#he’d be GLOWING for about five minutes

[hearts4hughes]

LOVESICK

yearning!clark kent x journalist!reader | note: clark is a lovesick, obsessed puppy in this (just how i like them😛) also, this may be one of my favorite writings ever

clark kent didn’t consider himself a yearner. he wasn’t one of those tragic types who were moon-eyed and love-drunk, penning sonnets in the margins of his notepad. no, he was practical, maybe quiet. a man with responsibilities bigger than himself. but then there was you and suddenly he was bringing two coffees to the office each morning just in case you hadn’t had time. suddenly he was standing every time you entered a room. suddenly he was rearranging his schedule around yours without a second thought, following the sound of your laugh like it was a goddamn north star.

lois called it whipped; jimmy called it pathetic; clark just called it tuesday.

he could hear the click of your shoes from downstairs. he pauses writing mid stroke, eyes zeroed in onto the floor. using his x-ray vision, he saw you tap the elevator door. his chair spun as he sprung out of it. he moved fast—not super-speed fast, not cape-and-crisis fast, but fast enough that jimmy raised a brow from the bullpen and muttered something under his breath about puppy dogs and lost causes. clark ignored him. he straightened his tie (even though it was already straight), swiped the extra coffee off his desk, and positioned himself at your workspace with the same intensity most people reserved for emergency landings. by the time the elevator dinged, he looked casual and effortless. like he hadn’t just rerouted the last five minutes of his life to be exactly where you were about to be.

“hey, clark,” your voice was enough to make him feel lightheaded. he turned his head to meet your gaze and the world shifted under him. you were clad in kitten heels and those pants that accentuated your curves. his jaw fell slack. “is this for me?” you smile, motioning to the coffee in his hand.

he blinked, caught in the orbit of your mouth, your eyes, the way sunlight caught in the strands of your hair. “uh—yeah.” his voice cracked like a teenager’s. he cleared his throat. “yes. i mean, if you want it.”

your smile deepened. “i always want it.” your fingers brush his as you grab the cup. he feels an electric bolt where you touched. “you’re the best.” he swore his knees buckled a little. he didn’t even respond. he just stared at you with that dazed, lovesick look—eyes soft and dreamy, mouth parted and cheeks red. lois, somewhere behind him, let out a very loud jesus christ.

as you put the cup to your lips, it became harder to watch. he swallowed hard, watching your lips wrap around the lid like it was the most important review of his life. you hum in approval, lipstick staining the paper, and clark had to look away before he did something humiliating. like sigh or propose.

“y/n, can i get your opinion on this headline?” lois called from across the office, already spinning her monitor toward where you stood. you turned your head, casual as anything, but clark swore—swore—there was a breeze that hit just right. your hair moved like you were walking off a film set, backlit and glowing, and the smile you tossed over your shoulder nearly knocked the wind out of him.

“of course,” you said. and just before you turned, your eyes caught his again. one last glance. “bye, clark.” two words. simple and completely harmless. yet, they landed like a truck.

“b-bye,” he stammered, too fast, too breathy. “yeah. see you—later. or, uh in five minutes. depending—probably.”

you laughed—you laughed—and kept walking. jimmy snorted so hard he nearly choked on his granola bar. “dude.”

lois didn’t even look up. “we get it, clark.”

he sank back into his chair, cheeks burning, heart thudding out some ridiculous rhythm he was pretty sure wasn’t FDA-approved. but still, he smiled. you’d said goodbye like it meant something and he’d spend the rest of the day pretending it wasn’t the best part of his morning.

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[onlypinkslut]

warning 18+

bulking season bf!toji fushiguro x f!reader🍫 ─────────────────────────── you should’ve known better than to bake aphrodisiac-laced chocolate for a man whose cock is already this heavy on a rest day.

cw: aphrodisiac use, dubcon energy, intense size kink, morning-after continuation, heavy creampie detail, degradation + praise, light choking, possessive, rimming, piss kink, thick cock worship, finger sucking, spit

───────────────────────────

you didn’t even mean for it to get nasty. you were just playing around, honestly. the aphrodisiac chocolates had been sitting in your drawer since that one dumb tiktok trend went viral, and you bought them as a joke, more curious than anything. they were shaped like hearts, barely smelled like cocoa, and supposedly made with some obscure herb that increased sensitivity and blood flow. whatever. they’d probably do nothing. but it was a boring saturday, his stupid team was losing again, and he was in one of his bulking moods always grumbling about macros and how his legs were sore and how his back felt tight even though he spent the entire day sprawled on the couch. so you figured, why not. you crumbled up three of those little hearts and stirred them right into the muffin batter, along with his favorite chocolate whey protein, flaxseed, a little oat flour, and that fake sugar he liked. they looked innocent. smelled good too. you even sprinkled dark chocolate chunks on top so they felt indulgent.

you were still mixing when you felt that big fucking hand smack your ass, the sting warm and sharp.

he walked by without looking at you like it was nothing, wearing nothing but his black compression shorts and one of those old tournament tees that clung to his back. his arms looked thicker than usual he’d been on some mass phase that turned his triceps round and full and his stomach into that heavy, firm softness that made him feel dangerous when he pinned you down. his thighs were beefy and slow-moving, and when he bent down to grab a beer from the fridge, you watched the fabric strain around the curve of his ass like it owed you something.

he popped the can open and took a long drink, foam sliding down the corner of his mouth. you laughed, swatting his arm as he kissed your cheek.

you smell like powder and beer. move.

he grinned, grumbled something about the game, and walked back to the couch.

you baked the muffins. pulled them out golden, warm, fluffy, dark chocolate bleeding from the tops. you left them to cool on the counter and slipped away to the bathroom to rinse the sticky batter off your hands. maybe three minutes, tops. when you came back, the tray was empty except for one.

he didn’t even hide it. he was leaning against the counter with chocolate crumbs on his lip, chewing the last bite of the second-to-last one, like he didn’t just eat five muscle muffins in under three minutes.

you stood there in silence.

toji.

he looked up, mouth full, blinked slowly.

hmm?

you pointed at the tray.

what the fuck, babe. you ate all of them?

he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and shrugged, tone smug.

i left you one.

you stared harder.

wow. thank you. king shit. leaving me one of the muffins i made from your expensive ass protein powder.

he smirked, walked past you toward the living room again.

could’ve eaten that one too. i was nice.

you followed him.

you’re a fucking jerk sometimes, toji. greedy ass.

he turned, and his face looked different. not defensive. flushed. like the heat hit him late. his eyes were a little too half-lidded, that casual post-meal glow a little too glassy. he leaned back against the counter, beer still in hand, and you noticed the way he adjusted his waistband. the compression shorts weren’t hiding anything. his cock was already thickening, heavy and outlined, hanging to the side and rising slow, fat from the bulk, veins showing along the shaft like he was halfway hard without even trying.

he blinked at you again.

you say that like it’s not sexy watching me eat.

you squinted.

you high?

he looked confused, then smirked wider.

nah. i just feel good. what’d you put in those muffins?

you crossed your arms.

…chocolate.

his hand reached down and adjusted again. his cock twitched under the fabric.

mm. you put steroids in that shit? ‘cause i feel like i could fuck you through the wall right now.

you rolled your eyes but your thighs clenched.

you’re so full of yourself. big back.

he laughed, deep and slow, took another sip of his beer and tilted his head.

big back that’s gonna fold you over the sink in five seconds if you keep mouthing off.

you stared at the outline of his cock fully hard now, straining, the tip pressing high, the shaft wide and curved with the kind of bulked-up heaviness that made your mouth ache just thinking about it. he was flushed down to his chest, neck pink, voice deeper. the aphrodisiacs were kicking in hard, and he had no idea why just knew he was turned on and looking at you like you were a cheat meal and a challenge all in one.

his beer hit the counter with a loud clink.

you still mad about the muffins?

you didn’t answer.

his eyes dropped to your thighs.

yeah. thought so.

he didn’t give you time to run. didn’t even pretend to play nice. one second you were glaring at him, hands on your hips like you were gonna keep arguing, and the next, he had both your wrists in one of his hands and your body bent clean over the kitchen counter, your cheek pressing into the still-warm granite like it was punishment. the tray clattered next to your face, one lonely muffin left behind, and his beer bottle rolled sideways, forgotten. his grip on your wrists tightened just slightly firm enough to hold you still, loose enough to tease. his other hand slipped under your shirt, palm dragging over your stomach, and you felt the weight of him behind you, chest hot and solid, that firm bulked-up belly pinning your hips down like he was built to keep you there.

you felt it before it hit. his hand lifted, then cracked back down on your ass hard, a full open-palm slap that made your hips jerk forward and your mouth fall open with a breathy yelp. the sting bloomed fast, heat spreading, and he leaned over you, lips against your ear as he growled low.

that’s one muffin.

you twisted your face against the counter, half-laughing, half-squirming, the ache spreading deeper with every second. your skirt was already pushed up, your thighs open, panties crooked and damp from how hard your heart was beating. you wanted to be mad. you were mad. but your ass lifted again, greedy and twitching, and he noticed. his hand came down again. same cheek. sharper this time, more of a slap than a spank.

two.

fuck you, you overgrown glutton.

he chuckled dark against your neck and licked a slow stripe up the side of it. you felt the curve of his cock pressing against your ass, thick and full and leaking into his shorts now, the head wet and bulging against the waistband. his body felt like a furnace, bulking-season heat turning his whole chest into something heavy and suffocating as it dragged down your back. his hand reached around and shoved your panties further to the side, two fingers sliding through the slick between your thighs.

mm. you’re wet. you like being punished for chocolate, huh?

i liked the part before you opened your mouth..

another slap. harder. lower. made your clit jump from the vibration of it.

three.

you hissed through your teeth, but your ass stayed up, back arched like you needed more. he grabbed the side of your jaw, turned your face toward him, and shoved two fingers past your lips sticky from your own slick, the taste already faintly sweet. you sucked them in slow, dragging your tongue along the pads, teeth brushing just barely.

he looked down at you, smirking, and started moving his fingers in and out of your mouth like he was testing depth.

four.

you moaned around them, lips popping, and he shoved your face back down onto the counter, fingers dragging out wet. he spanked you again, same rhythm, a little higher this time, making your whole body jerk forward from the impact.

five.

you giggled breathlessly and rolled your hips back into him.

can you count without losing breath?

he grabbed your hair and yanked your head back just enough to make you gasp, your spine bowing beneath him. his cock pressed harder against your ass now, twitching visibly through the fabric.

don’t make me count with my cock instead.

you moaned louder than you meant to. your pussy was dripping, your thighs sticky, clit swollen and throbbing from the slap-rub rhythm he kept grinding into you with that brutal body weight. he was sweating now too, heat radiating off his skin, mouth hot against your neck as he whispered—

six.

you didn’t even feel the slap before you felt yourself twitch. your clit rubbed up against the edge of the counter. your mouth dropped open in a low gasp.

seven.

he kissed your shoulder, still smirking, and dragged his fingers between your legs again, then brought them back to your lips, slick and warm. you sucked them without hesitation this time. your body was swaying, rolling back into his grip like instinct, ass high and cunt dripping while he lined himself up behind you, rubbing the thick head of his cock between your folds like he was testing how far he could stretch you before you even said a word.

eight.

you heard yourself laugh and sob in the same breath. he didn’t let up.

the whole thing stopped when your phone started ringing loud and shrill, cutting through the heat like cold water. you jumped off the counter fast, pulling your shirt down and stumbling into the hallway while muttering something about it being your friend and how you’d deal with him later. he grunted something but didn’t follow, probably still standing there half-hard, flushed, and foaming at the mouth. you shut the door to the bedroom and answered the call like your face wasn’t red and your thighs weren’t sticky with your own slick. tried to focus. nodded through the updates about someone’s breakup and how the group chat was dead without you. you were just starting to feel normal again, legs still sore, when you heard the door creak open.

he didn’t say anything. just walked in like he had every right to interrupt. sat next to you on the edge of the bed, shirtless now, that thick bulked-up body warm and sweaty, the smell of chocolate and protein powder still clinging to his skin. you tried to keep your voice steady, but he leaned in close and started pressing soft kisses to your cheek like he was innocent. like he wasn’t the same man who spanked you eight times in a row like a delinquent five minutes ago.

you ignored him.

he licked the shell of your ear.

you wet right now?

you flinched, elbowing him off, mouthing shut up, i’m on the phone, but he just grinned and pulled you closer by the waist, mouth dragging along your jaw.

did you touch yourself today?

you hissed through your teeth and turned away from him, still nodding to the phone, but your eyes rolled when you felt the shape of his cock through his shorts pressing to your side.

do you like my cock?

he said it with a straight face like he was asking you about the weather. you shoved him again, whispering you’re disgusting and i’m tired, and he just blinked, offended.

you stood up, phone still to your ear, and said you were going to shower and do skincare. tried to escape. told him to wait for you, literally begged him not to be a freak for ten minutes. but he followed you down the hall like a damn animal, dragging his feet, head tilted low, big arms hanging loose, shorts tenting with the outline of his thick cock already half out the waistband. you were halfway into the bathroom when he yanked them down to his thighs and slapped the heavy thing against his stomach with a loud thwack, the sound echoing off the walls.

you turned around with wide eyes, still holding your cleanser bottle.

you need help. what the fuck is wrong with you tonight?

he was sweating. hard. chest flushed, lips parted, cock twitching thick and veiny with that full weight. he gripped the base lazily, stroking it slow like it owed him answers.

lemme have your panties.

you laughed like you were being pranked.

no. they’re gross. literally sweaty and full of discharge. stop being weird.

he growled, eyes locked on your hips like you were already undressing.

that’s why i want them.

you looked at him like he needed a hospital. you rolled your eyes and tossed them at him from the doorway, half expecting him to joke except he didn’t. he grabbed them like they were sacred, wrapped them around his cock and started stroking harder, groaning under his breath as the fabric dragged slick down his shaft. he smelled them first. then kept going.

baby, come back.

you stared, stunned, jaw dropped, laughing as you backed into the bathroom like he was possessed.

you’re actually disgusting tonight. i’m scared.

he grinned like it was a compliment. still stroking. cock gleaming with spit and your old discharge. voice low and hoarse like he was pleading now.

just come back. five minutes. c’mon, let me fuck you up a little.

you shut the door before he made you say yes.

but you were smiling.

you walked out of the shower with wet hair, a towel wrapped high around your chest and steam still clinging to your legs when you saw him on the bed legs spread, back against the headboard, one hand stroking his cock slow while your panties were on his fucking face. not just held there. stretched across his mouth, the fabric pulled tight under his nose like he was breathing in the scent of you, huffing hard while his palm glided up and down his thick shaft. he was already flushed. drenched in sweat. eyes glassy and wild like he’d been edging himself with your name in his head the whole time you were gone.

you stopped cold in the doorway, one leg still in the bathroom.

are you serious right now?

he looked up slowly. didn’t move the panties. didn’t even blink.

you took too long.

you rolled your eyes and turned back toward the closet, muttering under your breath, already reaching for a shirt. your towel was still clinging to your hips, and the moment he saw you grab anything, he growled.

don’t put that on.

you ignored him.

toji, shut up.

he stood. fast. his cock still in hand, hard and leaking, bouncing with every step as he moved toward you, thighs thick and full and loud against the floor. his shadow covered you in one step. your towel was gone in the next. yanked clean off and tossed straight over the balcony like he had no sense of reality left.

you screamed.

what the fuck?!

he didn’t answer. didn’t care. just stood there staring at you like you were made of gold and filth and his name written on skin. his cock twitched in his hand again, a string of slick still connecting his thumb to the flushed tip, the whole thing fat and swollen and angry looking, like it had been waiting too long. he started stroking again, eyes dropping straight to your tits and lower. your stomach. your thighs. your pussy still damp and shiny from the shower. his gaze slowed down, mouth hanging open a little, lips pressed into your soaked panties again as he moaned like he’d been starving.

you’re fucking insane. what is wrong with you?

he didn’t flinch. his eyes stayed on your pussy. his hand stroked harder. faster. your insults didn’t even register. he was jerking off to the way your thighs rubbed together when you shifted your weight, to the curve of your ass from the side, to the way your nipples perked from the cold air. he kept moaning low, soft, not loud but desperate. the kind that scared you. his chest was rising fast. face flushed, forehead damp. the chocolate definitely hit too deep. and the way he looked at you wasn’t romantic or sweet. it was deranged. feral. the kind of hunger that had no language.

you’re a fucking psycho tonight, oh my god.

he dropped the panties. grabbed your face with one hand, rough, fast, and kissed you like he was dying. not gentle. his lips crashed into yours and his tongue shoved in immediately, messy and hot, licking over your tongue and sucking on it like it was wet candy. you tried to pull away but he held your jaw tight, chest pressed against yours now, heavy and hot and huge, cock still rubbing up against your belly as he ground against you, growling like a man who hadn’t cum in a year.

you tasted the sweat. the chocolate. the spit. your own slick.

his other hand grabbed your thigh and lifted it, shoving it between his legs so he could grind on it, cock dragging across your skin, wet and heavy, the head leaving smears on your inner thigh as he humped it slow, panting harder.

baby. baby fuck. you feel so small. so soft. so tight.

you whimpered when his hand wrapped around your throat, thumb pressing up under your jaw, not squeezing hard but firm enough to make you feel it when you swallowed. his kisses didn’t stop. he was biting now. licking the corner of your mouth. pulling at your lips with his teeth. his whole body was crushing you against the closet door and you could feel the thickness of his arms pressing in from either side, his back broad enough to block the hallway.

you dug your nails into his shoulders, scratching, hissing between gasps.

you’re fucking disgusting tonight, jesus—

he humped harder. his cock twitched. he slapped it against your belly again with a thick wet thud and groaned into your mouth.

he didn’t ask. he picked you up. your leg still caught around his waist, his arms under your ass, that towel long forgotten, your clothes gone, his body hot enough to steam glass.

you weren’t escaping. you didn’t want to.

your back slammed against the wall, chest heaving, breath caught halfway in your throat as his cock rubbed slick and hot between your thighs. he was still grinding on you like he couldn’t think straight, his sweat mixing with the water on your skin, his lips open against your mouth, panting like an animal that couldn’t stop pacing. you pushed against his chest just barely, enough to give yourself space to breathe, but not enough to stop him.

i gave you something, you muttered, almost breathless, voice shaky as his mouth trailed down your collarbone.

he didn’t stop.

something like what?

your hand pushed weakly at his shoulder. you weren’t even sure why you said it. maybe guilt. maybe pride.

in the muffins. they had… like, aphrodisiac shit in them.

he froze. only for a second. just long enough for his eyes to flick up and look at you with something new hunger wrapped in something sharper. his jaw clenched. the muscles in his arms flexed where they held you. then he grinned.

you dirty fucking girl.

he grabbed your thighs and hoisted you up like you weighed nothing, your back thudding against the wall again as he shifted his hips and lined his cock up with your entrance. he didn’t tease. didn’t ask. he just pressed in raw and thick, your walls stretching fast around him as he filled you in one long, punishing stroke. your nails dug into his shoulders, mouth open in a gasp, the pressure dizzying. he was too big like this, too warm, his cock fat and swollen and harder than it had ever been, the aphrodisiac still burning through his bloodstream like fuel.

he fucked into you like he was chasing something down, every thrust heavy and deep, his hips snapping forward fast enough that your whole body bounced up the wall with each one. the air got knocked out of you every time he bottomed out. he grunted into your neck, the sound low and guttural, his words hot against your ear.

you feed me that shit just to get fucked stupid like this? you wanted this cock that bad, baby?

you didn’t answer. couldn’t. your head rolled back against the wall, legs locked tight around his waist, cunt clenching around him so hard it made him groan. he kept fucking you through it, through the twitching, through the tight squeeze, through the way your slick dripped down his balls and hit the floor. he didn’t slow down until your whole body started to go limp.

then he dropped to his knees with you. laid you out flat on the floor and spread your legs wide with both hands, fingers digging into the flesh of your thighs like he was bruising ownership into you. he didn’t even wait to kiss. he dove in like a man gone mad, his tongue flat against your folds, dragging up and down through the mess he left inside you, nose bumping your clit, jaw grinding against your pussy like he was trying to pull another orgasm out of you just by sucking.

he licked like it was work. like he was mad about it. tongue shoved into your hole, fucking you open, then licking his way back up only to slap your clit with the tip of it over and over until you were jerking under him, your legs kicking, hands fisting the sheets.

fuck, toji, you’re gonna make me—

he didn’t let you finish. didn’t care. he moaned into you, tongue curling and dragging, mouth open and messy, chin soaked, his whole face buried between your legs like your pussy was the only thing keeping him alive.

this what you wanted, huh? you wanna drug me, make me lose my fuckin mind?

you slapped at his arm, still shrieking, but laughing now too, twisted and gasping.

you’re fucking gross, jesus christ—

gonna fuck this apology out of you. you wanna feed me sex drugs and then leave me hard? thought you were gonna shower and sleep and not let me breed this pretty pussy?

he had you bent over the balcony railing with your tits smashed against the cold metal, breath fogging up the night air, thighs trembling and slick. his cock was already buried halfway in you and he hadn’t even moved yet, just grinding slow against your ass like he wanted to remember how tight you were before ruining it completely. his body was hot behind you, chest soaked with sweat, the bulk of him weighing down every inch of your spine. his stomach rested on your lower back, firm and heavy from the bulking phase, and the thick stretch of his cock had your cunt fluttering before he even pulled back. he exhaled against your ear rough, panting, jaw clenched so tight you could feel his breath shudder when he spoke.

you think this shit’s funny? you fed me some nasty little pussy drug and then ran away to do your skincare like i’m supposed to sit there hard as fuck and not take it out on you?

you shook your head, voice breaking as you tried to form a sentence, the pressure too much already. your hands scrambled for grip, your hips jerking forward when he shoved in deeper, the base of his cock pressing up against your puffy lips and the weight of his balls slapping hot against your clit. you moaned, loud and unfiltered, thighs already sticky from a mix of sweat, slick, and his spit.

i-it’s not a drug, i swear, i just— it was stupid, i saw it online, it said—

he cut you off with a loud grunt, hips snapping forward, dragging a cry out of your chest as your cunt swallowed him to the root. his cock throbbed inside you, so thick and stretched from bulking it felt like you were stuffed with a hot pipe, every ridge of his length dragging against your walls with slow, deliberate friction.

it’s not a drug, huh? then why the fuck does it feel like i’ve been edged for three hours straight with my cock full and my brain empty except for how bad i wanna watch your pussy leak?

you choked on your moan, your body trembling under him. he pulled out halfway, then slammed back in, hard, so loud it echoed across the balcony and bounced off the buildings across the street. you barely noticed the air. barely noticed the night. all you felt was the weight of him, the rage, the obsession, the way his hips snapped like it was punishment.

he started fucking you harder, rougher, and mid-thrust he suddenly paused, grabbed the base of his cock and pulled out, spit dripping from the head, thick veins bulging. you gasped and tried to turn, but his hand was already in your hair, pressing your face down to the rail as he shifted his weight and growled low.

don’t move. fuck shit, baby, i gotta piss.

your whole body tensed, panic crawling up your spine, and you cried out, struggling under him, your voice sharp.

toji—no, the fuck is wrong with you—

he laughed, soft and low, teeth showing in a grin you couldn’t see, voice hoarse.

nah, this is what you get. you feed me some slick little chocolate pussy poison and leave me like a fuckin dog? you get all of it.

he gripped the base of his cock with one thick fist and let go, piss splashing hot against the top of your ass, between your cheeks, running down over your pussy and inner thighs. your back arched and your moan broke into a sob, the sound caught somewhere between disgust and overstimulation as the heat of it soaked you and dripped past your clit. you thrashed once, gasping your voice cracked and hitched.

you’re fucking sick—oh my god, you’re disgusting, what the fuck is wrong with you—

he moaned louder than you, hand stroking himself through it like it was pleasure, not releases, hips jerking with each squeeze.

mm. you like it. feel that? feel how my cock’s still hard even while i’m marking you? fuck, look at that pussy, twitching while i piss on it. can’t believe you thought you were gonna sleep tonight.

you sobbed again, shaking, cunt clenching involuntarily from the humiliation and the heat of his body, and when he was done he didn’t even give you a second. he gripped your hips and shoved his cock back inside raw, sliding through the mess he left like it was lube, his thrusts wet and vicious, his balls still dripping, the slap of skin on skin louder now, filthier.

he grabbed your throat from behind and yanked your back into his chest, voice rasping into your ear.

you don’t feed me shit like that unless you wanna see what it does, yeah? look what you did. look how fuckin big you got me. made me this way. now take it.

you couldn’t even speak anymore. only sounds. gasps. wet moans. tears on your cheeks while he kissed your jaw with too much tongue, licking your face, biting your earlobe, rutting into you like a dog in heat while one hand slid down to rub your clit fast and messy.

that’s it. let me fuck it out of you. cry about it. you don’t get to come until you learn.

you nodded fast, mouth open, drooling now, body convulsing every time his cock kissed your cervix.

i said cry about it.

you sobbed harder. said sorry. begged. not for forgiveness—just to come.

he let you. and when you came, it was so hard your vision blacked, cunt squirting around him like a faucet, legs giving out, and he held you there, fucked you through it like he wasn’t done.

because he wasn’t.

