#it’s late and I just had to get my idea across

[shockercoco]

Better Late Than Never

Bucky Barnes x reader

Warnings - fluff, some kissing, Valentine’s Day shenanigans, flirty!Bucky

Word count - 2167

a/n - Happy Valentine’s Day everyone, especially to all my fellow single readers! I’ve somehow ended up in my Sebastian Stan era again, so I thought why fight it. It’s been a while since I’ve written an imagine, and I’m feeling a little rusty, but I hope you all enjoy and thanks in advance for reading :)

“What’s got you smiling so much?” You ask Wanda as she sits down across from you.

It was Wanda’s idea to meet up for lunch after finding out about the rough morning you had, and she had also told you that she had some good news to share that might cheer you up. 

You had woken up late for work, couldn’t find your car keys, and when you reached the halfway point on your journey to work, you realized you didn’t have your phone. Today just wasn’t your day.

“Remember how I said I had some good news?” Wanda asks, her smile huge as she leans in and rests her elbows on the table. When you nod, she continues. “Well, Vision surprised me at work and finally asked me to be his girlfriend! He brought me flowers and everything.”

Yeah, today just really wasn’t your day.

“That’s really great, Wanda, but how exactly is that supposed to cheer me up?” you question, giving her a small smile to soften your words.

“Because you were the one who suggested that I should confess my feelings to him, and you’ve pretty much been with me every step of the way,” Wanda tells you. Her expression then turns into confusion. “Is something wrong?”

You honestly were really proud and happy for Wanda, and if this were any other time of the year, your reaction would’ve been different. But it’s not. Valentine's Day is at the end of the week and you just want the week to be over with.

While you were walking down the street on your way to the restaurant, you walked past a woman getting proposed to in the park. While you were waiting for the light to change in order for you to cross the street, you saw a couple making out. As you walked past a street vendor selling flowers, you overheard the vendor making conversation with a man who was apparently looking for the right flowers to buy his crush. Now, Wanda hits you with this.

“No, nothing’s wrong,” you quickly shake your head. “I’ve just had a weird day.”

She looks at you for a moment longer, not fully believing you. “Hmm, there’s something else. Tell me.”

You let out a laugh. “Wanda, I’m fine. It just…it’s nothing really. I’m good.”

“It’s just what?” Wanda asks. When you hesitate again, she adds, “We’re not ordering until you tell me what’s up,” she smirks at you. 

A small groan leaves you, before you speak up, “It’s just that Bucky hasn’t asked me to be his valentine yet, and this is our first Valentine’s Day as a couple. It stupid, I know. I shouldn’t even be upset.”

“No, it’s not stupid. Have you mentioned how you feel to him?”

“No, I didn’t think I had to since he’s always surprising me with gifts any other time of the year. I just figured this would just happen naturally, but nothing yet.”

“I’m sure you have nothing to worry about. After all, it’s still the beginning of the week. Who knows, he could just be waiting for the actual day to come,” Wanda says, and when you don’t say anything, she places a hand on top of yours and continues, “I’d honestly be surprised if Bucky does absolutely nothing for you. Everyone knows how obsessed he is with you.”

That makes you smile. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

“Of course I am, and when Valentine’s Day comes and he still hasn’t asked you to be his valentine, call me, I’ll hunt him down,” Wanda tells you right as a waitress walks up to the table to take your guys’ order. She catches the end of Wanda’s sentence and has a confused, yet amused look on her face. “Sorry, just relationship problems.”

The waitress laughs as she says, “Don’t worry I understand.”

Later that night when you're at Bucky’s place for a movie night the two of you had planned the week before, you can feel Bucky looking at you repeatedly while your eyes are still on the screen. You’re cuddled up into his side with his arm wrapped around you, but you still notice the constant shifting of his head.

You finally give in and look up at him. “Is there something on my face?” you ask him, your tone teasing.

Bucky’s confused with your question. “No, why?”

“Because you keep looking at me.”

“What, I can’t admire my own girlfriend anymore?”

“It feels more like staring than anything,” you tell him, and Bucky just laughs.

“Well, then I’m sorry,” Bucky apologizes as he places a hand on your cheek to lift your head up. He leans down to place a gentle kiss on your lips, a smile still tugging on the corner of his lips. When he pulls away, he still keeps the distance between the two of you small as he looks into your eyes.

“Seriously, what is it?” you whine as you playfully shove him away from you, causing him to laugh. He knows how much you hate it when he does that. “Is there something bugging you?” you casually slide in the question, slightly hoping that he would use this time to ask you to be his valentine.

“No, there isn’t,” he laughs and pulls away, turning his attention back to the screen, but keeping his arm still wrapped around you. “I’m done, I promise.” 

He misses the slight drop in your expression, but you quickly fix your face before looking back at the tv as well.

As the week goes on, you try to focus on more important things, but as Friday continues to get closer, your hope continues to diminish. You and Bucky continue to text normally throughout the week, but when Thursday afternoon comes Bucky calls you to let you know that he’ll be going on a mission the next day. On Valentine’s Day.

“I’m sorry it’s such short notice, doll, but Steve needs me,” you hear Bucky softly tell you through the phone. You’re sitting on a chair in front of your window watching people pass by with Bucky on speaker.

“Oh, no it’s okay, I understand,” you say, trying to keep the disappointment out of your voice. “How long will you be gone?”

There’s a moment of silence on the other end, before Bucky speaks, “A couple of weeks.”

Weeks? 

Your heart drops at his answer and you feel your throat start to tighten. You quickly mute yourself to clear the tears from your throat, before unmuting.

“Are you sure it’s okay?” he asks, noticing your delayed response. 

“Yeah, why wouldn’t it be? There’s people out there that need you,” you speak up.

You catch sight of your neighbor’s boyfriend walking up to her house with a bouquet of flowers in his hand. You momentarily forget you’re on the phone and unintentionally let out a frustrated sigh at the sight, catching Bucky’s attention.

“Listen, I can probably get out of it. I’m sure Steve doesn’t need me that bad, there’s a whole team of people that are available to help out.”

A sad laugh leaves you. “Bucky it’s fine, I promise. He’s your best friend and he specifically asked you because he wants you, so go.”

“If you insist,” you hear Bucky sigh “I know you’re upset, though, so I promise to make it up to you when I get back, okay?”

That makes you crack a smile. “Okay.”

When the next day rolls around, you take your time getting out of bed. Unfortunately, you had the day off today, which of course you would’ve been happy about under different circumstances. 

You decide to keep yourself busy and do some chores to pass time, but by the time you’re done cleaning every crevice and doing laundry, it’s only four in the afternoon.

At some point, Wanda calls to check up on you and asks if you wanted her and Vision to come over and have dinner with you. Vision was planning on cooking for just the two of them, but he told you he had no problem making more. Although the two of them both repeatedly insisted they didn’t mind making the drive to your place, you declined.

It felt wrong to intrude on a special night like tonight. 

After telling Wanda and Vision that you would just order in, the two of you finally end the call.

You weren’t currently that hungry so you decided to just order something later. You make yourself comfortable on the couch and decide to put on a tv show you’ve been wanting to watch. 

A couple episodes later, you finally start to get hungry, and right when you’re about to place an order, your doorbell rings. You shake your head thinking it was just Vision and Wanda coming to share their food, but as you look through the peephole to see Bucky standing outside holding a bouquet of flowers and a stuffed animal you had been wanting, your heart drops along with your jaw.

You look down at your outfit and contemplate quickly changing, but decide against it.

“Wh-what are you doing here? I thought you had to go on a mission?” you ask when you open the door.

“Surprise!” Bucky greets you with a bright smile. He leans in to give you a kiss, before whispering, “Happy Valentine's Day, sweetheart.”

Bucky can see that you’re still shocked and at a loss for words, so he just laughs as he pushes past you and makes his way inside. You close the door behind him and watch as he makes his way into the kitchen and lays the flowers on the counter along with the stuffed animal.

“As much as I’m happy that you’re here, why are you here?” your eyebrows are furrowed as you lean against the counter, your arms folded across your chest. 

Bucky sends you a smirk as he quickly puts the flowers in water before making his way over to you. He places his hands on your waist as closes the distance between you two.

“You didn’t really think that I’d miss our first Valentine’s Day together, did you?”

“I didn’t even think you remembered, I mean you haven’t said anything about it all week,” you tell him.

“Yeah, Wanda told me you were a little upset,” Bucky mentions and your eyes widen.

“What a traitor, she wasn’t supposed to say anything,” you say slightly embarrassed as you look off to the side. Then a thought hits you, and you look back at him. “Wait, did you just come here because of what Wanda told you?”

“No, I was already planning on coming here tonight.”

“But what about your mission?” you ask, still confused.

Bucky smiles. “There never was a mission, doll. I made it up because I wanted to surprise you. You really thought I would spend today with Steve instead of you?”

“...Well, he is your best friend.”

“That’s true,” Bucky nods, grabbing your hands in his and placing kisses on your knuckles, “but, you’re my best girl,” he whispers as he looks into your eyes, causing butterflies in your stomach and your face to heat up.

What were you upset about again?

A chuckle leaves Bucky as he watches you shyly smile as you look away.

“You could’ve at least said something this whole week,” you tell him.

“I know, I know,” he admits, “but I was trying to get everything together.”

“Get what together?” you ask.

Bucky stays silent for a moment as if trying to find the right words to say. Then he says, “I want you to move in with me.”

Your eyes widen and your breath hitches as you stare back at him. “What?”

Maybe you inhaled too many chemicals while cleaning.

“I want you to move in with me,” Bucky repeats. “I know we’ve been dating for less than a year and I completely understand if this is too fast for you, but there’s plenty of room for you at my place and I would be much happier if I was able to have you next to me when I wake up every morning.”

Oh. 

You blink.

“You’re serious?” you ask, even though there's no indication on his face to tell you he’s lying. 

Bucky lets go of your hands to place his on either side of your face. “Completely. Like I said, you’re my best girl.” He watches a smile slowly form on your lips. “So, what do you say?”

“Yes,” you say, and Bucky’s grin grows wider, but you hold your hand up. “Don’t start smiling yet, I wasn’t finished.”

Bucky quickly fixes his face and tries to suppress his excitement. “Of course, continue.”

“I say yes, only if you agree to never pull anything like this ever again.”

“Ever?” Bucky repeats, raising an eyebrow.

“Bucky!” you playfully hit his chest.

“I’m just kidding,” he laughs, leaning in to kiss you. Then he pulls away just enough to murmur against your lips, “I’ll just wait until you forget.”

Like what you see? check out my masterlist :)

[bratbarzal]

maggie i’m going a bit off-script here, but for your valentine’s blurbs can i request ³⁾ “has it occurred to you that we’ve spent more valentine’s days with each other than with people we’ve actually been dating?” with quinn — but plot twist, he thought you were passed the just friends phase. just a little awkward & flustered quinn vday moment 💌

✩‧₊˚ bratbarzal's valentines event!˚₊‧✩

3. “has it occurred to you that we’ve spent more valentine’s days with each other than with people we’ve actually been dating?” we love awkward and flustered quinn in this house!!!

"I can't do this anymore," Quinn grumbles out of nowhere as the two of you are on his couch, drawing your attention from the dimmed screen of your phone to watch him pinch at the bridge of his nose and kick the throw that is draped over both of your lower bodies.

"Can't do what?" You frown, tilting your head to watch the theatrics, the blanket falling from your own lap into a tangled mess on the floor.

"Sit here and do nothing. I'm sick of doing nothing. You're driving me crazy, is this like, some sort of power thing? Are you seriously not even gonna acknowledge what's going on here?"

"What's-," You literally have no idea what the hell has gotten into him. "Going on? Quinn, what are you even talking about? When did you get all antsy and weird?"

"Uh, I don't know," he retorts, narrowing his eyes in your general direction, not quite able to meet yours. "Maybe when you started giggling at your phone and acting like this is any normal day? I get trying to convince yourself that this is no different to all the other times, it's what I kept telling myself to calm down earlier, considering we've been technically doing this," he gestures around the two of you, "For the past few years now, but I thought this time was different. I want it to be different."

"What do you mean by that?" You frown, pushing your phone under the pillow you're leaning on, shuffling a little where your legs are tucked beneath you on the couch and watching as he stands, arms thrown out in irritation as he turns back to you, swiping quickly where the blanket is bunched up and an inevitable trip hazard and throwing it over the back of the couch.

"Alright, has it ever occurred to you that the two of us have spent more Valentine's Days with each other than with the people we've actually been dating?"

You stare blankly at him for a second, mouth agape as you register what he's actually talking about, before you clear your throat with a hand to your mouth as Quinn stares back, waiting for a response, eyes narrowed as his patience wears thin. "It's Valentines Day? Today?"

He's right - for as long as you've lived in the same building as Quinn over the past few years, the two of you have spent the day together, making a tradition of it, even when you'd had boyfriends and he'd had girlfriends, somehow always finding yourselves in distant relationships with people who travelled or just plain didn't care.

Quinn's door was always open to you - even on days saved specifically for romance, even if the two of you had never even considered crossing that line.

You know you've been a little distracted with work lately, but surely you'd have heard about it being Valentines Day sooner than now. You reach back for your phone just to check, and sure as anything on your homescreen is the date - Friday, February 14th.

Crap.

You've literally spent the past twenty minutes texting your group chat, following along on the boozy girls night you had turned down in order to spend another night in with Quinn. A night you hadn't given a second thought to, as the two of you have been hanging out more and more, lately - him slotting you in pretty much any and every time he's free.

And now it makes sense - they're doing Galentines.

Double crap.

"Oh my God," he runs a hand through his hair in exasperation, that one thick strand you always thought was a cool stylistic choice bouncing straight back into place across his forehead - because of course it just naturally does that. "I can't tell if you're just oblivious or I'm a complete idiot."

"Maybe it's a secret third option?" You offer, standing from the couch and taking a cautious step towards his now pacing figure.

"Don't be cute," he glares back at you, "I'm really not in the mood right now for you to be cracking jokes, I'm embarrassed enough-,"

"Embarrassed?" You frown, taking another step, "Why would you be embarrassed?"

"Because I thought this was a date," he jabs a finger into his chest before pointing it back in your direction, "And you thought it was any other Friday night."

"Oh."

"Yeah," he huffs.

"That is embarrassing."

"Jesus Christ," he mutters, spinning on his feet and starting to make his way over to the kitchen before you panic and grab at his wrist, tugging him back with a little more effort than you're used to - because Quinn Hughes is nothing if not stubborn when he wants to be.

"Wait," you pout, trying to meet his avoidant gaze as he looks at anything but you, jaw set and body angled away. "Why did you think it was a date?"

"What is this, a humiliation ritual?" he scoffs, "I thought it was obvious. I asked you over. For dinner. I cooked! When you walked in here I was wearing an apron, for crying out loud! There's flowers on the table," he hooks a thumb over to where the two of you had eaten - sat across from one another at his small dining table, for once, instead of on the couch or the breakfast bar, places set before you even got there. A small vase with gerbera daisies and a little ribbon around the rim. "And I'm wearing a shirt. In my own home." You cast your eyes down, to the way the buttons are popped at the top, a small sliver of his chest peaking through - and it feels like the first time you're really taking him in.

Not even tonight, but maybe ever.

It's not like you've never thought Quinn was hot - he's gorgeous, Mike Wazowski in a blindfold could see that - but there's always been a barrier there, like a cartoonish, pixelated sort of blur that hides him from full view, unlocked only by some costly subscription with life changing terms and conditions that you could never be bothered reading.

And you might have struck him off, until now - until he stood before you with a pouty bottom lip and a mortified flush to his cheeks - and he all of a sudden doesn't look like someone who could never be more than a friend.

Especially when you consider that maybe he's been thinking about crossing that line.

In a new light, he looks like someone who goes the extra mile, who gets you flowers and cooks you your favourite pasta dish, buys your favourite wine, puts an effort into his appearance to distinguish between all the times you've seen each other in sweatpants and actively listens to your dumb stories about office politics and teams meeting etiquette - like it ties in at all to any part of his world.

He sighs, heavy and resigned, and you see his chest deflate where your eyes are locked on it, catching the subtle shake of his head in your peripheral as you take too long to respond.

"Look, I kinda feel like an idiot, so maybe it's better if we just-,"

It's the tug of his wrist that spurs you into action, and you let it drop - too eager to grab him elsewhere, like by the front of his soft, pretty shirt - pulling him in by the collar and pressing your lips firmly to his.

You worry for all of three seconds until his fingertips dig pointedly into your hips, guiding you forward until you're a little closer, and they can slide further back. Your own hands move higher, touching skin now - curling around the back of his neck to bury themselves in his hair, pushing at his head to better meet where you're angled up to kiss him.

He purrs almost at the feeling, a hum of satisfaction that's spoken straight into your lips, and it almost distracts you from the way his touch wanders, one hand sliding up the back of your shirt and the other hand sliding lower.

You hum back at the firm press of his palm into the small of your back - his hand warm and his touch soothing, your shoulders loosening until all the tension seeps from your body, and you start to feel like you're floating.

Or falling.

You part slowly - of equal volition, you think - your eyes opening to see Quinn's screwed shut, and you take the second he keeps them that way to feel a flush of pride at the soft pink tint that has taken to his lips.

"I'm sorry," you tell him, barely above a whisper, when he finally opens his eyes and flashes you that darkened gaze, where it darts between your own eyes and your lips in a tantalising triangle.

He clears his own throat then, blinking hard and purposefully, and licking at his swollen lips.

"For what?" he asks, breathless, his hands still in the exact same places, thumb swiping at the dip in your spine and the fingers of his other hand temptingly close to crossing the curve of your ass - confident more in his touch than he seems to be with anything else.

"For wearing sweatpants to our date," you huff, embarrassed yourself, because even if you hadn't known the implications of him asking you over for dinner, why couldn't you have at least put on something nice. "Now I get why you looked at me so funny when you opened the door, earlier."

He laughs then, slow and easy, his smile crooked and his eyes a melting kind of warm.

"I'll forgive you if I can change into mine."

"Deal," you nod, lips twisting as you take him in - those barriers, that pixelated blur, animating into something crystal clear and definite, something you can't believe you haven't given yourself the pleasure of seeing until now. "I'm sorry for being oblivious, too."

"It's alright," he shrugs, "I'm sure there's some way you can make it up to me."

And you're still standing with your arms resting on his shoulders and your hands behind his neck - the prime position to lean up and kiss him again.

[jollyhunter]

♡ MILKSHAKE FOR TWO ♡

LOVERBOY ! SOLDIER BOY / BEN x fem!Reader [Happy Valentine’s Day!!]

WARNING Fluff, (some) plot, Angst (bearable), Smut - NSFW - MDNI!; fingering, a lil' spankin', biting, oral (f receiving), unprotected p in v (wrap it before u tap it!), softdom!Ben (gasp!), faking orgasm, Ben reprimanding you, aftercare (Ben's way lol), strong language, basically just a general warning for Soldier Boy, no use of Y/N

⋆ ˚｡⋆ NOTE Okay sweethearts, this is my first time writing for Soldier Boy so please be lenient with me. 😭 Getting this man's colorful speech feel right as a non-native English is a real challenge lmao

After reading the Loverboy!Ben Headcanons by @lovedahlia I finally found the courage to pick this idea up again! And thanks @zepskies Coffee Shop Hadcanons for inspiring me with the sweet ending!! (and the pussy drink 💀)

⋆ ˚｡⋆ SUMMARY The lovey-dovey atmosphere around Valentine's Day did little to ease your ache. To put it blunt; Lately your love life's been... let's say dull. Since for whatever reason getting off was turning out to be frustratingly difficult. Or more like, impossible; You just outlast any man in bed.

Well, except maybe for the cocky bastard of a supe seated across of you… Who you’d just made a bet with.

