#it's been hard to work with all the moving from one side of the world to the other

[fic-girlie]

Hi! You’re my favorite writer on here :) I love all your works!! I have a request for Javier Peña where he has been trying to get into readers pants for a while now and reader has denied him multiple times because of his reputation until it’s a late night when they are both alone in the office doing a bunch catch up work and she’s stuck with him and he finally makes enough moves on her. Small detail but I was imagining him smoking a cigarette while she sucks him off and lowkey rough desk sex 🌚

Overtime

Pairing: Javier Peña x f!reader Summary: After months of refusing Javier's attempts at asking you out, one evening you finally give in to your desires. Warnings: explicit sexual content (+18), dirty talk, softdom!Javier, oral (m receiving), office sex, unprotected sex, p in v sex, slight breeding kink, creampie

The office remains in that special way only government offices stay after midnight �� not quiet, not really still, but subdued as though the walls are bated of breath. Fluorescent lights overhead hum with subdued life, their long shadows stretching in the chill light across desks suffocated in paper and half-full coffee cups. The Bogotá humidity seeps through the windows at any hour, heavy and persistent, and the indoor air is just thick enough to suffocate in if you let it. Stale ink, sweat, and cigarette smoke scent pervades everything — all of it clinging to the fabric of the room like specters too familiar to exorcise.

You've been here for hours, drowned in dusty old case files that no one else was willing to deal with. Bureaucratic bullshit, but it needs doing, and you'd rather do it properly than have Peña scan through them and announce them finished. He's been sitting across the room from you the whole time, but there's no way to ignore him — not really. You've attempted it. God, you've attempted it. But he's made a point of being impossible to ignore.

He's lounging now, slouched low in his chair with his legs spread and a cigarette burning slowly between his fingers, looking as if he doesn't have a worry in the world. Shirt sleeves pushed up to his elbows, chest damp beneath the thin cotton, top buttons undone just enough to show a distracting strip of tan skin. He's barely touched the stack of files on his own desk, only reaches out to pick one up occasionally to flip through it with the disinterested boredom of a man who isn't really invested in the work anymore — or maybe just never was.

You don't have to look up to feel his eyes on you. You can sense it like heat, like a pressure on the side of your neck. His eyes are a weight that you can feel, the kind that settles under your skin and stays there, throbbing slow and low and deep. And this has been happening for months.

"You always work this hard," he says, his voice a rasp, low and amused, "or are you trying to prove something?"

You don't even look at him. Just turn another page. "I'm trying to get this done. You should try it sometime."

"I already did mine."

You don't believe that for a second.

He exhales a slow, lazy tendril of smoke, the scent curling around you before you're even aware of how close it's gotten. It hangs in the air like an accusation. He doesn't move in his seat, but you feel the shift in energy — the way his posture steadies ever so slightly, like a predator preparing itself just before it strikes.

“You sure you don't need a break?" he says, too smooth. "I could brew coffee. Something stronger."

You look up then, just a flicker, and catch his gaze — dark, steady, challenging. His mouth twists at the corner like he knows just how far he's gotten under your skin and he's just waiting for you to own up to it. Bastard.

"I don't do breaks with men who think every conversation's foreplay."

He laughs — low and rough, with that subtle gravel grittiness that only shows up when he's too tired to make things pretty anymore. "That means I'm making progress?"

You shoot him a look, sharp enough to cut glass. "You're making progress in getting on my nerves."

"That's not a no."

And it's not. And you both know it.

Since the story goes, if you wanted him to back off so badly — if you were honestly not interested, had no chink in your armor — you would've put an end to this crap during the first week. Possibly even the first day, when he strode into the office like he owned it, tie already undone like he knew he wouldn't be needing it long. You'd seen the way he moved — wild, restless, too willing to swing fists or fall into someone’s bed. The kind of man who left charm in his wake like smoke, who let it blind people to the mess he inevitably left behind him. And you hadn't wanted to be a name on that list.

But he just kept coming back. Insistent. Intent. Not in a way that made you nervous — he wasn't stupid — but in a way that made you wonder. That parched your mouth when he stood too close. That made your thighs shift under your desk when he leaned against a file cabinet, arms crossed, watching you like you were more interesting than anything else in the room. He never pushed. Never cornered. Just… waited.