you woke up sore. not just sore wrecked. your thighs ached deep in the muscle, your cunt was tender and raw, still sticky where it rubbed against the sheets, and your whole lower body pulsed like something had been pulled too far open and left that way. your skin smelled like sex. your breath tasted like his spit. your arms were limp, your mouth dry, and for a second you thought maybe he’d finally stopped.

until you shifted. and felt it.

his cock. still heavy. still thick. pressed to the curve of your ass under the sheets like it had been sitting there all night waiting for permission.

you groaned, tried to roll away, but his arm slipped around your waist and held you there, one big hand splayed over your stomach, pulling you back against the heat of his chest. his voice was low and rough in your ear, sleep-wrecked but alert.

where the fuck you think you’re going?

you sighed, already annoyed, already tired, but he didn’t loosen his grip. just slid his hand down over your hip and cupped your bare pussy from behind, fingers dragging through the dried mess between your folds like he was checking inventory.

you’re still soaked. feels like you leaked in your sleep. maybe we didn’t finish.

you elbowed him weakly, face hot, cunt clenching involuntarily against his palm.

shut up. you’re disgusting. that shit wore off hours ago.

he laughed, deep and low in his chest, cock twitching harder now where it rested against your ass.

nah. i still feel it. still fucked up over you. you think you can drug me, get used like a toy, and then act shy when the sun comes up?

his hand slipped back up to your tits, squeezing one lazily, then back down between your thighs, rubbing slow circles into your sore clit. your body jerked, half-flinched, half-needy, and he kissed your neck.

ride it out. burn off the rest of the dose. sit on it and make it go away.

you turned and stared at him, annoyed, blinking against the light, but the look in his eyes was already glazed over, half-lidded and waiting. he looked like he hadn’t even gone soft in his sleep. you threw the sheet off with a huff and swung your leg over his hips, straddling him. your cunt dragged against his cock, both of you still sticky from the night before, and you rolled your eyes as he groaned under you.

you’re nasty. i should make you apologize.

he grinned, arms behind his head, cock thick and upright between your thighs.

do it with your mouth then.

you paused, breathing heavy, and dropped your hips down, taking the tip in slow, your body already twitching from the stretch. he was hot. swollen. too much for the morning, too much for your still-aching pussy. but you sank down anyway, inch by inch, cunt stretching open around him like it was made for it. when he bottomed out, you gasped, hands planted flat on his stomach. he reached forward and gripped your waist.

now say sorry.

you started riding. slow at first, the slide messy and loud, your thighs smacking against his with each bounce. you felt everything. the weight of him inside, the slick of old cum and dried slick, the sweat that never left his chest. he watched your tits bounce, watched the way your stomach pulled tight with every roll of your hips, his cock dragging up and catching on your clit at just the right angle.

you said nothing.

he sat up. grabbed your face. kissed you full on the mouth, licking your teeth, spitting into your mouth as he growled against your lips.

say sorry, baby. say you’re sorry for getting me addicted to your fuckin pussy.

you whimpered. hips rolled faster. the slap of your skin against his thighs louder now, filthier, the sound of your breath tangled in moans and curses. his cock pulsed inside you.

then make me forgive you.

he didn’t let you clean up. didn’t let you pull your legs together or roll away or even think about the mess between your thighs. you were still catching your breath, chest sticking to the sheets, cheek smushed against the mattress and your whole body soft and fucked-stupid when he pulled your hips back toward him and slid a pillow under your stomach. you barely moved. just let him do it. your arms were slack, tits resting heavy against the bed, lips parted and eyes half-shut as he pushed your thighs apart again and settled behind you.

he was still hard.

you moaned when he pushed back in. not loud, not shocked just a slow, tired moan, your voice almost sleepy from how full you already were. his cock slid in with a wet glide, pussy fluttering open from how wrecked you were, the stretch not sharp now, just deep. aching. familiar. his hips moved slow, shallow thrusts that rocked your body forward gently against the mattress. his hands stayed on your ass. never left. he massaged it in slow circles, thumbs digging into the softness, fingers spreading you apart to watch how your pussy stretched and swallowed him all over again.

good girl. so warm like this. open for me even now.

his voice was low, almost lazy. not teasing just full. like his mouth couldn’t help it. one hand slid lower, fingers pressing between your folds to spread the mess there, the mix of cum and slick and sweat still dripping from where he’d been in you all night. his other hand gripped one cheek and spread you wide, thumb brushing up between your ass slowly, slow enough for you to feel the anticipation build before he dragged it down again. your rim twitched.

you whispered something, slurred and soft, but it came out as a moan when he pressed his finger there just resting the pad against it, not pushing yet, just rubbing slow. he leaned over you, spit pooling in his mouth before he let it drip down between your cheeks, warm and thick, landing right where his finger was. you gasped and arched your back, more from the feeling than the surprise. your thighs trembled.

don’t tighten up, baby. it’s just me. relax for me.

his finger circled again. then slipped in.

not all the way. just the tip. just enough to stretch your rim a little, his finger slick with spit, his cock still dragging in and out of your pussy slow and heavy. your ass clenched and he moaned under his breath, fingers flexing as he pushed a little deeper, then pulled out. he brought it to his mouth and licked it clean like it was natural. didn’t rush. just sucked it slow, tongue dragging over the tip, eyes half-lidded as he groaned.

you taste like sin. i swear to god, you were made for me.

you whimpered into the sheets. your breath stuttered. your cunt clenched.

he leaned over your back, his belly warm against your spine, one hand still stroking the cleft of your ass, his other sliding under to rub your clit slow with two fingers.

pussy’s still milking me. like it doesn’t know we’re done. look at you, twitching like you want more even while you’re falling asleep.

you whispered don’t be gross under your breath but your hips pushed back into him, slow and instinctive, your body chasing the rhythm even if your brain had clocked out.

he chuckled against your shoulder, teeth grazing the skin softly as he whispered against it.

you say that but this messy pussy says otherwise. you want it even like this, all quiet and stretched out and tired. good little fuckhole. can’t help it, huh?

you moaned again, louder this time, breath breaking as his hips met yours harder now, slow but deep, each thrust rocking you into the bed.

you clung to the sheets, fingers weak, nails dragging lazy against the cotton.

he parted your ass again and spit one more time, rubbing it down between your cheeks before sliding the tip of his finger back in, slow and deliberate, while fucking you with his cock at the same time. your body shook. your mouth dropped open.

good girl. let me keep you open a little longer. just like this. just like you were made for it.

he fucked you slow and didn’t stop until you came again. barely able to breathe. moaning into the sheets, cunt tightening, ass twitching around his finger, his cock buried deep while your whole body pulsed around every inch of him.

and then he pulled out, kissed your spine, and licked your hole one more time. slow. wet. his tongue dragging low and filthy as his breath shivered over your skin.

you tasted like something he’d never stop wanting.

(๑･̑◡･̑๑) thank you for reading, you nasty little angels. this was unhinged, sweaty, and absolutely necessary. reblogs keep me fed, filthy comments keep me harder. see you next sin🎀

onlypinkslut

[mandoalorian]

ride to you [bucky barnes x f!reader]

synopsis: seperated by miles, bucky barnes is out on a mission when he gets a late-night text message from you, and suddenly, he just can't do distance anymore.

rating/warnings: 18+ explicit content, mdni, unprotected p in v, fem receiving oral, fingering, breast play, sexting, mutual masturbation over video call, praise kink, bucky is all rough and desperate, and he struggles a bit with tech lol, …dog tags, motorcycle this smut has it all.

w/c: 3,885

masterlist | submit a request

The glow of your phone screen is the only light in your bedroom, casting soft shadows across the empty sheets. It’s 11:47 PM, and your desire for Bucky has you restless, your body aching with the need for him. He’s been gone three weeks, on some mission with Yelena and John keeping him a whole state away, and the distance is a cruel tease. Your fingers hover over the keyboard, then type out a message, heart already picking up speed.

You: Can’t sleep, soldier. Bed feels too damn big without you.

His reply pings almost instantly, like he’s been staring at his phone, waiting.

Bucky: Doll, you’re killing me already. Missing you so bad, I can’t think straight.

You smile, warmth curling in your chest. Bucky’s always been a little slow with tech—his texts are short, sometimes autocorrect mangles them—but the effort he puts in makes it sweeter. You can picture him, brow furrowed, big fingers fumbling on the tiny keyboard in some nondescript motel room.

You: What’s keeping you up, huh? Thinking about me?

Bucky: Every damn second. You in that little tank top you wear to bed? Or… less?

Your breath catches, a flush creeping up your neck. He’s bold tonight, and you love it.

You: Just a tank top. Barely. Wish you were here to see it.

There’s a longer pause, and you can almost hear the low groan he’d make.

Bucky: Sweetheart, you’re gonna make me break this phone. Tell me what you’d do if I was there.

Heat pools low in your belly, and you shift on the bed, thighs pressing together. You type slowly, savouring the anticipation.

You: I’d climb into your lap, kiss that spot on your jaw that makes you growl. Slide my hands under your shirt, feel those muscles… you’d be begging me to keep going.

His reply takes a minute, and when it comes, it’s a little messy, like he’s typing too fast.

Bucky: Fuck, doll. I’d pin you to that bed before you could tease me. Kiss you till you’re dizzy, hands all over you. That tank top wouldn’t last five seconds.

You bite your lip, pulse racing. The image of Bucky—broad shoulders, dog tags dangling, blue eyes blazing—has you squirming.

You: Oh, you think you’d have control? I’d have you groaning my name first, Barnes. Bet I could make you lose it just by grinding against you.

Bucky: You’d feel how hard you’re makin’ me already. I’d rip those panties off, make you scream for me.

Your fingers tremble as you type, the words coming faster now, dirtier.

You: I’d let you, Buck. Want your hands on me, your mouth… want you to fuck me till I can’t walk.

His next text is a single word, raw and desperate.

Bucky: Fuck.

Then, a follow-up.

Bucky: Call me. Now. Need to see you.

You hesitate, heart pounding. A call means FaceTime, and the thought of seeing him, hearing him, sends a fresh wave of heat through you.

You: FaceTime? You sure you know how to work that, old man?

Bucky: Shut up, doll. I figured out the damn button. Answer when I call, or I’m ridin’ to you tonight.

The threat—or promise—makes you grin, your body buzzing with anticipation. You adjust your tank top, letting one strap slip off your shoulder, and wait for the call.

Your phone buzzes with an incoming FaceTime call, and your heart leaps into your throat. You swipe to answer, and there’s Bucky, filling the screen, looking like sin itself. He’s shirtless, sprawled on a motel bed, the dim light catching the glint of his dog tags and the sheen of sweat on his chest. His hair’s a mess, falling into his eyes, and those blue eyes are dark, hungry, fixed on you. 

But there’s a flicker of frustration on his face as he fumbles with the phone, tilting it at an awkward angle.

“Damn it,” he mutters, voice gravelly. “This thing keeps—hold on, doll, I think I got it.” He props the phone against something, probably a pillow, and the view steadies, giving you a full shot of his broad shoulders and the taut muscles of his stomach. He squints at the screen, like he’s not sure it’s working. “You seein’ me okay? Or did I break this already?”

You laugh, the sound breathy with nerves and desire. “I see you, Buck. Looking like a damn dream.” You shift on your bed, letting the silky camisole slip further down your shoulder, the thin fabric barely covering you. You angle the phone to give him a teasing view of your collarbone, the curve of your chest. “Like what you see?”

His groan is instant, low and guttural. “Fuck, sweetheart, you’re gonna kill me.” He shifts, and you catch the way his hand moves off-screen, adjusting himself. “That top’s barely holdin’ on. Show me more.”

Heat floods your body, and you oblige, sliding the camisole down to reveal the tops of your breasts, your fingers lingering there. “Better?” you tease, voice husky.

Bucky’s jaw tightens, his metal hand flexing on the bed. “You’re playin’ dirty, doll. Keep goin’. Wanna see all of you.” He’s trying to sound commanding, but there’s a plea in his tone, raw and desperate.

You bite your lip, emboldened by his reaction. “Only if you give me something too, soldier.” You nod toward his lap, where his hand is resting just out of frame. “Show me what those texts were doing to you.”

He huffs a laugh, half-embarrassed, half-turned on. “Demanding much? Alright.” He adjusts, sliding his hand into his sweatpants, and you catch a glimpse of the bulge there before he eases them down just enough. He’s hard, and the sight of him touching himself, slow and deliberate, sends a jolt of heat straight to your core. “Your turn, sweetheart,” he rasps. “Touch yourself for me.”

Your breath hitches, and you don’t hesitate. You slip a hand under the hem of your camisole, pushing it up to expose your stomach, then lower, dipping into your panties. The first brush of your fingers against yourself makes you gasp, and Bucky’s eyes darken, his own hand moving faster.

“Fuck, doll, look at you,” he groans, voice thick. “So damn pretty. Keep goin’. Imagine it’s me touchin’ you.”

You do, your fingers circling as you picture his hands—rough, warm, and relentless. “Bucky,” you whimper, your hips shifting on the bed. “Wish it was you. Want your fingers, your mouth…”

He curses under his breath, his strokes growing rougher. “God, I’d devour you right now. Lick every inch of you till you’re screamin’ my name. Tell me how it feels, baby.”

“It’s so good,” you moan, your free hand gripping the sheets. “But not enough. Need you here, Buck. Need you inside me.” The words spill out, unfiltered, and you see the effect they have—his head tips back, a low growl rumbling from his chest.

“Keep talkin’ like that, and I’m gonna lose it,” he warns, but his hand doesn’t stop, and neither does yours. You’re both chasing the same high, the phone screen a cruel barrier between you. “Tell me what you’d do if I was there. Right now.”

You’re panting now, the pleasure building fast. “I’d climb on top of you,” you say, voice shaky. “Ride you so hard you’d forget your own name. Kiss you till you can’t breathe.”

“Fuck, yes,” he growls, his eyes locked on you, intense and wild. “I’d flip you over, fuck you into the mattress. Make you come so many times you’d beg me to stop.”

The filthy promises push you closer to the edge, your fingers moving faster, chasing the release. 

“Bucky, I’m—” you gasp, unable to finish the sentence as the pleasure crests.

“Me too, doll,” he grits out, his voice breaking. “Come for me. Let me see you.”

It hits you like a wave, your body arching as you cry out his name, trembling under your own touch. Bucky follows, a guttural moan tearing from his throat as he spills over his hand, his chest heaving. For a moment, you’re both silent, just breathing, the intimacy of the moment hanging heavy between you.

Then he laughs, rough and a little sheepish. “Well, damn. Never thought this phone thing could be that good.” He grabs a tissue, cleaning up, and you giggle, pulling your camisole back into place.

“Still hate technology?” you tease, your voice soft, sated.

He smirks, but his eyes are serious. “Not when it’s you on the other end. But this ain’t enough, sweetheart.” He leans closer to the screen, voice dropping. “I’m comin’ to you. Tonight.”

You blink, still hazy from the high. “Buck, you’re in—wherever you are. You can’t just—”

“Watch me,” he says, and you see him grab his leather jacket, tossing it over his shoulder. “Got my bike. I’m ridin’ to you. Be there by dawn.”

Your jaw drops, but the determination in his eyes tells you he’s not kidding. “You’re insane,” you whisper, but your heart’s racing again, thrilled.

“Insane for you,” he shoots back, already moving. “Get some rest, doll. You’re gonna need it when I get there.”

The call ends, leaving you staring at the blank screen, your body buzzing with anticipation and disbelief.

Bucky’s breath is still uneven as he ends the FaceTime call, the image of you—hot, panting, whispering his name—burned into his mind. His body’s buzzing, sated but nowhere near satisfied. 

The phone’s screen goes dark, but it doesn’t matter; he can still see you, feel the ghost of your voice in his ear, your words pulling him apart. “Need you inside me.” Fuck. He’s done waiting.

He’s on his feet in seconds, the motel room’s stale air doing nothing to cool the heat coursing through him. His leather jacket is slung over his shoulder, but he shrugs it on, the familiar weight grounding him. His duffel’s already packed—a habit from decades of moving fast, never settling. He grabs it, slings it across his chest, and heads for the door. The keys to his Harley jingle in his pocket, a promise of freedom, of you.

Outside, the night’s crisp, the motel’s neon sign buzzing faintly. His bike’s parked under a flickering streetlight, all black chrome and raw power, just like him. He swings a leg over, the leather seat creaking under his weight, and kicks the engine to life. The roar tears through the silence, vibrating in his chest, matching the thrum of his pulse. He’s in Pennsylvania, but you’re in New York, a good five-hour ride if he pushes it. He’s pushing it.

The highway stretches out, a dark ribbon under a sky smeared with stars. Bucky leans into the wind, the speedometer climbing as the bike eats up the miles. His mind’s a tangle of you—your teasing texts, the way you looked on that call, your body arching as you came for him. He grips the handlebars tighter, the metal of his left hand glinting in the moonlight. He’s not built for distance, not when it comes to you. Every mile feels like a taunt, every second a reminder of how bad he needs to touch you, taste you, feel you under him.

He replays the call in his head, your voice a siren song. “Ride you so hard you’d forget your own name.” His jaw clenches, a low growl escaping his throat, lost in the wind. He’s half-hard again just thinking about it, the memory of your fingers slipping into your panties, the soft moans you made. He shifts on the seat, trying to focus on the road, but it’s no use. You’re in his blood, and no amount of miles or cold air can shake you out.

A gas station looms ahead, the only light for miles. He pulls in, the bike’s rumble dropping to a low purr as he cuts the engine. His boots hit the gravel, and he stretches, rolling his shoulders. The attendant, a kid barely out of his teens, eyes the metal arm warily but says nothing as Bucky fills the tank. He checks his phone—2:37 AM. A text from you, sent just after the call.

You: You’re really coming? Be safe, soldier. I’ll be waiting…

He smirks, typing back with one hand, still clumsy with the touchscreen. Bucky: Damn right I’m comin’. Don’t sleep too deep, doll. Gonna need you awake.

He sends it, pockets the phone, and swings back onto the bike. The kid mutters something about “crazy night riders,” but Bucky’s already gone, the Harley roaring back to life. The road’s emptier now, just him and the hum of the engine, the world blurring past. He thinks about what’s waiting—your apartment, your bed, you in that flimsy camisole or maybe nothing at all. His foot presses harder on the throttle, the needle pushing past 90.

Dawn’s starting to bleed into the horizon when he hits the outskirts of New York, the city’s glow a faint promise. His body aches from the ride, but it’s nothing compared to the ache for you. He weaves through early traffic, the bike’s growl turning heads, but he doesn’t care. Your address is burned into his brain, every turn taking him closer. The thought of you, warm and waiting, maybe still flushed from earlier, has his heart pounding harder than the engine.

He pulls up to your building as the sky turns pink, the Harley’s rumble echoing off the brick. He cuts the engine, the silence sudden and heavy. His boots hit the pavement, and he takes a moment, catching his breath, running a hand through his wind-messed hair. The duffel slung over his shoulder, but all he can think about is you—steps away, behind that door, real and his.

He’s here. And he’s not leaving until you’re screaming his name.

The stairwell to your apartment is a blur as Bucky bounds up, boots thudding on the creaking wood, his pulse a war drum in his ears. The five-hour ride on his Harley—wind tearing at him, miles bleeding into the night—has only sharpened his need. Your door looms at the end of the hall, and he’s there in seconds, fist hovering for a soft knock. It’s 6:13 AM; he won’t wake your neighbours. The rap is quiet but urgent, his metal hand twitching, impatient.

The door flies open, and you’re a vision that stops his heart. That silky camisole clings to you, one strap slipped off your shoulder, barely containing the curves he’s been dreaming of. Your hair’s tousled, eyes wide with shock and want, lips parted like you’re about to speak. But Bucky doesn’t give you the chance. His duffel hits the floor, and he’s on you, hands cradling your face as he crashes his mouth to yours. The kiss is raw, all-consuming, teeth clashing, tongues tangling, weeks of pent-up longing spilling out. He tastes you—mint toothpaste and something sweeter, something you—and it’s better than any fantasy.

“Bucky,” you gasp when he pulls back for air, your fingers knotting in his hair, tugging just hard enough to make him growl. He kicks the door shut, the slam echoing, and lifts you like you weigh nothing. Your legs wrap around his waist, thighs tight against his hips, and he groans as your heat presses through his jeans. The leather jacket’s cool against your bare arms, but his body’s a furnace, searing where he holds you.

“Told you I’d come, doll,” he rasps, voice rough from the road and desire.

He carries you to the bedroom, lips trailing fire down your jaw, nipping the pulse point on your neck that makes you shudder. Your nails rake his shoulders, shoving at his jacket, and he shrugs it off mid-stride, dog tags jangling as it hits the floor. You’re clawing at his shirt now, and he yanks it over his head, tossing it aside, leaving him in just those damn tags and jeans slung low on his hips.

He sets you on the bed, stepping back to drink you in. The camisole’s riding up, exposing the soft skin of your stomach, your thighs parted just enough to make his mouth water. Your eyes are dark, pupils blown, and the way you’re looking at him—like he’s everything—has his chest tight.

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he says, voice thick with praise, the words wrapping around you like a caress. He crawls over you, caging you with his body, his flesh hand snagging both your wrists and pinning them above your head. The restraint sends a spark through you, and he feels it, sees it in the way you arch. “Gonna make you scream for me, sweetheart. You’re mine.”

The possessiveness laces his tone, and you shiver, lips curving into a defiant smirk. “Prove it, soldier.”

That’s all he needs. His mouth claims yours again, deep and filthy, tongue stroking in a way that promises what’s coming. His metal hand slides under your camisole, cold against your fevered skin, and he doesn’t bother with finesse—just rips the fabric down the middle, the tear loud in the quiet room. You gasp, but his lips are there, soothing, kissing the sting away as the scraps fall. “I’ll buy you another one,” he murmurs, but you’re too far gone to care, your hands straining against his grip, wanting to touch him.

His mouth moves lower, hot and deliberate, sucking at the swell of your breast, teeth grazing your nipple until you whine. He laves it with his tongue, then moves to the other, leaving marks you’ll feel tomorrow. “So fuckin’ responsive,” he growls, voice vibrating against your skin. He trails kisses down your stomach, each one slower, teasing, until he’s settled between your thighs. His hands—flesh and metal—grip your hips, spreading you open, and he just stares, eyes black with hunger. “Look at you, doll. So wet for me. Been like this since our call, haven’t you?”

You nod, breathless, and he chuckles, dark and dirty. “Good girl.” The praise hits like a drug, and then his mouth’s on you, no warning, just a slow, devastating lick through your folds. You cry out, hips bucking, but his metal arm pins you down, unrelenting. He groans, the sound rumbling through you, and it’s like he’s starving, tongue circling your clit, sucking hard, then dipping lower to taste you deeper. “Sweetest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever had,” he says, voice muffled, and you’re already trembling, the pleasure sharp and overwhelming.

His flesh hand joins in, fingers teasing your entrance, circling until you’re begging, voice broken. 

“Bucky, please, need you—” He doesn’t make you wait, sliding two fingers inside, thick and curling just right, hitting that spot that makes your vision white out.

You moan, loud and shameless, as he pumps them slow, then faster, his tongue never stopping, sucking your clit like it’s his mission to ruin you. “That’s it, doll,” he says, lifting his head just enough to watch you writhe. “Love those sounds. Keep makin’ ‘em for me.”

You’re close, too close, the coil tightening with every thrust of his fingers, every flick of his tongue. He senses it, doubles down, sucking hard as his fingers twist, and you’re gone, screaming his name as you come, body arching off the bed. He doesn’t stop, working you through it, licking every shudder until you’re gasping, oversensitive, tugging at his hair to pull him up.

He crawls over you, kissing you deep, and you taste yourself on his tongue, the intimacy making you dizzy. “So damn beautiful when you come,” he whispers, and the praise sinks into you, warm and perfect. His jeans are still on, tented painfully, and you reach for him, fingers clumsy with need as you pop the button, drag the zipper down. He helps, kicking them off with his boxers, and you pause, just looking—his cock’s thick, hard, leaking at the tip, and the sight makes your mouth water.

“Need you, Bucky,” you say, voice raw, reaching for him. “Now.”

He smirks, but his eyes are soft, reverent. “Gonna give you everything, sweetheart.” He settles between your thighs, teasing your entrance with his tip, dragging it through your slick until you’re whining. “You want me to fuck you, doll? Want me to make you mine?”

“Yes,” you breathe, legs wrapping around him, pulling him closer. “Please, Bucky.”

He doesn’t tease anymore. He pushes in, slow and relentless, stretching you inch by inch, and you both groan, the feeling overwhelming. He’s big, filling you completely, and he stills, letting you adjust, his forehead pressed to yours. “Fuck, you’re so tight,” he grits out, voice strained, his dog tags dangling, brushing your chest. “Feel so damn perfect, doll. Like you were made for me.”

You clench around him, and he curses, low and filthy. “Keep doin’ that, and I won’t last,” he warns, but you just smirk, rolling your hips to take him deeper. He growls, pinning your wrists again, the restraint making you burn. “Oh, you’re gonna pay for that, sweetheart.”