⋆ ˚｡⋆ WORDS ~7.4k [my longest fic so far!? 😭]

♡ MILKSHAKE FOR TWO ♡

One, two, three, five - now another orgasm. You lost count. He keeps rocking his hips as you ride another one of your highs out, his cock throbbing inside you -

“Is it hot?” Ben’s gravely voice throws you right off your imaginary man, eyes snapping up at him with a look of panic and confusion.

The warm scent of weed wafts through the musky air and hits your nose, reminding you of your situation; Right. You’re here to ‘babysit’ Soldier Boy while he’s meticulously rolling joints and taking a swig of his beer every now and then.

“W-what?” Your thumb quickly swipes away the fanfic on your phone’s screen, feigning innocence.

“The picture of your boyfriend’s dick.” He replies. The motel’s dim light frames the intense gaze occasionally drifting toward you, a teasing smile tugging at his beard when he continues. “Can’t ignore the way you’ve been practically eye-fucking that thing for the past six joints.” He jerks his chin at the phone now tightly clasped under your hands likes it’s holding all your sins in one place.

“What- that’s not- no- what the hell.” You stutter, while you’re secretly relieved that his mind took a different direction.

“Hm,” he grunts, unconvinced, his eyes briefly closing. You tense up in the couch when his elbows slide off the table, now resting on his spread legs, his head tilting your way. “What’s it then, huh? Internet?”

Ah yes, you were looking at internet. Hughie had mentioned the word to him some days ago, but no one seems to have had the patience – or guts – to properly explain it to him. You smirk to yourself, but keep the mocking comment back. You didn’t want to risk him snatching your phone away again, as he had done many times before just to annoy you.

“Yeah, internet. It’s like a – a library, but digital, you know?” You try to explain. Your hands casually let the phone disappear in your jeans’ back pocket while you make sure to keep the discussion going. “How do you even know about dickpics? My gramps sure as hell wouldn’t know.”

“Oh fuck off.” He throws you a half-arsed scowl over the edge of his canted beer, “I basically invented it. The concept of showing off your dick to your girl ain’t that goddamn new-fangled.” He sneers the word ‘new-fangled’, his free hand waving dismissively in your direction.

The frown on his lips shifts into a crooked smile at what seems to be a particularly fond memory popping up in his mind. Cute, it suits him.

“I once had Warhol print my dick in the colors of the American flag. Surprised Countess with one on every fuckin’ wall.”

“Wow.” You can’t help but shake your head and crack a laughter at the mental image. “I bet she was ecstatic.”

“Oh you can bet my nutsack. That night we fucked like bunnies. Skeeted those paintings. Redecorated the whole damn thing.” He grins like a proud boy before his fond smile suddenly flips, “Now the bitch’s gargling dirt.”

The air thickened and your chest tightens. Only the sound of his fingers briefly strangling the neck of his beer bottle fills the tense silence in the room.

Your eyes drift to the ground, scrambling for something to say to steer the conversation away from his dead ex - but he beats you to it.

Ben has let out a heavy sigh after he took a swig, the beer bottle now tipped in your direction.

"So. No boyfriend then, huh?" He muses before he tilts his head, his lips curling into a smug smirk, “Gonna spend your national fuck day all alone with a pillow between your legs?”

“I- I’m not spending my - as you call it so colourfully - ‘national fuck day’ with a pillow between my legs. Thank you very much.”

“No? Not gonna rawdog it while you’re thinking of me?”

Your eyes widen at that wild accusation - not that he was wrong about the latter assumption. But you certainly wouldn’t let him know that.

Your cheeks flush slightly and you quickly force your parted lips into a firm, tight line. “For your information. I’ll not spend my day all sad and pathetic home alone but will be going out to Jerry’s Coffeehouse and treat myself with an extra large matcha milkshake with chocolate chips and loads of vanilla syrup. And it’ll be my best fucking Valentine’s day.”

His eyebrow pops up at that, his sharp eyes observing you for a moment as if he’s considering something, his expression a mixture between amusement and something else which you can’t quite read.

After a moment his lips quirk, voice confident, but there’s also a hint of curiosity hidden behind it, “Ah, that’s a code word for you rounding the bases, hm? Get yourself a sweet fuckin’ home run. All Turn-Down and the whole nine yards.”

“What? No – agh - Not everything’s about sex, Ben.” You groan and drag a hand down your face, trying your best to hide the tinge of bitterness in your voice. “Unlike me, I bet you wouldn’t survive a day without jerking off if I wasn’t cockblocking you with my mere presence.”

“And I bet I could ruin you real fast if you didn’t act like a little tight-folded nun around me all the time.”

Your breath catches in your throat for a moment. In all these weeks, Ben never made a move on you. Not even a single attempt at flirting with you. To the point that - even though you knew you shouldn’t - you started to wonder whether it was your looks or your personality you’d have to blame for.

So, yes, you have indeed acted rather, let’s say, ‘reserved’ around Ben.

But that wasn’t because you were appalled by the thought of what he could do to you with you sprawled out beneath him, all open and inviting. Quite the contrary. It was because you liked the thought, but also didn’t want to fall for yet another man who’d just use you for his pleasure.

So you made sure to keep him at an arms length.

“Jesus, you’re so damn vulgar.” You utter, your back slumped against the couch’s armrest while you try your best to act unaffected by his words, “ You kiss a lady with that dirty mouth of yours?”

“What’s the deal with you chicks? I ain’t friggin' Cary Grant, y’know?” He takes a messy swig of his beer and briefly wipes his beard with the back of his hand, “Y’all so damn sensitive.”

“Yeah, I wish.” You grumble, the words slipping your lips before you can give them a second thought.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.”

“You don’t believe me, sweetheart?”

“You know what? Yeah.” You retort out of nowhere, purely driven by all the pent-up frustration of the past months. Straightening up, you proceed to make it worse in such a confident tone which even surprises yourself, “I bet my ass that I could outlast you in bed.”

It was frustrating. And felt embarrassing. Really. It didn’t help that you tried to sell it as if it was an achievement worth an oscar.

"Well, that just proofs it then."

"Proofs what?"

"That you're a wuss-fucker. Just some pathetic fucking dicks dippin' in there." Ben jerks his head towards the spot hidden between your tightly crossed legs and he snorts in amusement at your grimace. "What? ‘Tis a real shame’s all I’m sayin’. I mean, what real man doesn't make sure his girl gets off first.” He leans back and sneers against the mouth of his beer bottle, “'S pathetic, really."

"Yeah, right." you roll your eyes, your voice tighter, "'Cuz I bet you're such a gentleman in bed. But you can't proof shit."

“Oh you’re on.” He quickly sets down the bottle and flashes his cocky grin at you, his voice dropping an octave to hit that tingling spot inside you, “I’ll have you cum so damn hard, you’ll be screamin’ and kickin’ while I hold ya down. And guess what, sweetheart…”

He pushes off the chair, his large frame looming over you before he bends down to your eye-level, his voice dipping into a low, deep gravelly tone, “I ain’t gunna let ya move a single inch… and have you take it like a good fuckin’ girl.”

Silence. Only the soft gulp of your last sense of self-control getting forced down your throat cuts through the thick air between you.

He holds your gaze, a playful smile spread across his lips when he straightens up again, his voice nonchalant. “‘Course, only if you want.”

“I do.” The answer came faster than you could even process it.

He looks back down at you, a flash of genuine surprise crossing his eyes before he covers it up with a smug expression, “Oh yeah?”

His words were like the flick of a switch.

Next moment clothings were flying across the room, partially torn as neither of you had the patience to get them off properly. The heat between you skyrocketed, heavy breathing filling your ears in tandem with intense drumming of your heart. Soft golden rays peek through the shutters, their light bouncing off his darkened eyes and casting shadows of wild, fervent bodies moving through the room like a tempest.

God you felt so pent up - it was driving you mad. The desperate need for relief, for reaching that sweet peak of ecstasy. It clouds your mind, has your will to think straight completely subdued.

Ben doesn’t seem to be in much more control either, his hands flying across your body, like he doesn’t know what to explore first. He pushes you up against the wall, the force deliberately kept to a minimum. His nose draws a line across your shoulder, inhaling your scent like a drug, all the way up your neck until he exhales again, the hot breath pressed against your skin under your jaw.

“Fuck me – you’re intoxicatin’, woman.” He rasps out, his voice raw and full of barely contained need.

Your breath comes out shaky, head tilted to the side without a second thought. “Ben,” you say his name close to a whine, your mind handing over the reigns to him, “Please don’t stop.”

“Won’t-” he mutters against your skin, his voice muffled by the trail of kisses, “’M not gonna stop until you’ve cum.” His teeth skim along your pulse point and for a moment you feel like your legs give in. But he quickly steadies you, his large hands moving down your sides to hold onto your hips with a firm grip. “Promise.” He adds hoarsely, some of your skin now tugged between his teeth as he starts to leave love bites in his wake. “We got a bet goin’, after all.”

Your body’s now moving on instinct and for only one purpose. Your need, your heat, it’ll keep you going, you know it. No matter how long you’ll have to pant like a racing horse, no matter how much you’ll regret it the next day when you’ll feel stiff and aching at places you didn’t even know you had muscles.

It all doesn’t matter right now. It is all just you and him. The world reduced to his strong arms wrapped around your fragile frame, his muscles flexing as he lifts you up, and his world reduced to your legs wrapping around his hips, your aching core pressed up against his bulging boxers.

Your lips collide with his, their first meeting sending a bolt of pleasure through your body. Your mind goes hazy, your legs tighten around his hips and your hands hang onto his shoulder in an attempt to hold him close.

Your heads swivel, mouths working passionate. But to your surprise, Ben still keeps it slow, savouring every bit of your lips dancing around his. His tongue’s tasting the inside of your mouth as he swallows your moans and fills it with his own groans. Teeth gently pull at your lower lip before he finally breaks the kiss, to give you the chance to catch your breath.

You pant against him, your lips burning from the stubbles but still lingering there. You suddenly feel the rest of your body again, a shudder running down your spine, right to your aching core.

That’s when you notice how wet your inner thighs are, the slick coating your skin and folds. Ben licks his lips, the scent of your undeniable arousal filling his senses. He moves you on his hips, pinning you further against the wall to hold you in place with one hand while the other trails over the bump of your hipbones, dipping down between your legs.

“Christ on a Stake. You’re so fuckin’ pent up. What did those wusses do to let you leave like this?” He groans, fingers coating in your slick as he runs them down your inner thigh.

Your eyes briefly flutter closed, your hips bucking against him with the need for some friction already. “Please, I- Ah-fff- ” You mutter, your words cut short by a terribly needy whine when Bens fingertips brush across your clit.

“Yeah, yeah, calm the hell down” he chuckles, his lips back to suck a red mark at your neck, “’M gonna take care of that needy pussy of yours, dontcha worry.”

You nod, soft moans slipping your red puffy lips as he assaults every inch of skin he can reach. Your eyes widen with a yelp when you suddenly feel yourself getting heaved up high and your limbs flail uncontrollably in a panic.

“Hey- stop struggling darlin’, I don’t wanna hurt you.” He orders gruffly, his fingers digging into the flesh of your hips to keep you safely in his grip. With one swift move he lifts you high enough for your legs to drape over his shoulders on each side, his palms now wrapping around the underside of your thighs to keep you pinned between the wall and his head. In moments like these you could feel a shiver run down your back, as you’d just been reminded again of the inhuman power imbalance between you two. Fuck - he could snap you in two if he’d want to.

“Now that’s a view I could get used to,” He growls, his lips curled into a hungry smile at the sight of your dripping hole, all open and inviting, and right on his eye-level. “So damn needy. ‘N so damn beautiful.” He muses, ignoring the increased panting of yours against the top of his head while you’re murmuring his name like a prayer.

His grip tightens as he pushes his head between your thighs, his hot breath against your clit sending sparks of fire through your body. He digs right in, eagerly swiping his tongue between your folds, swirling around your clit, teasing your entrance with slow deliberate slaps of his tongue. You start to squirm and moan in response, the friction like a pain-killer to your aching core.

“Hold still damn it,” he orders, the rumbling of his voice against your folds sending shivers up your spine. You whimper and his intensity increases in response. He groans when your fingers tangle up in his hair and your fingernails scrape at his scalp with frantic motions.

“Fffuck- please, please, please don’t stop, don’t stop-” You plead in weak whimpers as you can feel his beard burn your sensitive skin with every drag of his tongue up your folds, the prickling pain mixing with your pleasure. Meanwhile the muscles in his arms flex to hold you still, keep you pinned up high against the wall and to make sure you don’t accidentally tumble off his shoulders.

His lips close around your clit and he starts to suck terrible whines out of you, your legs fighting his hands under his onslaught. Your pleasure begins to coil tight, your body twitches and your fingers claw at his long hair for the following minutes - but it never snaps. How the fuck does it still not snap?

A whine of protest leaves your lips when he suddenly pulls his head back. You watch his glistening face from half lidded eyes, your chest heaving, some of your sweet juice caught in his beard.

“Damn, darlin’, you’re a tough case, huh?” He chuckles, the tongue swiping his lips to savour your taste again with a low praising groan, “Fuck- Marilyn Monroe’s a dumpster next to you. You taste like fuckin’ heaven.”

A gasp slips your lips when he decides to haul you over his shoulder and with three long strides crosses the room over to the bed when a SMACK has you yelp up. The skin of your asscheek reddens where his hand just swatted you and he chuckles. “You’ve got a long night ahead of you.”

You struggle and squirm in protest but it’s no use, his tight grip around your waist keeps you on his shoulder, facing the other way with your nice bum exposed to him. “You ain’t goin’ anywhere.” His hand swats your other asscheek this time and he laughs at your needy whine, his tone amused as you can practically hear the smirk playing on is lips, “I haven’t even started.”

His voice sounds raspy, but his tone tells you he’s thrilled, as if the fact that you didn’t shatter from his touch yet, has him enthralled. After all, Soldier Boy was used to things being easy for him, to succeed with half an effort, so real challenges were a rare case for him. And your stubbornly high resistance to falling over the edge seemed to be just that.

Next moment Ben bends down, dropping you gently onto the bed before the mattress dips down under his additional weight when he crawls on top of you. His hands roam your body, groping the soft flesh at your hips, your thighs, roughly massaging your breasts as he pinches your nipples between his fingers.

You start to squirm and tremble from need, your fingernails scraping at his taut muscles that box you in from all sides. “Just hold still for me, yeah? Just lemme do the work…” he husks out, voice low and dangerous with promise that sends a shiver down your spine.

He leans in and breaths hot and low against the shell of your ear while you feel his hand trail down between your shaking legs. “Will get this needy pussy wrecked and all mine…”

You hum into his shoulder when he pushes his index finger past your slick folds, and he takes that as a cue that you need more, so his middle finger quickly follows. This time he manages to draw a soft moan from your lips, your arms wrapping around his neck where you start to kiss and nibble his skin. “You greedy little thing…” he growls, his lips quirked into a smirk.

He starts to pump them, his fingers curling to hit your spongy spot that earns him at least a little louder moan. “Please,” you start to beg, “I need more, Ben… please-” He doesn’t wait and jams a third finger inside your tight cunt before he flicks his thumb over the hood of your swollen clit, the pace of his hand slapping loudly against your cunt increasing. The stretch of his fat fingers filling you up, rubbing your g-spot and scissoring, it all has your legs trembling, the coil in your stomach tightening again to the point where it just – flat lines.

Ben notices the frustration in your eyes and he leans in to press a sloppy kiss onto your damp forehead. His thumb rubs faster circles over your clit, his eyes locked onto your face when his impatience starts to mutter under his breath. "We got us a real stubborn pussy here, hm? You think everyone else is too much of a wuss to keep up with you, huh? Is that it? You need someone who can give as good as they get?"

“Fine” He grunts, pulling his fingers from your dripping hole, his voice gruff with irritated determination, “Looks like this’ a job for my dick. Gonna fuck you over that edge in no time.”

“Please.” You whine, your face buried in his broad shoulder. Your clit swollen, throbbing, tingling, every nerve of your body burning hot and leading down to that one single aching knot as your system was threatening to short-circuit your brain, just to get this damn bundle of nerves to finally erupt.

He quickly gets rid of his boxers, his thick cock free and fully erect. He grapples with your twitching legs, spreading them apart and pulling you back towards his hips where his pink tip pushes against your entrance. You stifle a mewl, your hips bucking instinctively as you need him. Need all of him.

Both of your groans collide between your lips when he snaps his hips and pushes his shaft all the way into your tight channel in one - unceremonious – go. He stills for a moment, his breath hot and heavy when it wafts against your face, “You good?”

His voice was low, a hoarse whisper between the two of you. You nod once again, a weak “yeah” tumbling off your lips. His hands move up to grip onto your hips like handles, his hips slowly starting to move.

You groan at the feeling of his thick pulsing length dragging down your soft walls before being jammed back in all the way up until he hits your cervix and he coaxes a whimper from you. His pace isn’t fast, but his thrusts are deep, each one well measured and deliberate.

“That’s it, you can take it… taking my cock so fuckin’ well...” He mutters against your skin, his tongue swiping across your salty skin.

When he starts to increase his force, your fingers dig into his skin and if it wasn’t for his indestructibleness, he was sure he’d have some nice and long claw marks of you down his back. He hooks your legs over his shoulders and cants your hips, getting an even deeper angle this way. Slouching noise fills the room, the sound of wet skin clashing together in time with your increasing moans and whines and his grunts and groans.

His hand suddenly reaches up to grab your chin, his eyes locking onto yours. "See, darlin'? I’ll have you fall apart beneath me soon enough… can't keep your pussy giving me that attitude, that's how you end up in a mess like this.” He mocks you with a teasing chuckle, “Getting the stuffing pounded out of you, all because you couldn't control that naughty mouth of yours and had to make a bet with me."

You just nod, the meaning of his words flying by your clouded mind. Your sole focus’ on your building pleasure, rapidly charging up your throbbing clit. Ben notices it too when your walls start to clamp down on his cock, every hard thrust forcing its way back in to keep the pleasure building.

“Fuck – you’re so tight – You gonna strangle my damn dick at this point.” He hisses, his fingers digging into your flesh again to pull your hips back and meet his thrusts.

“You close, darlin’?” Ben grunts above you.

There it is again. That embarrassing moment of silence. You would’ve sighed right now if it wasn’t for you being buried beneath Ben and his punctured thrusts knocking the air out of you.

Are you close? Your core’s on fire. Certainly. To the point where it hurts even. You feel your legs and feet tingling like white-noise is rushing through your blood, leaving every sensitive nerve in its wake going numb.

But still. You know you wouldn’t tip over. Stuck in that fucking uphill battle. It was just. Not. Enough. It never was nowadays.

The blatant lie sits on the tip of your tongue when Ben’s gruff voice suddenly cuts in.

“Don’t you fuckin’ dare fake it.”

How - Your mind comes to a screeching halt.

You choke it back down. Cancel the act that was up next, your well-versed finale to the dull program you were used to.

Shit, he knows.

“N-no…” you confess under your breath. The sound of it weak and to your relief, lost between his heavy grunts.

Or so you think.

“What? You think I’m some spineless wuss who can’t get his girl off?” He punctures each word with a deep thrust as he keeps pounding you into the mattress, “Just tell me whatever the fuck you need me to do, I’m not gonna cry, Jesus Christ.” He continues to reprimand you in a firm tone, his voice holding a hint of disappointment.

You gasp, your breath gets stuck in your throat. No man has ever asked you this before. No one.

Ben suddenly stills, his green eyes locking with yours when his voice takes a serious tone, “You need me to be rougher, pretty girl? That it?”

Your breath hitches, your mind dizzy and clouded by his musky scent, the feeling of him inside you, above you, all around you - and the heat still burning between your legs, still not on that damn edge to your long chased relief.

He leans down next to your head to scrub his beard along your cheeks and up to your ear, “Just say the word,” he growls and you can practically see the smirk spread across his face by the way he sounds.