And maybe that was the most dangerous thing about him.

Now, he leans forward just enough to ash his cigarette in the tray on your shared desk, his other hand braced against the arm of his chair. His shirt sleeves are rolled high, revealing forearms dusted with hair and slicked lightly with sweat. He smells of cologne and nicotine and something earthy and understated, and it hits you harder than you'd like to admit.

“You ever wonder what it'd be like?" he says quietly, voice pitched lower now, like he's afraid of breaking the moment. "If you stopped trying so hard not to want it?"

Your chest tightens.

It's not like you haven't thought about it. Of course you have. On bad nights, on lonely ones — after missions that had failed, after drinks with the others when you came back to an empty apartment and lay there looking at the ceiling. You would imagine the weight of another person, the rasp of stubble against your neck, the calloused clench of fingers in your hair. And sometimes, more frequently than you'd ever admit, it was his voice that slipped between your thoughts, low and dirty and quiet in ways it never was out loud.

You just didn't want him to know that.

"You think if you say the right thing," you whisper, slowly standing up from your chair, "I'll change my mind?"

"No," he says. No smirk. No swagger now. Just that dark, burning stare. "I think you already have. You're just too stubborn to admit it."

You don't answer. You simply make your way to the file cabinets to drop off the latest report, each step away from him heavier than it should be. You hear the groan of his chair as he rises too, movement slow and deliberate, the way someone prepares themselves for something that hasn't occurred but will. The silence between you is taut and vibrating.

"I ever make you uncomfortable?" he wants to know.

You stop.

It's not what you expected. Not from him. And for a second, the air shifts again — not with tension, but with something different. Something real. There's that line again, the one you've danced around for months. The edge of flirtation, and then… something else.

"No," you say, slowly turning to him. "That's the problem."

You don't mean to say it. But once it's out, hanging there between you like the last gasp of a dying flame, you can't take it back. And you don't want to. Not anymore.

He's looking at you like a man who's waited too long already. Still holding that cigarette, still unmoving — but his whole body is coiled under the surface. Like he's waiting for a signal. For permission. For the moment you drop the act.

"I should go," you whisper, but you're not moving.

"Tell me to back off," he says, his voice low enough it's barely audible, "and I will."

And you don't.

You simply stand there, staring at him like you're already halfway gone. Like it's too late. Like you're not certain if you want him to stop — or if you've been waiting for this so long it's starting to hurt.

He says nothing else. Doesn't need to. He reads your silence as if he's been waiting for it — sensing the fracture yawn right down the center of your guarded resistance, waiting quietly for the moment it faltered. The space between you is charged now, thick with smoke and heat and something too bristly to put into words. His eyes never leave yours, even when he steps forward, slow and measured, as a man walking into a room already in flames.

You can sense it everywhere — the low, heavy pull of something dangerous, something enticing. It spreads on your skin and down the crease between your legs as he approaches, halting just close enough that you can feel the warmth of his body. Not touching. Just there. As if he's attempting to test to determine if you'll take the first move. If you'll admit how much you really need him.

But you can't look away. You can't even breathe without taking a lungful of his smell — that smoky, leathery, male warmth that once had been a warning, but now just sluices your mouth.

He brings the cigarette back to his mouth, takes a slow, deep draw, as if he's savoring it — as if he has forever. The cherry flares bright red, shining for a moment across the harsh cut of his cheekbones and dark sweep of his mouth. And then he lets it out, a wandering ribbon of smoke curling from his lips, drifting across the distance between you before rising, misty and thick and heavy with scent, into the air.

"You're still gawking," he growls, voice low and harsh and dark-edged. "You want me to quit?"

Your response is but a whisper. "No.”

He smiles then, slow and crooked and so goddamn confident it nearly knocks the breath out of you. His free hand lifts — not to touch, not yet, but to hook into the front of his slacks. Just enough to ease the tension there, to shift the clear, heavy line of him pressing hard against the fabric. The implication is obvious. And he knows you’re looking.

"Waiting for this," he growls, cigarette now in the corner of his mouth, jaw set. "Fuckin' so long."