He starts moving, and it’s everything—deep, powerful thrusts, his hips snapping against yours, the bed creaking under the force. You meet him thrust for thrust, arching up, the friction perfect, his cock hitting that spot inside you with every stroke. “Fuck, Bucky,” you moan, and he leans down, sucking a bruise into your neck, marking you as his.

“Mine,” he growls, each word punctuated by a thrust, his metal hand gripping your hip, anchoring you. “Say it, doll. Tell me you’re mine.”

“Yours,” you gasp, the word a prayer, and he rewards you, angling his hips to hit even deeper, the pleasure blinding. His pace quickens, relentless, and you’re both panting, sweat-slick and desperate. 

“Love how you feel,” he groans, voice rough. “So wet, so tight, takin’ me so fuckin’ good.”

The dirty talk pushes you higher, and you claw at his back, nails digging in, making him hiss. 

“Harder,” you beg, and he delivers, fucking you into the mattress, the headboard rattling. His flesh hand releases your wrists, sliding between you to rub tight circles on your clit, and you cry out, the added sensation too much. “Bucky, I’m gonna—”

“Come for me,” he commands, possessive and fierce. “Wanna feel you, doll. Let go.”

It hits like a freight train, your body convulsing, clenching around him as you scream his name, pleasure tearing through you. He groans, thrusts growing erratic, chasing his own release. “Fuck, you’re squeezin’ me so tight,” he pants, and then he’s coming, spilling inside you, hot and deep, his hips stuttering as he buries himself to the hilt.

You’re both trembling, locked together, and he doesn’t pull out, staying close, kissing you slow and deep, tongues lazy now, sated. His weight is grounding, his tags cool against your chest, and you feel every shudder of his breath. “No more distance,” he murmurs, voice a vow, his lips brushing yours. “I’m not leavin’ you again, sweetheart.”

You smile, fingers tracing his jaw, his stubble rough under your touch. “Better not, soldier. I’m keeping you forever.”

He chuckles, soft and warm, rolling to his side and pulling you with him, still inside you, like he can’t bear to break the connection. “Forever sounds good, doll.”

────✪────

Sebastian Stan taglist: @notreallythatlost @houseofaegon @bunnyfella @sunday-bug @wintrsoldrluvr @maryevm @mcira @monsteraddicts-world

Want to be added to the taglist? Let me know! <3

[botanicsoul]

Watch Yourself

Pro Hero | Bakugou Katsuki x (fem) Blogger Reader | Aged Up

-> This is a part 2 of “Behind the Screen”

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

—

Your inbox is chaos.

Comments piling up, notifications buzzing like a hornet’s nest.

——

“Where tf are you QUEEN?!”

“don’t play w us like this”

“no bc i’ve reread it five times already. give us a BONE”

“you ruined my life now come back and do it again”

——

You’d be lying if you said the silence wasn’t intentional. It was. Completely.

But it wasn’t just strategy—it was survival.

Because ever since Bakugou read your last fic—the one where he quite literally fucked you in his hero suit— You’ve been distracted.

You two have been… talking. Texting. Flirting in that hot, volatile way that feels like standing too close to something explosive. Nothing overtly explicit, but every word between you dripped with the kind of tension that makes your thighs press together under the table.

He’s been buried in hero work—long nights, busted ribs, always tired. You’ve been pretending to stay calm. Composed.

But truthfully?

You’ve been writing. Touching yourself under the covers, laptop screen glowing in the dark as your free hand slid beneath your panties.

Drafting filth between gasps, imagining his hand around your throat, his voice in your ear, his body flush against yours as he makes you watch yourself fall apart.

You were supposed to be staying low-key.

You were supposed to be patient. But you were hungry.

And tonight? You feed the fire.

——

After editing, rereading, and working yourself up until your thighs were slick and sore—you finally hit Post.

And this time, there’s no warning. No tags. Just the excerpt, raw and dirty:

⸻

@/blastyourbackout :

“Pro Hero Dynamight would so love to make you watch yourself get slutted out in front of a mirror.”He’d drag your pretty body in front of it, make you stare at your own ruined reflection as he split you open from behind. One hand in your hair, the other around your throat, all while he whispers, ‘Look at you. That’s what I fuckin’ do to you.’

⸻

That’s all you post.

No context. No explanation. Just the filth.

You slam your laptop shut and walk away like you didn’t just set your entire blog—and possibly even Bakugou’s sanity—on fire.

You don’t expect him to read it that night and you definitely don’t expect him to text you 45 minutes later.

Four messages. Rapid fire.

——

Katsuki :

You wrote that shit while I was out bustin’ my ass?

You fuckin’ serious?

You knew I’d read it.

On my way.

——

You freeze, toothbrush still in your mouth, pulse suddenly in your throat.

He’s bluffing.

He has to be bluffing.

Buzz. A location ping.

Your toothbrush clatters into the sink.

⸻

He’s at your door in under ten minutes. When you open it, you think briefly—he might actually arrest me.

He’s still in his hero suit—this feels familiar—Boots tracking in dirt, gloves tucked under one arm, shirt stretched across his chest like it’s barely containing him. His face is flushed. Wind-tangled hair, a fresh cut across his jaw. And his eyes—Furious.

He doesn’t speak. Just steps inside, kicks the door shut with his heel, and locks it behind him.

Then finally—finally—he speaks.

“You really thought you could post that shit and not answer for it?”

Your heart skips. “It was just—fiction.” He laughs, but it’s humorless. “You didn’t even fucking tag it right.” He stalks forward. “Didn’t even label it as based on real events this time. Why?”

You open your mouth struggling to find the right words, “Because it didn’t happen?”

he gives you a sly smirk, “Well, it’s about to”

Before you can answer, he catches your wrist and tugs you forward—down the hall—into your bedroom. You know exactly where he’s going.

Straight to your closet mirror.

He doesn’t stop until your chest is nearly pressed to the closet door. His palm slides up your spine, warm and commanding, until it’s cupping the back of your neck.

“Look,” he growls. “You wrote that I made you watch. So fuckin’ watch.”

You meet your own wide eyes in the reflection. Your mouth is parted. Your skin flushed. You look like a girl seconds from being ruined.

He leans in behind you, voice low at your ear.

“You wrote I pulled your hair,” he says, fisting a handful gently.

His hand trails down between your thighs—cupping the heat of you through your thin pajama shorts.

“I’m gonna do so much more to you.”

The cool air hits your bare skin when he pulls your shorts down, panties dragged with them. Your palms brace against the mirror, forehead bumping the glass.

Bakugou shoves your legs farther apart with his knee, one big hand gripping your inner thigh, the other steadying your hips as he sinks to the floor behind you. You’re standing—barely—your palms pressed to the mirror for balance, forehead bumping the glass, but your knees already feel weak.

“You didn’t even write this part,” he mutters, low and dangerous, right before he spits on your pussy. The slick sound echoes in the room. Then his thumb spreads it in lazy, taunting circles over your clit. “That was a fuckin’ oversight.”

You gasp as his mouth is on you—ravenous. Tongue plunging deep, nose pressed against you, his groans vibrating straight through your core. It’s filthy. Wet. He’s eating you out like he’s starving, and all you can do is hold onto the mirror and try not to collapse.

“Look at yourself,” he growls, dragging his mouth just low enough to suck your clit between his lips, then back again. You catch his reflection behind you—eyes locked on yours, lips glistening. “Already fuckin’ trembling.”

You choke on a moan, head dropping forward against the mirror.

He keeps going, devouring you with slow, obscene licks, until your legs are shaking—slick and spit trailing warm down your inner thighs. He pulls away only when he knows you’re right on the edge, panting, ruined.

You feel the shift in his breath behind you. He stands slowly.

“Didn’t write this part either,” he mutters darkly.

Clink.

The sound of his belt unbuckling is slow and deliberate, followed by the sharp zip of his pants. Fabric rustles. Then— You hear it.

And when he leans down, lips brushing your ear, he finishes, “Guess I’ll just have to make it up.”

Wet, heavy strokes. The slick sound of him palming himself, dragging his fist down the length of his cock.

He groans low in his throat.

“You hear that?” he rasps, stepping close enough for you to feel the heat of him behind you. “That’s what your shitty little story did to me.”

You can’t move. Can’t breathe.

You try to glance over your shoulder, desperate to see him behind you—broad, flushed, jaw clenched in concentration. But you don’t get far.

Without warning, a rough hand clamps around your jaw and yanks your gaze forward, slamming your attention back to the mirror.

“God fuckin’ dammit,” he growls, voice gravel grinding against your ear. “If you don’t keep your eyes on that fuckin’ mirror, I’ll leave you here—cunt empty and all.”

He drags his tip through your folds—teasing, and cruel.

Then, he slams into you.

“Fuck—Katsuki—” You cry out—one palm smacks the mirror as the other braces your thigh. The stretch is overwhelming. Deep. Perfect.

His hand tangles in your hair again, yanking your head up until you’re staring at your reflection.

You watch the way your mouth falls open, the way your body jolts with every thrust. You watch your own tears start to well. The way his hand wraps around your throat from behind, the way his hips keep slamming forward.

“Suki— I can’t take it an-anymore” you whimper again, voice barely there—thin and cracking, tears threatening to spill as the pleasure tips into something unbearable. Your body’s trembling, your throat closing around the moans you can’t hold in anymore.

“Don’t start cryin’ now, sweetheart—you deserve this.”

It’s too much. He’s too much. The mirror, the pace, his words—him. Your chest stutters with a ragged breath and your lip quivers, trying so hard not to sob.

And for a second—just one—he softens.

His mouth finds your shoulder. Just a gentle press of lips, almost tender. His hands, so rough moments ago, ghost over your hips, up your sides, like he’s holding you together while he tears you apart.

He leans in, breath hot on your cheek as your tears finally fall.

“Shhh,” he coos, so quiet it almost sounds sweet. “You’re fine. Takin’ it so well.”

And just like THAT —his grip tightens again, possessive and punishing. He growls it right into your ear, voice dropping to something feral, almost loving in how cruel it sounds.

He rocks his hips up again, dragging his cock slow and deep, making you sob out a sound so raw it barely sounds human.“You made me sound like a fuckin’ animal.” he snarls.

Because he was.

Because he is.

“Were you writing that filthy shit with your hand down your panties?” he snarls, voice dark with disbelief and want.

Your breath stutters. Eyes glassy, cheeks flushed, mouth trembling as another thrust rocks you forward.

You’d feel guilty if you said no.

“…Yes,” you whisper brokenly.

“Say it louder baby”

The sound of his balls slapping against your clit makes you whimper—each thrust, each roll of his hips, makes the pleasure surge higher.

“Yes—fuck—” you gasp, voice cracking as your head falls back to his shoulder. “I was writing it while I touched myself. I—” you choke on a moan, “I came thinking about you watching me in the mirror. I couldn’t stop.”

He groans—low and wrecked, hips jolting hard enough to slap skin. You cry out, fingers clawing at the mirror for leverage.

He’s fucking you harder now—meaner, like your confession unlocked something vicious in him. “Such a needy little thing.”

You whimper. Your knees are buckling.

“God baby where you want me to put it, huh? inside you? want me to fuckin’ bust a load in this tight pussy?” You can’t speak. You just nod, gasping.—He’s pounding into you now, brutal and relentless, your whole body rocking against the mirror.

He pulls you back against his chest, one hand on your stomach, the other cradling your jaw so you can still see yourself fall apart in his arms.

And when you come—messy, shattering—he groans like it takes him with you, it knocks the breath clean out of your lungs. You cry out—loud and broken—and feel him pulse inside you seconds later, growling into your shoulder as he follows you over the edge. He empties inside you, still grinding his hips through the aftershocks.

⸻

The room goes quiet but for your shuddering breath. He holds you there—pressed to the mirror, skin flushed and sticky, heartbeat stuttering in your chest.

He doesn’t let you go right away. Just holds you there. Like you were meant to be ruined by him, and only him.

You watch the mirror fog slowly from your breath. Then, after a long beat, he leans in—mouth brushing your temple.

“Wanna go on a date?”

You blink. “You’re seriously asking me that right now?”

He chuckles, still catching his breath. “Felt right.” He nudges your thighs together, gently helps you upright, even as his cum drips out of you and slides down your leg.

“I don’t want you with anyone else,” he adds softly.“Don’t want anyone else to have you like this.”

You shake your head, smiling despite yourself. “Yes, Katsuki. I’ll go on a date with you.”

⸻

Hours later—after he’s cleaned you up, made you eat something, kissed your thighs like he was worshipping them—you’re alone again.

You sit at your laptop, skin still warm, fingertips trembling.

You open a new post.

Title: Correction: Watch Yourself

And you write. Every filthy detail. Just for him.

You posted the new—updated—fic five days later.

Tagline?

#based on real events

#yes he read it first this time

#yes the suit was on again

#no he didn’t let me tone it down

#i still can’t look in my closet mirror without shaking

#i got everything i wanted

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

[rosemaryhoney27]

Danny needs a Girlfriend Part 1

Title: Dani’s Quest for the Perfect Girlfriend

Dani Phantom had one mission.

Not saving the world. Not hunting ghosts. Not even causing chaos with her ever-growing collection of prank supplies.

No, this mission was far more important: Find Danny a girlfriend.

It wasn’t just because Danny was lonely, though he kinda was. Or because he deserved love, though he definitely did. No, it was because Dani knew her clone-big-brother was an idiot when it came to feelings, and if she didn’t step in, he’d end up married to his thermos.

First, she made a list of qualifications:

Pretty (because, duh)

Strong (to keep up with ghost fights)

Not a psycho (sorry, Vlad)

Not from Amity Park (because wow that dating pool was a radioactive mess)

Okay with half-dead weirdness (because Danny wasn’t exactly “alive” in the normal way)

Her first thought was Sam.

That lasted all of five minutes.

Dani watched from the shadows as Sam lectured a barista about ethical soy milk while also trying to make Danny feel guilty for not using his ghost powers to help with her causes. Then she saw Sam get mad that Danny didn’t want to sneak into a weapons facility for her "activist group." That was the moment Dani decided Sam was a certified hypocrite and maybe just liked Danny’s powers more than Danny himself.

Next came Valerie.

She was cool. Smart. Knew her way around a blaster. But then Dani snooped (for science!) and found the box of “breakup” memorabilia in Danny’s room. Old movie tickets. A crumpled apology note. And a picture of Danny with a black eye and Val scowling at him. Apparently, they'd tried, and it had ended in disaster. Dani put a big red X over Val's name.

And then she left Amity Park.

She visited Metropolis. Too many cape-chasers.

Central City? Too fast. Literally.

Jump City? The Titans were cool, but Dani saw the way Starfire looked at pretty much everyone. Dani was not about to throw her brother into that kind of mess.

City after city, Dani searched. Flew. Snooped. Asked uncomfortable questions. And everyone—everyone—failed her standards.

Until she got to Gotham.

It smelled like smoke and regret, but Dani liked it. It had that edge. The kind of place that birthed survivors.

And that’s where she saw her.

A girl—no, a vision—leaping across rooftops in absolute silence. Her movements were like water and lightning at the same time. She fought like a ballet made of punches. Dani was enthralled.

She followed her. Not in a creepy way. (Okay, maybe a little creepy.)

She watched as the girl took down three thugs twice her size without making a sound. Dani’s crush? Immediate.

Her respect? Solidified when she saw the Bat symbol on the girl’s gear.

She was Black Bat.

When Dani learned her name was Cassandra Cain, she had one thought:

Perfect.

Now, Dani wasn't great at subtlety. Or normal social cues. But she was great at confidence.

Which is how Cassandra found herself face to face with a grinning teenage ghost girl holding out a picture like it was a treasure map.

“Hi!” Dani chirped, floating slightly above the ground for dramatic effect. “My name’s Dani, and this is a picture of my brother, Danny.”

She held out the slightly crumpled snapshot of Danny in mid-battle, hair glowing white, green eyes fierce, with a cat clinging to his shoulder.

“You are a pretty perfect badass,” Dani said with utmost seriousness. “And I would like for you to date my brother.”

Cassandra blinked. Once.

Twice.

Then looked down at the picture.

Then up at Dani.

Then back at the picture.

“…He fights?” she asked, her voice soft, curious.

“Oh yeah. Half-ghost superhero. Kinda died once. Long story. Still figuring out the ‘normal life’ thing. But he’s loyal and kind and dumb in the ‘tries to save everyone and forgets he matters too’ kind of way. Also, he makes really good grilled cheese.”

Cassandra studied Dani for a moment, then took the picture.

“…I’ll think about it.”

Dani beamed.

That was practically a yes.

And for once in her weird, ghosty afterlife, Dani felt like a hero.

[dollgxtz]

Five More Minutes?

Word Count: 6.1k

Tags: sylus x fem!reader, unprotected sex, creampie, morning sex, biting, injury, a bit of blood, teasing, fingering, nicknames like good girl, kitten, my love, grinding, humping, overstim, breeding

Summary: You have to get up soon for a team meeting at your job but Sylus shows you all the reasons you should stay in bed with him instead :3

His warm breath danced across your ear as he left gentle kisses, sending shivers down your spine as he whispered, "Just let me make you cum again." His words were a gentle persuasion, a soft coaxing that seemed to seep into your very being. "You don't really want me to stop, do you?"

AN: Man, it feels SO good to be back writing again. I hope you guys enjoy this little fic I wrote up over the weekend! Another fic idea crossed of the list! Enjoy!

The room is still, wrapped in the muted hush of early morning in Linkon City. The faint glow of dawn filters through the blinds, casting soft, golden lines across the walls. Outside, the city stirs, but in here, time moves slower. The only sounds are the rhythmic ticking of the clock and the steady, even breaths of the man beside you.

Warmth cocoons you—thick blankets tangled around your legs, the lingering scent of laundry detergent on the sheets, and the solid, unmistakable presence of Sylus pressed against you. He’s a furnace, radiating heat even in sleep, his arm heavy across your waist, fingers curled loosely around the skin of your arm as if, even unconsciously, he refuses to let you go. His face is buried somewhere near your shoulder, breath warm and slow against your skin.

Right. He stayed over last night.

The memory unfolds in fragments, soft and hazy around the edges. He’d brought a bottle of wine, a gift for you, though you’d insisted—pleaded—that he share it with you. It had taken a bit of coaxing, some playful pouting on your part, but eventually, with a quiet sigh and a small, indulgent smile, he had obliged.

And then…

Your face heats up.

The night plays back in your mind, moments flickering like warm candlelight—his quiet laughter, the way his eyes softened as he listened to you talk about any and everything, the casual brush of fingers against skin that grew less accidental as the night went on. The pinkness of his face as he poured you both another glass. The slow unraveling of space between you. Then suddenly you both weren't wearing clothes.

Though he hadn't even bothered to remove your underwear, electing instead to just move the fabric aside for quicker access. The moans, the sweat, the pleasurable ache of him pushing inside you, filling you completely until you felt like you couldn't breathe...

You shift slightly in his grasp, your pulse quickening for reasons that have nothing to do with the morning chill.

But something tugs at the edge of your awareness, a vague, creeping sense that you’re forgetting something. A loose thread in your mind, pulling tighter with each second you lie there.

Your hand fumbles across the nightstand, fingers clumsy with sleep as they search for your phone. The cool surface meets your palm, and you bring it close, squinting against the harsh glare of the screen. The sudden brightness stings your tired eyes, and you blink rapidly, trying to focus. The numbers staring back at you make your stomach drop.

Shit.

A team meeting. In an hour.

For a few seconds, you just stare at the screen, mind sluggish, like a machine still booting up. Right. You need to move. Shower, throw on something presentable, maybe down an entire pot of coffee before suffering through whatever motivational spiel Captain Jenna has planned this morning.

You exhale through your nose, slowly, carefully, and begin the delicate process of slipping out of your bed.

The sheets rustle as you peel them away, inch by inch. You shift just enough to lift Sylus’s arm, careful not to wake him, careful not to disturb the heavy warmth of sleep still clinging to him. The air beyond the blankets is cool against your skin, a stark contrast to the heat of the body beside you. You manage to slide his arm just far enough—his fingers loosen their hold, giving you the sliver of space you need.

And then, just as you begin to rise—

His grip tightens.

A soft, barely-audible noise escapes him—a quiet sigh, laced with something almost petulant, as his fingers curl tighter against your stomach. Before you can react, he shifts, using that lazy, effortless strength of his to pull you flush against him, caging you in with an arm that’s now locked like steel around your waist again. His face buries deeper against the crook of your neck, breath warm, slow, and completely undisturbed.

You freeze.

For a moment, you don’t move, barely daring to breathe. Maybe, just maybe, if you wait, he’ll shift again, loosen his hold, let you slip away without incident.

But no. His grip remains firm, steady, an unspoken claim that keeps you anchored in place.

You sigh, staring at the phone still clutched in your hand.

Well. So much for an easy escape.

You squirm against him, frustration creeping in as you attempt to loosen his grip. His arm is a dead weight around your waist, unmoving, solid, like he’s anchored you to the bed on purpose. The warmth of his body radiates into yours, making it all the more difficult to convince yourself to leave the comfort of the blankets. Still, you have a meeting. You have to get up.

“Sylus,” you whisper, testing the waters, voice hushed in the stillness of the room.

No response.

You shift again, pressing your back against his chest, hoping that if you disturb his sleep enough, he’ll finally wake up. But he remains perfectly still, save for the slow, steady rise and fall of his breathing. You know he’s usually a light sleeper so something about the way he’s too still makes you suspicious.

You try again, this time a little louder. “Sylus.”

Nothing.

The stubborn warmth of him seeps into your skin, lulling, dangerous, tempting you to sink back into sleep. But you refuse to fall for it.

Fine. If he’s going to be difficult, you’ll make him wake up.

You shift your elbow into position, drawing in a breath before—

Thud.

Your elbow connects with his chest, firm but not enough to actually hurt him. The effect is immediate.

A low grunt leaves him, but it’s short-lived—quickly swallowed by a laugh that shakes through him, low and unreasonably warm. The sound vibrates against your back, spreading through your chest before you can stop it. It’s deep, rich, full of amusement, and completely unbothered by your attack.

You glare at him over your shoulder, but he’s already grinning—lazy, smug, red eyes half-lidded with sleep but entirely too awake for someone who was just pretending to be unconscious.

“I figured,” he drawls, voice thick with lingering sleep, “if I just held still, you’d eventually give up and fall asleep again.” He pauses, another chuckle slipping past his lips, muffled as he nuzzles into the crook of your neck, leaving soft kisses into your skin. The heat of his breath tickles your skin, sending an involuntary shiver down your spine. “My bad for underestimating your stubbornness once again, kitten.”

Your stomach twists, an annoying mixture of warmth and irritation bubbling in your chest.

“You’re an ass,” you mutter, shoving weakly at his arm, though there’s no real force behind it.

He hums, unconcerned, tightening his hold around you with zero intention of letting go. “So you say. Just five more minutes.”

The weight of him presses against you, steady and familiar, and despite yourself, you stop struggling. You could fight it. You should fight it. But the way his body fits against yours, the way his warmth seeps into every inch of you—it’s too easy to melt into it, to let your body settle even as your mind screams at you about responsibilities.

His breathing evens out again, and just for a second, you let yourself sink into the warmth, into the comfort of him.

Five minutes.

Just five.

No, wait. You have to get up.

The thought pushes through the haze of warmth and sleep, clawing its way to the forefront of your mind, insistent and unyielding. You have a meeting. You have things to do. You can’t just stay here, no matter how comfortable, no matter how tempting the weight of Sylus’s body is against yours.

Still, the bed is so warm, the heat of him wrapping around you like a cocoon, the soft rhythm of his breath lulling, dangerous. He smells like remnants of cologne, a hint of last night’s wine still lingering on his skin, and something purely him, something familiar and grounding that makes it incredibly difficult to want to leave.

But you have to.

Sighing, you shift against him again, gathering just enough resolve to push at his arm, attempting to free yourself. His grip doesn’t loosen—if anything, his fingers curl tighter against you, securing you in place like an unyielding anchor.

"I can't stay in bed all morning, Sy" you murmur, voice slightly hoarse from sleep. You push again, trying to inch away, but it’s like trying to move a stone wall. "I have a team meeting soon." You pause, bracing yourself for the inevitable resistance. "I'm sure you have things to do as well."

There’s a beat of silence. Then, a low hum rumbles from deep in his chest, the kind that makes the hairs on your arms stand on end.

And before you can react, he moves.

Not to release you. Not to let you go.

No, instead, Sylus shifts forward, pressing impossibly closer, his bare chest firm against your back, his lips suddenly hovering at your ear. His voice drops into something dangerously smooth, velvety in its teasing amusement as he whispers,

"Mm…but didn’t a certain kitten beg me last night never to leave her side?"

Your entire body locks up.

Heat floods your face so quickly it’s almost dizzying, embarrassment crashing through you in waves as your mind scrambles to process his words. His breath, warm and deliberate, ghosts over your ear, and every single nerve in your body reacts all at once. A shiver works its way down your spine, traitorous and impossible to suppress.

He remembers.

Of course, he does.

The memory of last night unfurls in your mind like a film reel, every single moment flashing in humiliatingly vivid detail.

You’d been tired out by multiple orgasms, softened by wine and warmth, curled against him in the very same bed, murmuring words you hadn’t really been thinking through.

"Stay, don’t go, just a little longer. Never leave me, please?"

Of course he had assured you that he hadn't been planning on leaving in the first place. How silly of you to think you had to beg him for something like that.