He knows. Fuck he knows you need more.

And yet he waits for your response, patiently, his body still hanging onto you with a tight grip while his hot breath wafts against the shell of your ear in short bursts like a countdown.

There’s a moment of tense silence, like the calm before a storm. A force that is waiting for you to invite it in, to let it wreck your temple.

“Y-yes, please,” Your voice’s trembling slightly from each puff of warm air that’s huffed from between his lips and smothered across your skin, sending a shiver down your back.

“Jackpot,” he hums, a satisfied expression on his face before his lips begin aimlessly placing kisses all over your face, as if trying to soothe your frustration. “Not gunna hold back anymore… gunna fuck you so long ‘n so hard you won’t be able to walk for the next days. You like that thought, hm?”

“Y—yeah- please – just don’t stop…” you admit with a needy whine, your legs twitching against his shoulders and your head tilted back while your hands start to fist the sheets in anticipation. You’d surely fall over the edge in the next minutes. You had to.

Little did you know, that you’d still be going for the next couple of hours.

You switched positions every time you felt how your clit was going numb from the overstimulation and the pent up energy. Ben’s bulky body kept working relentlessly, his power not faltering once, his pace never slowing down unless he noticed you needed a moment to catch your breath.

He’d be trapping you under him, ass high up in the air, back pressed down with one hand splayed across it, wrists somewhere buried in the pillows and pinned there roughly by his other hand as he slammed is cock against your cervix in a brutal pace.

“Tell me when you’re close,” he orders, his lips against the spot behind your ear and his long, stubby beard scraping your skin as his jaw moves, “I want to see your beautiful face when you rock that high the way you fuckin’ deserve.”

“Oh- Oh fuck- I- I’m close-“ you scream as you feel his hard tip punch your spongy walls like he’s trying to engrave himself into your every inch and his fingers meanwhile rubbing your clit sore. He roughly flips you over onto your back, his lips catching yours just in time when your walls flutter around him and finally, finally that sweet relief crashes down on you. Unexpected and intoxicating as your guttural moans get muffled by his mouth. “God- this- you, God-”

He pulls back, huffing a raspy laughter with a mock-offended tone, “God? I’m fuckin’ better.” He feels your cum coat his cock, your walls wrapping tightly around him. It takes all his will power to hold himself back, to not empty himself inside you. Not yet. Not when he’d promised you to keep going all night. “That’s it,” He plants a praising kiss onto your forehead, his gruff voice rumbling against your skin, “And now let’s hear it once more. Just for good measure.”

And he does. Fingers sink into your skin whenever he’d move you around, large hands holding you down, up, on top of him, against him, muscles working all around you while they would bend or push you into any position, effortlessly.

His superhuman strength overpowers you without even trying, but it feels like he’s only ever using as little as needed to get a reaction out of you. A good reaction. When he roughly flips you over again, pushes you into the mattress, pins your head to the sheets as you squirm and tremble under him, you notice his lips brush up against your ear more frequently, murmuring incoherent, soothing words. Like he’s following the urge to be closer to you. Making silent check-ins. Always making sure you’re not overwhelmed, making sure that those wines and yelps are the cause of pleasurable pain and nothing else. At last, you find yourself on top of him, straddling his hips, bouncing on his hard cock as you ride him like a bull. “What was that about you outlasting me, huh?” He taunts and mocks you in time with rough strokes along your exhausted gummiwalls, “‘bout taking whatever I can throw at you, hm?” He snaps his hips up to meet you halfway when you yelp a short admission, “O-okay, you win!”

His lips curl into a smug smile, “What was that? You gotta work that pretty mouth of yours. Gramps ears ain’t that good.” He pulls you down roughly, making you take him deeper with each thrust of his.

“Y-yar r-ah-iight!” You groan as you fall apart one more final time. Your walls flutter and this time he allows himself to let you pull him over the edge along you. His pulsing cock coating your insides with his warm cum. Your voice’s raspy from the harsh breaths you’ve sucked down your open mouth for the past hours.

You collapse to his chest, shaking from the waves of pleasure that rippled through your every fibre and the feeling of his warm seeds filling you up and dripping down his shaft and onto his skin. His arms wrap around your back to hold you close while he murmurs naughty words against the crown of your head.

While Ben had gotten himself a joint to smoke, you padded into the bathroom, getting yourself cleaned. “You doin’ good, darlin’?” He calls after you, loosley holding the joint between his lips as he props himself up against the bed’s headboard.

You return after a while, your body wrapped up in a towel as you make your way back to the bed and snuggle up to him. He drapes his arm lazily around your shoulder, pulling you closer so that your head rests on his firm chest.

“You really had to work for it… huh?” You break the silence with a low mutter, feeling some embarrassment creep up on you.

“You kiddin’?” His eyes snap down at you and he takes a drag of his joint before he continues, “Darlin’, you’ve got the drive of a bunny in heat. Taking my cock so fuckin’ well. Most tap out after the second round but you -“ he lets out a low whistle close to a hiss, “- you just keep goin’ all night – Fuckin’ unbelievable.”

“Oh shush…” You giggle sheepishly.

“Just speaking the damn truth. You be proud of that, ya hear me?” He says in a firm voice, while he reaches up to stroke a damp hair out of your face.

You smile, feeling your chest tingle and your cheek warm up, “This was… this was unbelievable. You were amazing.”

He laughs and flashes a cocky grin down at you, “Told ya my dick would beat your pussy over that edge.“

You cringe inwardly at his choice of words, “That’s not what I meant. I’m not talking about your… your dick or your stamina. I’m talking about you.” You pause, his eyebrows knot together and you quickly add, "Like, non-physically."

He stares at you, nonplussed - then irritated. “Fuck me. You - you snort some of my shit, prissy little thing?”

“No, Ben-,” a soft, frustrated chuckle escapes your lips that makes his eyebrows twitch together again, “You - you are amazing.”

You repeat but this time tilt your head back to hold his gaze, like you’re pointing at the soul hiding behind those green orbs that stare back at you, while your fingers draw invisible circles on his arms.

Silence.

Ben’s sharp eyes are searching your face for clues, like he’s mentally going through every drug that could have led you to say something as ridiculous as that.

You smile in return. A genuine, honest smile. Aimed at him. And his mind short circuits for a moment.

A faint flash of something like a blush crosses his cheeks, but it is covered up the same moment with his usual gruff expression and an irritated scoff. “‘Course I’m fuckin’ amazin’. Besides that, I just wanted to win the bet.” His teeth flash at you between a cocky smirk. “And I proofed you damn wrong.”

Ah, there it is again, good ol’ Soldier Boy.

Walls and barb wire and mine field; all up and ready to defend that one and only fragile part of his indestructible body. Keeping it strapped down by some rush of power trip and waterboarded in his twisted idea of love.

You chuckle, knowingly. That damn soft smile on your lips again.

He stares down at you with an unreadable expression, like he’s fighting the urge to slap some sense into you for throwing such an inappropriate gesture his way. To him, it was infuriating, really. But thanks to that stupid curve dancing across your face, he now feels himself caught up in a whole new range of emotions.

You could have gotten up now and left. Like you were sure he expected you to. Probably one of the reasons he kept silent, his brows pulled low like a defensive shield against your gaze, his arm draped around your shoulders so awkwardly… ‘cuz he knew he wasn’t good at this. Aftercare. He’s practically just waiting for you to snap at him, and pull away without another good word. His eyes narrow further, almost provoking it now as he felt himself slowly crumble under your warm presence.

But none of these thoughts crossed your mind. Instead your fingers gently trace the frame of his hardened face that could’ve fooled anyone but you.

That speck of a blush had been more than enough reason to settle down further into his chest with a soft hum, “Mhm, you did win... Win-win.”

Mindless chattering carries the cozy atmosphere of Jerry’s Coffehouse, each table occupied by couples sharing desserts and passionate kisses. All except the one set under your arms, your fingers loosely holding onto the card before you drop it to the table in resignation.

The sweet scent of sugary sins whirls around your nose, intrusive, mocking you. Now that you are here, sitting in the middle of a room full of unfiltered, tooth-aching love all around you, it seems like your appetite has been spoiled for good.

Truth be told, you can’t entirely blame the lovestruck couples boxing you in like in a bully circle. The problem is much worse. You feel lonely. Not the usual lonely, but terribly lonely because you had something for a moment, something real special, and now it was gone again.

It feels like so many unspoken feelings still hang in the air. At least for you there are. You are pretty sure that Ben was more than happy about Butcher’s interruption just when you thought you’d seen a glimpse of something more beneath this scraggy hard shell of “Soldier Boy”.

You exhale heavily. Your eyes glued down to your empty hands.

Well, it doesn’t matter now, does it? Your job to watch Soldier Boy was done. He’d moved on. It was over. After all, last night was just for some fun, right? Something to finally get you off, to feel so much more than-

You mentally kick yourself. Get your shit together and get back to your old life.

You fish out your phone from your pocket and open the fanfic from yesterday. With a heavy sigh you scroll down the blurry words, memories of your past night flashing across your inner eye – when a sudden noise almost has you drop your phone.

The coffee table rattles under your elbows as the opposite chair clatters into it under the force of a kick and the following screeching sound has some heads whirl around to watch the scene with raised eyebrows.

Whipped cream sploshes for a second as the large glass CLANGS down in front of you and hits the wooden surface with the force of a drunken man handling a beer bottle. You instinctively dodge back in your seat. Your eyes watch the green contents of it sway under the thick layer of chocolate sprinkled cream topping before your befuddled look darts up to meet him.

Ben slumps down across of you. His casual clothes almost could’ve fooled one to believe he’s a regular guy, if it wasn’t for his bulky frame hanging off the seat in all directions.

He looks a tad annoyed, but that was something you’d long become accustomed to. There was always something that pissed Ben off when you were around. Or someone for that matter. But mostly, it was just his resting face and you knew better than to take it personally.

“Couples get one pussy milk for two.” He states gruffly, ignoring all the faces turned his way now.

“…Ben? What the hell are you doing here?” You sputter, thrown off by the sudden whiff of musky smoke mixed with an unusual, intense, fresh and masculine smell… was that perfume that just hit your nose?

His stern expression melts into a flirtatious smile. This is new. “Hey sweetheart. Miss me yet?”

“How did you know I was here? - Wait- did you just say, for couples?”

“That’s what the sailor-hat-cum-gobbler back there said.” He boots back the chair next to you to kick up his legs while he continues with an annoyed grunt, but lacked any bite, “This green spew better be worth my damn money.”

You blink at him rapidly, and quite frankly, dumbfounded. Is that emotionally constipated man even aware of what he just said or-

“That’s what we are, innit?” He cuts you short, his voice as gravelly and confident as always.

But the way his green pupils glance up at you from the corner of his eyes, a thick strand of hair falling into his face when his head tilted away slightly, like a puppy afraid to get kicked… His emotions were subtle, a rare and fleeting moment, and anybody else might have dismissed it. But it told you so much more than he was willing to admit.

When your eyes flicker down to his hand twitching from his death grip on the arm rest, your chest tightens.

Oh my God. Ben was dead fucking serious.

“Don’t people usually first date?” You chuckle nervously, trying to lighten the mood.

And to buy yourself some time as you try to grapple with a situation you had never expected to find yourself in.

In fact, you have pictured yourself in it ever since you stepped into that shabby damn motel room where he had locked eyes with you for the very first time.

His stern expression makes way for a raucous laughter, his voice booming across the small coffee in pride. “I think we’re past that point, love, after I’ve fucked you raw. For five fucking hours. That’s longer than any damn date I’ve ever had.”

“Jesus Christ - Ben - tune it down! Please.” You plead in a hushed voice, face flushed as you can sense all the curious eyes watching you both closely, like you’re part of a live performance. And a scandalous one on top.

“I don’t hear any complaints. Just stating the facts here, sweetheart.” He chuckles cockily and winks at you, clearly his full ego back in place again, “So it’s settled, then?”

“Uh- I - uh-,” you stumble over your words, your hands fidgeting and your head still reeling from the fact that he had just announced your new relationship status as if he’d made a decent marketing deal with Vought.

His eyebrows push together, that familiar look of impatience taking over his face as he tries to understand why you’re still hesitating. You swallow thickly, the lump in your throat blocking any chance to voice your inner struggles.

You visibly shrink under his intense gaze and your eyes sink to the table, unsure of what to do. You sense him move across of you and you half-expect him to either snark at you now or just simply get up and leave. Damnit, now you fucked up.

But instead he slides the XXL milkshake across the table until it bumps into your tightly clasped hands and your eyes dart up to meet his again. He searches your face, emerald eyes sharp, analysing, but motivated by genuine concern.

His calloused fingers slide off the glass to brush them against yours, gentle, almost hesitant. As if those very same fingers hadn’t groped and gripped your flesh all night like he wanted to leave his marks on every inch of your body.

His large hand moves to cover both of yours, muffling the fidgeting of your fingers with a calm and heavy presence, his actions a big contrast to his rumbling voice. “Hey, you still with me?” He husks out your name, his green eyes boring into yours, gauging your reaction.

Your breath hitches, he squeezes your hands, the tension eases. Ben’s grounding you.

“Yes.” You finally whisper with an affectionate smile, and the same moment his fingers twitch around your hands. “It’s settled.”

“Good.” He mutters to himself and his expression seems almost… relieved.

It’s this moment you realise something: Ben’s not been avoiding his usual flirty and cocky smiles because he didn’t like you or thought you weren’t worth a fling. But because you were more than a possible fling to him. Because this, this was dead serious to him. And he was probably terrified of screwing it up.

After all, people didn’t love Benjamin for showing emotions, for vulnerability, for weakness, for being human. They loved Soldier Boy for being a fucking hero. The strongest. Indestructible. And not caressing fragile hands like they were an extention of the most precious soul in the whole damn universe to him.

His hands squeeze yours once more, as if physically reassuring you, before he pulls away and leans back again, now a content smile embellishing his firm face.

A genuine smile. No show. No flirty Soldier Boy.

From one ear to the other, all Benjamin.

As if he’d seen himself in the mirror, he suddenly shifts in his seat, like he’s physically trying to shake off any remaining trace of that disgusting vulnerability. “Right, so…” He clears his throat, his eyes flickering around the packed coffee shop like he’s looking for some moron to latch onto.

You chuckle softly at the sight, knowing all too well that it’ll probably take a hell of a lot of time and love to get him to smile more like this without having him recoil from his own feelings every time.

Sure enough, Ben has found the perfect victim. “Think we gotta step up our couple-game. Popeye’s still ain’t buyin’ it.” He smirks, his eyes lazily rolling over to briefly shoot a death glare at the sailor-hat wearing employee who’s now cowering behind the counter.

He then reaches over the table again, his index finger flicking against one of the two red-white striped straws bobbing in the sweet drink, before he goes on to strangle his own between his calloused finger pads.

“The dick bender’s been watching you all this time.” He growls, and you can feel just a hint of protectiveness from the way his jaw muscle twitches beneath his beard and his nose wrinkles above the straw that’s now been jammed between his bared teeth.

“Everyone’s watching us, Ben.” You chuckle, before your eyes trail down to the free straw with an amused smile.

Ben nudges your inner thigh with his foot under the table to get your attention. ��C’mon, you make me look like some cocksucker here.” He teases and jerks his chin at you and the untouched straw still dangling off your side of the milkshake, “You said you wanted a fucking great Valentine’s day, right? So do me a favour, sweetheart, and start sucking.”

You chuckle and bring the straw up to your mouth to wrap your lips around it. You take the first slurp and your cheeks melt into a wide, knowing smile.

Matcha milkshake with chocolate chips and extra vanilla syrup. That much for ‘a code word’.

-------------

A/N: I hope this turned out okay?? 😭

Also. Maybe I was breaking a taboo here or maybe it’s not as common as I thought, but I felt like it's a topic which I have rarely ever see in fanfics. And I know how some just don’t fall over the edge that easily? Like sometimes it genuinely feels frustrating to chase that relief to no end with no success? Yeah, this story is for you all. I hear you. 🧡

Starting a Soldier Boy tag list for anyone who’s interested! ♡

[kmt123whatsthetea]

Official Business

Fred Weasley x reader

Requested by: @mytrinityphelps

Request: “Office sex with coworker Fred Weasley (and him wearing glasses)”

A/N: Thank you for the request! I'm sorry it's taken so long to actually start and upload. But it never slipped my mind. This might just be my longest fic yet, so I hope it's actually enjoyable. I’m not gonna lie, I kinda forgot about the glasses request and I’m so sorry. I reread the request and went “mentioning glasses once might not cover it”. I’m sorry

T/W: Unprotected sex, Office banter, Blowjob, Nearly caught, Belly bulge,

What could you say about working as an Auror?

It was a decent job with decent pay, the hours were your casual 9 to 5 with weekends off.

Oh, and there was your coworker Fred. He wasn't the most serious guy, having left his job at a joke shop for better pay to keep his business up and running.

He was tolerable, unlike some of the other stuffy old workers who were seemingly glued to their desks. He was a little older than you with a ginger mop of hair and glasses that framed his deep brown eyes. He was friendly, always offering to bring you a morning tea and coffee personally instead of relying on the house elves. He even bought you a small owl ornament for your desk to commemorate your first year anniversary of working there.

Maybe you liked the flirty banter more. How during lunch breaks he’d comment about how you looked better than any dessert ever could, and that he looked forward to your smile more than any monthly wage slip. He really knew how to make your day brighter.

When he noticed the blush that spread across your cheeks in response to his teasing, he took a step up. Some of your favorite comments of his all shared a similar trait. They made you want to jump his bones. It was impossible not to when he spoke the stuff of wet dreams in that soft teasing tone.

“Your lipstick looks pretty, I wonder how it would look trailing down my chest”

“Looks like you’ve had a heavy workload today. Here I’d hoped you could take heavy loads, baby”

“You look tired, you’d sleep a lot better in my bed”

Oh, he was really trying to rile you up. And it was working like a charm.

Working overtime wasn’t rare in this line of work. Desk jobs always had their fair share of paperwork pile ups. Most workers left it till the next day or took it home to complete when possible. You only had a bit of work left and decided to stay to avoid the unnecessary task of homework.

One thing that caught you off guard was that Fred hadn’t said goodnight to you like he usually did before leaving. He did it every night. Was he angry at you? Had you said the wrong thing?

The thought stung a little, but you could always ask him about it the next morning.

Half an hour into your work was enough for a tea break. It wasn't procrastination if it counted as hydrating. Heading along the familiar hallway was second nature for you, but stopping dead was new. In the vast rows of desks, was a familiar ginger mop of hair. Was Fred Weasley staying late?

You made your way downstairs, an idea in mind.

Fred hated staying late. He hated this job. He had only taken it for some extra income towards the joke shop. He took the 9 to 5 job due to Georgie and Angelina expecting their first. At least if he was running the shop, he could be more lenient with trips to St Mungos. He still had a whole 3 hours worth of work to get through just to catch up. How people did this full time, he didn't know.

The approach of heels made him keep his head down, thinking it was some higher up reader to scold him for not taking the job seriously. But when a mug of coffee was placed before him, his head soon whipped up. There you were, like an angel in his time of need. You somehow looked perfect, like you weren't working overtime from an 8 hour shift. Instead of reaching for the mug handle, he reached for your hand in a tender grip.

“You’re a lifesaver, you know.

Your thumb trailed over his knuckles softly, a soft yet teasing smile on your face.

“I guess you owe me then”

That brought a smile to his face, giving your hand a tug causing you to fall onto his lap. You laughed softly, your hands finding his shoulders. This was his usual flirting to the max. But what was the harm in a bit of teasing?

“Give it your best shot, Weasley”

Knowing Fred in the capacity that you did, you should have known that he wouldn't take it as harmless teasing. He took it as a challenge.

