him once the rolls were set on the table. She set her hands on her full hips, right over the ribbons of her apron, “you know your father did not take kindly to you takin’ your lunch out of doors last week.”

Logan, with half a roll balanced between his teeth, clasped his hands together in silent pleading with the kind woman. Yes, Ada might have seen Logan like a son of her own, but Logan, too, saw her like a mother figure; she was everything his mother wasn’t: warm, comforting, maternal. That being said, it only played into the fact that Logan knew just how to wear her down.

With a reluctant sigh, unable to turn down that sweet face of her housemaster’s son, Ada nodded and led the way back into the kitchen, Logan hot on her heels, “Fine, fine. It is your choice, boy. It is your father’s beatin’ you will have to face.”

“Anything will be worth getting out of this house for an afternoon.”

Ada packed him up a picnic lunch in a wicker basket of his own and she sent him on his way. He thanked her with a kiss to her cheek and then he was bolting out the servant’s door into the side yard. 

His bicycle was propped up against the siding of the estate and he stuffed the last bit of the roll into his mouth as he lifted it up onto its two wheels and he slung a leg over. The rickety metal frame creaked underneath his weight as he shifted to make sure the basket was secure on one of the handlebars before he was pushing off in the direction of the road. 

He cut across his family’s neatly manicured lawn, peddling up to top speed as he whizzed past the windows of his father’s office and between palm trees that lined the property. The bike went airborne for just a second as he reached the top of the small embankment up to the main road before it landed expertly onto the roadway. The packed gravel made the bike rattle underneath him but Logan was unfazed, zipping around pedestrians and horses with his feet pushing it to impressive speeds. 

The local park, with its serene ocean-side views, was a few blocks away and Logan barrelled through the front gates and down the first hill into its depths. Pedestrians had to jump out of the way to and fro to avoid being run over—women with their parasols and men with their walking canes—but he didn’t bat an eye; he and his bicycle were one. The wind rushed through his tidy blonde hair and rustled the strands out of its styled perfection into a look of more boyish charm.

By the time he reached the fields, the crowd of twenty-somethings were already gathered. The breaks on Logan’s bike shrieked as he skidded to a stop and let it fall to the side as he clamoured off, making sure his basket was politely set to the side. Sure, he was in a rush but he would never dream of ruining the hard work of his family’s staff. 

“My apologies!” Logan called to his group of friends as he jogged over to them, “We haven’t started yet, have we?”

One of his friends clapped him on the shoulder, “Right on time.”

Another shoved a leather football into his arms, “Almost thought we were going to have to scrape by and win the tournament without you.”

“You know I would never dream of doing such a thing,” Logan grinned back at them, his cheeks slightly flushed from his exertion, “Besides, you could never win without me.”

His friends replied in overlapping protests and laughter, jostling him around in a friendly manner as they got into position. Someone took out a coin to flip, arguing amongst themselves who was heads or tails. 

Logan tossed the worn football in the air and caught it again, taking a deep breath of crisp ocean-kissed spring air. For a moment, life felt good.

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[synvil]

say you love me // matt sturniolo + chris sturniolo

synopsis : not saying “i love you” back to your bfs, a tiktok trend.

tiktok trends masterlist !

matt sturniolo (☆´3｀)

‘i’m abt done here, so ill pick up some food for us and be home in like 10 mins.’

matt was currently out doing some errands and such, and is in the middle of texting you as he prepares to leave and head home, letting you know the plan.

you respond back fairly quickly, a smile lacing on your lips as you decide to mess with him a little. ‘okayy, sounds good. see u soon :)’

your text causes the boy to smile lightly and he buckles his seatbelt, texting back. ‘i love you, angel’

‘mmh!’

you can’t help the giggles that escape you as he furrows his brows at the screen and sits in the car, staring at the phone in his hand as he tries again. ‘i love u [name]’

‘yup! be safee’

within seconds, your phone suddenly begins to vibrate, signaling that matt was calling. stifling a laugh, you clear your throat and answer. “yeah babe?”

“[name], what’s wrong? did i do something?” the immediate concern in his voice nearly causes you to give in as you purse your lips and feel your chest warm. “what do you mean?”

matt frowns as he leans back in his seat and crosses an arm over his chest. “you aren’t saying it back. what did i do?”

“awh, honey. im sorry, i was just teasing you. i love you, matt.” you coo, already feeling bad and matt huffs lightly. “god, you’re so much sometimes.. i love you more, dumbass. pizza still okay?”

“heh, sounds delicious. see you soon, matt.”

“alright. love you, angel.”

breaking into a wide smile, you chuckle. “i love you more.”

chris sturniolo (⸝⸝⍢⸝⸝) ෆ

“mmh, my baby is all dressed up, looking sexy.”

chris curls his lips into a smirk as he brings an arm behind his head to rest against his pillow while his other hand holds his phone as he lays in bed. “where you headed to?”

you giggle at chris’ words and smooth down your jacket a little, adjusting it before turning to the mirror in his room to look for any last minute changes. “i’m heading out with some friends, we’re going shopping.”

“mmh, pick out something pretty then. can’t wait to see it.” chris calls out, directing his attention back to his phone and you hum, picking up your purse off the bedside table. “i’ll take pictures.”

“alright, have fun. i love you, babe.”

“i will. i like you more.” you quickly say in response, speedily making your way to the door, and just as your hand grabs the handle, chris stops you. “nuh uh, get your ass back here.”

you bite your tongue from releasing a laugh and glance back innocently. “what? i’m going to be late.”

chris narrows his eyes as he stares up at you in disbelief. “i love you, princess.”

“i like you too baby, now can i go?”

chris appears unamused, quickly growing impatient as he stands up and heads over to you, and you swallow to keep your composure. once he arrives at your side, he cups your chin and presses you against the door.

peering down at you, he tilts his head and tries again, this time more firmly and staring right into your eyes.

“[name]. i love you. now say it back and say it right.”

feeling the warmth spreading across your cheeks, you shyly look away and murmur. “..i love you, chris..”

the man only smirks and pecks your lips before pulling away. “good girl. you’re lucky i don’t teach you a lesson.” he warns casually before making his way back to his bed and waves his hand dismissively.

“see you later, baby.”

a/n : i lowkey don’t know how to write chris but gave it my best shot !! hope you guys enjoyed :)

synvil™️