The pleas had slipped from your lips too easily, too naturally, and at the time, it had felt like nothing. But now? Now he was using it against you, and from the smugness dripping from his voice, he was enjoying it far too much.

Him and his constant teasing.

Your face burns hotter, the warmth of him unbearably close, suffocating, intoxicating. In a fit of sheer embarrassment, you thrash against him, twisting, wriggling, desperate to escape. "Oh, don't act like you didn't eat up every word I said! Let me go!"

But Sylus?

Sylus doesn’t listen.

He never listens.

Instead of loosening his hold, instead of giving in even an inch, he does the exact opposite.

He moves again, his hand gliding down the length of your body—slow, deliberate, maddening. His fingertips ghost over your side first, tracing a path too gentle to be ignored, before slipping lower, skimming along your waist, then back up in a slow, torturous caress. His touch isn’t demanding, isn’t forceful��it’s light, teasing, patient. The kind of touch that coaxes a reaction before you can stop it.

You shiver—visibly, undeniably.

And he feels it.

You don’t even have to look at him to know the smirk that’s surely curling at his lips. His fingers continue their featherlight path, unhurried, infuriating, utterly controlled. It’s like he’s memorized every spot that makes you react, testing, playing, pushing just enough to remind you that he knows exactly what he’s doing.

Then, in that same, low, velvety tone, he murmurs,

"Shh…don’t strain yourself."

The words are a command, soft but firm, and before you can even process them, he adds, "Just call out."

Your breath catches.

You know what he’s doing.

He’s making you choose.

Stay or fight. Surrender or resist.

And worse?

He already knows which one you want.

"I can't just call out," you groan, frustration thick in your voice as you shift again, squirming against the warmth wrapped around you. "I've already called out four times in two weeks! Unless I have a good excuse this time, I'll get punished with desk duty..."

The thought alone is miserable. Trapped in the office, drowning in stacks of paperwork, stuck behind a desk instead of being out in the field actually doing something meaningful? No, thank you. You’d rather suffer through whatever mind-numbing speech Captain Jenna had planned this morning than subject yourself to that.

But the unshakable weight of Sylus’s arm draped across your bare skin tells you he has other plans.

For a moment, there's silence. A pause long enough that you think maybe—just maybe—he's drifting off again, and if you time it right, you can slip free. But before you even begin to try, he lets out a low chuckle, the kind that vibrates against your back, a lazy sound of acknowledgment that makes your stomach twist with anticipation.

His voice is slow, unhurried, still thick with sleep. "Punished with desk duty, huh? Yeah…that does sound rough…"

For a brief, foolish second, you almost think he's sympathizing with you. That he’ll finally loosen his grip, let you go, maybe even roll over and let you salvage what little time you have left before your meeting.

But then—he leans in again.

His lips hover just beside your ear, his breath warm as it fans over your skin. A barely-there whisper of heat, enough to send a shiver curling down your spine before you can stop it. His grip around you doesn’t loosen. If anything, it tightens—just slightly, just enough to remind you that he’s still in control here.

"I mean…" his voice dips lower, conspiratorial, teasing, smirking without even having to show it. "I could forge a doctor’s note if you really need it."

You blink, caught completely off guard.

"What?"

Sylus shifts, settling himself more comfortably against you, like this is just another lazy morning where neither of you have anywhere to be. His fingers begin to move again—absentmindedly tracing slow, meandering patterns across your stomach. Light, feather-soft strokes that aren't urgent, but they are distracting.

"Yeah," he murmurs, dragging his fingers idly up your ribs before dipping back down, his touch effortless, as if he's not even thinking about it. "I’m pretty good at it, you know. Could make it look real official—some tragic, unavoidable emergency."

You snort. "Oh yeah? Like what?"

He hums again, like he’s actually considering it. "Food poisoning? Appendicitis? Oh, I know." He presses in closer, lips brushing so lightly against your ear that you almost don’t register the words before he says them. "You were in a car crash."

A genuine laugh bursts out of you before you can stop it. It startles even you, bright and amused, shaking your body just slightly against his. "A car crash? Really?"

"Of course," he replies smoothly, as if this is the most logical solution in the world. "A controlled one. Just enough damage to make it convincing. Maybe even get you some sympathy points—hell, you might even score a few extra days off to lay in bed with me."

You shake your head, still giggling, pressing your face briefly into the pillow before turning slightly to glare at him over your shoulder. "You are ridiculous."

But your amusement vanishes in an instant the moment his fingers graze lower.

The movement is so subtle—a mere shift of his hand, like he's still idly tracing those lazy shapes against your skin—but it lands over a sensitive spot just below your exposed breasts. The reaction is instant.

Your breath hitches.

Your body betrays you, tensing instinctively, muscles twitching beneath his touch. Your fingers reflexively shoot up to grip his hand, holding on like that might somehow stop him from noticing.

But he notices.

Of course he does.

His fingers pause for just a second, like he’s taking mental notes, cataloging the reaction, committing it to memory. Then, in a way that feels entirely too intentional, he moves again—this time even slower, more deliberate.

A soft, barely-there stroke, skimming over the tip of your nipple.

Your stomach twitches.

A sharp exhale catches in your throat.

You hate how easily your body reacts to him, how he barely has to do anything, yet your skin is already burning. You can feel the smirk on his lips even though you’re not even looking at him.

His voice is quiet, teasing. "Seems you haven't had enough of last night, kitten."

Your entire body goes rigid. Oh, no. No, no, no.

This isn’t good.

You stay still, hoping, praying, that maybe—just maybe—he’ll leave it alone. That he’ll stop before this becomes something you’ll never live down.

But of course, he doesn’t.

His fingers continued their deliberate dance across your skin, each stroke igniting a fire that spread from the bare expanse of your stomach to the very core of your being. You could feel the warmth radiating from him, the heat of his body pressing closer, the unmistakable hardness of his cock brushing against your panties, sending electric shocks through your body.

Your breath hitched, an involuntary reaction that betrayed your desire to remain composed. Sylus, ever attentive, noticed your body's response, the way you tensed and shivered under his touch, your nipples hardening further, your breath coming in short gasps.

“Are you sure…” he murmured, drawing out the words like honey, “you don’t want to stay in bed?” His breath was warm against your skin, a tantalizing whisper that sent shivers racing down your spine.

As he spoke, his fingers hooked into the waistband of your panties, slowly, deliberately pulling them down, exposing your bare skin to his hungry gaze. The cool air on your exposed skin sent shivers down your spine, a contrast to the heat of his touch.

Your body betrayed you, the wetness pooling between your legs a clear testament to your desire. Each brush of his fingers sent waves of heat coursing through you, an insatiable yearning clawing at your insides. You wanted him—needed him—yet the game he was playing was as intoxicating as it was maddening.

His fingers danced lower, their path a tantalizing tease, tracing the edges of your clit, sending sparks of pleasure through your body. You shifted, your back arching, your hips moving involuntarily, your body instinctively craving more of his touch, drawn to the heat and pleasure he offered.

Your heart raced, a wild drumbeat that echoed in your ears as you felt the heat of his gaze on you, his fingers poised tantalizingly close to the edge of your desire. You swallowed hard, the words stuck in your throat, a delicious mix of defiance and longing swirling within you.

“I…” you began, but the breathy whisper faltered, caught between shyness and the primal urge coursing through your veins. The way he leaned in closer, his warm breath ghosting over your skin, made it impossible to think straight.

"Sylus stop...I need to..."

"Hm?" he pressed, his voice a sultry murmur that coaxed the truth from your lips as his fingers moved lower. With a deliberate slowness, he dipped the tip of his finger inside you, the sensation igniting a spark that shot straight to your core. You gasped, your body instinctively tightening around him, the warmth of your walls welcoming his intrusion.

"Mghn!"

The way he toyed with you was maddening; it was as if he could sense the storm brewing within, each twitch of his fingers a spark igniting the kindling of your desire. You could feel his cock twitching behind you, hard and insistent against your thigh, and it sent a jolt of need straight to your core.

His warm breath danced across your ear as he left gentle kisses, sending shivers down your spine as he whispered, "Just let me make you cum again." His words were a gentle persuasion, a soft coaxing that seemed to seep into your very being. The warmth of his lips against your ear sent a flutter through your chest, making your heart skip a beat.

He knew exactly what to say to unravel your defenses, to make you surrender to the sensations coursing through your body. His voice was a low, husky whisper, a sensual temptation that seemed to wrap itself around your resolve, weakening your resistance. "You don't really want me to stop, do you?" he murmured, his words a provocative challenge, a dare to admit the truth - that you were helpless against the pleasure he was unleashing upon you.

The way he spoke, the words he chose, it was all so deliberately crafted to break down your barriers, to make you succumb to the desire that threatened to consume you. And yet, despite the warning bells ringing in your mind about your meeting, you couldn't help but feel yourself being drawn back in, helpless against the tide of pleasure that he was so expertly manipulating.

Dammit, he knew exactly how to play you, and you were powerless to resist.

“M-make it quick...” you finally breathed, the words spilling forth with a desperate honesty that hung heavy in the air between you.

His eyes darkened, a glimmer of satisfaction sparking within them as he shifted, pressing his hardness against you more firmly, the friction sending waves of heat cascading through your body. “Good girl,” he crooned, his finger finally dipping deeper into your slick folds with a teasing gentleness that made your breath hitch once more.

You gasped, your body arching instinctively into his touch, craving more, needing him to explore you fully. “Fuck…” you begged, the desperation in your voice a heady cocktail of need and surrender that only fueled the fire between you.

The room seemed to pulse with the intensity of the moment, the morning lighting casting long sun rays that seemed to merge with the heat of the encounter. The scent of anticipation lingered in the air, intertwined with the musky aroma of arousal. Every sense was heightened, every touch magnified, as if the world had narrowed to this single, electrifying moment.

You were drowning in a sea of sensations, the rhythm of his movements synced with the pounding of your heart. The emotional undercurrents were as intense as the physical ones, a primal dance of dominance and submission that left you breathless and yearning for more.

As his finger moved with deliberate precision, you became more acutely aware of the symphony of sensations enveloping you. The aching pressure already building in your lower stomach, the heat, the teasing gentleness, it was too much and yet not enough all at the same time. The dialogue between you was minimal, yet every word, every moan, seemed to speak volumes.

You tried to keep your focus on the upcoming meeting, the fear of being late and the prospect of desk duty looming in your mind. But as Sylus continued to orchestrate pleasure within your soft walls, the rising heat between your legs became all-consuming, your thoughts dissolving into a haze of pleasure.

But when he added the second finger, you didn't have the strength to make him stop any longer.

Your grip on his arm tightening, your nails digging into his skin as you arched into his touch, your body moving in rhythm with his fingers, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps. The sound of your own moans filled the air, a testament to the pleasure he was delivering, your mind unable to focus on anything but the sensations he was evoking.

"That's it, my love," he whispered, his breath hot against your ear. "Nice and loud, you sound beautiful". He sounded close to unraveling himself, cock now straining impossibly hard against the roundness of your ass.

As Sylus's words washed over you, your body responded instinctively, your muscles clenching around his fingers, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps, each exhale a warning to the building pleasure. Your climax approached like a rising tide, your body trembling, your voice reduced to a series of gasps and moans, your nails digging into his arm as you surrendered to the sensations he evoked.

"S-sylus! Im-!".

"I know, I know" he whispered, panting and grinding into your backside. He deftly curved his fingers, hitting that spongy part inside. Your body responded to his movements, your muscles clenching and releasing around his fingers, your breath coming in shorter, sharper gasps, your climax building to a crescendo, until you cried out, your voice hoarse, your body trembling, your release a powerful wave that left you breathless and sated, the fear of work and its consequences now a distant memory, replaced by the all-consuming pleasure Sylus had delivered.

As you lay there, still trembling from the aftershocks of your orgasm, Sylus took advantage of your heightened sensitivity, pushing his cock fully inside you in one smooth motion. Your body, still slick with arousal, offered little resistance, and he filled you with a solid thrust, his girth stretching you, his length filling you completely.

You cried out, overwhelmed by the sensations—the overstimulation of your orgasm blending into the pleasure of his intrusion, which quickly morphed into a slight pain as he began to thrust inside your tightening hole. "So fucking tight," he growled, his voice a low, primal sound.

His grip on your body tightened, almost possessive, as if trying to keep you from moving, from escaping the pleasure he was delivering. You struggled to breathe, your body shaking, your senses overloaded. "Sylus...too much!" you cried out, your voice hoarse, your body practically shaking with the intensity of the sensations.

"You're okay, kitten," he whispered, his breath hot against your ear. "Bite down on my hand."

He offered his hand, his fingers curling around yours, urging you to bite down, to ground yourself as he continued to thrust, his pace relentless, his body a cage of pleasure and pain, his grip on you a reminder that you had no choice but to surrender and take every thrust he was giving you.

You bit down on his hand, your teeth sinking into his skin, grounding yourself in the physical sensation as his thrusts continued, relentless and powerful. The pain and pleasure mingled, creating a heady mix of sensations that overwhelmed your senses. Your body shook, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps, your nails digging into his arm as you clung to him, your body moving in rhythm with his.

Despite the pain, he didn't flinch, didn't try to pull his hand away. Instead, he seemed to lean into it, his movements becoming more insistent, his body moving in perfect sync with yours. The friction between you was almost palpable, a living, breathing thing that pulsed with every thrust.

Sylus's movements suddenly became slow and sensual, his thrusts a a new gentle rhythm that built pleasure anew. Your bodies, slick with sweat, moved in sync, your moans filling the air, a symphony of pleasure and desire that seemed to echo off the walls.

As he moved, his cock rubbed against your G-spot, sending shivers through your body, making your toes curl and your fingers dig harder into his skin. His pubic bone pressed against your clit, adding an extra layer of sensation, making your body tremble with anticipation. Your moans grew louder, more insistent, as he continued to thrust into you sensually, lovingly

"Y'know..." he whispered, his voice hoarse and strained, his words barely audible over the sound of your own ragged breathing. "I could give you a really good excuse to miss work for nine months" His breath was hot against your skin, sending shivers down your spine, making your body arch into his touch.

Your entire body locks up.

The weight of his words crashes down on you like a lightning strike, your mind screeching to a halt as it fully processes what he just said. Nine months. Nine. Months?

Oh. Oh.

Your breath stutters, your heart hammering so loudly you can hear it in your ears. A fresh, unbearable wave of heat floods through you, burning up from the inside out. You can’t even think properly, your thoughts spiraling into what ifs and impossible images that make your stomach flip so violently you almost feel lightheaded.

Your lips part—you want to say something, anything, but your brain is completely fried, every coherent thought erased by the sheer weight of what he’s implying. Instead, a strangled, breathless noise escapes you, somewhere between a choked gasp and a disbelieving scoff.

Your breath came in short, sharp gasps, your body trembling on the edge of release. His thrusts became more insistent again, his pace quickening, his body moving in rhythm with yours, his voice a low, primal growl that seemed to vibrate through every cell in your body. You felt yourself getting closer and closer, your body coiling tighter and tighter, until you were a spring ready to snap.

You find yourself biting even harder on his hand, moaning and choking curse words into his skin.

Sylus still didn't flinch, thrusts didn't even falter, even as your teeth dug deeper into his skin. "That's it, kitten, let go," he urged, his breath hot against your ear, his words spoken with raw desire. "Cum for me". His voice was like a spark to dry tinder, igniting a fire that had been building for what felt like hours.

You surrendered to the building pleasure, your body convulsing around his length, your release a powerful wave that left you trembling and breathless. As you came, your body milked his cock, squeezing and releasing in a rhythmic pattern that seemed to draw him in, pulling him closer and closer to his own release. Sylus followed, his own climax a hot flood within you, his body shuddering as he filled you with his cum, his breath ragged against your neck. You felt his cock pulsing inside you, releasing wave after wave of heat, making your body tremble with aftershocks.

Even as you came down from the peak of your orgasm, you still bit down on his hand, the pain a reminder that you were still alive, still present in your body. Tears streamed down your face, your eyes closed as you struggled to process the intensity of the feelings that had just torn through you. Sylus didn't seem to mind, didn't try to pull his hand away, instead wrapping his other arm around you, holding you close as you rode out the aftershocks of your climax.

The air between you is thick, heavy with the aftermath of what just happened. Your body still hums with sensitivity, the lingering warmth of his touch ghosting over your skin even in the places where he’s no longer touching you. Your breath comes fast and uneven, mingling with his in the limited space between you. It takes a few sluggish seconds for your mind to catch up, for reality to seep through the haze of warmth, exhaustion, and the overwhelming presence of him.

You shift slightly, the movement sluggish and lazy, tangled in sheets that are now an absolute mess beneath you. But something catches your eye, a faint streak of red between his index and thumb—small, but unmistakable. Your gaze sharpens, the fog in your mind clearing just enough to process what it is. His hand. The mark you left there.

Your stomach twists.

Turning fully toward him, you reach for his hand without thinking, grasping it between your own as you bring it closer to examine. The skin is broken, a faint indent of your teeth still visible, a thin smear of blood welling up along the fresh bite wound. You swallow hard, something warm—guilt, embarrassment, maybe a little bit of both—curling low in your chest.

"Sylus," you murmur, tracing the edge of the wound with gentle, careful fingers, your touch barely a ghost against his skin. "You're bleeding. I'm so so sorry."

The reaction you expect—a wince, a sigh of annoyance, maybe even a scolding remark about being too rough—doesn’t come.

Instead, he chuckles.

A deep, amused sound that rumbles through his chest, utterly unbothered. His free hand moves almost lazily, fingers threading into your hair as he pulls you in just slightly. Before you can protest, he presses a warm, lingering kiss to your lips. Then another. And another. Each one deliberate, soft, like he’s trying to reassure you that he’s perfectly fine. That, despite the evidence on his skin, he doesn’t mind.

"You're so cute when you get all worked up and worried about me," he muses, voice drenched in amusement, his lips never straying far from you. "You've seen me bleed before. I healed just fine, this is no different."

You let out a breath, one you hadn’t realized you were holding, but you don’t let go of his hand. Your fingers tighten around his slightly, still feeling the warmth of his skin beneath your own. It doesn’t matter if you’ve seen him injured before—this is different. The mark is from you. You did this. The thought makes something in your chest twist, a tangled mix of emotions you don’t have the energy to sort through right now.

Sylus, on the other hand, doesn’t seem the least bit concerned.

He tilts his head slightly, brushing another lazy kiss against your temple before murmuring, "Since you’re so worried, and since you’re already late for your meeting…you can help me bandage up."

You blink.

The words take a full second to register in your mind.

Then, suddenly—panic slams into you like a freight train.

You jerk upright so fast that the blankets tangle around your legs, the soreness in your muscles protesting immediately. But you ignore it, lunging for your phone as a pit of dread sinks deep into your stomach.

No.

No way.

This can’t be happening.

Your fingers fumble against the screen, tapping it awake, and the moment your eyes land on the time, your heart stops.

You stare.

The numbers blink mockingly back at you, taunting you with undeniable proof that your absolute worst-case scenario is now reality.

You were supposed to be in that meeting fifteen minutes ago.

Fifteen. Minutes. Ago.

For a moment, your brain completely short-circuits.

Your breathing is still uneven, your body still warm and exhausted, and yet—somehow, all of that disappears beneath the sheer force of realization slamming into you. Your stomach drops into oblivion, a rising sense of dread climbing up your spine as your pulse kicks into overdrive.

Slowly—mechanically, like you’re in some kind of fever dream—you turn your head, your wide eyes locking onto Sylus.

He’s watching you, still completely relaxed, utterly unbothered. One arm is lazily draped behind his head, the other still in your grasp, and there’s a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips that tells you he knows exactly what’s happening in your brain right now.

You open your mouth, ready to say something, anything, but all that comes out is a strangled, breathless, "No way."

His smirk grows. "Oh?"

You snap your gaze back to your phone, as if staring at the numbers harder might somehow make them change. But they don’t. The reality is unavoidable.

You lunge back toward him, shoving his shoulder as the weight of the realization crashes over you. "No way. No way! There’s absolutely no way our—" You flail your arms wildly in emphasis, words momentarily failing you. "Activities lasted an hour!"

Sylus lets out a low, knowing chuckle, one that does absolutely nothing to ease your growing panic.

"You sure about that?" he muses, arching a brow.

You open your mouth to argue, to deny, to insist that there’s no way you just completely lost track of time like that—but then you stop.

Because, unfortunately, the evidence is right there.

The sluggish ache in your limbs, the dull soreness still lingering in your muscles, the aftershocks still thrumming beneath your skin—all of it is proof.

Your jaw clenches shut.

Your entire body slumps forward, collapsing back onto the bed, an absolutely defeated groan ripping from your throat. You drag a hand over your face, squeezing your eyes shut, as if that might somehow undo reality. "I'm so screwed."

Sylus’s laughter vibrates through the mattress, deep and thoroughly entertained. You don’t need to look at him to know he’s loving this.

A moment later, his good hand finds your waist again, fingers tracing lazy, absentminded patterns against your still-sensitive skin. His touch is warm, soothing, completely unrepentant.

"Relax, kitten," he murmurs, his voice a slow, indulgent drawl.

You hear the smirk in his tone before he even says it.

"The offer for that car crash is still on the table y'know..."

[writeriguess]

Can you write Katsuki x fem reader with trope "I hate everyone but you"??

The Exception

Katsuki Bakugo was a menace to everyone around him. He barked orders, scowled at classmates, and had a scathing remark ready for anyone who dared to test his patience. He didn't do small talk, didn't care for friendships, and had no tolerance for incompetence.

But then, there was you.

The one person he didn't treat like an annoying bug under his boot. The one person he tolerated, sought out, and—though he’d never admit it—needed.

And it was painfully obvious to everyone else.

“Dude, he literally just told me to drop dead five minutes ago, and now he's carrying her bag like it’s no big deal,” Kaminari whispered to Kirishima as they watched Bakugo sling your gym bag over his shoulder without complaint.

Kirishima snorted. “I know, right? And did you see how he yelled at Midoriya for standing too close to her yesterday?”

“Think they’re dating?”

“No way—Bakugo would combust before admitting he has a crush.”

The thing was, Bakugo didn’t just like you—he was obsessed with you. You were the only one he could stand for longer than five minutes, the only one whose presence didn’t make him want to scream.

And maybe, just maybe, that scared him more than any villain ever could.

“Tch. You’re late.”

Bakugo was leaning against the dormitory entrance, arms crossed, his usual scowl firmly in place. The streetlights cast a glow over his sharp features, but the impatient tapping of his foot betrayed his annoyance.

You rolled your eyes. “I was studying.”

“Yeah, yeah. Let’s go.”

The “let’s go” was unnecessary. You knew that when Bakugo said those words, what he really meant was, I was waiting for you. I don’t like waiting for anyone else, but I’ll wait for you.

You walked beside him, comfortable in the silence, while he glared at anyone who so much as looked your way. It was amusing, really, how the explosive hothead softened just for you.

“Did you eat?” he asked gruffly.

You hummed. “Mmm, not really.”

His scowl deepened. “Idiot. You need to eat.” Without hesitation, he shoved a convenience store bag into your hands.

Inside was your favorite snack.

Your heart warmed. He’d thought about you.

“You’re sweet, Bakugo,” you teased.

He bristled, ears tinged pink. “Shut the hell up.”

You laughed, and for the first time that night, Bakugo didn’t look angry—he looked at peace.

Because as much as he hated the world, he could never hate you.

You were the exception.

[romerona]

The Cook and The Teacher!

Let's pretend The Bear and Abbot Elementary are in the same city.

Another cute interaction between Carmen (Carmy) Berzatto x Abbot Teacher Femreader! Sunshinereader!

You sat at the table, doing your best to appear interested as your date droned on about his latest work achievements. Something about managing accounts, sealing big deals, and being “essential” to the success of his company. You’d lost track of the details five minutes in, your polite smile starting to feel like a workout for your face.

“…but you wouldn’t get that,” he said, waving his hand dismissively, like you were a child. “Teaching kids and all. It’s like... coloring books and snack time, right?”

Your smile faltered, and you tightened your grip on the stem of your wine glass, fighting the urge to roll your eyes. “Not quite. It’s actually pretty challenging—teaching is about shaping young minds, not just... crayons.”

“Sure, sure,” he said, nodding like he wasn’t really listening. “But you have to admit, it’s not exactly high stakes.” He leaned back in his chair, a smug grin stretching across his face. “I mean, no offense.”

“None taken,” you replied tightly, though the bile creeping up your neck said otherwise. You took a slow sip of your wine, hoping the glass might serve as a buffer between his words and your patience. Spoiler: it wasn’t working.

Inwardly, you cursed yourself for agreeing to this. What had Ava said when she pitched the idea? “Girl, you’re way too cute to be single and wasting away in that apartment of yours. You need to get out there. Shake things up. And this guy? Total catch—tall, successful, and probably rich. You’re welcome.”

At the time, it had seemed like a good idea. Ava’s relentless confidence had rubbed off on you, and the idea of putting yourself out there sounded... productive, if not promising. After all, your secret crush on your cute neighbor wasn’t going anywhere.

Carmy.