His other hand found your cheek, pulling you closer to press his lips to yours in a kiss that seemed almost desperate. He let go of your wrist in favour of holding your waist to keep you steady on his lap. His lips pressed harder against yours, like a kiss along could merge your bodies. He wanted to be closer to you. He seemed confused when you got off of his lap, trying to hold onto you tighter, but his confusion turned into shock when you lowered yourself between his spread legs. He couldn't help his excitement as he practically ripped his belt off.

“You’re really gonna suck my dick? Sweetheart, you’re something else. Most girls would complain about ruining their lipstick, but you love being a dirty little office slut, don't you?”

He groaned when you pressed a kiss to his bulge in response before your hand took over, palming him teasingly. Your fingers tugged his zipper and fumbled with his button before his boxers came into view, and they were pulled down even quicker. Fred reached into his boxers, pulling his cock out. It stood tall before your face, his shaft veiny and girthy. The curtains definitely matched the drapes when it came to his pubes.

“Are you always this hard, Fred, or does a bit of kissing turn you on?”

He chuckled, his hand cupping your jaw to pull you closer.

“I'm always hard for you, I just don't show it as blatantly as you do. I knew how wet you got for me. I wonder if you ever played with yourself in the bathrooms thinking of me…or did you just finger yourself under your desk while I told you how pretty you looked every morning?”

That blush that filled your cheeks when he spoke, that's what he loved most about you. How that small tint of pink made you irresistible. How naturally it did.

His thumb caressed your blushing cheek, it was the result of him after all. Little did he know, it was all for him. You’d give all of yourself to him.

Your tongue gave his tip a gentle prod, reveling in his hiss at the touch. He sounded beautiful with every response, but those you drew from him were your favourite. Your lips wrapped around his tip, suckling softly. Fred stifled his moans, bringing his tie to his mouth and biting it to keep himself quiet from any other late workers. You looked up at him through your lashes, the sight making you wetter. Fred was leaning back in his chair with his eyes closed, his face nearly as red as his hair and his tie tucked between his lips while his cock throbbed for attention. He was like fine art.

Your lips returned to his cock, your cheeks hollowed as you tried to take him in your throat. His eyes bugged out when he felt your mouth take him deeper. But it was all cut short at the sound of footsteps coming down the hallway. Fred pulled the tie from his mouth and nudged you gently, his voice merely a hushed whisper.

“Sweetie, stop. Someone, fuck…someones coming”

His hands ushered towards the underside of his desk making sure you were tucked in before pulling his chair up and trapping you between his legs. The footsteps stopped by his desk, one of your colleagues commenting on how he was here late, making some joke about his allergy for work slowly being cured. Fred could only nod along, his mind still in panic mode from nearly being caught getting sucked off by a coworker. You, on the other hand, took delight in how the tables had turned. It was your turn to tease him.

You leaned your face closer to his cock, sliding your tongue along his shaft and tracing his veins. You could hear his groan which he quickly covered up with a coughing fit. You could hear the coworker checking on him and patting his back, but you didn't give him a reprieve. Your lips circled his tip, suckling gently. Your coworker ran off, something about getting some water for Fred. He pulled his chair back and helped you out from under the desk.

“Sweetheart, we don’t have time”

He pulls his shirt over his erection and drags you by the hand, along the hallway and to the small utility cupboard that housed quills and inks. He pushed you in first and followed you inside, muttering a few enchantments under his breath. He had to make sure no one would hear you two and most importantly, that no one would try and open the door.

His hands wrapped around your waist like a python, pulling you into him. You pulled your pencil skirt up, hooking your leg over his hip. You dropped your voice to a sultry whisper.

“Then you better not waste anymore time, Fred”

His hand slithered between your bodies, pulling up your pencil skirt and tugging your panties aside. He practically growled at how wet you were, his fingers soaked from that brief touch. He couldn't wait any longer. He lined his tip with your entrance and pulled your hips, sliding you down his cock. You let out a relieved moan, grateful for Fred’s enchantment. His cock was buried so snug inside of you, every clench around his thickness felt like he could break you.

You risked a glance down and the sight of his cock causing your belly to bulge made you whimper. Just the sight alone caused that band to tighten. Your hands gripped his shoulders, pressing needy kisses to his lips. Fred pulled his hips back and thrust back into you, wanting to be as deep inside of you as he could. He wondered what it would be like to cum inside of you, painting you deep inside, but he didn't want to push his luck. There was plenty of time, and there was no way he’d have that much fun in an office storeroom. If it took, that would be a terrible place to conceive.

He licked along your bottom lip, his pace never slowing.

“I'm close, sweetie. Cum on my cock, make a mess”

His hand moved back between you both, desperate fingers circling your clit in tight, quick circles. He could feel your grip on his shoulders tighten, your eyes rolling back in bliss as you clamped down on his cock. A pornographic moan ripped itself from your throat as your juices coated his shaft. You were so warm and tight, that he contemplated just throwing all care out the window but instead he groaned and pulled out, his hand wrapping around his dick and pumping fervently.

His cum painted your bunched up skirt, leaving a sticky stain on the grey fabric. You didn’t call him out on it in your blissed out state, only noticing when you slowly came down. Even then, it was just a skirt. It was worth it.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’ll buy you a new skirt if I have to. Maybe some pretty lingerie as well”

His signature smirk returned as he whispered in your ear.

“But then again, I’d prefer you naked”

[saebyeokbliss]

JUST MEET ME AT THE APT.— K. SAE-BYEOK

CHAPTER ELEVEN

synopsis: managing a rising rock band is already chaotic enough, but when you're stuck touring with four reckless musicians, things get even messier. between late-night facetime calls, teasing that feels a little too knowing, and a certain guitarist who might just be your biggest problem, keeping things professional is getting harder by the second. but hey, no one said the music industry was easy.

warnings: mutual pining, intense eye contact, teasing that borders on flirting (or maybe it is flirting), friends who refuse to mind their business, secondhand embarrassment, slow burn that burns, emotional whiplash

playlist: spotify

You were going to throw up.

Not in the cute, haha-I’m-nervous-but-still-functional way, but in the actual way where your stomach was twisting and turning like it was personally offended by your existence.

Because this wasn’t just any event.

This was the Grammys.

The biggest night in music. The night where HOT DIVISION—your band—was nominated for two awards. The night where the entire world would be watching them.

And, more importantly, the night where you were responsible for making sure everything went smoothly.

Which meant no wardrobe malfunctions, no missed cues, no PR disasters—just a flawless, effortless evening where everything went according to plan.

No pressure.

The limo ride to the venue was filled with a mix of excitement and chaos. Ji-Yeong was buzzing, practically bouncing in her seat as she scrolled through Twitter, reading fan reactions in real time. Se-Mi was dramatically practicing her “Oh my god, we won? I had no idea!” face in the mirror. No-Eul was—well, No-Eul, calm and composed, quietly observing the madness.

And Sae-Byeok?

She was sitting silently beside the window, arms crossed, her jaw set in that unreadable way that meant she was thinking too much.

You, on the other hand, were gripping your phone with a death grip, mentally running through your checklist for the hundredth time, trying not to spiral.

Okay. Arrive at the carpet. Do the interviews. Smile. Keep them moving. Don’t let Ji-Yeong say anything that will get her canceled. Check their places for the ceremony. Manage post-show plans. Keep them out of trouble. Oh god, this is a disaster waiting to happen—

A gentle squeeze on your hand pulled you out of your thoughts.

You blinked, looking down to see No-Eul’s fingers wrapped around yours.

It wasn’t obvious—wasn’t dramatic or attention-grabbing. Just a quiet, steady warmth, grounding you.

“You’re doing fine,” she murmured, her voice low enough that only you could hear.

You swallowed, suddenly aware of how tightly you had been holding onto your phone, your shoulders hunched with tension.

No-Eul gave your hand another squeeze.

“Breathe,” she said simply.

And somehow, you did.

Sae-Byeok saw the whole thing.

She had been sitting across from you, watching the way your fingers trembled slightly, the way your breathing had gone shallow. She had felt the nervous energy rolling off of you, had wanted to say something—do something.

But before she could, No-Eul had beaten her to it.

And now, Sae-Byeok was watching you relax under her touch, watching the way you leaned into her comfort, watching the way No-Eul was able to calm you down in a way she hadn’t.

And it pissed her off.

Not at No-Eul.

Not really.

But at herself—for hesitating. For sitting there, watching instead of acting.

She clenched her jaw, looking away, forcing herself to ignore the uncomfortable twist in her stomach.

This wasn’t the time.

The limo pulled up to the venue, and suddenly, it was real.

The red carpet stretched ahead, cameras flashing, reporters lined up, calling out names. Fans were screaming, banners waving in the air, the energy electric.

And then the door opened.

Ji-Yeong stepped out first, exuding effortless confidence in a stunning baby pink gown—soft, elegant, the fitted bodice flowing into a delicate train behind her. She looked like a princess who could either charm you or absolutely destroy you, depending on her mood.

Se-Mi followed, dressed in a sleek black suit with a deep red pocket square, her hair styled in effortless waves, looking every bit the rockstar she was.

No-Eul stepped out next, wearing a similar black suit, but with a silver chain accenting her waist, her look sharp and refined, effortlessly cool.

Then Sae-Byeok.

And god—if looks could kill.

Her suit was jet black, tailored to perfection, the crisp lines making her look absolutely lethal. Unlike No-Eul’s refined style, Sae-Byeok’s was dangerously effortless—like she had barely tried, and yet, somehow, she looked like the most powerful person in the room. A single silver ring adorned her finger, a thin chain peeking from beneath her shirt collar.

And then there was you.

You stepped out last, the moment slow, almost surreal.

Your dress—deep wine red, shimmering subtly under the lights with tiny jewels woven into the fabric—hugged your figure perfectly. It was elegant without being overwhelming, a statement without trying too hard.

And on your feet?

The heels No-Eul had bought for you.

The second you stepped out, the cameras focused on you—flashes going off, murmurs passing through the crowd.

You weren’t the celebrity.

But standing next to them, you looked like one.

Sae-Byeok’s jaw tightened.

Because now, it wasn’t just No-Eul who had noticed you.

It was everyone.

And she hated that she wasn’t the one standing next to you.

The energy in the Grammy arena was electric.

You sat sandwiched between Se-Mi and No-Eul at your table, your heart still racing from the red carpet frenzy. The girls had handled the interviews like pros—Ji-Yeong had been her usual chaotic self, Se-Mi had flirted with at least three different reporters, No-Eul had stayed effortlessly cool, and Sae-Byeok had been… quiet. Focused.

You weren’t sure why.

Now, settled into your seats, you tried to relax as the ceremony unfolded around you.

Tried being the key word.

Because holy shit, they were nominated for two Grammys.

And the nerves were absolutely killing you.

“Relax, sweetheart,” Se-Mi murmured, nudging you playfully. “You look like you’re about to pass out.”

You exhaled sharply, gripping the stem of your champagne glass. “I might.”

Ji-Yeong, who had been casually fixing her lip gloss in the reflection of her spoon, grinned. “Well, if you do, at least make sure to do it dramatically. Give the cameras something to talk about.”

No-Eul rolled her eyes, but there was warmth there. “You’re worse than the reporters.”

The show continued, performances lighting up the stage—Olivia Rodrigo’s haunting vocals, SZA’s effortlessly stunning set, a rock tribute that had Se-Mi absolutely losing her mind.

And then—

Then it was time.

The first award.

“And the Grammy for Best Rock Album goes to…”

The presenter—a legendary rock artist whose posters had once covered Se-Mi’s childhood bedroom walls—paused, tearing open the envelope with a smirk.

“HOT DIVISION, ROCKSTAR!

For a second, there was silence.

As if none of you had actually processed it.

Then—

Ji-Yeong shrieked, grabbing Se-Mi’s arm in a death grip. No-Eul let out a rare, genuine laugh, shaking her head in disbelief. Sae-Byeok exhaled sharply, a small but unmistakable smile breaking through.

And you?

You felt everything all at once.

Pride. Relief. Overwhelming joy.

They did it.

They hugged each other, still half in shock, before making their way up to the stage.

You stayed at the table, watching them from below, your chest aching in the best way possible.

Ji-Yeong, of course, grabbed the mic first. “Holy shit—wait, can I say that? No? Whatever—holy crap, we just won a Grammy.”

The audience laughed.

Se-Mi took over, grinning. “This is insane. We started as four idiots playing in garages, and now we’re here. Thank you to everyone who believed in us.”

No-Eul spoke next, her voice steady, sincere. “This album was everything to us. To our fans—this is yours as much as it is ours.”

And then—

Sae-Byeok stepped forward.

She wasn’t one for long speeches. Usually, she let the others take the spotlight.

But this time—

This time, her eyes searched the crowd.

And found you.

“This award means everything,” she started, her voice softer than usual—but firm. Sure. “But there’s someone who isn’t up here with us who deserves just as much recognition.”

Your breath caught.

Sae-Byeok’s gaze didn’t waver.

“Our manager. Our best friend. The person who’s been with us since the beginning, making sure we didn’t completely ruin our own careers.”

Laughter rippled through the audience, but you couldn’t move.

Couldn’t breathe.

“She’s the reason we’re here,” Sae-Byeok continued. “The reason this album even happened the way it did. She’s the one who picks us up when we fall, who believes in us even when we don’t believe in ourselves. And she never asks for credit.”

She exhaled, gripping the mic a little tighter.

“So this is for her.”

You felt your eyes sting.

“She might not be on this stage,” Sae-Byeok said, a small, almost-smirk tugging at her lips. “But she’s just as much a part of this band as the rest of us.”

The applause was deafening.

And you—

You had never felt more seen.

You could see a camera pan toward you and you waved, holding back tears with a smile. They weren't tears of pain; just pure tears of joy for your girls.

You were still reeling.

Still trying to process the fact that Sae-Byeok had just dedicated a Grammy to you in front of the entire world.

Your heart hadn’t slowed down since she stepped off that stage, her words still echoing in your head. Your best friend. The reason we’re here. Just as much a part of this band as the rest of us.

You weren’t going to cry.

You refused to cry.

But when Sae-Byeok sat back down next to you, her knee brushing against yours, her gaze flickering toward you as if to check if you were okay—yeah, you almost lost it.

Instead, you swallowed the lump in your throat, forced out a small, shaky laugh, and muttered, “That was—um. That was a lot.”

Sae-Byeok smirked, her voice low, just for you. “You deserved it.”

And that was definitely not helping your whole don’t cry on national television thing.

Before you could respond, the next award category popped up on the screen, and suddenly—holy shit—it was happening again.

The presenter smiled, glancing down at the envelope in her hands.

“And the Grammy for Best Rock Performance goes to…”

A pause. The dramatic build-up.

You gripped the edge of the table, heart pounding.

“HOT DIVISION, ROCKSTAR!”

For a full second—absolute chaos.

Ji-Yeong screamed so loudly that Se-Mi actually jumped, knocking over her champagne glass. No-Eul blinked in shock before breaking into a rare, wide grin. Sae-Byeok exhaled, shaking her head like she couldn’t believe it.

And you?

You just sat there, hands covering your mouth, watching them win again.

Two Grammys. In one night.

Your girls.

Your band.

They pulled you into a tight group hug before rushing back onto the stage, still half in disbelief.

Ji-Yeong, ever the chaotic menace, grabbed the mic first. “Okay, now we’re freaking out.”

Laughter rippled through the crowd as Se-Mi practically bounced next to her. “I don’t even know what to say—holy shit—”

“Language,” No-Eul muttered, but she was smiling.

Sae-Byeok took a step forward, shaking her head slightly as she looked out at the audience. “This song…” She paused, looking back at the girls. “This song was everything to us. It wasn’t just about making music—it was about proving to ourselves that we belonged here.”

The audience quieted, hanging onto her words.

“And now, standing here, holding this—” She lifted the Grammy slightly. “—it still doesn’t feel real.”

Se-Mi leaned into the mic. “But it is, babe.”

More laughter. More applause.

Then, before they ended their speech, Ji-Yeong grinned mischievously. “Oh, and one more thing—” She turned toward you, still seated at the table, eyes wide. “Our manager? Our favorite person in the world? She’s two-for-two tonight.”

Se-Mi nudged the mic closer. “Which means she officially has to party with us after this.”

No-Eul smirked. “No excuses.”

Sae-Byeok, standing slightly behind them, simply met your gaze.

And for a moment—just a moment—everything else disappeared.

No cameras. No flashing lights. No roaring applause.

Just her.

And the silent, knowing look that said, We did it.

We did it together.

taglist: @everly-summers-solace @knfthxv @madebysae @knfthxv @katieschry1 @imlackingsleep @lyzem @stellssxo @wiltingconquest @peelover25@monroesturnns @laurenkens @yenyu1s @idontliketoread2137 @bitchybananaflower @lyuuw

[dreamersworldduh]

Omg hiiii again,i don't know if you've watched Teen Wolf, but can you write of Stiles stilinski. Instead of Stiles liking Lydia since third grade, he's like the male reader instead, and he's finally wanted to make a move on male reader so he tries to show off at lacrosse practice but it failed and he continues until he finally confess to male reader. If it could get a little sexual at the end it would be soo appreciated 🙏🙏. Your works are still sooo good, and I loved my request you did. Thank you so much 🙏🙏🙏

CLUMSY CONFESSIONS

• STILES STILINSKI x MALE!READER

SUMMARY — Stiles Stilinski has spent years secretly in love with his best friend but never found the courage to confess. However, after an intense lacrosse practice where he pushed himself to impress you—only to end up in the hospital—he began to realize he couldn't keep his feelings bottled up any longer.

WARNING! FLUFF. Suggestive Langauge. 

WORDS! 6.9k

AUTHOR'S NOTE! Here we are with the sarcastic, witty and dashing, Stiles Stilinski. There’s a easter egg in there from one of my favorite movies—if you catch (you are awesome). This was fun to write—honestly there might be a part 2, but anyway I hope you enjoy ✨

Nine years, six months, and two days. That's exactly how long Stiles Stilinski has been in love with you—not that he's been counting or anything. Not that he lies awake at night, staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars on his bedroom ceiling, replaying every moment, every touch, every stolen glance between you. Not that he marks the time in the way your laughter has changed over the years, from the high-pitched giggles of childhood to the softer, more knowing chuckles of adolescence.

It all started in third grade, in Mrs. Carter's classroom, where you plopped down beside him without hesitation, your pencil poised over wide-ruled paper, the scent of bubblegum lingering in the air between you. You were the first person to truly see him—not just as the hyperactive kid with too many thoughts and too little filter, but as Stiles. You noticed things, like how he bit his lip when he was nervous or how he tapped his fingers against his desk in a pattern only he understood. You laughed at his jokes, even the really bad ones, and when he forgot his fruit snacks, you always—always—slid half of yours across the desk without a second thought.

At first, it was admiration, a simple fondness for the way you scrunched your nose when you concentrated, the way your hair caught the sunlight just right, the way you somehow made even the most ordinary moments feel special. But admiration turned into something deeper, something heavier, something that settled in his chest like an immovable weight. It was in the way his pulse stuttered when you linked your pinky with his during a scary movie, the way his stomach flipped when you ruffled his hair absentmindedly, the way he memorized the exact shade of your eyes even though he'd never had the courage to hold your gaze for too long.

Through the years, there have been countless moments—late-night talks where your voices dipped into whispers, study sessions where your knees knocked together beneath the table, inside jokes that no one else could possibly understand. But through it all, Stiles has never let himself say the words that burn at the back of his throat.

Because as much as he aches for you to look at him the way he looks at you, as much as he dreams of your fingers lingering just a second longer when they brush against his, he's terrified. Terrified that if he speaks the truth, if he lets the love that has woven itself into his very being spill from his lips, he'll lose you. And losing you? That would be the one thing he could never recover from.