He leans back a bit, takes a step back — and for a tight second, you think he's cooled. But then he slumps again into his chair, legs stretched out apart, one hand grasping the armrest, the other slumped firmly against his thigh. And then he nods, slowly, consciously, eyes still locked on yours like a silent command.

You don't even think. You're already moving, already settling between his knees, that burning tension becoming something desperate, something savage. Your palms land on his thighs, warm through the fabric, muscles tensed beneath your touch. He's still smoking, still looking at you with that unyielding face — half waiting, half holding back — as if he's daring you to get this done. As if he's never needed anything more.

"Fuck," he exhales, barely audible, as you unbuckle his belt and pull down the  zipper with gentle fingers. His cock springs out, already hard, flush-colored, thick and heavy. He takes another drag, smoke curling from his lips as your hand envelops him, slow and sensual, tracing your thumb over the bead of precum on the head. His hips lurch a fraction, teeth crunching down on the filter.

And then your mouth is on him.

You go slow at the beginning, lips wrapping around the head, tongue teasing just below the ridge. He's salty and sweaty, with a rich flavor so addicting — and he groans low in his body, one hand jerking up to grip the edge of the desk. The cigarette hangs loose from his mouth now, smoke drifting up above his black lashes as he watches you slide further down, take him deeper. Inch by inch.

"Jesus Christ," he hisses, breath cathing as you drain your cheeks and pull back, then slide down once more — a little harder this time, wetter. Messier. His thighs press against your hands, and his other hand comes up of its own will, finding its way into your hair, not pushing but holding. His palm is warm against your scalp, fingers closing as you moan on him sending vibrations all over his body.

"You look so fuckin' good like this," he growls, the cigarette��jumping up and down with each sentence. "Pictured it every night. This mouth. Goddamn—"

You hum low in your throat, the throb vibrating through him, and he grunts, strained and deep, hips jerking just a little bit. His control is unraveling. You can feel it in each jump of his fingers, each hiss of breath he sucks between his teeth. He's fighting not to fuck into your mouth, not to come too soon — fighting to make it last. And you don't make it easy.

You drag your tongue along the bottom of him, slow and filthy, eyes flashing up to his. The look on his face — raw hunger, blended with shock — tightens your belly up. He's gazing at you as though he can't believe you're really here, like this moment has haunted his fucking nightmares. The smoke wafts above his head in tendrils of soft, burning spirals, his chest rising and falling too rapidly now, the cherry on his cigarette burning precariously low.

"Shit," he growls, sucking in a last drag before finally reaching up, pulling it out of his lips, and grinding it out in the tray behind him. His hand is back in your hair the next moment — both of them now, gripping tight, pushing you harder, rougher. "Keep going. Fuck. Don't stop."

You don't. You want to wreck him. You want to make up for every night you went home damaged and every morning you spent pretending you didn't give a care. You want to bare him down right here, in this dull office filled with monotonous fluorescent lighting, with the stale taste of cigarette smoke still lingering on his skin.

His breath is ragged. Shorter. His thighs shudder just slightly in your grip, and you feel his cock leap, his whole body tensing.

"Gonna come," he snarls, voice raw, like he's grunting the words through clenched teeth. "You better fucking—"

But you don't pull away. You want it. You want all of it. You want to relish the moment he explodes.

And he does.

He comes with a guttural sound, hips jerking up out of the chair, both hands buried in your hair so deep it makes your scalp tingle. Hot and thick, oozing down your throat in sluggish throbs. You swallow everything, tongue licking over the tip for one final time just to hear him curse under his breath.

He's all over you like a storm finally set free.

The moment your lips part from his cock, engorged and wet with saliva, Javier's already moving—belt undone, shirt open and stuck to his body, pupils black with desire. You barely have time to dab at the corner of your mouth before his own is crashing down on yours, tongue burning and eager as he yanks you upright by the arm. His kiss tastes like smoke and naughtiness, like all the foul things he's imagined doing to you for months, now bursting into the air in teeth and groans and desperate heat. You collide with his chest, shocked at how hungry he is now the dam's broken, how wild he's become. His hands are all over the place—pulling your top from your skirt, shoving it up to grab at your tits through the lace of your bra.