You couldn’t help but think about him as Ben prattled on about his “huge network.” Carmy was quiet, focused, and sweet in a way you didn’t think he realized. But he was also impossible to read. Sure, you’d had a few conversations here and there, shared a laugh or two, but he’d never made a move. You hadn’t either—paralyzed by the thought of misinterpreting things and embarrassing yourself.

Which is how you’d ended up here, with Ben. Wonderful, condescending Ben, who clearly thought your life’s work was a joke.

“And this place,” Ben said, gesturing around the restaurant with a smug grin. “Pretty great, right? Super exclusive. I know a guy who knows the chef here. Heard he’s like, a genius or something. Figured we’d go all out.”

You glanced around the dimly lit space, suddenly more aware of the upscale decor—the polished wood tables, the soft amber glow of the overhead lights, and the quiet hum of conversation that seemed to fill the air like music. It was... fancier than you’d expected.

The Bear.

You’d heard of it, of course—who hadn’t? It was one of those places people raved about, where getting a reservation was an accomplishment in itself. The kind of place where you know the food would be incredible, but the bill would make you question your life choices. Nice, but you were pretty sure you could only afford, like, a cup of water here.

Ben leaned in closer, grinning smugly. “This chef guy? Supposedly some kind of prodigy. I don’t know the details, but people say he’s a big deal. Good thing I’ve got connections, huh?”

“Mhm,” you hummed, noncommittal, as you glanced toward the bustling kitchen. A wave of heat and light spilled out from behind the pass, where you could just make out the shadowed figures of chefs moving in synchronized chaos.

As you sipped from your wine glass, trying to find something redeemable about Ben’s endless self-promotion, you wondered if maybe Ava had oversold this whole “dating adventure” thing.

Carmy spotted you the second you walked in.

He’d been at the pass, focused on plating an intricate dish—a delicate arrangement of seared scallops and edible flowers—when his gaze drifted toward the dining room. His hands paused mid-motion, a faint crease forming between his brows as he recognized you.

You were hard to miss, sitting near the window in a corner booth, your posture poised but just slightly tense. Dressed in something a little sleeker than usual, you looked... different. Not in a bad way—never in a bad way— Not that you ever looked anything less than beautiful, but tonight, something about you seemed… striking, enough that he found himself staring longer than he should’ve.

His eyes flicked to the guy sitting across from you. The guy who was laughing too loud, leaning back in his chair like he owned the place, gesturing with wild hands as he talked. You, on the other hand, wore a polite smile that didn’t quite light up the room as it usually did.

Carmy’s jaw tightened. He wasn’t sure why the sight of you with someone else tugged at his chest the way it did, but it lingered, heavy and unwelcome.

It’s none of your business, he told himself, forcing his focus back to the dish in front of him. You weren’t his to worry about.

You weren’t his at all.

Still, his gaze flicked back toward your table, almost involuntarily, catching the way your date seemed oblivious to your discomfort. Carmy’s stomach twisted at the thought. He didn’t know what he expected—maybe for the guy to notice the way you played with your napkin or to tone down his boisterous tone—but it wasn’t this.

“Chef?” Sydney’s voice broke his focus, sharp but professional.

“Yeah,” he muttered, snapping back to reality. His eyes returned to the plate in front of him, the arrangement now slightly skewed from his distraction. He adjusted it quickly, his movements precise but tighter than usual. “Thanks, Chef.”

As Sydney moved on, Carmy risked one last glance at you. The corner booth, the dim lighting, the guy who couldn’t seem to shut up—it all felt wrong. But he pushed it down, buried it under the quiet rhythm of the kitchen, telling himself it wasn’t his place to care.

And yet, he did.

He cared enough to, like some kind of creep, step out of the kitchen and hover near the hallway that led to the restrooms. It wasn’t a plan—not really. He told himself he just needed a breather, a moment to clear his head and shake off the knot in his chest. But he wasn’t fooling anyone, least of all himself.

The low hum of the restaurant buzzed in his ears as he leaned against the wall, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. He didn’t even know what he’d say if you saw him. Maybe he’d play it off, and act like he just happened to be there. But then, what were the odds you’d even notice him? You were here with someone else, after all.

It was ridiculous, he knew that—irrational even— he should go back, really what the fuck was he thinking--

But the sound of heels clicking softly against the floor pulled him from his spiralling thoughts. His breath hitched as you turned the corner, and your expression turned to one of shock when you spotted him.

“Carmy?” you said, stopping mid-step. Your voice carried a note of surprise, but there was something else there too—curiosity, maybe, or even relief at seeing a familiar face in such an unfamiliar situation.

“Hey,” he said, standing a little straighter, as if he hadn’t just been loitering near the hallway like a guilty teenager. He cleared his throat, trying to play it cool. “Didn’t think I’d see you here.”

You blinked, your eyes flicking over his clothes—the crisp white uniform. The realization dawned on you, and your brows lifted in surprise.

“You work here?”

“Yeah,” he said, shifting his weight slightly. “I, uh... I own it.”

Your eyes widened, and you couldn’t help the soft laugh that escaped you. “You own it?”

“Yeah,” he said again, a bit softer this time. His lips twitched into a faint, almost sheepish smile. “I started it a while back. Kind of… a long story.”

You took a moment to process this revelation, glancing around the restaurant as if seeing it in a new light. The warm lighting, the carefully plated dishes you’d glimpsed on their way to other tables—it all made sense now. Of course, this was Carmy’s place. It was thoughtful, deliberate, but somehow unpretentious.

“Wow,” you said, meeting his gaze again. “That’s... impressive.”

Carmy shrugged, his hands slipping into his pockets. “It’s just work. Nothing fancy.”

“Nothing fancy?” you repeated, a small laugh escaping as you gestured toward the elegant decor. “Carmy, this place is gorgeous. You’re way too modest.”

"Thanks," His lips twitched into a faint smile, but his eyes lingered on you, searching before he added, “You didn’t look like you were having a great time out there.”

You blinked at the sudden change in topic, your surprise melting into something closer to embarrassment.

“Oh,” you said, glancing toward the dining room before meeting his gaze again. “Yeah, it’s... it’s a date.”

Carmy’s jaw tightened imperceptibly, though his expression didn’t waver.

“Figured,” he muttered, his voice steady but low.

“Not a great one,” you admitted, your lips quirking into a dry smile. “Blind date, courtesy of Ava. It’s... fine, I guess. He’s just... not my type.”

Carmy raised an eyebrow, his curiosity getting the better of him. “What’s your type, then?”

The question caught you off guard, your breath hitching slightly as his words hung in the air. You laughed softly, deflecting. “I don’t know. Someone who doesn’t treat teaching like it’s a hobby or call it a job anyone can do.”

His lips twitched into a faint smirk, and he shook his head in disbelief. “He did not say that.”

You groaned dramatically, closing your eyes as if the memory physically pained you. “Oh, but he did. Word for word, and I quote: ‘Teaching is important, I guess. But it’s gotta be, like… easy, right? Summers off, finger painting, all that?’ And then—then!—he laughed. Like he’d just unlocked the secret to stand-up comedy.”

Carmy blinked, his smirk fading into something closer to incredulity. “You’re kidding.”

“I wish I were,” you said, sighing dramatically. “You’d think he was trying out his Type Five for open mic night. And the pièce de résistance? He throws in the classic ‘no offense.’ Like that’s a verbal Ctrl+Z or something.”

That earned a real laugh from Carmy this time, his shoulders shaking slightly as he shook his head. “What the hell? So, this is what you’re dealing with?”

“Oh, but I’m thriving,” you replied, your tone dripping with sarcasm waving your hand dismissively. “Peak romantic energy. Nothing like being told my career is a glorified arts-and-crafts workshop to really get the sparks flying.”

Carmy leaned slightly against the wall, crossing his arms as he listened. His expression was unreadable, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes—irritation, maybe, or quiet disbelief. “And you’re still out there?”

“Excellent question, Chef Carmy,” you said, pointing at him with mock gravity. “I think it’s a mix of morbid curiosity, sheer stubbornness, and maybe a touch of guilt. I mean, he did spring for the wine. Even if he did refer to it as a ‘top-shelf pour.’”

That made Carmy snort, his head dropping slightly as he tried to compose himself. “Top-shelf pour, huh? Sounds like a real charmer.”

You laughed softly, though there was a bite of bitterness in it. “Oh, totally. It’s been a real dream date. Honestly, if he makes one more crack about teaching being ‘easy,’ I might just—” You mimed strangling someone, your hands curling dramatically as you added a mock growl for effect.

Carmy chuckled, the corner of his mouth quirking up. “I’d pay to see that.”

“Don’t tempt me,” you shot back, your grin sharpening. “It might get me out of this date, but I’m pretty sure assault charges aren’t a great look for me.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Fair point.”

Your playful energy dimmed slightly as you glanced toward the dining room. “Anyway, I should probably get back out there before he starts mansplaining the wine list to the waitress. Again.”

Carmy’s lips twitched as if he wanted to laugh, but instead, he straightened up quickly, the weight of his role as head chef settling back onto his shoulders. “Yeah, I should... head back to the kitchen too. Got a lot to wrap up tonight.”

You turned back to him, your expression softening. “Thanks, by the way,” you said, holding his gaze. “For... checking in, I guess. You didn’t have to do that.”

He shrugged a gesture that looked casual but felt like it carried more weight. His voice dropped slightly as he replied, “Yeah, I did.”

The words hung there for a beat, his meaning lingering just beneath the surface as the two of you locked eyes. The air between you felt heavy, almost tangible, like a thread being pulled taut. You wanted to say something—anything. Maybe a joke to break the tension, or maybe the truth: that you liked him, that you wished it was him sitting across from you tonight, making you laugh instead of testing your patience.

Unbeknownst to you, Carmy’s thoughts ran dangerously close to yours. He’d been replaying every interaction with you since the day you moved in next door, every laugh, every casual smile. The thought of you with someone else—someone who didn’t seem to notice the little things about you the way he did—made his chest tighten in ways he couldn’t explain.

But before either of you could give voice to the thoughts swirling in your heads, the faint sound of your date’s voice carried through the hallway, breaking the moment like a needle scratching across a record. You winced slightly, the weight of reality pulling you back.

“Ugh. That’s my cue,” you said, shooting Carmy an exaggerated grimace. “Duty calls.”

Carmy nodded, his expression carefully neutral, though the flicker in his eyes betrayed the emotions he was trying to keep in check. “Good luck out there.”

“Thanks,” you said with a wry grin. “I’ll need it.”

Despite his words, his gaze lingered on yours, as if searching for something unspoken. For a moment, you thought maybe—maybe—he’d say something more, but instead, he stepped back, the faintest of smiles tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“See you around,” he said, his voice quieter now.

“Yeah,” you replied softly, your heart squeezing as you turned to head back toward the dining room. “See you around.”

As you walked away, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were leaving something unfinished behind. And Carmy, watching you go, felt much the same, his hands flexing at his sides as he fought the urge to call after you.

When he finally turned back toward the kitchen, his jaw tightened, the moment still playing over in his mind. He rubbed the back of his neck, willing himself to focus as he pushed open the swinging door. The familiar clatter and hum of the kitchen greeted him, but it did little to drown out the thoughts circling his head.

He barely made it three steps before Richie appeared, leaning casually against the counter with his signature smirk firmly in place.

“Well, well, look who finally decided to grace us with his presence,” Richie drawled, crossing his arms. “What’s the matter, Cousin? Lose track of time out there? Or were you too busy making googly eyes at the customer? Can't blame you thought, she's gorgeous.”

Carmy’s jaw ticked, his shoulders stiffening. “Shut up, Richie.”

--------

Your date’s voice droned on, a monotonous background noise to your growing sense of regret. Why had you agreed to this? Why hadn’t you just stayed home with a glass of wine and a good book?

Just as you were contemplating an excuse to leave—feigning a sudden headache, maybe, or an urgent call from a friend—a waiter approached your table. It wasn’t the same one who had been serving you throughout the evening, but an older guy with an easy smile and a glimmering of mischief in his eyes carrying a small plate in hand. The plate held an assortment of beautifully arranged pastries, each one delicate and intricate, like a tiny work of art.

“Oh, I didn’t order this,” you said, your brow furrowing as you looked up at him.

“It’s from the chef,” the waiter replied, his tone polite but with a glimmer of something knowing in his eyes.

Your eyes widened slightly, your breath catching as you glanced instinctively toward the kitchen pass. Sure enough, Carmy was there, leaning slightly against the counter, his arms crossed. His expression was unreadable, but there was a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, and his gaze was fixed squarely on you.

Your heart gave a little jolt, heat creeping up your neck as you turned back to the table.

Your date, meanwhile, was entirely oblivious to the silent exchange. He grinned widely, puffing out his chest a little as he gestured to the plate. “See? Told you this place was top-notch. They must’ve recognized me. Perks of being a regular.”

It took everything in you not to burst out laughing. Instead, you bit back your amusement, your lips twitching into a barely restrained smile as you reached for one of the pastries.

“Right,” you said lightly, turning the pastry over in your hand. “Must be your VIP status.”

As you took a bite, the pastry practically melted in your mouth, a perfect blend of buttery richness and delicate sweetness. It was so good it almost made you forget the company you were keeping—almost.

“You know, this kind of attention doesn’t happen just anywhere. It’s all about knowing the right people.”

“Mmm,” you murmured, taking a bite of one of the delicate confections. It melted in your mouth, rich and buttery, with just the right amount of sweetness.

When you glanced back toward the pass, Carmy was already gone, disappearing back into the kitchen as seamlessly as he’d appeared. But his gesture lingered, wrapping around you like a quiet reassurance, a small thread of comfort in an otherwise unbearable evening.

And for the first time that night, your smile wasn’t forced.

A/N: Heyyy I hope you enjoyed it. Thank you to all those people who comment, like and reblog. Like fr you all make my week. Always looking for some ideas so please feel free to ask.

Also, please tell me if you want to be tagged. Be safe out there, please the world is too crazy at the moment. <3

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Next part 7

[sunarryn]

DP X Marvel #17

One week. One fucking week. That’s how long it took before the universe’s reality collapsed in on itself like a toddler knocking over a block tower made of cosmic rules, and Danny Fenton—sorry, High King Phantom of the Infinite Realms, Keeper of Balance, Ghost King of All Dimensions, Supreme Bureaucratic Overlord of Death and Souls, or whatever other bullshit title Clockwork slapped on him—was done. He was so done. With everything. With life. With afterlife. With bureaucracy. With math. Goddamn, he hated math.

He phased through the ceiling of what was left of the Avengers compound without so much as a knock because, frankly, he didn’t care anymore. People were dead. Everyone was dead. Half a fucking universe. And universes are fucking infinite. Literally. He’d been counting. Or trying to. But the math broke somewhere around “nine trillion decillion” and his brain short-circuited.

Inside, the Avengers were scattered around like bad leftovers. Steve was slouched in a chair like someone told him America lost the war. Thor was cradling a bottle like it was the last warmth in the world. Natasha looked like she hadn’t blinked in hours. Banner was trying to fix a coffee machine that had already given up on life. Tony—oh, Tony—Tony looked like he’d been held together with duct tape and sarcasm, and not the good kind.

“Yo,” Danny said, arms folded, crown floating behind him, cape swishing dramatically like it had beef with gravity. “Which one of you assholes thought wiping out half an entire goddamn universe was a great idea?”

They blinked. Steve slowly got to his feet. “Uh… who—?”

“No. Shut up. Don’t talk. I’m not in the mood. I haven’t slept in a week. Time doesn’t even exist in the Infinite Realms, and I somehow managed to be late to ten meetings that haven’t happened yet. Do you know what kind of eldritch administrative nightmare I’m dealing with? Do you?”

Tony blinked. “Not really, no.”

Danny whipped around to face him, pointing a glowing finger. “I don’t care, Stark. I don’t care that your kid sidekick is dead. I don’t care that half your team is sad. I don’t care that your billionaire ass is depressed and growing a sad beard like you’re auditioning for ‘Survivor: Superhero Edition’. I have literal oceans of paperwork made out of the screams of the damned piling up in my inbox because some purple California Raisin thought committing universal homicide was a vibe.”

“Hold on,” Natasha said, standing now, brows furrowed. “Who even are you?”

“I’m the janitor,” Danny deadpanned. “Of death. And you—you are all on my shit list.”

Steve opened his mouth.

“NO. I said no talking. Do you know how many souls half a universe is? Do you? BECAUSE I DON’T. THAT NUMBER DOESN’T EXIST. That’s not even math anymore, that’s heresy. There are species no one even knows about! I had to learn seven extinct galactic dialects in five minutes just to sign their death certificates!”

“Wait—wait,” Bruce said, cautiously stepping in like someone trying to defuse a bomb made of feelings. “You’re… the King of the Afterlife?”

“Infinite Realms,” Danny corrected. “Afterlife implies one dimension. I’ve got infinite. One of them is just an endless IKEA. You think you’re in hell? Try getting lost in that one for eternity.”

Tony blinked. “That explains the floating crown.”

“Oh, you noticed?” Danny snapped, sarcasm thick. “Yeah, the crown’s real subtle. You know what else I’m wearing? These.”

He held up his fingers. On them gleamed the actual Infinity Stones. Not the ones Thanos used. No, these were the OG versions—before the universe dumbed them down for mortal brains.

“I’m wearing multiversal cosmic artifacts as fucking accessories, Stark. I clapped death back into submission on my way here. I threatened Time itself with a lawsuit. I am so tired.”

Everyone was staring now. Thor slowly lowered his bottle.

“I have one question,” Thor said, eyes narrowing. “Can you bring them back?”

Danny didn’t respond immediately. He paced, muttering under his breath about soul processing queues and spectral overflow reports and ghost union strikes.

Then he turned, threw up his hands, and shouted, “Fine! Fine! But only because if I see one more Ectoplasmic Reconciliation Form I’m going to scream my own name and rip reality in half!”

Tony raised a cautious hand. “Just to clarify… you’re not doing this out of the goodness of your heart?”

Danny glared at him. “I am doing this because your collective idiocy has backed up the Infinite Realms so badly, I have ancient god-beasts getting angry Yelp reviews for not guiding souls fast enough.”

Bruce choked. “You get… Yelp reviews?”

“Do not ask. Do not google ‘Spiritual Bureaucracy Yelp.’ You’re not ready. It’s worse than you can even imagine.”

He clapped his hands. The power reverberated like a sonic boom made of lightning and bass drops. Light cracked through the floor, time folded, and space rewrote itself. In an instant, everything was back. People. Planets. Souls. Loved ones. Unsnapped. Safely. No one reappeared in traffic or mid-air. They were all fine.

Everyone stared.

Tony gasped. “…Peter?”

Somewhere in the compound, Peter Parker screamed, “MR. STARK I THINK I DIED?!”

Danny muttered, “Yeah, well, get in line, kid.”

Tony looked like he might cry. Steve looked like he might cry. Even Thor blinked back tears.

Danny didn’t give them a second to bask.

“Listen to me and listen hard, because I am only going to say this once. The next time you idiots let some glorified space grape get his hands on cosmic power and kill half the universe, I’m not bringing anyone back.”

Natasha stepped forward. “Wait—what—?”

“I said,” Danny growled, eyes glowing green and crown sparking violently, “the next time this happens, I am going to let the universe rot. I don’t care if it’s your kid, or your moms, or your emotional support dog. You will live with it. You will suffer. Because I’m not spending another week cleaning up your mess like the goddamn galactic janitor!”

Tony muttered, “Kinda thought you said you were the janitor.”

“I will kick your kneecaps off.”

Tony shut up.

Danny took a deep breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m going home. Do not call me again unless the universe is actually ending. And even then, it better be certified by at least three gods and signed in triplicate.”

He started floating upward, preparing to phase out, when Steve blurted, “Wait, thank you. Really.”

Danny paused mid-air, sighed, and turned around. “You’re welcome. I guess. But seriously. If another genocidal space maniac so much as coughs on the timeline, I’m filing a restraining order on this entire dimension. Bye.”

And with that, he vanished in a swirl of ectoplasmic smoke, leaving the Avengers staring at each other in the awkward silence that followed a divine ass-whooping.

Thor finally muttered, “I liked him.”

Tony sat down, blinked a few times, then said, “He just wore the Infinity Stones as rings. Like mood jewelry.”

Bruce nodded solemnly. “He’s not paid enough.”

“Was he even paid at all?” Steve asked.

And somewhere in the realms between life and death, Danny Phantom screamed into his pillow made of souls: “I AM NOT GETTING PAID FOR THIS BULLSHIT!!!”

[echstacy00]

just business: plug!heesung x reader

heeseung sold weed. among other things — but weed was what he was known for. he was that guy on campus, the one everyone talked about but no one actually knew — hoodie pulled low over his eyes, hands shoved into his pockets, that permanent lazy smirk tugging at his lips as he leaned against some wall or his car, exchanging cash and product without breaking a sweat. he was dangerous — or at least, that’s what everyone said. girls whispered about him at parties, guys half-respected, half-feared him.

and well, you were the exact opposite.

typical good girl. straight a’s (well, until recently), responsible, polite. you showed up to your classes early, highlighted your notes in three different colors, and avoided anything that even hinted at trouble. that’s why it felt so wrong — so out of character — when you found yourself standing awkwardly at the edge of the campus parking lot one friday night, fingers curling nervously around your phone.

to heeseung — 9:35 pm: hey… uh, my friend gave me your number? she said you might have…stuff.

it was pathetic. you’d stared at the message for at least five minutes before pressing send, your stomach twisting into knots. this wasn’t you. you weren’t the kind of girl who hit up a dealer, let alone heeseung. but you were drowning in unfinished assignments, the stress wrapping around your chest so tight you could barely breathe, and your friend had insisted —

“it’s not that strong. heeseung’s stuff is, like, chill. it’ll help you relax. just try it once.” your friend explained

you almost backed out when you saw his response pop up a minute later.

from heeseung — 9:36 pm: meet me at the lot in 10.

and that’s how it started.

you’d shown up to the lot with your heart in your throat, barely able to make eye contact when heeseung leaned lazily against his car, hands tucked into his hoodie pockets, looking you over with an amused tilt of his head.

heeseung had been leaning against his car, arms crossed, hoodie pulled low over his face when he saw you pull up. his brows lifted slightly — a rare show of emotion for him. he hadn’t expected you of all people to show up. he knew you — or at least, he knew of you. quiet, smart, kept your head down. the last girl he’d expect to get involved with something like this.

but he 100% wasn’t complaining of course.

women weren’t really his focus. sure- i mean of course girls liked him and he knew that very well — they were drawn to the quiet confidence, the lazy smirk, the whole mysterious-bad-boy thing he apparently had going for him — but he never let it get further than that. kept it casual. but you? you were different. it was undeniable that he was attracted to you, even from the first time he saw you — all shy and awkward, eyes darting around nervously, hair falling into your face. cute as hell. and when you pulled up that night, gnawing on your bottom lip like you already regretted the whole thing, heeseung knew he was in trouble.

“nervous, princess?” he’d teased, eyes dark under the glow of the streetlights. “relax. i don’t bite.”

(that turned out to be a lie.)

but what surprised you the most was how friendly he was from the very beginning. it became frequent, you’d hit up heesung every week. on friday’s. after the first two weeks he basically starting waiting on the text. he must’ve immediately picked up on how new you were to the whole scene — standing there awkwardly, clutching your phone like a lifeline, eyes darting nervously to the ground. he’d smiled, easy and warm, and told you to sit down with him. then he pulled out a grinder and papers, telling you, “alright, let me teach you how to roll.”

you were terrible at it, of course. your fingers were shaky, and the paper tore more than once. heeseung had just chuckled, hands brushing over yours as he showed you how to fold it, tuck it, roll it right. and when you finally lit it, you hadn’t even known how to inhale properly — which he teased you for mercilessly.

“baby, you gotta breathe in through your mouth,” he’d laughed, watching you cough.

you tensed at the nickname. it wasn’t the first time he’d called you that — he threw it around so easily, so casually, like it didn’t mean anything — but it always hit you differently. always made your stomach tighten uncomfortably. it was so hard to just… relax when you were around him. he made you feel too much — dizzy, overwhelmed, unsteady. even now, your heart was racing for no reason other than the fact that his eyes were on you, sharp and amused.

heeseung’s hand smoothed over your back while you wheezed and blinked back tears. “here —” he leaned in, mouth dangerously close to yours. “lemme show you.”

you didn’t know if it was the secondhand smoke or the fact that he’d literally pressed his lips to yours, breathing in before exhaling softly into your mouth — but your head was spinning.

after that, he made a habit of it. he’d often give you discounts, and most of the time, it was just plain out free. he’d just shrug when you tried to pay him, flicking his lighter open and closed between his fingers as he said, “don’t worry about it.” but what made it worse — what made you hate how easy it was to fall for him — was how he always stuck around afterward.

most of the time, after the exchange, he’d linger at your apartment for a bit — or sometimes you’d end up at his place instead. he never made a big deal about it. he’d sit on your bed, hoodie pulled low over his eyes, stretching his long legs out and scrolling through his phone while you sat next to him, your legs curled underneath you—that was until he’d grab grab at them and drape them over his. sometimes you’d talk. sometimes you wouldn’t. his company was so easy, so natural, you hated how much you liked it.

as cliché as it sounds, heeseung truly was nonchalant — no one apart from his friends knew his business, and he kept to himself. so whenever you were around and he cracked smiles or even giggled, it was like seeing a whole different person. it felt… personal.