The connection between you and Stiles is so natural, so effortless, that his friends can't begin to comprehend the idea of you ever walking away from him. To them, you and Stiles are an inevitability, a force of nature, like the tide meeting the shore—constant, unwavering, and undeniable. If anyone is blind to the reality of the situation, it's him. Because to everyone else, what you share isn't just friendship. It's something deeper, something unspoken yet impossible to ignore, woven into the very fabric of your interactions.

Scott has lost count of how many times he's watched the two of you exchange nothing more than a glance before dissolving into laughter, as if carrying on an entire conversation without a single word. It's almost eerie how in sync you are, how seamlessly you anticipate each other's thoughts and reactions. He's seen it happen mid-battle, mid-study session, mid-sentence—you don't even have to try. It just happens.

Lydia barely suppresses an eye roll every time Stiles insists, "We're just friends." Because to her—and to everyone else—there is no just about it. She's analyzed every interaction, every lingering look, every moment Stiles gets that dreamy, faraway expression when you aren't paying attention. She's seen the way his hand twitches, like he wants to reach for yours but doesn't, and the way his entire body relaxes the second you're beside him, like you're the one thing in the world that makes sense.

Even Malia, who isn't exactly known for her emotional awareness, has taken notice. More than once, she's tilted her head and narrowed her eyes at the way Stiles instinctively moves toward you, how his body seems to orient itself in your direction even when you're across the room. Once, she even asked, completely deadpan, "Are you sure you're not mates?" Stiles choked on his drink, of course, but it didn't escape anyone's notice that he didn't actually deny it.

To them, it's not a matter of if you and Stiles will finally admit what's been obvious for years—it's a matter of when. Hell, half the pack already assumes you're together. And if they didn't know any better, they'd think you and Stiles were just keeping it a secret for the fun of it, stringing everyone along in some kind of elaborate inside joke. Because a connection like yours? It doesn't go unnoticed. It doesn't just exist without meaning something.

While your friends—and most of the pack—were convinced that you and Stiles were already a couple, the rest of the student body had their own interpretations. Sure, some people noticed how often the two of you were together, how your steps naturally fell in sync, how Stiles' entire demeanor shifted the second you entered a room. They saw the way he leaned in when you spoke, like every word that left your lips was something precious. But others? They didn't pick up on the unspoken language between you, the lingering glances that stretched just a beat too long, the way Stiles seemed to breathe easier when you were near.

No, they only saw what wasn't there—no hand-holding between classes, no kisses stolen by lockers, no official title to confirm what everyone else assumed. And because of that, they came to one simple conclusion: You were single.

Technically, they weren't wrong. But Stiles sure as hell didn't see it that way.

He stood beside his locker, fingers curled tightly around the strap of his backpack, jaw clenched as he watched the scene unfolding just a few feet away. One of his fellow lacrosse teammates—Jake something, because honestly, Stiles couldn't be bothered to remember—was leaning far too close to you, his forearm braced against your locker like some kind of wannabe heartthrob in a bad teen movie.

Stiles knew that posture. That smirk. That tone. He'd seen it a hundred times before, heard the fake charm laced in every word. And right now, every muscle in his body screamed that Jake wasn't just making conversation—he was flirting.

And worse? You were smiling. Not the dazzling, full-wattage grin that Stiles had practically built his entire emotional stability around, but a small, amused curve of your lips. A polite, entertained smile. But still, a smile.

Stiles' stomach twisted in frustration.

With an exasperated sigh, he turned to Scott and Isaac, his eyes darting back to you every few seconds, like he couldn't quite tear himself away. "This is ridiculous," he muttered, voice low and clipped. "He's not even funny. Or interesting. Or good at lacrosse, for that matter."

Scott, ever the reasonable one, placed a steadying hand on Stiles' shoulder. "Relax, man. If anything was really happening, you'd know. You two have a connection. Just talk to him."

But Isaac? Isaac had no intention of easing his suffering. With his usual smug grin, he leaned lazily against the lockers, arms crossed. "Look, I hate to break it to you, Stilinski, but your boy over there?" He nodded toward Jake, who was still talking to you, still way too close. "He's one of the hottest guys in school. Aside from me, obviously."

Stiles scowled as Isaac flicked a piece of lint off his sleeve, completely unfazed by the death glare he was receiving.

"It's only a matter of time before someone snatches him up," Isaac added, his smirk widening.

Stiles groaned, throwing his hands in the air. "Wow. Super helpful, Isaac. Really appreciate it."

Scott shot Isaac a look, but the damage was already done. Because as much as Stiles wanted to brush it off, those words lodged themselves into his brain like a splinter. What if someone else got to you first?

That single thought sent a jolt of determination straight through him.

No. Not happening.

If there was ever a time for Stiles Stilinski to stop hesitating, to quit hiding behind fear and excuses, it was now. Because if he didn't make a move soon, someone else would. And there was no way in hell he was about to let that happen.

As the sun dipped lower in the sky, spilling gold and amber hues across the lacrosse field, you settled onto the bleachers, the cool metal beneath you warmed by the lingering heat of the day. The air was thick with the sounds of practice—the rhythmic thud of lacrosse balls meeting sticks, the sharp calls of the coach barking orders, the occasional grunt of exertion as the team wove through their drills. Your eyes, however, were locked onto one player in particular.

Stiles Stilinski.

Despite his usual chaotic, slightly uncoordinated energy, there was something different about him tonight. He was focused. Determined. Almost... competitive?

From across the field, he spotted you, and it was like a switch flipped inside him. His face lit up instantly, a grin stretching from ear to ear. With one hand gripping his lacrosse stick, he lifted the other in an enthusiastic wave—so enthusiastic that he nearly lost his grip on his stick in the process. You chuckled, returning the gesture with a playful wiggle of your fingers, amusement dancing in your eyes.

Unfortunately, your little moment didn't go unnoticed.

"Trying to impress someone, Stilinski?"

The voice came from beside Stiles—Jake Matthews, one of the more arrogant players on the team. The same Jake who had been leaning against your locker earlier that day, trying to charm his way into your good graces. His tone was casual, laced with teasing, but there was an unmistakable challenge woven beneath it, a smirk tugging at his lips as he glanced between Stiles and you.

Stiles' grin vanished instantly, replaced by a scowl as he turned to face Jake. Oh, this guy again.

"I don't need to try," Stiles shot back, tightening his grip on his stick. "Some of us have natural charm. You wouldn't understand."

Jake scoffed, twirling his lacrosse stick with an easy confidence. "Right. We'll see about that."

And just like that, the game was on.

What should have been a standard practice turned into something else entirely—an all-out competition. Every drill, every pass, every shot suddenly became a battleground. Jake, fueled by his own arrogance, made a show of his skill, dodging past defenders with ease and landing shots with near-perfect precision. But Stiles—fueled by sheer stubbornness and the undeniable need to win—was playing with an intensity no one had ever seen before.

He ran harder, passed sharper, and somehow—somehow—even managed to score a few impressive goals. The kind that made both Scott and Isaac stop mid-conversation and exchange stunned glances.

"When did that happen?" Isaac muttered, arms crossed as he watched Stiles maneuver around a defender with surprising finesse.

Scott shook his head, equally baffled. "I have no idea. But I think we just found his greatest motivation."

It wasn't just effort. It wasn't just determination.

Stiles was playing for you.

And honestly? It was kind of working.

Until it wasn't.

Maybe it was the adrenaline. Maybe it was the overwhelming urge to one-up Jake. Or maybe—just maybe—it was the fact that he could still see you sitting on the bleachers, eyes trained on him, an almost amused little smile playing on your lips.

Whatever the reason, Stiles got cocky.

Going for what was supposed to be his grand finale, he sprinted across the field, angling himself for an epic shot—one that, in his head, would be flawless, the kind of goal that would leave you thoroughly impressed. But instead of landing his cinematic moment of triumph, disaster struck.

His foot caught in the turf.

Time seemed to slow as he realized—far too late—that there was no saving himself from what was about to happen.

With a graceless flail and a yelp of pure panic, Stiles went down. Hard. His lacrosse stick tumbled from his grip, skidding across the grass, and a collective wince rippled through the field as he landed in a heap, the sharp crack of impact echoing through the air.

A second later, a low groan escaped his lips.

Scott was the first to reach him, dropping to his knees. "Stiles, you okay?"

Stiles squeezed his eyes shut, mentally assessing the damage before attempting to sit up. "Yeah, yeah—I'm fine," he grumbled, only to immediately suck in a sharp breath and clutch his ankle. "Okay, nope. Not fine. Definitely not fine."

Isaac, standing over him with a smirk, tilted his head. "Hate to say it, Stilinski, but I think your charm just backfired."

Despite the pain radiating from his ankle, Stiles still found the strength to glare up at him. "Wow. So helpful, Isaac. Truly."

Scott sighed, already prepared to help him off the field, but Stiles barely registered it. Because even as his pride (and his ankle) throbbed in agony, his gaze flickered toward the bleachers—toward you.

Your expression was a mix of amusement and concern, but the fact that you were concerned at all sent a different kind of ache through Stiles' chest—one that had nothing to do with the fall.

Because twisted ankle or not, humiliating wipeout or not, one thing was crystal clear.

He wasn't going to stop fighting for your attention.

Not now. Not ever.

The hospital room at Beacon Hills Memorial was as sterile and dimly lit as ever, the harsh fluorescent lights casting a clinical glow over the walls. The scent of antiseptic and freshly laundered sheets filled the air, but none of that mattered to you. Your arms were crossed as you stood beside Scott, watching Melissa McCall—Beacon Hills' most capable nurse and, more importantly, Scott's ever-reliable mother—wrap Stiles' ankle with practiced efficiency.

Her movements were swift yet careful, the kind of precision that only came from years of experience. She worked as she spoke, her voice both professional and motherly, a perfect blend of authority and care.

"You're lucky," she said, securing the bandage with a firm but gentle touch. "It's just a minor sprain. Stay off it for a few days, maybe use some crutches if it starts hurting too much. And—" she shot Stiles a knowing look before he could so much as open his mouth, "no attempting to run around on it like an idiot."

But Stiles wasn't listening.

His focus wasn't on Melissa. It wasn't even on his ankle.

It was on you.

Scott, ever perceptive, noticed immediately. He caught the way Stiles was staring—completely unaware that he was doing it, his brown eyes locked onto you with an intensity that would've been impossible to miss if you'd only turned your head.

Scott sighed. Here we go.

With an exaggerated stretch, he clapped his hands together and glanced at his mother. "Hey, Mom, why don't we go check on the nurse's station?" His tone was casual, too casual. "Y'know, in case they need you for anything?"

Melissa blinked, confused. "Scott, I work here. If they need me, they'll—"

"Great, let's go." Scott didn't give her a chance to finish, already ushering her toward the door with the determination of someone trying to prevent an impending disaster.

Melissa shot him an unimpressed look as he all but shoved her into the hallway. "Subtle," she muttered before the door swung shut behind them, leaving you and Stiles alone in the quiet hum of the hospital room.

For a few seconds, neither of you spoke. The distant beeping of machines filled the silence, along with the faint murmur of nurses and doctors just beyond the door. Stiles shifted slightly on the bed, drumming his fingers against the railing, the metal clinking softly under his touch.

Then, finally, he cleared his throat and attempted a casual smile—his signature smile, the one that had always been a little awkward but undeniably charming.

"So," he started, dragging the word out, his voice just a little higher than usual. "You, uh... you saw that, huh? The game. The practice. Me. Doing well for once."

You tilted your head, pretending to think. "Yeah. That was... a first."

Stiles pressed a hand to his chest, scandalized. "Wow. Wow. So little faith in me. I'm wounded. Emotionally and physically."

You grinned, shaking your head. "I'm just saying, I've never seen you play like that before. I mean, you were actually keeping up with everyone."

Stiles scoffed, but the corner of his mouth twitched like he was fighting a smile. "Okay, that's fair."

The two of you shared a quiet laugh, the tension in the room easing just enough for Stiles to relax against the pillows.

But then, curiosity flickered in your expression as you leaned against the hospital bed's railing. "So... what was that all about, anyway?" You lifted an eyebrow. "I mean, I've seen you play before, but never like that. You were on fire."

Stiles opened his mouth, prepared to toss out some half-hearted excuse—something about adrenaline, maybe sheer dumb luck. But before his brain could catch up, the truth just slipped out.

"Well, yeah. It was because of you."

The second the words left his mouth, his brain short-circuited. His eyes widened, mouth snapping shut like he wanted to reel them back in, as if he could somehow undo what he had just confessed.

You blinked.

Stiles panicked.

"Uh—I mean, not like because of you, you," he rambled, his hands flailing as he scrambled for damage control. "But, like, inspired by you. Or, uh, motivated? Encouraged?" His voice pitched higher with each word, his hands now waving in frantic gestures. "Not that I'm saying you specifically motivate me, but—well, actually, no, that is what I'm saying, but not in a creepy way, just in a totally normal and cool way—"

"Stiles."

He froze.

You had your arms crossed now, watching him with thinly veiled amusement. "So what you're saying is... you were trying to impress me?"

The question hung in the air for a moment, thick with unspoken tension.

Stiles let out a strangled, nervous laugh, rubbing the back of his neck as his gaze darted anywhere but at you. "Pfft, no! Of course not! ...Maybe."

A slow smirk spread across your face.

Stiles groaned, immediately flopping back onto the hospital bed with a dramatic sigh, one arm thrown over his face like he couldn't bear to see your reaction.

"Kill me now."

Your laughter rang through the small hospital room, light and effortless, cutting through Stiles' dramatic groan as he buried his face in his hands. His fingers gripped his hair in frustration, as if sheer force could undo the last sixty seconds of his life.

Rolling your eyes, you reached forward, fingers wrapping around his wrists, and gently tugged them away from his face. Stiles resisted for about half a second before relenting, his hands falling limply to his sides, revealing a face that was, without a doubt, very pink.

His expression was a perfect storm of embarrassment and something else—something softer, something hesitant, something that made your stomach flip if you let yourself think about it too hard.

"Come on, don't be so dramatic," you teased, keeping your hold on his wrists as you leaned in slightly. "It was kinda cute, actually."

Stiles blinked. "Cute?" His voice cracked on the word, high-pitched and unfiltered, and the moment he realized it, he immediately cleared his throat, forcing a more neutral expression—one that utterly failed to hide the way his ears had gone red.

You only grinned, giving his hands one last tug to pull him forward.

And that's when it happened.

You had moved without thinking, stepping closer in the process, and suddenly, you were standing between his legs. His knees bracketed your body, the warmth of him radiating through the thin fabric of his hospital shorts.

Stiles definitely noticed.

His breath hitched. His brain stalled. His hands, which had instinctively found their way to your waist to steady himself, froze.

And no matter how hard he tried, he could not not think about the fact that you were right there—closer than you'd ever been, close enough that he could count the flecks of color in your eyes, close enough that if he tilted his head even slightly, your lips would be—

Nope. Nope. Nope, nope, nope. Not going there.

Stiles tried to focus on anything else—the distant beeping of machines, the muffled voices of nurses in the hallway, literally any other thought that wouldn't make him combust in real time. But you weren't making it easy. Not with your hands still loosely gripping his wrists, not with your body so close, not with that teasing smile that made his heart do things it had no business doing.

His fingers twitched against your waist before he quickly ripped them away, gripping the edge of the hospital bed instead like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

Meanwhile, you seemed completely oblivious to the absolute meltdown happening in Stiles' head. Instead, you just tilted your head, amusement dancing in your eyes.

"You good?" you asked, watching the way his entire body had gone rigid.

Stiles let out a noise that was supposed to be a casual laugh but came out more like a strangled wheeze.

"Yeah! Yep. Totally fine. Just, uh..." He forced a lopsided grin—one that was more nervous wreck than charming rogue. "Just... sitting here. With a sprained ankle. And my very attractive best friend standing way too close and—"

His mouth snapped shut.

His eyes widened.

You raised an eyebrow, arms crossing over your chest. "What was that?"

Stiles slapped a hand over his face so fast it was almost comical. "Nothing. Didn't say anything. Please disregard."

But you just smirked.

Leaning in ever so slightly, you lowered your voice just enough to make Stiles' stomach flip.

"Stiles," you murmured, tilting your head. "Are you nervous?"

Stiles groaned, flopping back against the pillow like he wanted the earth to swallow him whole. "I hate you."

You just laughed again, and despite his sheer, complete mortification, Stiles was pretty sure that sound alone could heal his ankle faster than any of Melissa McCall's medical expertise.

You then reached forward and nudged his shoulder—not hard, just enough to jolt him out of his spiraling self-destruction. His head lifted slightly, his brown eyes meeting yours again, still wide from his earlier slip-up. You could see the wheels turning, his brain scrambling at full speed, desperately trying to figure out how to recover, how to backtrack, how to un-say the words that had already left his mouth.

But before he could even attempt an escape, you smirked.

"You know," you said casually, tilting your head, "for someone who thinks I'm attractive, you don't seem to realize you are too."

Stiles blinked.

His lips parted slightly, like his entire operating system had just crashed, his brain throwing up an error message in real time. He opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again—his face flickering between shock, confusion, and sheer disbelief, as if he had just misheard you. As if he needed a full system reboot before he could process those words properly.

"I—wait—what?"

Your smirk softened into something more genuine. "I'm serious, Stiles. You're really attractive." You shrugged, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "I just figured someone should tell you, since you clearly don't hear it enough."

Stiles made a noise.

A noise.

Something between a strangled laugh and a dying animal, his face turning an impressive shade of pink. His hands twitched at his sides, his fingers fidgeting like he suddenly had no idea what to do with them. He sat up a little straighter—well, tried to—but in doing so, he only ended up shifting closer, his knee brushing against the side of your leg.

And that was when he realized—again—just how close you were.

Oh, God.

His brain was overheating.

Before he could spiral any further, you leaned in.

His breath hitched.

The world tilted.

Your voice softened, something warm and undeniably real threading through it. "And... I'm really proud of you, you know." Your eyes searched his, the words landing in the space between you like something solid, something true. "You played amazing out there."

Stiles swallowed hard.

He wasn't sure which part was making his heart race faster—the fact that you were still standing between his legs, the way your voice sounded so genuine, or the fact that—

Oh.

Oh.

You were leaning in even closer.

His breath caught entirely when your lips pressed softly against his cheek, warm and lingering for just a second longer than necessary. The heat of the contact sent a shiver down his spine, burning through him, leaving a brand behind.

His entire body locked up.

Every single nerve in his system short-circuited.

By the time you pulled back, Stiles was frozen.

Mouth slightly open. Eyes impossibly wide. Heart definitely no longer beating at a survivable rhythm. If it were anyone else, you would've assumed he had stopped breathing altogether.

You tilted your head, amused. "You okay there, Stiles?"

Stiles slowly blinked.

Then, with absolutely zero control over his own reactions, he squeaked—an actual, audible squeak—before aggressively clearing his throat and scrambling to collect himself.

"Y-Yeah! Yep! Totally fine!" His voice cracked halfway through the sentence, and he winced. "Just—just processing. You know. Uh. Normal stuff. Normal processing."

You chuckled, shaking your head fondly. "Glad to hear it."

Stiles, meanwhile, was pretty sure he was never going to recover.

For the rest of the week, Stiles could not stop smiling.

It was actually getting ridiculous.

Every time he so much as thought about that moment in the hospital—the soft press of your lips against his cheek, the warmth of your voice when you told him he was attractive, the way you had stood so close, right between his legs like it was the most natural thing in the world—his face would break out into a stupid, lovesick grin that he couldn't wipe off no matter how hard he tried.

Scott had definitely noticed.

So had Lydia. And Isaac. And literally everyone who interacted with him for more than ten seconds.

"Okay, what is wrong with you?" Lydia had asked at lunch, raising an unimpressed eyebrow as she watched him stare off into space with the goofiest smile she'd ever seen. "You look like a golden retriever that just got praised for doing a trick."

Scott, already knowing exactly what was going on, just smirked and shook his head. "It's about them."

Isaac, biting into an apple, tilted his head. "Ah," he said, nodding in understanding. "Bleachers Kiss Syndrome. Classic case."

Stiles snapped out of his daze immediately, scowling. "Bleachers Kiss Syndrome is not a thing."

Isaac took another bite. "It is now."

But as much as Stiles tried to brush it off, he knew they weren't wrong. Because no matter how many times he replayed it in his head, he kept circling back to the same conclusion:

He had to tell you how he felt.

He couldn't keep pretending it wasn't there, couldn't keep shoving his feelings down just because he was scared of what might happen. You liked him—maybe not in the exact way he liked you (yet), but you had to like him at least a little, right? No one just casually calls their best friend attractive and kisses them on the cheek like that unless there's something there.

Right?

Oh, God. What if he was reading this all wrong?

What if it was casual for you? What if you just saw him as a best friend, nothing more?

What if he confessed and completely ruined everything?

Stiles groaned, dragging his hands down his face as he sat slumped over his desk at home, staring blankly at his notes for a history test he definitely wasn't studying for.

But then his mind wandered back to the way you had looked at him in that hospital room, the way you had smiled right before kissing him, the way you had stayed by his side, even when you didn't have to.

And that's when he decided—screw it.

He needed to tell you. Because the way his heart had been feeling lately? He wasn't sure it could handle keeping this to himself any longer.

Stiles knew he had to find the right moment to tell you how he felt—really tell you. Not in a half-mumbled, nervous slip-up. Not in an awkward, flustered compliment that he immediately tried to backtrack. No, this had to be something big, something meaningful.

That moment didn't come right away.

In fact, it didn't come until the championship lacrosse game.

Beacon Hills was up against one of the toughest teams in the league—the Cyclones—and to say it was an intense game would be an understatement. The air was thick with tension, the crowd was electric, and every player on the field was running on pure, unfiltered adrenaline.

The game had been brutal—fast breaks, bone-rattling defense, near-impossible shots that somehow found the net. By the final quarter, Beacon Hills was up by just one point. One more goal, and they'd win the championship. But if they missed? If the Cyclones countered?

They'd be going home humiliated.

The pressure was insane.

Scott, Isaac, and Stiles stood tense on the field, eyes locked on the opposing team as they strategized their next move. Sweat dripped down Stiles' temple, his chest heaving with exhaustion, his heartbeat thunderous in his ears.

And then—because the universe was a cruel, cruel place—the ball ended up in his stick.

Everything stopped.

For a split second, it felt like the entire world had gone silent.

The pounding of footsteps, the roaring of the crowd, the whistles and frantic calls from the sidelines—all of it faded into a distant hum as Stiles stared at the lacrosse ball nestled securely in his net.

He swallowed hard.

Oh, no.

Oh, no, no, no.

This was bad.

If he made this shot, he'd be a hero.

But if he missed?

If he missed...?

He would never hear the end of it. Not from his teammates. Not from the school. Not from literally anyone who had ever met him.

Stiles tightened his grip on the stick, fingers clammy, his pulse wild. He could do this. He just had to—

And then, in the midst of the chaos, he heard it.

"You got this, Stiles!"

Your voice.

It cut through everything, ringing loud and clear from the stands.

Without even thinking, Stiles turned his head toward the bleachers, his nerves momentarily forgotten.

And there you were.

Standing in the middle of the crowd, eyes locked on him, wearing a smile so bright, so damn confident, that his stomach flipped. Both of your thumbs were raised in encouragement, your expression screaming, C'mon, Stilinski, don't overthink it. Just take the shot.

For a second, the rest of the crowd seemed to fade, as if everyone else had noticed exactly who he was looking at. A ripple of murmurs passed through the stands, eyes shifting toward you, wondering why you of all people had chosen that exact moment to cheer.

But Stiles?

Stiles didn't care.

Because suddenly, the nerves? Gone.

The weight of the game? Didn't matter.

Because you believed in him.

Time seemed to slow down the moment Stiles swung his lacrosse stick, sending the ball flying through the air.

The crowd held its breath.

Everything—the pounding of his heart, the shouts from the sidelines, the sound of cleats scraping against the turf—faded into a distant hum as the ball spun in a perfect arc. It cut through the air, passing by outstretched sticks of the opposing players who leapt desperately in an attempt to intercept it. But Stiles had aimed it just right—just high enough to avoid their reach.

The goalie's eyes widened. He reacted a second too late, diving forward, his gloved hand stretching toward the ball in a last-ditch effort to swat it away.

For a fraction of a second, it looked like he might block it.

But then—

Swish.

The ball slammed into the net with a resounding thwack.

Silence.

For half a second, no one moved. No one breathed. Even Stiles, still frozen in his follow-through stance, wasn't sure if he had actually seen it happen or if his brain was playing some kind of cruel trick on him.

Then—

The referee's whistle pierced the air.

And just like that, the silence shattered.

The stands erupted. The entire Beacon Hills crowd exploded into cheers, a deafening roar of excitement and disbelief as people jumped to their feet, screaming in celebration.

Stiles barely had time to process it before Scott tackled him from behind, practically lifting him off the ground. Isaac was right behind him, ruffling his hair and shouting something about how he actually pulled it off. Other teammates swarmed in, clapping him on the back, shaking him by the shoulders, shouting in his face like they couldn't believe it either.

But none of that mattered.

None of it even registered.

Because the only thing Stiles saw, the only thing that mattered, was you.

Still standing in the bleachers, still grinning from ear to ear, eyes locked on him like he was the only person on the field.

And that's when he knew.

This was the moment.

The deafening roar of the crowd faded into a distant hum, drowned out by the rush of adrenaline pounding through Stiles' veins. His breath came fast, chest heaving, but he barely registered it. The celebration erupted around him—teammates shouting, hands slapping against his back, coaches cheering his name—but none of it mattered.

Stiles didn't think. He just moved.

He shoved past his teammates, dodging high-fives, ignoring the victorious yells, his feet barely touching the ground as he sprinted toward the bleachers. The crowd was a blur around him, faceless and unimportant, their voices lost to the singular, relentless thought hammering in his skull: Get to you. Get to you. Get to you.

His cleats scraped against the turf as he vaulted over the barrier, weaving through the surge of students rushing onto the field. He hardly noticed the way some clapped him on the shoulder, how a few shouted his name in triumph.

Because you were all that mattered.

The second he reached the bottom of the bleachers, your gaze locked onto his, and in that instant, every hesitation, every excuse, every fear that had kept him silent over the years vanished.

Not anymore.

Stiles took the steps two at a time, pushing through the ache in his muscles, his pulse hammering harder with each step. His entire body was electric, wired with something more powerful than adrenaline, more overwhelming than victory.

And then, finally, he was standing right in front of you.

Your lips parted, a breathless laugh escaping as you opened your mouth to congratulate him—but you never got the chance.

Because Stiles didn't wait.

His hand lifted instinctively, cupping your cheek, his fingers feather-light despite the wild energy thrumming between you both. His thumb brushed gently against your skin, his touch softer than it had any right to be considering the way his heart was slamming against his ribs.

His eyes searched yours for just a fraction of a second—just long enough for you to see everything he had been too afraid to say, too scared to show.

And then, finally—finally—he closed the distance.

His lips crashed against yours, the kiss raw, desperate, full of everything— every moment of hesitation, every ounce of longing that had been bottled up for years. His other hand found your waist, pulling you in, molding your body against his as he melted into you, as if this was the only place he was ever meant to be.

The roar of the crowd, the championship, the entire world disappeared.

There was only this.

Only you and him.

And the only thought running through Stiles' head as he kissed you was:

Finally.

Suddenly, something cool and unexpected landed on his cheek. It was subtle at first—just a single drop of water sliding down his skin. He barely registered it, too caught up in you, until another followed. And then another.

He pulled back slightly, his breath mingling with yours as his eyes fluttered open.

And that's when he felt it.

The gentle pitter-patter of rain beginning to fall from the sky.

You both tilted your heads upward, watching as the dark night sky gave way to a soft, steady drizzle. The stadium lights caught the droplets as they descended, making them shimmer like falling stars.

But there was no rush for cover, no panicked scramble from the crowd.

No—if anything, the rain only seemed to heighten the energy. The cheers still echoed across the field, players and students alike embracing the moment, their victorious shouts mixing with the sound of raindrops hitting metal bleachers and dampening the turf.

Stiles, however, wasn't paying attention to any of it.

Because as the rain soaked into his jersey, cooling his flushed skin, his gaze drifted back to you.

You were still watching the sky, droplets catching in your hair, sliding down the curve of your cheek. And then, as if sensing his eyes on you, you turned to face him again.

And you smiled.

A small, soft, knowing smile—one that made his breath hitch all over again.

"Congratulations," you whispered, your voice barely audible over the chaos around you.

Stiles' heart stumbled, his chest tightening in a way that was both overwhelming and perfect.

He returned the smile, unable to help the way his fingers instinctively curled around your waist, pulling you closer.

Then, without hesitation, he kissed you again.

This time, it was slower—less frantic than the first, but just as intense. Rain mixed between your lips, the coolness of it contrasting with the warmth of the moment. His hands tightened their hold on you, as if anchoring himself to this, to you, to the undeniable certainty that this was exactly where he was meant to be.

And as the crowd cheered, as the rain continued to fall around you, as everything else faded into the background, Stiles realized something—

Winning the game had been incredible.

But this?

This was the real victory.

As the rain continued to fall around you, soaking into your clothes and sending a pleasant chill down your spine, you pulled back slightly, just enough to meet Stiles' gaze again. His brown eyes were still wide with disbelief, flickering with excitement and something deeper—something that sent a thrill through you.

You leaned in close, your lips barely brushing against his ear as you whispered, "We should get out of here."

Stiles pulled back, blinking at you in surprise before a teasing grin spread across his face. "What? You scared of a little rain?" he teased, shaking his wet hair dramatically, sending tiny droplets flying everywhere. "C'mon, I thought you were tougher than that."

You rolled your eyes, stepping even closer, your hands trailing up his damp jersey until they rested on his chest. You could feel his heart hammering beneath your touch, the steady rhythm growing faster the longer you lingered.

"That's not why we should leave," you murmured, your voice taking on a tone just sultry enough to make Stiles freeze.

His cocky expression faltered slightly. "Oh?"

You smirked, tilting your head as you leaned in, your lips barely grazing the shell of his ear. "I just think... a champion deserves to be properly celebrated," you whispered, letting your voice drip with suggestion.

The effect was instantaneous.

Stiles practically short-circuited.

His breath hitched, his fingers tightening against your waist as he processed what you just said. His face went through a series of rapid changes—shock, realization, then a dawning understanding that sent heat rushing to his face.

"Oh," he managed to breathe out, his voice slightly higher than usual.

You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes again, watching with amusement as his brain visibly scrambled to catch up.

Then, in a move that surprised even himself, Stiles grabbed your hand, lacing his fingers through yours as he stepped back. "Right. Yes. Leaving. Immediately. Great idea. Fantastic idea."

You chuckled, allowing him to pull you along, both of you ducking through the rain as the cheers from the crowd faded into the background.

Because this night?

It wasn't over yet.

[onlyyoucanhurtlikethis]

I like winning more - kylian mbappe one shot

Her heels tapped softly against the marble flooring as she entered his house—a place she was starting to think of as their house, though she kept that thought to herself. It was late, the kind of late that made everything feel a little more secret, a little more urgent. She liked it that way.

Using the key he had pressed into her hand weeks ago, she let herself in, dropping her bag on the console table with the ease of someone who had done it a dozen times before. She heard music drifting from the living room—low, bass-heavy, the kind he always played when he was waiting for her. It was his way of setting the tone, making sure she understood the mood before he even saw her.

She shrugged off her coat and let it fall to the floor. She knew he hated that, the mess, the little signs of disorder she left behind like breadcrumbs. But tonight, she wanted to see that flicker of irritation in his eyes. She liked pushing him.

He was on the couch, shirtless, his sweatpants hanging low on his hips. His body was sprawled in a way that managed to look both lazy and deliberate, like he knew exactly how good he looked. His gaze flicked up when she stepped in, and the smirk that stretched across his face was one she knew too well. It made her chest tighten with something between annoyance and desire.

“You redecorating the hallway with your coat now?” he murmured, his voice rough around the edges.

She stepped forward slowly, letting his eyes trail over her. “I thought it added to the ambiance. Casual chaos.”

He raised a brow. “Avant-garde mess?”

She smiled. “Exactly.”

“Next time, hang it up.”

“Next time, I’ll leave my shoes in the sink.”

His laugh was low, knowing. “Risky move, bébé.”

She kicked off her heels with a deliberate clatter. His eyes drifted downward, tracing the curve of her legs. She felt his attention like a touch.

“You keep looking at me like that,” she said, soft, teasing, “you might get ideas.”

His fingers trailed up her thigh, slow and confident. “I already have ideas. You know that.”

She held his gaze, daring him. “How creative are we feeling tonight?”

His hand tightened, just enough to make her breath hitch. “That depends. You planning on staying this time, or running off before breakfast again?”

Her lips brushed his, teasing, but he wasn’t in the mood to be patient. His other hand slid to her waist, and in one swift move, he pulled her into his lap. She gasped, then laughed—breathless, a little dizzy from how easily he handled her.

“You like the chase too much,” she murmured.

His teeth grazed her neck, his breath hot against her skin. “I like winning more.”

She tugged his hair, making him meet her eyes. “You think you’ve won?”

He kissed her hard, all heat and urgency. She met him with the same intensity, nails digging into his shoulders. She liked leaving marks, liked knowing he’d see them in the morning and think of her.

When they finally pulled apart, breathless, he rested his forehead against hers.

“Stay tonight,” he murmured.

Her smile was sharp, playful. “I wasn’t planning on leaving. But maybe I should now, just to keep things interesting.”

His laughter was low, his hands already pushing the hem of her dress higher. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Try me.”

When he kissed her again, the rest of the world fell away.

They moved to the bedroom slowly, but with intention—hands everywhere, mouths never straying far apart. He pushed her back onto the bed with that casual dominance he knew made her weak. Her dress slipped off, pooling at her feet like her coat had in the hallway. He leaned over her, breathless and grinning, his eyes dark.

“You know you’re mine, right?” he said, more statement than question.

She smirked up at him, dragging her nails down his chest. “Only because I let you.”

He growled softly, pressing his lips to her collarbone, trailing lower, making her gasp. The tension between them was always this intoxicating mix of challenge and surrender. They pushed each other. They tested limits. And neither of them wanted it any other way.

Hours later, tangled in sheets that smelled like him, her head resting on his chest, their breathing finally steadying, he played with a strand of her hair.

“You know you don’t have to leave in the morning,” he said quietly.

She traced lazy circles over his skin. “You keep saying that like you think I will.”

“Because you always do.”

She smiled against his chest. “Maybe I like keeping you on your toes.”

He chuckled, fingers trailing down her spine. “You love making me crazy.”

She propped herself up on one elbow, meeting his gaze. “Keeps things fun.”

He didn’t argue. Because it was true.

[dulcescorderitas]

Hi it's me again lovely~ 💜 I hope you are keeping well! It's 34 Celsius here and upon (re)discovering Supernatural was mostly filmed across Vancouver in Canada, we never really get to see the boys have any summer moments!

So in my thirst and need for distraction, could I please request that after finishing up a case the boys and reader are just trying to cool down after an unexpected heatwave?

Dean managed to put some sodas on ice in the cooler box since alcohol of any kind would just result in a headache. Reader on the other hand, has surprised them with ice lollies, and while it's a thoughtful idea with the motel's aircon being packed up, Dean is still getting pretty damn hot watching reader suck an ice lolly (innocently, of course... 😈) so he decides to go on an evening walk.

Thank you again for your previous piece, I look forward to reading this one too! ✨

the sun was relentless, bearing down in waves that shimmered off the cracked asphalt of the motel parking lot. the impala sat there like a beacon of heat, metal too scalding to touch, its black paint drinking in the late afternoon sun. inside the room, the little wall-mounted aircon had given up sometime around noon, leaving nothing but a weak, useless hum and the occasional splutter of warm air.

"this is actual hell," dean groaned, sprawled out on one of the lumpy motel beds. his shirt was rucked up, exposing sweat-slick skin, and he had one hand lazily draped over his face like that might somehow shield him from the oppressive heat.

sam, ever the practical one, was perched in the rickety chair by the window, flipping through lore books like the heat didn’t bother him. it did, though—his hair was sticking to his forehead, and he kept fidgeting like he couldn’t quite get comfortable.

"could be worse," sam offered, flipping a page. "at least we’re not dealing with heatstroke."

dean let out a humorless laugh. "speak for yourself. my brain is melting."

the only saving grace was the cooler box by the bed, filled with ice and a handful of sodas. alcohol was out of the question—heat like this and beer would just end in dehydration and a monster of a headache. he fished out a can, pressing it against his neck before cracking it open.

then you walked in, and dean nearly choked on his first sip.

"okay, so," you announced, holding up a plastic bag like it contained the holy grail, "since the AC is officially dead and we're all about to combust, i got us a little something."

dean squinted at the bag, too heat-drunk to process anything past the glisten of condensation on your skin and the way your tank top clung to your chest. then you pulled out the ice lollies, bright and colorful and practically glowing with promise.

"oh," sam said, perking up. "nice."

you tossed him one, then made a show of tearing the wrapper off yours with your teeth before sliding the frozen treat past your lips. dean had to look away—except he really, really didn’t.

you were just trying to cool down, nothing more, but god help him, the way your tongue darted out to catch a stray drop of melted juice? the way your lips wrapped around the ice like you were savoring it? he felt sweat bead at the back of his neck, and it had nothing to do with the weather.

he shifted, clearing his throat. "gonna take a walk."

sam glanced up from his book. "dude, it's still like ninety degrees out."

"yeah, well." dean grabbed another soda from the cooler and popped the tab. "figured it'd be cooler once the sun starts going down."

the truth was, he just needed to get the hell out of there before he said or did something stupid. watching you enjoy that ice lolly with such innocent obliviousness was short-circuiting his brain in ways he didn’t have the bandwidth to deal with.

he shoved his free hand into his pocket and stepped outside, walking toward the impala and hoping the evening breeze would do something—anything—to cool him the hell down.

taglist: @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @legalmente-loca @bluemerakis @whisperingdaze @cherrygirlfriend @figthoughts @sunsbaby @ambiguous-avery @sunnyteume

[watching-sam-and-dean-again]

Confession Time!

A lot of people say they wouldn't have a problem with destiel if it wasn’t for how terribly the hellers (not the regular, unproblematic Destiel shippers) behave. I agree on the fact that the death-threat hurling, actor harassing, fandom toxifying, gaslighting asses make me actively hate the ship, too. But, even if all of its shippers were calm and lovely, I would STILL hate the idea of destiel. This is going to about the ship itself and why I don’t like it, not about criticizing the people who ship it (reasonably).

If anyone stumbles across this and wants to claim it’s because I’m homophoic or some dumb shit, feel free to show yourself out. And grow up. If you agree or are just curious as to why, feel free to read on.

The first reason I can’t get on board with destiel is Castiel himself:

I hate the ship because, if you look at it as Castiel having feeling for Dean from early on, he comes off as an even bigger creep than he already is to me. First, how many times has he invaded Dean's personal space or stared at him while he slept, even though Dean has told him not to and indicated it made him uncomfortable? I can think of at least 4 off the top of my head, but I’m sure there are more. These moment are written as jokes, and to show Cas is a derpy weirdo, but if you want to read them as a biproduct of Castiel having feeling for Dean, it makes him a creepy stalker.