⸻

it was nearly 2 am when you heard the soft knock on your dorm room door. you sighed, pushing your laptop aside, the screen still flooded with unfinished assignments. your heart jumped despite yourself — you knew exactly who it was.

when you opened the door, heeseung was leaning against the frame, hood pulled up over his dark hair, hands still tucked into his hoodie pocket. his eyes were heavy-lidded, that same lazy smirk tugging at his lips.

“ma,” he drawled, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. his eyes flicked down to you — oversized sweater, no makeup, hair messy from stress — and his smirk softened into something quieter. “been workin’ too hard again?”

“you say that like it’s my fault,” you shot back, but there was no real heat behind it. heeseung just chuckled, shrugging off his hoodie and flopping onto your bed snuggling up to you like he always did as if he lived there. and in a way, he practically did.

“i heard you were at some party last night.” you hated how bitter your voice sounded. “some girl said you were with her.”

his eyes darkened, that teasing smile sharpening into something dangerous. “it’s just business, baby. you know that”

you hated how much that word made your chest tighten. business. like it was all so simple. like it didn’t mean anything. you wondered, not for the first time, if you meant anything to heeseung at all. if he was like this with everyone — all the other girls he sold to. did he kiss them like that? stay over at their place like this? you thought about asking him, about demanding an answer — but you didn’t. you were too scared of the answer. too scared that if you pressed too hard, he’d pull away entirely.

so you swallowed it down, the ache curling in your throat. you decided to keep it to yourself out of fear of losing him altogether.

heeseung’s gaze sharpened when you didn’t respond. his hand slid to the back of your neck, fingers curling into your hair. “what?”

“nothing,” you shook it off.

“you sure about that?” his mouth was close to yours now, his eyes dark and amused.

“i’m sure.”

heeseung’s gaze flicked down to your lips, his smile turning lazy again. “what am i gonna do with you, huh?”

“i don’t know,” you whispered.

“i do,” he murmured.

and when he kissed you this time? that was anything but just business.

please do not motify my works.

© echstacy 2025 - all rights reserved.

[lazysoulwriter]

sunbathing ── ✦

requested! thank you. content: suggestive/spicy, mentions of nudity, oil, playful touching, butt slapping, needy!Pedro

The sun is relentless—in the best possible way.

You’re sprawled out on a lounge chair in the backyard, bikini bottoms riding low on your hips, your top tossed somewhere off to the side. A glossy sheen of tanning oil coats your body, catching the sunlight in all the right places. You’ve got your headphones in, your favorite playlist on, and not a single thought in your head beyond: hot girl, hot day, hot sun.

And inside the house?

Pedro Pascal is losing his damn mind.

He’s pacing near the window like a lovesick golden retriever. You’d told him you were going out to tan, and he thought he could give you space—maybe read a book, make some iced tea, do normal boyfriend things. But then he saw you.

Saw you.

Topless. Glowing. All soft curves and sunkissed thighs and the kind of peaceful, glowy sexiness that absolutely murdered his brain cells.

He lasted five minutes.

Now he’s walking outside, all slow and deliberate, like he’s trying not to startle a wild animal—but you knew he’d come. You felt him watching.

You hum to yourself as he approaches, not even opening your eyes. “Something wrong, babe?”

He doesn’t answer at first. Just sits on the edge of your chair and lets his fingertips trace up the back of your calf. Barely-there touches. Light as the breeze. But when you shift a little—hips tilting—his hand slips a little higher.

“I’m trying,” he murmurs, voice low, “really trying to let you relax.”

You open your eyes and tilt your head toward him, smirking. “And?”

Pedro shrugs, looking completely wrecked. “And you’re out here like this. Oiled up. Naked. Just…” His eyes trail down your body like it physically pains him. “God, baby.”

You bite your lip, teasing. “You gonna do something about it or just sit there and whimper?”

His gaze darkens instantly.

You roll onto your stomach, cheek resting on your folded arms, giving him the perfect view. You can feel the way his breath catches. You know what’s coming before he even moves.

Smack. A playful slap lands on your ass, not too hard—but definitely not soft.

You squeak, laughing. “Pedro!”

He runs his palm over the spot with a grin. “Sorry, mi amor. Couldn’t help myself.”

“You never can,” you tease, eyes fluttering shut again.

Then his hands are sliding up your thighs, slow and intentional, thumbs dipping just beneath the band of your bikini bottoms. His touch is hot. Possessive. Starving.

“You smell like coconut,” he mumbles, leaning down until his mouth grazes the back of your shoulder. “It’s not fair. You’re out here looking like a full-course fantasy and expecting me to what? Just sit inside and behave?”

His hand rests firmly on your ass now, squeezing once before tracing lazy circles with his thumb. You shift under him, breath quickening.

You can feel it—his need pressing into the back of your thigh, his mouth dragging lazy kisses across your oiled skin, the warm sun still baking both your bodies in gold.

“Pedro,” you whisper, breath catching.

He hums against your skin, voice thick. “Come inside with me.”

“And if I say no?”

A grin against your shoulder. “Then I’m fucking you right here, cariño. Birds, neighbors, and all.”

You turn your head and look at him, eyes wide and daring. “...Then I guess I’m staying right here.”

Pedro growls under his breath—and then it’s on.

✦ please do not copy, repost, or translate this work. © lazysoulwriter // i write with a lot of love and care, so please respect that.

[miaaaxxz]

Bush Man | CL16

summary: It was supposed to be an ordinary night.Just a walk home after the club, the familiar silence of Monaco in the early hours. But then you found him. In your bush.And nothing about that night or the morning was normal. word count: 1.2K

pairing: charles leclerc x female!reader

NOT PROOFREAD

◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤

After another race where Ferrari had managed to screw him over , again, Charles Leclerc flew back to Monaco with a head full of noise and no desire to hear anyone’s voice but his own.

Summer break had officially started, but instead of rest, he felt hollow. Drained. Like something inside him had burned out quietly while no one was looking.

He didn’t even unpack. He just threw on a jacket, grabbed his wallet, and left the apartment. No plans, no texts. He needed to not think. So he went where thinking was nearly impossible: a club.

The lights were too bright. The music too loud.

He hadn’t meant to drink that much , a couple shots, just to take the edge off. But the edge only grew sharper. The music blurred into a hum, the voices faded into static, and at some point, the idea of staying in that room, in that body, became unbearable.

So he left. Alone. Jacket forgotten somewhere. Phone slipping in and out of his hand. His steps unsteady as he wandered through the warm streets of Monaco, passing bars, cafés, glowing storefronts he’d known since childhood.

He didn’t know where he was going.But eventually, he saw it. A patch of green. A quiet little garden in front of someone’s house. And for some reason it looked inviting.

So Charles Leclerc, Formula 1 driver, Ferrari’s golden boy, collapsed into a bush like it was a luxury mattress.

જ⁀➴

You had just said goodbye to your best friend at the corner of the street, the two of you walking home from a night out that was supposed to last one drink and ended five hours later. Typical.

Lina lived a few houses down. You were staying at your aunt’s place for the summer, which thankfully wasn’t far. She made sure you got to the front gate before turning back, still talking about some guy in the club who had danced.

“Text me when you get in” she grinned.

“Only if you promise not to drunk-message your ex again.”

You waved her off with a lazy smirk and headed inside. Within minutes you were out of your dress and into the comfiest t-shirt you owned. The one with the slightly faded print and sleeves you always rolled twice.

You had just sat on the edge of the bed when your phone lit up.

Lina. Again.You frowned, picking up.

“I don’t wanna scare you or anything, but I think you have a Charles Leclerc in your bush.”

You blinked. “…I have a what in my bush?”

“A man. In your garden. And he looks exactly like Charles freaking Leclerc. Like... Monaco’s price. Ferrari golden boy"

You sighed. “You’re drunk. Lina, babe, we’ve talked about this. You can’t just manifest men into existence.”

“I’m dead serious. Come outside right now. Bring a flashlight. Or a bat. I don’t know what we’re dealing with.”

She hung up.

Still half-convinced this was some sleep-deprived prank, you shoved your feet into the first pair of slides you could find and tiptoed down the stairs of your aunt’s house. The summer air in Monaco was heavy and warm, humming faintly with the remnants of club music from the hill above.

Lina stood dead still near the front hedge, phone flashlight trained at something just beyond the leaves.

“There. Look,” she whispered dramatically. “I swear is him”

You squinted. There was definitely someone in the bush. A figure lay curled up awkwardly in the bushes, one shoe missing, hair a chaotic mess, muttering low curses in French.

“…Oh my God,” you breathed.

“Right?” Lina hissed. “Tell me that’s not him.”

You angled your phone light closer to his face.

Brown eyes squinted open, immediately scrunching shut again. He groaned.

“Putain de lumière… qu’est-ce que c’est…”

Yep. That was him.

That was Monaco’s golden boy. Passed out in your shrubbery.And definitely very drunk.

“What do we do? Call someone?” you whispered, panic rising. “Ferrari? A manager? The Pope?”

Lina looked down at him, then at you. “You want me to call Ferrari and say ‘Hi, your driver’s in my garden and it's look like he's dying'"?

“I don’t know!” you hissed. “Check if he has his phone or something.”

She leaned down, carefully patting his pockets while trying not to fall over.

“Found it!” Lina pulled out a sleek phone completely black.

“…It’s dead.”

Of course.

You both stared at each other for a long moment, like you were in the middle of some weird alternate universe.

“What now?” Lina asked.

You glanced down at him again. He groaned, rolling slightly, trying to find a comfortable position in the shrubbery.

“…We drag him inside.”

“What?”

“We can’t just leave him in a bush, Lina!”

“I’m not dragging an unconscious Formula 1 driver into the house like it’s normal!”

You sighed. “Help me with his legs.”

Lina groaned. “This is how people end up on the news.”

“He’s heavier than he looks,” Lina hissed, practically folded in half as she tried to lift Charles by the shoulders.

You had one arm under his knees and another gripping the back of his now grass-covered shirt. “Why is he so floppy?”

“Because he’s unconscious. And a man.”

You adjusted your stance, your sock sliding slightly on the tile as you both finally dragged him through the front door. He groaned low in his throat, head lolling against Lina’s shoulder.

“Shhh,” you whispered instinctively, though no one else was home.

Your aunt had left for Nice that weekend, a spontaneous getaway with her best friend.

“I think my spine just snapped,” Lina muttered as you both half-carried, half-dragged Charles into the living room and awkwardly maneuvered him toward the couch.

“I think my soul just left my body.”

You bumped his legs against the coffee table on the way. He barely flinched. Just let out another dramatic groan in slurred French and melted deeper into your grip.

“Almost there,” you breathed, sweat prickling the back of your neck.

With one final push, the two of you managed to drop him gently, but not gracefully onto the couch. He slumped sideways, one arm flopping dramatically off the edge.

You both stood back, panting.

Lina placed her hands on her hips. “Well. That’s probably the closest I’ll ever get to Charles Leclerc’s thighs.”

You gave her a flat look.

She smirked. “Too soon?”

You walked over, grabbed the soft grey throw blanket from the armchair, and unfolded it.

“Help me roll him.”

“What are we, paramedics?”

“Shut up and lift.”

Between the two of you, you managed to get him somewhat properly positioned head on the pillow, legs stretched out, arms tucked in enough to not dangle off the sides.

You pulled the blanket over him, tucking it slightly around his shoulders, then stepped back and stared at the scene.

Charles Leclerc.Formula 1 driver.Sleeping like a tranquilized bear in your aunt’s house.

“What even is my life right now?” you muttered.

Lina flopped onto the armchair. “Honestly? I don’t know, but I think I love it.”

Eventually, Lina stood up and stretched. “I should go before I start making questionable choices.”

You walked her to the door. “Thanks for helping me not drop him on the front steps.”

She winked and disappeared into the night.

You closed the door behind her, locked it, then turned back to the couch.

Charles was still fast asleep, mouth parted slightly, one hand now curled under the pillow like he’d always belonged there.

You sat cross-legged on the rug, watching him for a moment that lasted longer than it should’ve.

Then you muttered to yourself, “Tomorrow is going to be weird.”

જ⁀➴

Sunlight poured gently through the curtains, casting long stripes of gold across the wooden floor.

The apartment was still. Quiet. Still half-asleep.Until a soft, muffled groan broke the silence.

Charles stirred on the couch, head sinking deeper into the pillow before lifting suddenly, his brow furrowed, lips dry and slightly parted.

His body ached. His mouth tasted like regret. And his brain? Foggy. Useless.

He blinked against the light, squinting as he tried to figure out... anything.

This wasn’t his house.This wasn’t anyone’s house he recognized.

He sat up slowly, groaning again as the blanket slipped off his chest.

The first thing he noticed was the unfamiliar living room: warm-toned walls, a throw blanket now puddled in his lap, the scent of lavender lingering faintly in the air.

The second thing he noticed... was you.

Curled up in the armchair across the room, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, a half-full mug resting on your knee. You looked like you’d just woken up too, hair messily tied up, but your eyes were fully on him.

He stared at you.

You stared back.

A tense beat passed.

He ran a shaky hand through his hair, trying to remember how he’d ended up here.

He opened his mouth, voice dry and cracked.

Then, he finally spoke.

“Where am I?”

You stretched and yawned softly, pushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear.

“You’re at my aunt’s,” you said simply. “She’s away for a few days, so I’m looking after the place.”

Charles blinked, trying to piece together the foggy fragments of last night.

Then the memory hit or at least part of it.

“…Did I…?” he asked, voice hoarse. He gestured between the couch and where you were sitting. “Did we…?”

You blinked.

Then blinked again.

“No,” you said, lips twitching into a small, amused smile. “ Babe, I just found you in the bush.”

Charles stared at you.

“…Sorry, what?”

“The bush,” you said again, nodding toward the window. “Outside. You were face-down in it. Very committed, honestly.”

He let out a noise half groan, half mortified choke. His hands dragged down his face as if he could wipe away the entire memory.

“Putain…” he muttered, muffled.

You took a slow sip of your coffee. “So no, nothing happened. ”

“God…” he muttered again, now flopping back against the couch, blanket tangled around his legs like it was trying to strangle him out of pity. “Please tell me no one saw that.”

You tilted your head.

“Are you asking if I’m going to tell anyone, or if I’ve already drafted the tweet?”

He cracked one eye open. “Both.”

You smirked. “Depends.”

His brow furrowed. “…On?”

You leaned back, swirling your mug slowly.

“Do I get free paddock passes for life if I keep it a secret?”

His groan echoed through the room as he dropped his head back against the pillow.

“Please don’t blackmail me.”

You grinned. “Too late.”

Another pause.

Then silence again. But this time, a little warmer. He peeked at you from under the blanket.

“I really was in a bush?”

You nodded. “Dead center.”

“…That explains the scratches on my neck.”

“And the bit of leaf still in your hair.”

He reached up immediately, running his fingers through it. You pointed. He missed it. You walked over, leaned down, and gently plucked the small, crumpled green leaf from behind his ear, holding it up like a prize.

“Souvenir?” you asked.

He let out the softest, defeated laugh.

◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤

@luvs4haechan @emneedshelp @thepassionatereader @paaarrriiiii @formula1fordisaster @vinylphwoar @virtualperfectioncat @sltwins @lost-library-of-violets (Tagging based on previous fic! If you don’t wanna be tagged in other future things I post, just lmk 💌 part 5 of Unfinished Business soon)

[jose996c]

Flicker of Recognition

Summery: Twenty years into the apocalypse, Joel Miller thought his soulmate was lost to the world. But a chance encounter changes everything, leading to an unexpected bond, hard-earned trust, and the hope of a life beyond survival.

Warnings: Soulmate au, apocalypse, fluff, infected, violence (gun), age-gap (reader is in her 30's), romance.

Paring: Joel Miller x f!reader

Word count: 4.4k

2023

The wind howled outside the crumbling house, whistling through broken windowpanes and cracks in the boarded-up walls. Rain tapped steadily against the glass like fingers drumming to be let in. Upstairs, in what used to be someone’s bedroom, Joel sat on the floor with his back against a sagging dresser, methodically cleaning his revolver by the light of a flickering lantern.

Across the room, Ellie lay curled in a dusty sleeping bag, thumbing through a battered comic book with pages softened from use. The silence between them was comfortable, familiar now — until Ellie broke it.

“You ever think about soulmates?”

Joel didn’t look up. “No.”

Ellie rolled her eyes, clearly expecting the answer. “C’mon. Everyone’s got one, don’t they? You’ve seen the marks. Can’t just be a coincidence.”

Joel kept working, slow and steady. The oil made his hands slick, but he didn’t mind the routine. It kept him grounded.

“Even now,” she went on, “twenty years after everything went to shit, people are still getting ‘em. I heard someone in a QZ say theirs showed up last year. Like... like the universe still cares.”

Joel’s jaw tensed. He set the revolver down with a soft clink, finally meeting her gaze.

“You had one, didn’t you?” she asked, softer now.

“I did.”

Ellie sat up a little. “What happened?”

“She didn’t make it.” His voice was even, but the words hung heavy in the air. “First day of the outbreak.”

“Oh.” Her voice was small. “I’m sorry.”

Joel gave a stiff nod. “Long time ago.”

They sat in silence after that. The fire’s glow flickered on the peeling wallpaper, dancing shadows across the walls. Ellie eventually lay back down, eyes lingering on Joel a moment longer before she returned to her comic.

Joel picked up his revolver again, but his hands didn’t move. He just stared at it, fingers curling around the grip like it was something fragile.

In the quiet of the room, with only rain and memory for company, he thought of the mark on his skin — the one that never faded, no matter how much time passed. A cruel little reminder etched into him like a promise the world had broken.

She’s gone, he told himself. Even if she’s not, it’s too late now. Ain’t room for hope in a world like this.

Still, something deep inside him stirred — a flicker of warmth, too faint to name and too stubborn to die.

The town was one of those nameless places you could drive through in five minutes back when the world still worked. Now it sat hollowed out, its main street buried under overgrowth and broken glass. Joel led the way with quiet caution, rifle tight in his grip, boots silent on the cracked pavement. Ellie followed just behind, eyes flicking from shadow to shadow.

“This place gives me the creeps,” she muttered. “Like everyone left all at once.”

Joel didn’t answer. He’d felt it too — the odd stillness, the lingering trace of people long gone.

But as they passed a narrow alley, something tugged at his gut. A house at the far end caught his eye. There was nothing particularly strange about it — two stories, faded paint, porch half-collapsed — but something about it made the air feel heavier.

He paused.

“You alright?” Ellie asked, craning her neck to see what he was staring at.

“Yeah,” he said, but it wasn’t convincing. His fingers twitched at his side, just above where his soulmate mark hid beneath layers of worn fabric. It hadn’t bothered him in years. Not since he’d stopped checking it. Not since he’d given up.

Still, the feeling sat there — not pain, not warmth, just a quiet ache. Something… familiar.

Joel shook it off. “Come on. Let’s clear that house.”

They approached carefully. The door was slightly open, the frame sagging. Joel nudged it wider with the barrel of his rifle and stepped inside, sweeping the entryway with practiced ease. The place smelled faintly of smoke and stale food. Blankets were spread out in the living room — fresh, not rotted. A can of beans, half-eaten, sat on the floor beside a small pack. Someone had been here recently.

He held up a hand to signal Ellie to stay close.

Then—

Bang.

The shot rang out like a thunderclap.

Joel ducked and rolled behind the couch just as the bullet splintered the wood beside him. Ellie screamed, dropping flat. The shooter cursed — a woman’s voice — followed by the unmistakable click of a jammed weapon.

“Shit!”

A second later, a figure burst from the hallway — fast, silent, and deadly. She launched herself at Joel before he could react, tackling him back against the ground. He caught the flash of her eyes, wild and terrified. Her hands scrabbled for the gun at his hip, but he was quicker. He flipped her, pinning her down, his own weapon pressed to her temple.

“Don’t move,” he growled.

Her chest heaved beneath him. But she didn’t fight. Didn’t beg. Just froze.

Joel didn’t pull the trigger.

Something stopped him — a flicker deep under his skin, crawling up his spine, settling somewhere just behind his ribs.

Heat bloomed beneath his sleeve. A strange, slow pulse beat in his arm, not painful, just... there. The kind of sensation you couldn’t ignore even if you wanted to. Familiar in a way that made no sense.

He looked at her. Really looked.

And then everything stilled.

The breath left his lungs in a slow, quiet exhale. The world, for half a second, fell away — the broken walls, the storm outside, the sound of Ellie’s frantic movements — all of it gone.

She stared up at him, eyes wide, lips parted like she was on the edge of remembering something too old, too deep, to put into words.

A spark passed between them — something wordless, undeniable.

Recognition.

Not of her face. Not her voice.

Of something else.

Something older than either of them.

Joel’s grip loosened, just slightly. His hand stayed on the gun, but he didn’t press it tighter. He couldn’t. Not when every cell in his body was suddenly pulling toward the woman beneath him.

A breath caught in her throat. Her eyes flicked down — not to the gun, but to the spot on his arm where her own mark must’ve started to burn, too.

Neither of them moved.

But they knew.

And then the sound hit them: the distant scream of the infected.

A horde. Close. Getting closer.

Joel snapped into motion. He grabbed the woman’s hand and yanked her up, already shouting, “Ellie!”

“I’m here!” Ellie called from behind the kitchen counter, crouched low.

The woman pulled away from Joel’s grip, sprinted past him to Ellie, and hauled the girl toward the stairs.

“There’s a cellar door out back!” she shouted. “This way!”

Joel fired at the front window, taking down a runner that smashed through the glass. More were coming. Too many.

He backed toward the rear exit, bullets flying, but they were swarming the front now — fast and screeching, jaws snapping.

By the time his clip emptied, the woman was shouting again.

“In here!”

She was holding open the narrow door to a shed in the overgrown backyard. Joel sprinted across the grass, shoved the door shut behind him, and slammed the bolt into place just as fists began pounding on the outside.

Then — silence.

The pounding of their hearts. Their breathing. Nothing else.

They stood there in the dark, just shadows in the flicker of Joel’s dying flashlight. Rain pelted the tin roof above them.

And the mark on Joel’s arm still burned.

It was pitch black, save for the thin beam of Joel’s flashlight trembling in his grip. Rain pelted the tin roof in a steady rhythm, a wild contrast to the stillness that had fallen between them.

Ellie was hunched in the corner, wide-eyed and panting. She didn’t speak — maybe sensing that whatever just happened between the two adults had nothing to do with her. Or maybe she was just too winded to ask questions.

Joel didn’t look at her.

He couldn’t look at anything except her.

The woman he’d just fought, disarmed, nearly killed — had touched something ancient in him that hadn’t stirred in decades. She stood against the opposite wall, barely a few feet away, one hand braced on the rough wood like she was steadying herself against gravity.

Her eyes met his.

Neither of them said a word.

Joel felt it again — the hum beneath his skin, a pull in his chest like his body had realigned itself without asking permission. The mark on his arm was quiet now, but it buzzed faintly, like a distant signal trying to come back into range.

She reached up, slowly, and touched her own arm — the spot where her mark must’ve been burning just like his. She didn’t look at it. She didn’t need to.

Her gaze never left his.

And Joel — a man who’d spent the last twenty years learning how to bury things so deep they couldn’t claw their way out — felt something raw begin to surface.

Not joy. Not yet.

Just recognition.

The kind that made his chest tighten and his throat ache. The kind that felt like standing at the edge of a cliff you thought had collapsed years ago, only to find the ground still there.

Her lips parted slightly. Not to speak. Just… breathing. Still trying to catch up.

So was he.

Neither moved. Neither blinked.

The only sound was the rain.

Then Ellie coughed — sharp and awkward — and both of them flinched like the spell had been broken.

Joel turned his flashlight toward her, casting their shadows across the warped walls. The silence was back, but it felt heavier now. Different.

No one spoke for a long time.

Eventually, Ellie sank down against the wall, pulling her knees to her chest. She looked between them, brows furrowed, but said nothing. Maybe she didn’t understand. Maybe she understood too much.

Joel stayed standing, arms heavy at his sides. The woman did the same, shoulders still tense, like her body hadn’t caught up with what her soul already knew.

He wanted to say something. Ask her name. Ask if this was real. Ask if she felt it too — if this meant something anymore, in a world where so much had already been lost.

But the words didn’t come.

So instead, he looked at her the way he hadn’t let himself look at anyone in years.

Like maybe — just maybe — there was still something left to hope for.

The rain had softened to a drizzle by the time the pounding on the shed stopped. The infected were gone — for now. But the silence left in their wake wasn’t peaceful. It hung too heavy, like the kind that only followed something life-altering.

Ellie had dozed off in the corner, arms wrapped around her backpack like a shield. Her breathing had slowed. Even in sleep, she looked wary.

Joel stayed seated on a broken crate near the far wall, elbows on his knees, head low. His fingers toyed with the edge of his sleeve, thumb brushing over the spot where the mark was still pulsing faintly beneath his skin.

He glanced up at her again.

She stood by the door now, arms crossed tightly over her chest, like she needed to hold herself together. Her clothes were damp from the sprint. Mud streaked her jeans. A strand of hair stuck to her cheek.

She hadn’t looked away from him in minutes.

Joel rose slowly, careful not to wake Ellie.