Second, Castiel only caring about other people, including Sam and Jack, because of Dean makes him a s selfish and kind of shitty character to me. I like the idea of Castiel being a defective amgel, coming off the assembly line with a "crack in his classy," meaning he was always inclined to question things too much, maybe have an natural affinity for humans, to rebel. The idea that our show's version of Sam, Dean and even Castiel were special because they always defied the story that was written for them is the ultimate demonstration of free will winning out, and it speaks to the uniqueness of "our versions" of their characters. But, when it’s framed as Castiel only rebelling because he has a boner for Dean (like the "confession" scene seems to retroactively suggest), only ever questioned anything because he had a boner for Dean, only went against his fellow angels because he was hot for Dean and not becuae Dean inspired him to do the right thing, and only cared about people he says he loves and calls family because of Dean … that makes Dean special, not Castiel. In fact, it makes Castiel a simp who can’t think for himself, and is anything but genuine in his claim of caring about anyone but Dean. It makes him bereft of his own agency.

Finally, I hate the idea of Dean and Castiel ever being in a romantic relationship because of the seriously wrong things he has done to people. Castiel essentially forced Jimmy Novak to become his vessel again by possessing his daughter and basically holding her ransom until he consented to be Castiel's vessel again, and he still thinks he did the right thing into late seasons, Even when he finds Claire to sort of, kind of try make up for taking her dad away, he makes a feeble effort at best, and then basically just wonders off and forgets about her again after his momentary attack of conscious. For Dean, a character who fights to have free will, to shack-up with someone who took over a man's body and when he died (because Castiel took his boy into battle), he just sort of took over the body for himself and called it his, like a crab … is a huge smack in the face to Dean being heroic. Hello, even Sam wouldn’t bang Ruby until she found a braindead vessel, whose soul had likely departed already (and he’s the monster fucker). Castiel also broke Sam's hell wall leading to him going insane and nearly dying of insomnia, and he did it purposely to hurt and worry Dean, and to distract him from his plan to play god. This is inexcusable, and that fact that Dean even stays his friend feels like a betrayal to Sam, as well as out of character frankly, never mind going on to have a relationship with him. Finally, Castiel has threatened and beaten Dean when he doesn’t do what he wants more than once, and despite what hellers think, I don’t find abuse sexy.

The next reason I can’t get onboard with Destiel is Dean:

Dean laterally implies, out right says, and demonstrates multiple times throughout the show that he is straight. Thus, with the version of Castiel that Dean knows being in a male vessel, Dean just isn’t going to be interested in him that way. I’ve seen shippers srgue that people sometimes fall in love with someone of the same sex despite identifying as straight, but come on, that is going to be a relatively small percentage of of people. But more than that, Dean isn’t a real person, he’s a character. If the writers were going to make his character have a change of sexuality, or make an exception for Castiel, they would have had to explicitly show it on screen, through words and actions, and not just drop "subtext hints" that never go anywhere, and are largely stupid or hinged on stereotypes. They never did, so Dean remained hero sexual to the end.

Even if his sexuality were not a barrier, Dean does not knowingly peruse monsters. Castiel despite how depowered an essentially useless he becomes over time, is not a human. Angels are essentially just another flavor of monster on Supernatural, thus Dean is not be interested in dating Castiel even if he were in a female vessel, despite what some shippers like to claim. The only times Dean has knowingly hooked up with a monster was with Anna, and that was before she got her grace back and was a true angel again. The other monster he slept with was the Amazon, or whatever she was, before she had a kid with him without his consent, and Dean didn’t know that she was a monster. He frequently criticized Sam for having been with monsters, and that criticism makes it pretty clear that he wouldn’t want to be with any himself. Finally, this is a bit of a side note, any many may not agree with me, but I don't think Dean sees any supernatural creatures as quite equal to humans, and that includes Castiel, Jack and Benny. If it weren’t enough that Dean isn’t into males, the fact that he also isn’t into monsters, pretty much makes the destiel ship dead in the water for me.

Finally, the way Dean treats Castiel is not conducive friendship at times, never mind me shipping them. Dean pretty frequently belittles Castiel, calling him essentially uselesess when he doesn’t have powers (baby in a trench coat), and he makes fun of Castiel working at the Gas 'n Sip to try sustain himself, after Dean kicked him out of the bunker powerless and penniless. If Dean loves Castiel, mocking him for working whatever job he can after he turned him away, is an interesting way to show it. He also lashes out at Castiel pretty harshly (I though often deservedly). He tells Castiel that "nobody cares that he’s broken," and he says "everything that goes wrong" seems to be because of Castiel, and he told him that if anything happened to his mother after Castiel failed to warn them about Jack' behavior, Castiel would be "dead" to him. Even when the show reminds us of Castiel's existence when he’s not in an episode by having Dean claim he’s worried about him, or having Sam reassure him they’ll find/help Castiel, when Castiel actually is back, Dean essentially goes back to ignoreimg him. Dean only seems to care about Castiel when he’s missing or when he can help them fight something. In down time, he’s usually pretty happy just to chill with Sam.

Finally, I can’t ship destiel because of Sam, or more specially, Sam & Dean:

Sam and Dean have such a twisted-up, enmeshed, and all-consuming relationship with each other, that shipping either of them with characters outside of their relationship just isn’t interesting to me. I personally don’t ship them together, either. What they have goes beyind relationship categorization (brothers, friends, adversaries, parent/child, life partners, etc.), and I honesty think if the show had defied network parameters and actually had them hook up sexually, the relationship would have lost something. Sam and Dean are so unique and compelling in that their big love is a sibling and not a romantic parnptner, or even a parent/child relationship, that even as a fan of a good romantic pairing normally, I love that them exactly as they are. And their relationship is more meaningful to me than almost any other fictional one I’ve encountered. So frankly, shipping either with anyone long-term (I wouldn’t have hated seeing both of them have one more short romantic relationship in there somewhere) just feels pointless to me, and would just pale in comparison to what Sam and Dean are with to each other.

[emma-is-swaggy-and-epic]

Happy valentine's day, i've been getting into sonic.exe lately so here's my rendition of an amy.exe

Watch the SPEEDpaint here!!! [LINK]

LORE UNDER THE CUT!!! (CW: mentions of gore and unreality...kinda, there's a TLDR at the end)

A few years after sonic CD was released, a strange cartridge for the game was created. Seemingly: the game had a mind of it's own; with it having strange anomalies such as aggressively telling players to stop controlling sonic after playing through the first few levels, weird reddish blobs of pixels could be seen in the background that look almost like gore to some people (though what they actually are is unclear due to them being few and far between and seem to be slightly obscured by various background elements) and a notable lack of other characters or enemies. Strangely though, the most well known anomaly related to this version of the game is an unusually distorted version of amy rose; as the years went by and the game became more accessable to the public via online emulators, many have reported her appearence changing more and more as time went on. When the cartridge was first discovered: her design mostly stayed true to her original, classic look though as years went by, she started looking more similar to her modern design (more notably so after rips of the game were posted to the internet). Occasionally, the altered version of amy would appear mid-gameplay and deliver threatening messages to the player about how she hates them, how they're getting in her way, etc. When played using an emulator, the game is known to install viruses onto whatever device the player is using in that moment. When the game was ripped, it was revealed that the name of the file was simply "phantom.exe"

What nobody knows about this version of the game, is that the cartridge was special in the sense that the world inside it was sentient; unlike the other versions of sonic CD: this specific cartridge had contained the actual classic sonic universe as a whole and the game was just a front, almost like another dimension that you cannot enter. All of the anomalies listed were the result of a strange event within the universe; with amy coming across the phantom ruby and it corrupting her, causing her to become a murderous fiend with a jealousy problem. Due to the unstable nature of an entire universe existing within such a tiny object like a game cartridge: amy has become aware of the fact that she is in a video game and is immensely jealous of the player for controlling sonic, although due to them living in another universe, she knows she cannot harm them so she just installs viruses onto their computer instead. After the game was ripped onto the internet and was exposed to a more modern culture than one from the 90's, amy's design and mannerisms slowly became more similar to that of the version of her in modern sonic games.

TLDR: there exists a version of sonic CD where the classic sonic universe just....EXISTS inside it (like the actual one, not just a game) and in that version of the universe: amy found the phantom ruby, it corrupted her and now she's a yandere and the game is now fucked up. Also amy is aware she's in a game and is jealous of the player for controlling sonic so she puts viruses on people's computers

In all honesty, i kinda just had two different ideas for what i wanted this to be. I wanted to make an EXE that is SOLELY self-contained and doesn't involve evil world-destroying gods possessing video games and entrapping souls like most EXEs i've seen (some of my favorite EXE/sonic horror AUs are starved eggman and sink sonic BECAUSE of this subversion) but at the same time: i was VERY married (no pun intended) to the idea of taking inspiration from old loveletter computer viruses and the whole haunted game schtick so i tried to mash them together as best i could, resulting in a sort of doki doki literature club/undertale-esque AU for lack of a better description. While yes, i am aware that yandere!amy rose isn't exactly an ORIGINAL idea (hell, i saw a fairly popular fanfiction called "amy.exe" with that EXACT premise) i mean.....i was (unfortunately) a yandere simulator fan as a kid so i kinda have a soft spot for yanderes, y'know? Besides, what else could you do with amy? You could probably do something with the fact she's into tarot cards but that'd probably get culturally insensitive REAL fast...

If i'm being completely honest, i only threw in the "amy's design and mannerisms changing due to being exposed to the internet" thing because i like amy's modern design more than her classic design and i wanted an excuse to make something based on it lol. Speaking of which: i actually had a tough time getting the preportions right on this, i've drawn sonic characters before and i usually have a tough time with the preportions since the sonic artstyle is so much different than mine and y'know....if the characters aren't drawn in a style that looks even VAGUELY like the sonic artstyle than it's just NOT a sonic character!!! (Also fun fact: amy's design in this is vaguely modeled after a creepy haunted doll bc i LOVE those things)

While doing research for this AU i realized i actually know a lot less about sonic lore than i thought lol, this is my first REAL attempt at writing horror so i hope it's not TOO terrible!!! (And, more importantly, that this makes sense to anyone who ISN'T me) anyway....again, happy valentine's day!!!

[indigosunsetao3]

Happy Valentine's Day, John Price

Valentine's Day Story Single Dad John Price x Reader Reader is female

Happy Valentine's Day!💙

Christmas | New Year's | Valentine's Day

Six weeks of dating John.

A whirlwind, really, considering it started because he needed help with his daughter to keep the Christmas magic alive. As a thank you, he brought you on probably the most over the top date of your life on New Year's. And now it's Valentine's Day, and you have no idea what to expect.

This time, though, John is away for work. He's been gone for about four days, and he doesn't expect to be back for another few. Yet even when he's away, he still makes time for you. Texting when he can, calling whenever it's safe. You still don't know exactly what he does for a living, though you know it's dangerous and top secret. If you didn't already know him from living across the hall all this time, the 'secret agent' act would have made you run the other way.

Slipping on your jacket, you scoop up your bag and head for the door. It's just another Friday for you, and while love is certainly in the air, your boss is still expecting you to keep chipping away at the project you've been doing. He doesn't much care that you've spent many of your nights up late talking to your boyfriend or that the office is going to be full of busybodies seeing who received flowers and gifts.

When you turn to lock your door, a flash of red catches your eye, and you look up. You thought you had pulled down the cute little Valentine's Day flyer your apartment put on all the doors the day before. But it's not a flyer. Tucked in your crooked welcome sign is a single rose, the stem in a small pipet to keep it watered.

Grinning, you tug it out of the O and flip over the small tag tied to it. All that's inscribed is From John in his chicken scratch writing. Turning your heel, expecting him to be standing there, you don't see anything. There's no indication he's home. Perhaps he asked one of the neighbors to deliver to you.

With a quick snap from your phone, you send John an image of the rose with a thank you. You know he's sleeping; wherever he is it's hours behind you, so you don't expect a response for a while. There isn't time to run the flower back inside and dig out a vase so you opt to take it with you. But perhaps it's a good thing you didn't waste your time doing that because when you get to your car, you find another rose tucked under the wipers. Same tag, same note.

Two flowers in hand, you make it to your desk, intending to go find a cup in the breakroom, when you see a vase with another rose. But this time, there is an envelope propped on the glass with your name scribbled on it. You deposit the two flowers in with the third and take a seat, tearing open the letter and doing your best not to grin too big.

Sorry I couldn't be there today. Just know I'm thinking of you, and I'll make it up to you when I get back. You have some very helpful coworkers and friends, but I won't give up my insiders in case I need their help again.

Enjoy your half day at work, dinner, and massage. Stop stressing about the project and take today to relax.

-John

You look up quickly to see if anyone is watching you and give themselves up as John's insider. But no one even glances your way. Going back to the letter, you read it over again, trying to decipher the meaning behind a massage and dinner. And especially the half day remark. You hadn't put in for time off.

As you wait for your computer to boot up, you send him another text message with your gifts, thanking him again. You don't want to send too many and wake him, but now you're dying to know just how he did all of this and what his letter means.

But the answers are waiting for you in your email. First is a response that your time off request, which you did not make, was approved for one that day. The second is the appointment confirmation for your massage at a luxury spa and a questionnaire about what type of mask you prefer. Then the third is the meal delivery itemization receipt sent from John, with the prices all redacted.

It's overwhelming, in a good way, as you sit back in your chair and absorb everything. You're dying to talk to John, but know that may not even happen today. There were some days you weren't even able to text at all, let alone talk on the phone.

Around eleven, another delivery driver walks in; the office door is just a revolving one with all the things being sent to your coworkers. It's a rather large box of cookies, and you watch from your cubicle to see where the receptionist is taking them, only for them to stop at your desk. Another rose is taped to the top of the box, and a sticker note states this for you to share with your coworkers as a thanks from John.

Before you even leave the cookies have been demolished. You're fairly certain you know at least two of John's helpers, but when you get to your car, you stop short. Rose number five is resting on your side mirror. Who had time to sneak out today when you were watching everyone so closely?

After doing the mental math, you text John again and know he should be awake by now. He doesn't answer, and you sigh a bit as you slip your phone into do not disturb and head in for your massage. Another rose is waiting for you in a vase in the room before the therapist walks in to start your session.

How many have you found? Six. How many are there? Isn't the standard bouquet a dozen? John! How many people have you roped into this? Enough Pretty sure leaving them in the postboxes is illegal. I'm up to 8 now between yours and mine. Only if you get caught

You laugh to yourself as you walk down the hallway to your apartment. Yet another rose is waiting on your door, and as you let yourself into John's place to drop his mail on the dining room table, you find another. He must have roped the landlord into this because, as far as you knew, the only other person with a key to John's place besides you and John was his ex-wife. And she certainly would not be leaving roses for her ex-husband's new girlfriend. At least you don't think.

Dinner is set to arrive in about two hours, so you take the time to continue to relax. A nice self pedicure, a bottle of wine, and a movie seem like the best options to pass the time. John has gone silent again but said he'd try to text you later that evening. Calling was not an option wherever he was.

Despite him not being there, it certainly felt like he was. He had gone through a lot of planning for this holiday, and it was sweet. Even outside of all the gifts, just the fact he took the time to do it makes your stomach flutter just thinking about it.

I've only found eleven. Are you sure? Positive. I'm looking at them in the vase. There were twelve. Maybe someone forgot? Doesn't matter, they're all wonderful and everything today was way more than I needed. Give me a few minutes and I'll find that missing rose. You don't have to! It's late, it's fine really.

You swirl your wine glass, staring at your phone and waiting for John to answer. Cookies, a half day at work, massage, dinner, and eleven roses were more than enough for you. It almost made you feel guilty for not getting him anything, aside from the letter you had written him and left with his mail. He had insisted on you not doing anything, he wouldn't be home anyway. That you would just go to dinner when he was back or anything else you wanted.

I found it. Who forgot? Nice try, I'm not giving up my helpers. Just sent them up to leave it at your door. That was quick. I didn't even hear them. Go get it and send me a picture of the finished bouquet before you go to bed.  One second.

Uncurling from the couch, you stretch and head for the door, preparing to just crack it open enough to get the flower. It's late, and while you never felt unsafe at your apartment, you were still home alone. Flipping the locks, you crack open the door and peer out, anticipating an empty hallway, only to be startled by someone standing there.

"Oh, you scared the life-" you start, your brain not catching up from your scare to realize who has just scared you. You blink once, twice, then pull the door open wider.

John is standing there. Still in his military fatigues, duffle bag in one hand and your final rose in the other. He grins, looking down at you as you attempt to smooth out your silk pajama shirt. You had not expected any sort of company, let alone John.

"How did you?" You start as he holds out the last flower to you. His eyes are crinkled from his grin, but you can see exhaustion lining them. He had to have been traveling almost all day, maybe since the night before. And you knew whatever he was doing, sleep was far and in between.

"John, you should have told me you'd be home!" You half heartedly admonish as you step into his embrace to hug him.

"And ruin the surprise?" He asks, kissing the top of your head. "I know it's late, and you probably want to head to bed," he starts, but you grip him a little tighter as if afraid he'd step back. "If you knew where I have been today I don't think you'd want to touch me," he jokes as you lean back and cup his face.

"I don't care," you reply and lean up to kiss him properly. "You don't get to give me this wonderful day and then sneak home to surprise me just to run off again."

"I thought about showering first, but it's almost midnight," he pauses to glance at his watch; it's quarter til. "And then I would have truly missed Valentine's Day," he explains as you push back his hat to see him better.

"Well, we can't have that," you tease as you tug him into your apartment. "How fast can you shower?"

"Depends. Five minutes if I'm in a rush," John answers as he drops his duffle and quietly clicks your door shut behind him.

"Good thing we aren't in a rush because I need at least ten," you answer, feeling a warmth creeping up your neck at your boldness.

"In that case, let's take our time and make it twenty," he counters as he scoops you up easily and catches your lips with a heart stopping kiss.

"Happy Valentine's day," you barely whisper against his mouth as he winds his way back toward your bathroom while he carries you.

"Happy Valentine's day, sweetheart."

—————————-

Tag request: @misscherry-26

[sturns-mermaid]

SUBMITTING TO AUTHORITY

valentines special! | more here | i had to do sub matt in office setting <3 | might do a part 2?

I'm not responsible for what you consume on the internet, read at your own risk!

🎀 wc: 1.7k

proof read by @whore4mattsturniolo

WARNINGS: sub matt x dom reader, ceo/boss x employee, spanking (with ruler), oral (f receiving), use of "good boy", shy matt x rough reader ish, humiliation? - lmk if i missed any

Being the CEO of a company was difficult, to say the least. You had to supervise everyone below you, all the office workers, as they scattered about gathering materials for your next project. Your bad mood from this morning’s meeting was amplified by the wrong coffee order and Matt Sturniolo’s absence from his desk. He was always on time, which is why you suggested he would be a perfect candidate for employee of the month. You remember how nervous he was sitting across from you at your desk thinking he was in some sort of trouble. You loved how squirming and shy he was. It made your heart flutter but not enough to let him off easy, your head turned from your office doorway as you watched Matt stumble inside almost tripping on his own feet. His briefcase slipped from his hands as it slid right in front of your pointed high heels.

This of course caused such commotion all eyes turned to him. He scrambled, reaching his hands towards the handle of the briefcase. You were too quick the point of your heel stepping on his hand. A soft gasp left his plump lips as he scrunched his nose, a smirk crossing over your features as you looked down at his puppy dog-eyed expression looking up at you with his blue eyes. “Ms. He began, I’m sorry, I-,” Before he could continue, you crouched to his level on the floor where he lay sprawled. Tilting his chin with one of your manicured nails to make him look at you, your eyes boring into his as you scoffed. “Meet me in my office,” you said sternly before dropping his chin and standing up, wiping off your skirt. “And as for everyone else, get back to work!” you yelled as you threw your coffee cup into a nearby trash can and made your way to your office. From the corner of your eyes, you saw Matt stand up and rub the back of his hand while pouting, causing you to smirk.

Restlessly waiting for Matt in your office, you tapped a pen against your wooden desk, eyes fixed on the door. Just as you were about to use the intercom, a soft knock interrupted your growing agitation. You perk up licking your lips as you set the pen back into the holder that was on your desk. You shout “Come in,” your lips pursed, as you watch him slowly close the door, his gaze fixed downward. He mumbles under his breath, his hands fidgeting in front of him as you roll your eyes, grabbing the nearby ruler and tapping it on your desk. Annoyed, you groan, “Sit down,” as you watch him frantically nod and collapse into the chair opposite you.

You lean forward, your hands resting under your chin as you glance at him, the way his eyes never meet yours and the slight blush creeping up on his cheeks. You decide to test something, standing up from your desk as your chair scrapes against the soft carpet.

Matt pov

I watch as she stands and walks over to my chair, my eyes glued to the sway of her hips, my heart racing in my chest as she stands beside me resting a hand against my shoulder. I gulp slowly, leaning my head up to look at her as she glares down at me, my throat all of sudden feeling dry as she taps the ruler onto her thigh holding it in her other hand. “I’m sorry…” I trail off looking down feeling her gaze on me, my hands fidgeting in my lap. I know I messed up, I’ve never been late before I was always on time. I was known for being on time, and now I was scared I would get fired or she would yell at me. I couldn’t stand the idea of making her upset, she was my boss.

What if she fired me? I had to have this job, she was nice enough to hire me without any recommendations or previous experience. I would get on my knees and beg if that meant I got to keep this job.

Noticing I was lost in thought, she whispered, “Stand up,” and gently tapped the ruler against my cheek. I hesitated at first but then stood up with my hands flattening out my suit as I looked down at my feet hoping she wasn’t going to be too hard on me. I felt the wooden material of the ruler lift my chin upwards forcing me to look at her, her stare stern and unwavering. “Aren’t you supposed to look at someone when they’re talking to you?” she whispers leaning closer, her breath fanning against my lips. My cheeks heated up as she held my gaze, my eyes wandering down to her lips. “Get on your knees,” surely she had to be joking, right? The look in her eyes told me she was anything but joking, I felt small under her stare, my heart pounding against my chest.

I stood up hesitantly and dropped to my knees in front of her, shame and embarrassment ran through my vines. “Such a good boy” echoed through my ears as she taped the ruler against my cheek, looking down at me with a grin. I opened my mouth to say something but my brain short-circuited all I could think of was how my face was right by the hem of her skirt.

Reader pov

“Still want that promotion?” you asked, holding the ruler against his cheek as your eyes scanned over his flustered features, noting how his hands fumbled in his lap. He looked so good on his knees in front of you looking up at you with his blue eyes and slight pout on his lips. You took the ruler and inch it towards the hem of your skirt as you slowly pull the fabric up. He gasped softly as he watched, his eyes glued to your movements and the ruler inching closer to your inner thighs. “What are you doing?” he squeaked out, his voice softer than he intended as he watched you pull your skirt higher. “Stop talking” you barked, rolling your eyes and lifting your skirt fully up, tucking it inside your waistband. He gulped as your revealed heat met his gaze, his eyes darting between your panties and your stern expression. “Show me how bad you want to be an employee of the month,” you teased, pushing the back of his head toward you with the ruler.

He eagerly squirmed closer, whimpering softly as you brought his hand closer to the waistband of your panties. “Take them off,” you instructed, watching as he slowly pulled them down your legs and set them aside. His fingers traced over you before he pulled away shyly looking back up at you for further instructions, causing you to groan and pull his face closer to you. “Come on, be a good boy for me” you cooed at him, the ruler dropping from your hand as you felt his fingers spread your folds, his mouth attaching to your clit. You let out a soft moan, feeling his hands move to your thighs and spread your legs wider, you moved so you were lying on your desk.

Your items fell onto the floor as he kneeled in front of you once more, his tongue slipping into your core, your hand making its way to his hair. “Oh, shit…” you moan, leaning your head back against the desk. “Matt, you’re doing so well…” you moan, feeling your orgasm building in your lower stomach, your thighs clamping against his face, trapping in between your legs. Only hearing muffled whines from him as you look down at his blue eyes, watching as he greedily licked and sucked your core.

Your legs shook, hands gripping his hair tightly as you bucked your hips against his face. The pleasure was too intense the way his skilled tongue was plunging in and out of you, had you seeing stars. Your release washed over you as you held his head securely against you. “That’s it, baby, swallow it all” you moan loudly, your chest heaving up and down. He continued pleasing you through your orgasm as you sat up looking down at him, his face messy with your juices, still on his knees and the blush spread across his cheeks. “You did so well,” you praise him kissing his forehead as you watch his lips curl into a small smile. “Too embarrassed to speak huh?” you tease pulling his tie and making him stand between your legs.

He looked down shyly as his hands made their way to your thighs rubbing slightly. “Aww my pathetic boy,” you cooed softly tilting his chin and kissing his plump lips causing him to whine into the kiss. “Mm, I’m sorry for being late Ms.” he finally mumbled, staring at you with wide eyes. You pulled back looking over his face once more as you bit your bottom lip, his eyes never leaving yours as his cheeks grew redder.

“You really wanna make it up to me?” you question tugging his tie once more. He nods obediently, his hands trailing further up your thighs as he lets out needy whimpers. “I assume you need a punishment, to teach you a lesson about being late?” you lean closer, your lips hovering over his.

You had him bent over your lap as whimpers and moans left his mouth, one hand pressing onto his back while the other held the ruler that was slapping his backside, switching from hitting his reddening skin to gently moving the ruler in circles along his bare ass cheek. His hands scrambled in front of him reaching for anything for stability, you loved having him like this completely and utterly under your spell. Tears threatened to spill from his eyes as he whined.

The sound of the hard wooden ruler hitting his skin echoed through your quiet office. “Such a bad boy, coming into work late,” you hissed, hitting him again. “I-It won’t happen again!” he shouts, trying to grab onto something. “I know,” you leaned down, whispering, your breath fanning against the back of his neck, goosebumps appearing on his arms. “Please…just need to be inside you,” he whined, his member twitching against your lap. You scoff pushing him off of you as he scrambles to his knees once more, kneeling in front of you, his hands tracing your thighs. “Please, I’ll do anything…” he begged, slurring his words.

divider; @dollywons , @anitalenia

tags & mentions;

@itsmaddielouis @oliviasthatgirl @brianna-grace12 @scorpio1205 @submattenthusiast @courta13 @mattsplaything @conspiracy-ash @anyaa2s @sturnshood @stxrsniolo @sofia-is-a-sturniolo-triplet-fan @immaqulate @t0riiiis @heartsonlyforchris @blushsturns @hearts4werka @mattsbows @sweetshuga @leoslaboratory @angelic-sturniolos111 @leeeeree @pair-of-pantaloons @colorthecosmos444 @endereies @chrissfavwh3re @strnilolover

[ambrosiaflower]

I was listening to "I Don't Smoke" by Mitski and I couldn't help but think about Thomas Hewitt. There's something about that song that makes me think of him. Especially the lines:

Just don't leave me alone wondering where you are

I am stronger than you give me credit for

I feel that this can be taken in 2 ways. 1) his fear of losing his family of 2) how he'd feel if he had a S/O.

Thomas has been a victim of bullying and of his own mind. He has insecurities about his face, his mental state, and you could make the argument that he could also be insecure about his size. (Considering he towers over almost everyone he comes across. Its another thing that makes him different from most people.) He has to be strong and he knows he is. He also knows that he is the only able bodied member of his family. He knows they rely on him for a lot of things. If something happened to him the family would suffer. He'd be as strong as he could for them, if they asked him to be stronger then he'd find a way to be stronger for them.

If Thomas had a S/O he'd be terrified of the idea of them leaving. He probably need a lot of reassurance from his partner that he is good enough, that he is worthy of love, that he's not some brute. While I don't know if he'd try to keep his partner in the house locked away in the Hewitt house, assuming that he had met his partner through his job or somewhere in town, I do believe he'd want his partner within his line of sight. Once again, I feel like he would need a lot of reassurance from his partner. He'd need to be both told and shown that he is good enough as he is. I don't think that verbal reassurance would be enough for him. He'd been called all sorts of nasty things both to his face and behind his back. As his partner you'd have to dedicate time to show him that he is worthy of love.

Maybe I'm just relating too much to him and maybe slightly projecting onto him but I feel like over all I'm pretty spot on.

The lines:

If you need to be mean

Be mean to me

I can take it and put it inside of me

This section of the song makes me think about when he was being fired form the slaughter house. When that one guy called him a "dumb animal" he chose not to attack that guy. He seemed to have hesitated and contemplated hurting the man before putting the knife down and walked away. It was only when his boss insulted his family when he acted out violently. He killed the man not because the boss insulted him, but he insulted his family.

I think about Thomas a lot... I'm sure that is obvious with how much Tommy content I have been reposting lately. I see some of myself in him, obviously not the cannibalistic murderer part but in how he interacts with the world and some of his other characteristics.

I'm sorry if this seems disjointed or if it doesn't make a whole lot of sense. I just needed to get this out of my head. Let me know if ya'll agree with me or if ya'll have any differing opinions in the comments. :)

[bratbarzal]

you said i could send multiple requests and you wouldn’t block me

could you do roommate (or neighbour) nico with ³⁾ “i’m guessing that the fact you’re already home will tell me everything i need to know about how your date went.”

✩‧₊˚ bratbarzal's valentines event!˚₊‧✩

“i’m guessing that the fact you’re already home will tell me everything i need to know about how your date went.” with neighbour!nico!!!!! bc of course neighbour nico joins your boozy galentines, wears pink fluffy cowboy hats and sings horrific karaoke duets with you. why wouldn't he? not to toot my own horn (again) but beep beep this is a dream that I have had since lunch and I am not giving up on it now.

“I’m guessing that the fact you’re already home will tell me everything I need to know about how your date went.”

You're locking up your apartment when Nico emerges from the elevator down the hall, shoulders slumped and face downcast as he trudges over to his door.

You'd seen him when you got home from work, earlier - dressed in a dinner jacket, hair all styled, shirt tucked neat - and he had told you he had a date. On Valentines Day.

And yeah, your heart had pretty much plummeted to the very core of the earth, but at the very least, you got to see him looking so good - a vision to store in your memory bank for a rainy day, when you're thinking too hard about how close he is, just across the hall, but so far away, only being your neighbour, and all.

And that was only an hour ago. Just enough time to get ready, yourself. Hair curled all nice, makeup done - the sexiest outfit you could possibly throw together, because it's girls night, and you deserve to feel your best.

A good date doesn't last an hour. Doesn't end up with a guy slumping home, hair all mussed from running his hands through it, jacket slung over his arm and his heart crushed into pieces.

"Got stood up," he huffs, reaching into his pocket for his keys, "Said she didn't realise I was a hockey player, and didn't think I had the brain cells to hold a serious, thoughtful conversation for a few hours."

"Ouch," you frown, feeling anger more than pity - because, wow, what a bitch!

"You look nice, though," he throws out the compliment almost as an aside, but you can tell by the way his eyes linger that he means it - fixated on the spot where your skirt ends and meets bare thigh. You're probably gonna freeze, but you're going to get some great pictures for your Hinge profile, so does it really matter? "Didn't realise you had plans."

"Going out with the girls," you tell him, "Galentines, 'cause we're all single this year."

He nods, his gaze trailing back up your body until your eyes meet, torturously slow, only enhanced by the darkened colour of his irises. "Have a good night."

"You should come," you tell him without thinking better of it - hypnotised by the low, sexy tone of his voice. It goes straight through you - almost takes control of you like a puppet on a string.

"I'm not a gal," he frowns, although he makes no move to go into his apartment.

"You're single, though," you shrug, "I don't think they'll be too fussy on the criteria once we get a few drinks in."

"Are you sure your friends won't mind?" he asks, eyebrow wiggling and head tilting in the adorable way it so often does.

You press your lips together as if you're rethinking it, casting your eyes slowly down his figure - broad shoulders, big arms practically bulging through his shirt, slacks clinging to his thick thighs for dear life. Your friends will have the time of their lives with this.

"Considering a night out only won the vote for what to do by fine margins, I think they'll be okay with it." You smile, knowingly, nodding toward the elevator, "C'mon, we don't want to be late."

"I don't get what that means, what came second?"

"Magic Mike." You smirk as you walk backwards, reaching to press the button and laughing when his jaw drops. "You take your shirt off later and we'll be golden."

The poor guy has no idea what he's in for.

--

Your girlfriends don't mind when you and Nico meet them at the bar, not once you've introduced him - his name not ringing a bell until you mention he's from the apartment next door, and you see the flash of recognition wash through them almost like cascading dominoes, knocking each other over one by one.

They don't know him as Nico, he's much more fondly referred to in your group chat as sexy neighbour, after all.

You've only been telling them about him for the past 18 months you've lived across the hall - regaling them with stories of bulging muscles carrying grocery bags for you, compression shirts sticking to him when he comes back from the gym, and the one time the fire alarm went off in summer, and he hadn't thought to put a shirt on when you met out the back of the building.

Yeah, sexy neighbour is pretty much a celebrity in your friend group.

They welcome him with open arms, and the night evolves, as they so often do in your friend group, in highly chaotic fashion.

It starts with a round of shots, because of course it does. The bar is rowdy, the music loud, and those tiny little glasses of you-don't-even-want-to-know-what loosen lips all around. Nico picks up on the dynamic of your group pretty quickly, shifting the shyness he had walked into the establishment with and charming them all with that same dimpled smile he got you hooked on the day you met.

Shots turn into drinking games - chugging cocktails, taking on dares, spilling secrets, and you learn so much about Nico that you would never have known otherwise, so much that you would never have had the guts to ask.

Drinking turns to dancing, which starts in a crowd on the floor, bodies all smushed together, and ends up on tables, Nico by your side the whole time, hooking an arm around your waist so that you don't fall.

You end up bar-hopping to an extent, the second place you go being a little quieter, and you're all way too drunk to stay, so you end up at the karaoke joint further down the street.

Your friends all pick the girls night classics, Man I Feel Like A Woman, Girls Just Wanna Have Fun and there's even a full dance intermission for three of your friends to perform Single Ladies.

You all end up adorning fluffy pink cowgirl hats from god knows where, fluffy feather boas slung from your shoulders, and Nico is suddenly grabbing your hand, dragging you on stage, and handing you a mic before you're fully aware what's going on.

But by then you're too drunk to care, belting What Makes You Beautiful at the top of your lungs with him, still conscious enough to blush when he directs the lyrics towards you - as out of key and awful as they may sound.

And you don't know what happens between that and ending up at the club, bass thumping in your ears, blood pumping, skin sweating, and your back is pressed against his chest. You can still see flashes of feathers in your peripheral, your friends close by, but you can't really focus on anything else.

Anything other than the heat of Mr Sexy Neighbour, himself, flush against you, one of his hands holding yours to keep you steady, the other in the dip of your waist, and his breath warm on your bare neck. You lean into him more than you probably should - more than the sober you of tomorrow will be comfortable with, when you're bumping into him again and unable to look into those pretty eyes - and he leans in right back, nose at the junction where your jaw and ear meets, lips flush against your skin, where you hear him mutter, "I should get you home."

You nod, because what are you supposed to do, speak? With him looking at you like that?

Fat chance of that happening.

And he takes your hand in a firm, clammy grip, doing the rounds between those friends that still remain - the ones he hasn't had a chance to personally see off into a cab - telling them to text him if they need help getting home, and to text you when they eventually make it there.

He guides you practically the whole way home - helps bundle you into the back of a cab, buckling you in for safety and sitting in the middle, where you can lean on him with a heavy head, and your hand in his the whole way.

He throws an arm around you to help you stumble your way through the lobby of your apartment building, holding you up in the elevator and pressing the button for your shared floor. And then he props you up beside your front door, taking your keys from your purse and unlocking the door for you as you watch him with a tired but focused gaze.

God, you want him.

Is the world really so cruel that he would never want you back?

When he finally tries the right key and pushes the door open, he looks over at you, a heated gaze assessing if you're fit enough to send in on your own, and you imagine it's the way you blink slowly at him that tells him you're not.

You were just admiring him, really - your buzz wearing off, and the stumbles added for dramatic effect so that he wouldn't stop touching you - but he doesn't need to know that.

He makes a come here motion with grabby hands, and you practically launch yourself back into his arms, him accepting you with an amused smile as he walks you into your apartment, throwing your purse onto your counter and leaving your keys on the side.

You tug a little to steer him down the hall - in the direction of your bedroom, because if he's gonna play white knight, he may as well go the whole way.

"I had fun tonight," you tell him once he's dropped you off onto the safety of your bed, the bouncing motion only making you slightly dizzy again as you watch him stand before you, hands on his hips. "I don't want to say I'm glad you got stood up, but-,"

"I had fun, too." He tells you, dark eyes landing straight on yours as he slowly lowers, dropping to his knees in front of you and reaching for your leg. He starts unzipping your boots for you, and you watch him with what you can only assume are hearts in your eyes, a slow, dreamy sigh wracking through you.

"Wish I got to see you with your shirt off."

He laughs, in a way that makes his eyes crinkle in the corners and his shoulders shake - genuine amusement flooding through him as he looks back up at you, the angle straight up sinful and sobering.

He holds your other leg behind the knee, large hand warm against your bare skin, and slides your other boot teasingly slow - your gazes locked for the whole manoeuvre - his hand following down your leg until he discards both boots to the side.

He stays down there, kneeling in front of you, staring up at you with the prettiest eyes you've ever seen - a flush to his cheeks and a million thoughts racing through his brain.

You lean forward before you can think, and he meets you half-way in a kiss that's slow - sensual and pressured, firm and assuring - the taste of tequila on his tongue as it swipes against yours, which no doubt tastes the same.

He's the first to pull back, but it isn't all the way - just until your lips smack apart, his nose still pressed to yours as he avoids your chasing with a big grin.

"You're drunk."

"Don't care, wanna kiss you." You just about manage to catch him before he pulls back again.

"Not like this."

And then the touch of him is gone, the bump of his nose and the press of his forehead to yours disappearing in a way that makes you pout.

The way he kisses you again is quick - too quick to react, really - before he retreats again.

"You know where to knock when you're sober."

You let out a groan as you watch him leave, unashamedly watching his ass as he goes, eyes still lingering when he stops at your door and catches you with a knowing smirk.

"Happy Valentines Day, sexy neighbour."

[lazorbeanz]

Free candy ❌ Free mints ✅

[velmashaircut]

When I first began reading/ watching OPM I use to really, really hate Tatsumaki. She was probably my least favourite character from the main cast for over a year. I tried to hide it in my posts but I despised her.

Even back then I knew why, Tatsumaki reminded me of my older sister who at the time I did not have a great relationship with. Not only would I say Tatsumaki has my sisters personality and motivations amplified to the extreme, but my sister was seen as ‘better’ by everyone around me, or at least it felt like that to me. My sister obviously isn’t an esper prodigy but she is seen as smarter, prettier, more likeable you know the drill. The Psychic sisters arc was probably one of my least favourite arcs unsurprisingly, I can understand Fubuki’s feelings towards her sister completely. You would think this would make me like Fubuki …but back then I didn’t like her that much either lmao.

The manga, especially the chapters for the monster association arc, did a great job of changing my perspective of Tatsumaki. I can see why she’s the way she is and even if I disagree with her methods I do like her character now, I prefer her to Fubuki. I used to hate webcomic counterpart as well but ever since the mangas MA and psychic sisters arc I like her webcomic self also.

The relationship improvement with my sister played a part in this as well. My sister wanted to make sure I could stand in my own two feet but she went about it the wrong way, which was what Tatsumaki also did. So understanding my sisters motivations and the manga chapters made me understand and like Tatsumaki more.