He didn’t speak — he didn’t trust his voice to come out steady — and neither did she. It was like they were still afraid that if they acknowledged it, said it aloud, it might all fall apart.

He stepped closer.

She didn’t back away.

In another life, maybe he would’ve smiled. Teased. Said something charming and low like “Took you long enough.” But there was no room for that here. No time for games. Not when everything in his chest felt cracked wide open just from standing this close to her.

She looked up at him, eyes searching his face like she was trying to memorize it.

He reached out, tentative at first, and gently tucked that damp strand of hair behind her ear. Her breath caught. She tilted her head slightly — not pulling away, not moving closer either. Just waiting.

Joel’s hand lingered against her cheek, rough fingers brushing over soft skin. She closed her eyes for a moment — just a second — and in that second, something passed between them again. That silent promise. That recognition that no words could explain.

He leaned in, just enough for her to feel the warmth of him.

Her lips parted — not in surprise, but in surrender.

Their foreheads brushed, and his other hand ghosted up her arm, steady and slow. She didn’t move away.

They were close now — breath to breath, heart to heart — and he swore he could feel her heartbeat syncing with his.

Then—

“Uh—hey.”

Joel flinched back just as Ellie’s voice cut through the thick air like a blade.

She stood in the doorway, blinking the sleep from her eyes. “Sorry,” she mumbled, “but I think we should probably get moving. Don’t wanna stick around if those things come back.”

Joel stepped back immediately, clearing his throat, avoiding the woman’s eyes as he muttered, “Yeah. Right. Let’s go.”

She didn’t say anything either — just nodded once, that same dazed expression still lingering on her face as she brushed past him and followed Ellie out into the wet grass.

Joel stayed behind a moment longer.

He ran a hand down his face, exhaled hard, and looked back at the door she’d just walked through.

He’d spent twenty years thinking that mark on his arm would never mean anything.

Now?

He wasn’t sure if that terrified him more than the infected.

The forest had swallowed the road hours ago.

What was once cracked asphalt had long since given way to a narrow trail swallowed in vines and damp leaves. The rain had stopped, but the air was heavy, humid with the promise of more. Tree branches creaked above them, the wind threading through like whispers they couldn't quite understand.

Joel led the way, as always, eyes sweeping the woods, shoulders stiff. Ellie walked just behind him, dragging a stick along the dirt. The woman — her — brought up the rear, silent save for the occasional crunch of twigs beneath her boots.

No one spoke much.

Joel had tried once, earlier that morning, to ask if she had a name. The words had caught in his throat, and when she glanced at him over the firelight with that same look — soft and unsure and far too knowing — he dropped it.

Now, in the shifting green of the woods, he caught her in the corner of his vision sometimes. Just a flicker. Just enough to make his pulse jump.

He kept walking.

Ellie broke the silence first.

“So… do you two know each other or something?”

Joel didn’t turn around. “No.”

She glanced back. “Really? 'Cause you were gonna kiss her in that shed like, a lot.”

Joel let out a long breath through his nose. “Ellie…”

“I’m just saying.” Her grin was practically audible.

The woman said nothing, but Joel heard her laugh — soft, under her breath. Almost like she didn’t mean to let it slip. It was the first sound she’d made all day.

Joel’s heart did something uncomfortable in his chest.

They reached the edge of a field not long after, where the trees thinned out into golden grass and low ruins of what must’ve once been a farmhouse. The sun was just starting to dip behind the tree line.

He stopped and scanned the horizon. “We’ll set up camp ahead. Get off the trail a bit.”

Ellie groaned but didn’t argue. She kept walking, boots kicking up dust, until she disappeared behind a cluster of overgrown fence posts.

Joel lingered.

The woman came up beside him slowly, adjusting the strap of her pack.

He didn’t look at her.

But he didn’t move away, either.

For a few moments, they stood there, quiet — not in silence like before, but something softer. Like maybe the worst of it had already passed. Like maybe they were both still trying to make sense of it all.

He turned, just barely, and finally looked at her.

She looked tired. Guarded. But her eyes didn’t hold the same kind of sharpness as they had back in that house. It had shifted into something else now.

He opened his mouth. Closed it.

She gave a faint smile, like she understood what he wanted to say and was choosing — just for now — not to make him say it.

Joel nodded.

They walked after Ellie, a little closer than before.

The fire crackled low in the pit — a modest flame, more ember than blaze. Joel had kept it that way on purpose. Too much light drew eyes.

Ellie was curled up on the far side of the fire, using her backpack as a pillow. Her breathing had gone slow, steady. Asleep. Again. The girl could crash anywhere.

Joel sat with his back to a log, elbows on his knees, watching the fire chew through the last of the kindling. His rifle lay within arm’s reach. Old habit. Necessary habit.

She was across from him.

Again.

The woman — his… soulmate, he guessed — hadn’t spoken much since they'd made camp. She’d helped gather wood. Helped cook. Laughed once when Ellie told a story about a “super infected” that turned out to be a deer she’d startled. But mostly… quiet.

Joel glanced at her now, across the glow of the coals.

She was watching the fire, arms tucked around her legs, chin resting on one knee. Tired, but not in a physical way. The kind of tired that settled into your bones and stayed there.

He cleared his throat. “You doin’ alright?”

She looked up, surprised he’d broken the silence. Then gave a small nod. “Yeah.”

Joel didn’t push for more. He just watched her. In the dark like this, with the light flickering across her face, it was harder to keep the distance he'd been forcing all day. Harder to pretend that this — whatever was happening between them — wasn’t real.

He shifted, voice quieter. “Back there… in the house. That mark. You felt it too, didn’t you?”

She didn’t speak. But she didn’t look away either.

That was answer enough.

Joel let out a slow breath and looked back into the fire. “I stopped hopin’ a long time ago,” he admitted, the words like gravel in his throat. “Figured… she died. Whoever she was. World’s gone to hell. Didn’t think I’d ever know.”

She didn’t respond with words. Just moved — slowly — to sit beside him, close enough that their shoulders nearly brushed.

Joel’s heart picked up. He didn’t pull away.

Her presence wasn’t loud. Wasn’t demanding. It just was. Solid. Familiar in a way he didn’t understand but couldn’t question.

They sat like that for a while, shoulder to shoulder, not talking.

Then — maybe without meaning to — she leaned in a little, her head lightly brushing his shoulder. Joel froze, but didn’t move. After a second, he relaxed into it. Let it happen.

The fire popped softly.

And in that moment, Joel turned his head — just a little — enough to look at her.

She tilted her face up toward him.

Their eyes met. Neither of them smiled.

There was something too heavy, too old, about the feeling between them. Like grief and relief tangled together, impossible to pull apart.

Joel lifted his hand slowly, gently cupping her jaw, thumb brushing the edge of her cheekbone. Her breath hitched, eyes fluttering shut for half a second before opening again — like she needed to make sure this was real.

He leaned in, slowly — slow enough to give her time to pull away.

She didn’t.

Their lips met — tentative at first, like they were afraid of breaking something fragile. Her hand came up, fingers resting lightly over the front of his shirt, anchoring herself there. His hand slid to the back of her neck, pulling her in closer.

The kiss deepened — not hurried, not desperate.

Just real.

Soft.

Grounding.

Like two people who had been starving for something they couldn’t name, and had finally, finally found it.

When they pulled apart, it wasn’t abrupt. It was slow — lips brushing, foreheads leaning together, both of them breathing a little heavier, a little steadier.

Joel kept his hand at her neck, thumb stroking gently over her skin.

“I guess this means it’s real,” he whispered.

She didn’t answer, but her eyes were soft when she looked at him again. And she kissed him one more time — smaller, briefer. Just because she could.

They sat like that for a while.

The fire popped softly beside them, and the night stretched quiet around their little circle of warmth. Neither of them knew what tomorrow would look like.

But for tonight, at least — they weren’t alone anymore.

2026

Snow blanketed the streets of Jackson, soft and slow, the kind that hushed the world and made everything feel still. Smoke drifted from chimneys. The clatter of boots on wooden porches echoed gently through the town. A dog barked once, then quieted.

Joel leaned against the wooden railing outside their porch, mug of coffee steaming between his hands. He watched a pair of kids run past on the street below, bundled in layers too big for them, shrieking as they tossed clumps of snow back and forth.

He didn’t smile, not really — but the tension in his shoulders had gone somewhere in the past few months, and it hadn’t come back.

Behind him, the door creaked open. He didn’t turn.

“I told you it’s too cold for that porch,” came her voice, a little hoarse from sleep.

Joel glanced sideways as she stepped up beside him, blanket draped over her shoulders, hands tucked around her own mug. Her hair was mussed, cheeks pink from the warmth of the house behind them. She looked at him like someone who’d done this exact morning a hundred times before — and wanted a hundred more.

“It’s not that cold,” he said, sipping his coffee.

She arched an eyebrow. “You’ve been out here twenty minutes.”

He didn’t argue. Just glanced at her again, slower this time. “Didn’t wanna wake you.”

“You never do,” she murmured, voice softer now.

The silence settled comfortably between them. No pressure. No need to fill it.

It was strange, Joel thought, how easily this had become normal — she had become normal. The shared house. The shared mornings. The way he could reach out and touch her hand and not flinch from it. The way her presence didn’t set him on edge but settled something deep inside him.

This wasn’t the firelight, adrenaline-heavy intimacy from a year ago. This was steadier. Quieter. Something earned.

He looked back at the street.

“We’re patrolling east tomorrow,” he said after a minute. “Up past the sawmill.”

She nodded. “I’ll pack tonight.”

There was a pause, then she bumped her shoulder gently into his. “You and me?”

He nodded. “You and me.”

Her hand slipped into his then, ungloved and cold, but he didn’t let go. Just held it there, rough calluses and all, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And for them now—it was.

The woods stretched out quiet beneath a gray sky, branches heavy with melting snow. Patches of brown earth peeked through where the sun had gotten bold enough to push through the clouds.

Joel moved ahead, boots crunching softly in the underbrush, rifle slung across his back. She followed close behind, eyes scanning the tree line, her own weapon resting easy in her grip. They didn’t talk much — didn’t need to.

They had the kind of rhythm you can’t fake. One glance, one shift of weight, and they knew what the other was thinking.

It was the kind of patrol Tommy liked to send them on — mid-range, low risk, just a sweep past the outer farms and along the ridge above the river. Still, the silence of the woods never fully lost its edge. You could go months without seeing a Runner, and then suddenly you’d be surrounded.

Joel stopped at a bend in the trail, holding up a hand. She stilled instantly, scanning the bush. A distant rustle. A bird, maybe — or not.

Joel moved slow, crouching by a fallen log. He brushed aside a bit of snow and dirt, revealing a smeared boot print, half-frozen, deep.

Not one of theirs.

He looked up. She was already beside him, crouched low.

“Recent?” she asked quietly.

“Could be,” Joel muttered. “Too heavy for Ellie. Might be one of the new kids… or someone passing through.”

She frowned. “Could be worse.”

They both knew what worse meant.

Joel stood slowly, eyes on the treeline. The woods stayed still.

“You take the left,” he said. “I’ll swing wide, loop back.”

She nodded. “Don’t get distracted.”

He gave her a look, deadpan. “Only thing distractin’ me out here is you.”

Her smile was quick, crooked. She nudged him once before disappearing into the brush like she’d done it a hundred times before — because she had.

The patrol went quiet again after that. They circled wide, careful, methodical. No fresh signs of infected, no sound beyond the wind and the distant call of crows. Eventually, they met again near the stream, the water running shallow and dark between the rocks.

She knelt, splashing a bit of the cold water over her face, pushing her hair back.

“Clear,” she said.

Joel nodded, but his eyes stayed on her for a second too long.

She noticed. “What?”

“Nothin’.”

“You always stare at me like that when there’s nothing?”

Joel stepped closer, letting his rifle rest against his shoulder. “Just thinkin’. A year ago, I didn’t think I’d ever have this again. Peace. A partner... Someone who’s got my back, and who I can trust with mine.”

She stood, brushing snow from her knees. “You do now.”

He didn’t say anything. Just looked at her, steady and warm in the cold.

She leaned in, brushing her lips against his cheek — barely there. Just enough.

He caught her hand before she pulled away.

“Let’s get home,” he said softly.

And together, they turned back toward the path.

Dividers by @bernardsbendystraws

[tobiosbbyghorl]

IN STITCHES | PSH | PART 2

pairing: grump surgeon! sunghoon x surgeon! reader

WC: 6k

synopsis: A grumpy, emotionally guarded surgeon and a sunshine-hearted resident collide in the high-stakes world of medicine-what begins with spilled coffee and sharp words slowly transforms into stolen glances, quiet care, and a love powerful enough to heal even the deepest wounds.

part 1

The hospital parking lot was already full when they pulled in, the sun just barely lifting over the horizon. She straightened her coat, tucking her hair behind her ears and sneaking a glance at her reflection in the rearview mirror.

“We can’t walk in together,” she said as she reached for the door.

“Why not?”

“Because you’ve got your strictest attending face on and I have ‘I-woke-up-in-my-crush’s-hoodie’ energy. They’ll know.”

Sunghoon leaned back, resting one hand on the wheel as he looked at her. “Then get out first. I’ll follow five minutes after.”

She paused. “You’re not even gonna tease me for being paranoid?”

“I’m being respectful, baby.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Don’t say it like that.”

“Say what?”

“Baby.”

He leaned in just a little, voice dropping into that smooth, amused register that always made her stomach flutter. “Fine. Yeobo.”

She gasped and lightly hit his arm before climbing out of the car, mouthing you’re so annoying before turning to make her escape.

But not before he smirked behind the windshield, eyes fond as they lingered on her retreating figure.

Five minutes later, when he stepped into the hospital looking every bit the composed, cold surgeon again, no one would have guessed he’d just been kissed goodbye in a parked car with a stray piece of pancake syrup still clinging to his collar.

Well—except for the observant nurse at the front desk who raised a brow and said with a smirk:

“You look unusually… rested today, Dr. Park.”

He didn’t respond.

But the faintest smile betrayed him.

Rounds were quiet that morning, but the tension between them buzzed like static in the air.

Y/N stood at the nurse’s station, flipping through patient charts, when she felt it—that prickling sensation of someone watching her. She glanced up to find Sunghoon across the hallway, mid-discussion with another attending, but his eyes were unmistakably on her.

The second their eyes met, he looked away, far too quickly. Like a schoolboy caught staring. Like he hadn’t just kissed her senseless twelve hours ago.

She ducked her head, smiling behind the edge of the chart.

Still, he was back to his usual self—curt, direct, the perfectionist. But now, even in the sharpness of his tone during rounds, there was a gentler rhythm to it when he spoke to her. No one else would notice. But she did.

During lunch break, she found an empty table in the back of the residents’ lounge, picking at her sandwich. He passed by behind her, pausing just long enough to drop something on the table.

Her favorite drink. No words, no glance.

She blinked.

Moments later, a second-year resident plopped down next to her, eyes narrowed in teasing suspicion. “Sooo… when were you gonna tell me you and Dr. Park have a thing?”

She choked on her bite. “We don’t.”

The resident smirked. “You mean you don’t officially.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re glowing. You never glow. You’re like… caffeine and chaos in human form, and today you’re soft.”

Before she could argue, Sunghoon passed the doorway. He paused—just a fraction of a second—and tilted his head toward her with the subtlest smirk.

The resident’s eyes widened. “Okay. Now I see it.”

Y/N groaned and buried her face in her arms.

⸻

Later that day, while reviewing scans together in a dimmed diagnostics room, their fingers brushed on the touch screen. She didn’t pull away this time. Neither did he.

He looked at her, voice quiet. “Lunch was decent?”

She looked up at him, eyes soft. “The drink made it better.”

A pause.

Their gazes lingered just a little too long.

Someone cleared their throat behind them, and the spell broke.

But not entirely.

They both turned back to the screen, acting like nothing happened—but their reflections on the glass betrayed a small, shared smile.

It was a rare Friday night where none of them were on call. One of the nurses was celebrating a birthday, so someone booked out the private back room of a cozy gastropub near the hospital. String lights twinkled overhead, laughter echoed, and the sound of cutlery against plates filled the space.

Y/N arrived first, dressed casually but warm, cheeks flushed from the cold. She was sipping something sweet when Sunghoon walked in—slightly late, still in a pressed shirt, no tie, sleeves rolled up like usual. The second their eyes met, something softened in him.

He didn’t walk over right away. He nodded to a few people, greeted the birthday nurse, made small talk with the chief resident.

But then, slowly, naturally, he found his way beside her.

Y/N didn’t say anything. She just smiled up at him, and he sat down like it was the most natural thing in the world—close enough that their knees brushed under the table.

Their friends exchanged glances.

It was subtle at first—him reaching for her glass to sip it absentmindedly, her nudging his shoulder when he teased her for not finishing her meal. Nothing scandalous. Nothing overt.

Until—

“Okay,” the birthday nurse said, raising a toast. “I just want to thank you all for being my favorite group of overworked zombies. I love you all—even the grumpy ones.” Her eyes landed on Sunghoon, pointed.

He raised a brow but didn’t deny it.

Someone from across the table chimed in, “Honestly, I thought someone would’ve mellowed him out by now.”

Y/N was mid-sip when someone added, “Wait, actually… you’ve been way less terrifying lately, Dr. Park. Suspiciously mellow.”

And then came the boldest one: “Don’t tell me it’s because of her?” Eyes flicked toward Y/N.

All eyes turned.

She froze slightly, glancing at Sunghoon in mild panic.

But to everyone’s surprise… he didn’t flinch. Didn’t deflect.

Instead, he reached out under the table, laced their fingers together, and casually lifted their joined hands onto the table in full view.

“I guess the rumors weren’t as subtle as we thought,” he said, tone cool but eyes impossibly soft.

The room went silent—then exploded.

“What—!”

“I KNEW IT!”

“Pay up! I told you they were a thing!”

Laughter erupted. The nurse threw a napkin in the air like confetti. A resident whooped. Someone actually dropped a fork.

Y/N just leaned into the chaos, covering her face in mock embarrassment while Sunghoon—smug as ever—sipped her drink again like it was just another night.

Later, as the group quieted down and conversations splintered into smaller circles, he leaned into her ear and murmured, “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

She turned to him, glowing. “You planned that, didn’t you?”

He kissed her temple. “Only a little.”

The city buzzed around them, but their world had slowed to a calm hum. The gathering had finally wrapped up, and the streets were painted gold from scattered streetlights and the occasional passing car.

They walked side by side, his jacket now draped over her shoulders because he said she’d catch a cold otherwise. She hadn’t argued. Not this time.

The sidewalk was quiet, their footsteps in sync.

“Still embarrassed?” he asked, voice low, hands tucked into his pockets.

“A little,” she admitted, but she smiled anyway. “You didn’t even blink.”

He chuckled, soft and low. “I figured if we were going to get caught, I’d rather control the moment.”

She nudged him playfully with her shoulder. “Classic.”

Sunghoon glanced over, taking her in—eyes shining under the streetlights, lips slightly chapped from the wind, his jacket swallowing her frame. “You looked happy tonight.”

“I was,” she said honestly, then hesitated. “I think I’ve been happy a lot lately.”

There was a beat of silence between them before he responded.

“Me too,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

They stopped at a quiet corner, just outside her apartment building. She turned to face him fully, hands still tucked in the sleeves of his jacket.

“I meant it, you know,” she said softly. “Back there. Thank you—for letting me in.”

He didn’t say anything at first. Just stepped closer, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. His hand lingered at her jaw, thumb grazing her cheek gently.

“You were patient,” he murmured. “Even when I wasn’t easy to read. You didn’t push.”

“I didn’t have to,” she whispered. “You found me anyway.”

And he kissed her—slow, steady, like a promise.

When they finally pulled apart, he rested his forehead against hers, chuckling faintly. “You still doing that puppy eyes thing?”

She blinked up at him. “Maybe.”

He sighed dramatically. “Fine. I’ll stay over again. But only because I like the way your couch smells like lavender.”

“It’s not the couch you’re staying for and you know it.”

He smirked. “No. It’s definitely you.”

Hand in hand, they climbed the steps up to her door.

The city kept humming—but for now, it felt like just the two of them.

Six Months Later

Spring had settled softly over the city, painting the hospital courtyard in warm gold and gentle breezes. Inside, things were as busy as ever—stretchers rolling, monitors beeping, lives changing. But one thing had definitely shifted.

Dr. Park Sunghoon, the once sharp-edged, no-nonsense surgeon, now paused at a child’s bedside just a beat longer than necessary. He ruffled their hair, smiled when they clutched his finger tight, crouched down to explain procedures in calm, careful tones. His voice had lost none of its clarity—but it carried warmth now. Hope.

He still walked fast, still demanded excellence. But now, he also remembered birthdays. He brought coffee to overworked interns. He laughed, sometimes—low and rare, but real. And every once in a while, he’d hum softly in the hallway when he thought no one was listening.

Y/N was reviewing a patient chart when one of the older nurses sidled up beside her, slipping a piece of chocolate into her pocket like a secret.

“You’ve done something no one else could,” the nurse said, eyes crinkling. “You brought him back.”

Y/N blinked, confused. “Who?”

“Dr. Park,” she smiled knowingly. “He was brilliant before. But now? Now he’s also good. Kind. Human.” Her voice softened. “We thought we lost that part of him forever.”

Y/N’s heart ached a little at that—for what he had to lose to build his walls, and for how carefully they’d been taken down.

She turned slightly, glancing through the glass of the OR observation deck where Sunghoon stood, post-surgery, patiently explaining something to a wide-eyed young patient and their anxious parent. He placed a reassuring hand on the father’s shoulder before stepping back with a nod.

The father shook his hand like it was something sacred.

Y/N smiled to herself.

Later that evening, as they sat in the quiet on-call room with half a sandwich between them, she nudged his knee.

“You’re getting soft, Dr. Park.”

He gave her a look but didn’t deny it. “Only for my favorite people.”

She raised a brow. “Patients?”

He leaned in closer, brushing her nose with his. “You.”

—

It was a rare day off. No white coats. No pagers. Just them and the open sky above.

Sunghoon had told her to dress comfortably—“nothing fancy, just layers”—and drove her out of the city. She didn’t ask questions, just watched him steal glances at her the whole ride, his fingers drumming anxiously on the steering wheel, a small curve tugging at his lips like he was holding back a secret.

They pulled into a quiet town near the mountains, where spring flowers bloomed along the fences and children rode bikes with streamers in their handlebars. It felt like a pocket of time, untouched and slow.

He led her down a quiet dirt path, up a small hill—and there it was.

A tiny, unfinished cabin. Wooden beams, no windows yet, just the skeleton of a home—but she could already picture it in the warm light, filled with laughter and life. Their future.

“It’s not much,” he said beside her, slightly breathless, “but I’ve been working with an architect on and off. It’s not even built yet.”

She turned to him slowly, eyes wide. “Is this…?”

“For us,” he said. “Someday.”

The wind blew gently. She was quiet—processing.

“I know it’s early,” he continued quickly, hands shoved in his pockets. “But when I think about what I want—where I want to rest after long shifts, who I want to build this with, who I want to drink coffee with on the porch before surgeries… it’s always you.”

She blinked, her throat tight.

He stepped closer, pulling a small, velvet box from his coat. Not flashy. Simple. Honest.

“I don’t need to wait to know,” he murmured. “Will you marry me, Y/N?”

For a moment, neither of them breathed.

Then her hands flew to her mouth, eyes brimming. “Sunghoon…”

“I’m not asking for a wedding tomorrow,” he added gently. “Just for a promise. That you’ll build this life with me. That when the time’s right—we’ll already know it started here.”

She didn’t hesitate.

“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes. You’re already home.”

He slipped the ring on her finger, pulling her into his arms as the sky turned gold behind them. He held her close—tight like a man who’d found his anchor—and kissed her like a vow.

Back at the hospital, the week rolled on like always—cases, charts, rounds. But there was a quiet buzz around them now. Something in the way Y/N hummed while updating files, in the way Sunghoon let his hand linger a second longer on her back when they passed in the hall. Something different.

And of course, Mrs. Kang noticed.

The elderly patient had been in and out of the general ward for months now, recovering from a stubborn heart condition and endlessly entertained by the unfolding drama of her favorite real-life hospital romance.

So when both Sunghoon and Y/N walked in for her morning rounds—Sunghoon holding her chart, Y/N holding coffee, both trying (and failing) not to look giddy—Mrs. Kang narrowed her eyes immediately.

“Well, well,” she said, voice raspy but smug. “There’s a glow in this room that’s not from the IV drip.”

Y/N laughed, ducking her head. Sunghoon rolled his eyes, but the edge of his mouth twitched upward.

Mrs. Kang squinted harder, then pointed at Y/N’s hand. “Hold on. Is that what I think it is?”

Y/N tried to play coy, lifting her hand to tuck her hair behind her ear. But the ring shimmered under the fluorescent lights.

“Hmm?” she said, voice teasing. “Oh, this?”

Mrs. Kang gasped, loud enough to make the nurse across the hallway peek in.

“You sneaky little lovebirds!”

Sunghoon chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. “We were going to tell you.”

“Oh, I knew it,” she said proudly, eyes twinkling. “From the way he brought you soup that one night to how you glared at him like a kicked puppy the next morning—I knew it.”

Sunghoon cleared his throat. “She glared at me like that for months.”

“And you loved every second,” Y/N muttered with a grin.

Mrs. Kang reached out, taking Y/N’s hand in both of hers. “You take good care of each other, alright? It’s rare—finding someone who sees all your rough edges and chooses to stay anyway.”

“I will,” Y/N promised, eyes soft. “We will.”

Sunghoon didn’t say anything—but when Mrs. Kang winked at him, he smiled. For real. No restraint. No hesitation.

Just warmth.

And for the rest of her stay, Mrs. Kang insisted on referring to them exclusively as “the engaged power couple” whenever nurses came by.

It happened during lunch break the next day.

Y/N had stepped into Mrs. Kang’s room with her usual tea and a short visit before afternoon rounds, Sunghoon trailing in with a fresh update on her test results. It was supposed to be a quick check-in.

But Mrs. Kang had other plans.

As the nurse came by to check vitals, and a couple of residents lingered just outside the door with charts in hand, Mrs. Kang looked over her glasses at the small crowd, her voice deceptively casual.

“Well, since we’ve got an audience,” she began, tapping her spoon on the side of her tray like a gavel, “I think it’s time everyone knew that my favorite doctors are engaged.”

The room paused.

A silence fell so sharp you could hear the ECG beep.

Y/N blinked, halfway through handing her tea. Sunghoon stared for a beat. The door swung open wider as curious heads peeked in.

The nurse dropped her pen. “Wait, what?”

“They’ve been all smiles and shared glances lately,” Mrs. Kang declared proudly, pointing at Y/N’s hand again. “Look at the ring! You think I’d miss that kind of sparkle?”

Y/N turned a brilliant shade of pink, subtly slipping her hand behind her back. Sunghoon just… sighed. Then shrugged.

“It’s true,” he said calmly, slipping his hand into Y/N’s with the smoothness of someone who no longer had anything to hide.

Cue the chaos.

Gasps. Cheers. One resident screamed. Someone clapped. The pediatric fellow across the hall yelled, “I knew it!” while the neurosurgery guy slumped against the wall like he’d lost a bet.

Even Chief Min passed by, arched a brow, and muttered, “About time,” before walking off with her coffee.

Y/N covered her face with her hand, laughing through her embarrassment. Sunghoon just stood there, smug and soft all at once, thumb brushing across the back of her knuckles.

Mrs. Kang leaned back against her pillows, smugger than ever.

“Told you,” she whispered to the nurse. “I’ve still got the eye.”

The hospital was quieter than usual by the time they slipped away, the afternoon rush of patients and staff finally beginning to taper off. Sunghoon and Y/N found themselves in the small, secluded corner of the hospital rooftop, a spot they often retreated to when they needed to escape the chaos. The skyline stretched out in front of them, the city slowly fading into the orange hues of the setting sun.

Y/N leaned back against the railing, feeling the cool breeze tug at her hair, her heart still fluttering from the unexpected reveal in Mrs. Kang’s room. She glanced at Sunghoon, who had his hands tucked into his pockets, a rare calmness in his demeanor.

He was quieter than usual, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he looked out at the city. After everything—the teasing, the surprise, the reactions from everyone—it felt like the world had shifted just a little bit. And for the first time in a long while, it was a shift that felt… right.

“Mrs. Kang really knows how to make an entrance,” Y/N said, breaking the silence with a soft laugh. She glanced at him. “I didn’t think she’d tell the whole hospital like that.”

Sunghoon chuckled, a low sound that seemed to warm the air between them. “She’s impossible to keep a secret from,” he said with a playful shrug. “But I’m glad she did.”

Y/N tilted her head, studying him for a moment. The calmness in his eyes, the softness in the way he stood beside her—he wasn’t the same Sunghoon who had first walked into her life months ago. She’d seen more than just the gruff exterior. She’d seen the quiet tenderness, the rare smile that made her heart skip a beat.

“I think… I think I’m still a little shocked,” she confessed softly. “It’s not exactly how I imagined telling everyone.”

Sunghoon turned to face her, the corners of his lips curling up slightly as he caught her gaze. “Yeah, well, you’ve got Mrs. Kang to thank for that. But… I’m okay with it,” he said, his voice steady but full of a warmth that made her pulse quicken.

There was something different in the way he looked at her now. The walls he’d so carefully built around himself, the ones he’d been reluctant to let anyone past—those walls were crumbling, piece by piece, and it felt like she was the one holding the sledgehammer.

“You know, I never expected to find someone like you,” Sunghoon murmured, his eyes softening, the playful smirk slipping from his face. “Someone who doesn’t just… fit into my world. Someone who changes it.”

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat, and her chest tightened with an emotion she couldn’t quite name. “I never expected to fall for someone like you either,” she said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. “But I guess we’ve been doing a lot of unexpected things together, haven’t we?”

Sunghoon nodded slowly, taking a small step closer, his fingers brushing lightly against hers. The contact was brief but electric, the warmth of his touch sending a spark through her entire body.

“Yeah,” he murmured, his voice dropping an octave, the words coming out like a secret shared between just the two of them. “A lot of unexpected things.”

For a moment, there was only the sound of the wind and the distant hum of the city below. Their hands were so close now, just a whisper of space between them.

And then, without thinking, Y/N closed the distance, slipping her hand into his, the contact familiar but still full of that soft magic that always seemed to linger when they were together.

Sunghoon squeezed her hand gently, his thumb grazing over her knuckles in the same quiet, reassuring rhythm that had become so familiar.

“I’m glad you’re with me,” he said quietly, his voice low but certain.

Y/N smiled, feeling the weight of his words settle in her chest, comforting and soft. “I’m glad too,” she said, her voice full of a tenderness she hadn’t known she was capable of before.

For a moment, there were no hospital corridors to rush through, no patients waiting for answers. Just the two of them on the rooftop, the evening light casting a warm glow over their quiet, shared space. No walls. No barriers.

Just the two of them, letting the world spin around them while they took a breath and simply existed, together.

Sunghoon chuckled softly, the sound rich with fondness. “You know,” he began, a playful glint in his eye, “you never mentioned how memorable our first meeting was.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow, a teasing smile spreading across her face. “Oh, I don’t know if it was memorable for you,” she teased, nudging him lightly with her shoulder. “But I do recall that you were the one getting drenched in coffee.”

Sunghoon’s lips twitched, as if he were holding back a smile. “You spilled an entire cup on me. I was pretty sure you were the clumsiest person I’d ever met.”

Y/N laughed, the sound light and carefree. “And yet, here we are,” she said with a shrug, her eyes sparkling. “Guess that coffee spill wasn’t such a bad thing after all.”

The quiet rooftop moment was suddenly filled with the warmth of their shared memories. Sunghoon glanced down at their intertwined hands, his thumb absently tracing circles on her skin. “You’ve had a way of getting under my skin from the very beginning,” he said, his tone lighter now but still tinged with affection.

Y/N grinned, leaning in just slightly, her voice dropping to a more playful tone. “I guess I’ll take that as a compliment. I’d say you’ve gotten pretty used to me spilling coffee on you by now.”

He let out a soft laugh, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forget that moment.” There was a beat, and then he added, almost as if it was a secret shared just between them, “But I’m not complaining.”

Y/N leaned back against the railing again, her hand still nestled in his. “Yeah, me neither,” she said softly, looking out at the horizon, a smile still tugging at her lips. “Funny how life works. We start with coffee stains and end up here.”

Sunghoon watched her, his expression softening. “Yeah… funny how life works.”

And for a long moment, neither of them spoke, both of them content in the quiet understanding that had grown between them, the kind of intimacy that wasn’t built in grand gestures but in the little, unexpected moments. Like spilled coffee, and the way their hands fit together so perfectly now.

Three Years Later

The hospital lights hadn’t changed, but time had softened the sharp edges. The corridors still hummed with urgency, the air still smelled faintly of antiseptic, but there was a different kind of energy now—one that came with stability, with growth.

Y/N walked slowly down the hallway, a chart tucked under her arm and her other hand resting lightly over her growing bump. She wore compression socks under her loose scrubs, a quiet rebellion against the swelling in her ankles. At seven months along, she was still stubborn about helping with the lighter patient loads—case reviews, check-ins, post-ops—but everyone knew better than to let her near anything remotely chaotic.

A few nurses passed her with knowing smiles.

“Doc Y/N, you’re glowing more than the fluorescent lights,” one teased.

She laughed, rolling her eyes good-naturedly. “It’s probably just the ten layers of cocoa butter I slathered on this morning.”

She turned the corner into the staff lounge just as her pager buzzed. It was a short message.

ER - Code Yellow. Dr. Park in.

Her heart jumped—not in worry, just instinct. Even after all this time, Sunghoon being called to emergency meant high stakes. She knew he could handle it. He always could. But she also knew that he pushed himself harder than anyone else, always calm, always focused… except these days, his first glance was always to see where she was, or if she was resting.

She sank gently into a chair, setting down the chart. She absentmindedly rubbed her belly, murmuring, “Daddy’s probably elbow-deep in something serious, little bean.”

As if on cue, the door burst open. Sunghoon stepped in, hair tousled, gloves hanging out of his pocket, his expression still carrying the storm of the ER. But the moment his eyes landed on her, it was like a wave breaking.

“You’re supposed to be sitting down,” he said, not unkindly, just soft and breathless from the adrenaline still coursing through him.

“I am sitting down,” she replied with a grin.

He came over, crouching in front of her without hesitation. His hand went to her belly like a reflex, thumb brushing over the side as if grounding himself. “How are you feeling? You were up early.”

“Tired,” she admitted. “But good. Kicked me during rounds again.”

Sunghoon smirked. “That’s my kid.”

She combed her fingers gently through his hair, pushing a strand off his forehead. “Rough case?”

“Teenager. Motorcycle. Lucky to be alive.” He rested his head lightly on her lap for a second. “I hate that I get used to this.”

She held his cheek in her palm. “You don’t get used to it. You just grow around it.”

He closed his eyes, quiet for a beat. Then, “Come home with me after this?”

She tilted her head. “I wasn’t planning on doing a double shift, Park.”

He cracked a smile. “I mean it. Let’s just… disappear for the rest of the day. I’ll bring your favorite dumplings. Foot rub included.”

Y/N laughed, leaning down to kiss his forehead. “Deal. Only because our kid might inherit your grumpiness and needs balance.”

“You say that like I’m not the softest person in this room.”

She raised an eyebrow.

Sunghoon stood and helped her up gently, his hand protectively bracing her back. They walked out of the lounge slowly, fingers linked, like the world had shifted around them and they were just walking through the new rhythm—one heartbeat at a time.

Bonus Scene: The Day Park Sungjae Was Born

The pain was something else. Y/N had always known childbirth was intense—she’d walked patients through it, held hands, whispered calm—but nothing quite prepared her for being on the other side of the curtain.

The hospital room was warm, bathed in that oddly sterile comfort only a maternity ward could offer. It smelled like peppermint oil and something floral that someone must have spritzed earlier in hopes of calming her. But all she could focus on now was the squeeze in her lower back and the warm, steady hand that hadn’t left hers since the contractions started.

Sunghoon.

He was by her side, masked up, hair messy, scrubs wrinkled from hours of pacing and worry.

His eyes never once left hers.

“You’re doing so well, baby. Almost there. Just one more push, okay?” he whispered, voice tight but gentle, as if every fiber in him was holding on for both of them.

She gritted her teeth and pushed—hard.

And then—

A cry pierced the room.

A loud, raw, beautiful sound that shattered the tension like glass.

Y/N collapsed back against the pillows, tears already gathering in her lashes as the doctor lifted their son and placed him on her chest. Tiny. Warm. Real.

Sunghoon froze.

His hand trembled as he reached out, fingers barely brushing over the baby’s soft hair. His chest rose sharply, and he let out a breath that caught halfway through. Y/N turned to look at him.

And that was when she saw it—the crack, the shift.

Sunghoon cried.

Not in silence this time. Not behind closed doors. He cried openly, eyes wet and red, voice gone hoarse as he whispered, “He’s so small… he’s

here.”

She reached up, cupping his cheek. “He’s perfect.”

He bent down slowly and kissed her forehead. “Park Sungjae,” he said softly, almost reverently. “You did it. You both did.”

Y/N smiled, exhausted but full. “You’re crying again, Dr. Park.”

“That’s the third time,” he admitted, laughing through his tears. “Wedding, pregnancy, and now this.”

“Wanna aim for four?” she joked weakly, a tease in her voice.

He chuckled, still brushing his knuckle gently across Sungjae’s cheek. “Let me survive this one first.”

Then the baby let out another tiny cry and instinctively grasped Sunghoon’s finger.

His breath hitched again. “Hi, little guy,” he whispered, eyes soft and overflowing. “I’m your dad. And I promise—whatever this world throws at you… I’ll be right here.”

And for a moment, in that room filled with quiet awe and lingering tears, everything stood still—like time had paused just to let them feel every second of their brand-new beginning.

First Night Home

The soft whimpering of newborn cries echoed gently through the apartment, but there was no panic, no urgency. Just soft footsteps, a lullaby hum, and the warm glow of the nursery light casting golden halos on the walls.

Sunghoon gently rocked Park Sungjae in his arms, the tiny bundle swaddled in mint green, resting against his chest like he belonged there all along.

“Shhh, baby. You’re home now,” he whispered, voice low, warm, and endlessly soft. He walked slowly in circles, bare feet padding against the wooden floor. Y/N watched from the doorway, a sleepy smile tugging at her lips as she leaned against the frame.

“You’ve been doing that for thirty minutes,” she murmured.

“I know,” he whispered, not stopping. “He likes it. He stopped crying.”

“You’re wrapped around his finger already.”

Sunghoon turned his head and smiled, tired but glowing. “It’s not even funny how fast it happened.”

Y/N stepped inside, wrapping her arms around his waist and resting her cheek against his arm. They stood there like that for a while, the three of them in the soft hum of domestic peace.

Later, when Sungjae was finally fast asleep in his crib, they curled up on the couch with Y/N tucked against Sunghoon’s chest, a blanket draped over them, the soft sound of rain tapping against the windows.

“You’re a natural,” she whispered.

“So are you,” he murmured back. “But I think we made an overachiever.”

She laughed. “He gets it from his dad.”

Sunghoon pressed a kiss to her temple, his hand rubbing soothing circles into her back. “This… all of this… I never thought I’d get here. With you. With him.”

“You’re here now,” she said, tracing his knuckles. “And you’re not alone anymore.”

Time Skip: Sungjae, Age 2½

The hospital lobby was a little livelier than usual.

A giggle rang out across the nurse’s station as Park Sungjae toddled along the hallway with his tiny backpack bouncing and his little fists full of stickers. He was chasing after a nurse, determined to show off the drawing he made of a dinosaur—complete with messy crayon scribbles and hearts.

“He said it’s you,” Y/N called out to Sunghoon, who emerged from the elevator with a file in hand and a helpless smile spreading across his face.

Sungjae stopped in his tracks. “Appa!”

Sunghoon crouched instinctively, opening his arms. “Come here, little man.”

Sungjae ran and crashed into his father’s chest, giggling uncontrollably as Sunghoon picked him up and kissed his chubby cheek.

One of the nurses leaned over to Y/N with a smirk. “Dr. Park’s turned into a giant softie since Sungjae was born. You should see the way he talks to the kids now. You fixed him.”

Y/N smiled. “He was never broken. Just waiting.”

Just then, Mrs. Kang, who had been eavesdropping from her wheelchair nearby, pointed to their hands—matching silver bands glinting in the light.

“Told you they were endgame,” she declared proudly to the other patients. “Now look at them—ringed up, loved up, and with a mini-me who runs this place.”

Sunghoon heard her, glanced at his wife, and smirked. He lifted Sungjae’s little hand and flexed both their rings subtly toward Mrs. Kang.

She winked. “Show off.”

Y/N shook her head, laughing. Sunghoon pressed a kiss to her cheek in front of everyone, uncaring now of being seen, of being known like this.

Together. Strong. Soft. Home.

©️tobiosbbyghorl - all rights reserved

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[lampridius]

hello! may i request reader going on their first date with the amphoreus trio (phainon, mydei, anaxa)? Love your writing!!<3

⋆.ೃ࿔🌸*:･ 𝘩𝘰𝘯𝘬𝘢𝘪: ꒱ 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳 𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘭 ✴ ───────── ❝ 𝙤𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙞𝙧 𝙛𝙞𝙧𝙨𝙩 𝙙𝙖𝙩𝙚 ❞ －𝘭𝘢𝘮𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘥𝘪𝘶𝘴 ．．• ♡︎

─ .✦ 𝗯𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗺𝗲𝗺𝗯𝗲𝗿𝘀: phainon, mydei, anaxa ──── .✦ 𝘳𝘶𝘭𝘦𝘴 | 𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵 | 𝘳𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵 ──── .✦ 𝙣𝙤𝙩𝙚𝙨:

you don’t expect phainon to be so… meticulous.

not stiff - no, he's far too fluid for that. but there’s a quiet kind of gravity in the way he carries the date, like every part of it has been considered. the location - quiet, sky-lit, with flickering lanterns above and soft cushions underfoot. the music, ambient and low. the conversation: light at first, a dance of observation and humor, and slowly peeling into something deeper.

he's not easily surprised, but there’s a pause - a flicker of real warmth - when you laugh at one of his dryer remarks.

"you actually got that?" he murmurs, eyes crinkling faintly.

you didn’t know someone could look at you like that. not like prey, not like a curiosity - but like a puzzle he’d very much like to keep unfolding, if you’ll let them.

when he walks you home, he doesn’t press. no lingering touches or teasing suggestions. just a promise in his voice when he says, “if you want to do this again... you won’t need to wait long.”

the date starts with formality.

he greets you like a knight would (despite his rough exterior) - softly bowed head, gloved hand offered, something fond and careful in the way he says your name.

you’d think it would stay serious, but… it doesn’t.

he’s more relaxed than expected. calm, but not cold. surprisingly easy to laugh, easier still to listen. the restaurant he picks is traditional but warm, and he’s memorized the menu before you even sat down - clearly overthinking.

you tease him for it gently, and his smile flickers - embarrassed, almost.

“i wanted it to be right,” he admits. “for you.”

he listens to you like you’re the only voice in the world. no rush. no distraction. just this quiet awe, like he’s been waiting longer than he’ll ever say for a moment like this.

as the night winds down and the stars blink to life overhead, he walks beside you without needing to fill the silence. your shoulder bumps his. he doesn’t move away.

when you thank him for the night, he says your name again - so softly.

"if you would like to do this again with me... who knows, perhaps i'll cook for you,"

you expect awkwardness.

anaxa is awkward, not in an endearing way - in a stiff but trying way, like he read five guides on how to go on a date and took notes but on his coreflame he would never admit that. he shows up ten minutes early, clearly rehearsed his greeting, and gifts you something handmade - a little carved charm, shaped like a dromas.

“i didn’t know what people usually give,” he mutters, eyes darting anywhere but yours. “but they said first dates should have something memorable…”

you melt.

the outing itself is simple - a walk through a bioluminescent garden, glowing with gentle pink and blue hues - and it’s quiet at first. but as you talk, anaxa loosens. especially when you ask him questions about the stars, about dromas, about what he loves.

and by the end of the night, you realize: he’s been watching you the whole time with soft, amazed eyes.

as if he can’t quite believe this is real.

when you part ways, he opens his mouth - closes it - then blurts, “i... did not expect to enjoy this date as much as i have... would you be open to doing this sort of thing next week?”

your smile tells him everything he needs to know.

[p4lepixie]

Rafe x reader who never stops talking and actually gets made fun of and people are always annoyed with her cause she’s charge rbox and like smut where she won’t stop talking and Rafe likes it! Pls pls pls

𝐌𝐫𝐬 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫-𝐛𝐨𝐱 ˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚

(I could eat that girl for lunch - yeah she dances on my tongue, taste like she might be the one…)

⋆ ˚｡⋆ 𝜗𝜚 ˚｡˚ ⋆⋆ ˚｡⋆ 𝜗𝜚 ˚｡˚ ⋆⋆ ˚｡⋆ 𝜗𝜚 ˚｡˚ ⋆⋆ ˚｡⋆ 𝜗𝜚 ˚｡˚ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡⋆ 𝜗𝜚˚

The sheets were cream colored and sun-warmed. The golden light slipping in from the window made everything feel like a dream. Dust floated lazily in the air like a slow dance and somewhere in the background a soft indie song played from a speaker that neither of them had touched in over an hour.

Rafe’s head was buried between her thighs and his hands were pressed snug around her waist, fingers curled possessively like she was the most precious thing he’d ever touched. She was half sprawled across the bed, her legs draped over his shoulders, her toes flexing every time he hit the spot just right. Which, to be fair, was basically every five seconds. He had studied her. He knew what made her sigh, what made her shiver, what made her melt into the mattress like sugar on a stove.

And yet.

“Do you think Anna’s boyfriend actually cheated on her? I mean like actually cheated. Like the bad kind. With touching. Because I feel like— oh— I feel like guys just get so weird when they’re guilty and he’s been acting so weird, like weird weird, not cute weird.”

Her voice was breathy but still going a mile a minute. Her fingers combed lazily through his hair, petting him like he was her therapy cat and not a man currently giving her his full devoted attention with his mouth.

Rafe didn’t lift his head, just huffed against her, warm breath making her twitch.

“Baby.”

“Hm?”

“I am literally tongue deep in your pretty little pussy and you wanna talk about Anna’s crusty man?”

She giggled. A soft, high pitched little sound that made his chest feel all gooey. Her hips squirmed and he tightened his grip, pressing her back down like she was a soft pillow he wanted to keep still.

“Well yeah, because I just remembered and it’s driving me crazy. Like, why else would he hide his location on Snap?”

“Maybe so he doesn’t get interrupted while trying to text back. Like me. Right now.”

Another laugh bubbled out of her and her thighs trembled. Rafe went right back in, licking her slowly, thoroughly, like he was tasting her for the first time and never wanted to stop. She tasted sweet, like heat and sugar and something almost citrusy. He moaned softly into her and she gasped, back arching ever so slightly.

“Mmm, Rafe,” she whispered, voice all soft and dreamy now. “Oh that… okay that’s… ohhhkay. Yeah. Just like that. Mmm.”

She was dazed for all of ten seconds.

Then.

“You know what’s underrated? Velvet cake. Like not red velvet, because duh, but like pink velvet or even blue velvet. I saw this girl on TikTok make a lavender velvet cake and it looked so good, I think it was lavender flavored too and— oh— oh my god that little swirl thing you just did, what even was that.”

Rafe chuckled against her again and looked up just enough to meet her eyes. They were wide and glossy, her mouth open in that soft ‘oh’ shape he loved. Her cheeks were flushed and glowing and her hair was all messed up around her like some kind of halo.

“Velvet cake. You’re really telling me about cake while I’m eating you out?”

“I can’t help it, my brain is just full of tabs,” she sighed, hips twitching when his tongue flicked at her again, slow and indulgent. “Like I’m here in the moment but I’m also like… what if I made velvet cupcakes with edible glitter?”

“Sweetheart.”

“Yes?”

“I love you but you gotta give me something to work with here.”

“You are working with something,” she teased, running her fingers down his jaw, tapping at his cheek playfully. “You’re doing such a good job. Gold star. Seriously. Five stars on Yelp. I’d leave a tip.”

He smirked, wicked and amused, then buried his face back into her without another word. This time he sucked gently at the spot he knew made her squirm and she let out the cutest sound he’d ever heard in his life. A little breathy moan, all soft and high and fluttery, followed by her thighs pressing around his ears like they were hugging him.

“Mmm, oh my god, okay… wait… Rafe… okay I think I might… yeah.”

“You think?” he teased, voice muffled against her. “You better be sure.”

She moaned again, one hand flying up to cover her eyes like she was overwhelmed. Her words came out in a jumble.

“I used to have such a crush on my math teacher in tenth grade, is that weird? I just remembered because you said sure and he always said sure in that same tone and oh my god Rafe I’m gonna—”

“Baby.”

“Mm?”

“Focus.”

She whimpered. She actually whimpered. Then nodded, brows scrunched like it physically hurt to keep her mouth shut.

He kept going, steady and gentle and firm, every stroke of his tongue drawing another cute sound out of her. She was trying so hard to stay quiet now, her bottom lip caught between her teeth, her hand fisting the sheets.

“I love you,” she blurted, eyes fluttering. “I love you so much. You’re so good to me. So good. Rafe. Rafe.”

Her legs were shaking now. Her whole body was glowing, the light from the window casting a golden shimmer over her flushed skin.

“I love you too, chatterbox,” he murmured against her. “Now let go for me.”

And she did.

Right there in the warm, soft sheets, with the music humming in the background and the scent of sun and skin and sweetness wrapping around them like a blanket. She moaned, high and soft and so pretty it made his chest ache. Her body trembled under his mouth and he held her close, riding it out with her, kissing her through every twitch and sigh.

When she finally melted into the bed, completely boneless and glowing, he crawled up beside her and kissed her forehead.

“So,” he whispered, brushing her hair back with a grin. “Still thinking about velvet cake?”

She giggled again, that soft airy giggle that made his heart squeeze.

“Maybe,” she whispered. “But mostly I’m thinking about how lucky I am.”

Rafe kissed her again, slow and warm, and pulled her close.

“I’m the lucky one, baby.”