"Take it off," he growls, yanking the straps down your arms himself when you hesitate. "Let me see them."

You tear the bra off and let it drop, your nipples already stiff from the chill of the office air and the filthy tug of his voice. His eyes are on them as he falls to take one in his mouth, biting hard enough you flinch before groaning low, like starving for it. His own hand is already under your skirt, up your leg, fingers shoving your completely ruined panties out of the way and finding you wet and slippery. He groans into your chest.

"Jesus fuck, baby—look at this. You're wet just from sucking my cock?"

You suck in a breath when he plunges two fingers into you with no notice, hooking them deep, thumb rubbing against your clit as he devours your chest. Your knees buckle, hips jerking, your hands grasping at the back of his neck to stay upright.

"Javi—"

"Been thinking about this every damn day. You falling apart on my fingers in this bloody office." He licks a stripe across your nipple. "Desk groaning beneath you, walls trembling with your cries."

And then he pushes you up against the desk with both hands flat on your stomach, and lifts you up like you weigh nothing. Your ass crashes into the wood with a thud, legs parting reflexively, thighs slick with your need and trembling with desire. Your skirt is up around your hips, panties still bunched to the side. You feel him spit in his hand and stroke his already hardened cock again once, twice. The wet sound of it makes your pussy clench.

He doesn't get into position right away—instead, he smacks the head of his cock against your clit. Once. Twice. It makes you spasm.

"You gonna take it?" he growls, eyes burning into yours as he fists himself. "Or you gonna run again?"

"Shut up and fuck me, Peña."

He growls—a harsh, animal sound—then yanks on your thighs, pulls you to the edge, and slams into you with one vicious thrust.

The stretch burns in the best way possible—he's thick, deeper than anyone's ever been, and it steals the breath from your lungs. You bow up off the desk on a torn cry, fingernails digging for support in the slippery wood. His dick opens you up, forces deep until his hips are flush against yours and your walls flutter from the pressure.

"Fuck," he growls, head falling against your shoulder. "Tight little pussy's gonna milk me dry."

He doesn't allow you time to adjust. He just fucks. Hard, fast, merciless.

Every thrust sends you sliding across the desk, the wood groaning beneath your back, your breasts bouncing from the force of his hips pounding into you. You balance one hand on the desk's edge, the other clenched fist tangled in his hair, holding on as he pounds into you like it's everything he's ever wanted.

You can feel every ridge, every pulse of him inside you—your walls slick, stretching around him, shaking as he angles his hips to nudge against that devastating spot inside you again and again.

You shriek—helpless, breathless.

"Yeah," he growls, your face his target with hungry eyes. "Take it. You take my cock so good, baby. Knew you would."

You can barely speak. Your brain is completely fogged, your mouth open and panting. All you can do is sense—sense the wet slap of skin, the tug of his cock, the drop of his sweat from his brow to your chest. One hand stays at your hip to keep you pinned, the other slides between your bodies and circles your clit in firm, fast strokes.

"Come," he commands. "I want you to come on my cock, baby. I want to feel you clamp down on me when I fill you up. You want that, don't you? Want me to come inside you?"

You moan, legs tightening around him as your orgasm bursts.

It's blinding—your pussy clenching tight, wet dripping down his cock as you stretch around him, body trembling, breath lost. You scream his name, your voice shaking, needy and loud in the dark. He growls, hips stuttering.

"Fuck—fuck, baby—I'm gonna—"

He slams in deep and stays there, cock pulsing hard as he pours himself into you. Hot and thick and filthy. His whole body shudders, arms flexing beside your head as he growls through gritted teeth, coming so deep it overflows.

The desk creaks under the weight of both your bodies.

You’re both shaking. Drenched in sweat. Ruined.

He stays in you for a long time, breathing, hands soothing on your thighs, your belly, brushing damp hair from your face as your chest heaves and falls.

By the time he finally pulls out, your pussy is a mess—wet dripping down to your ass, his semen leaking from your swollen hole in slow, sticky strands.

He watches it for a moment, thumb spreading your folds just to see the mess he made.

“Fuck,” he mutters reverently. “That’s the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

You let out a breathless laugh, too sore to move, too fucked-out to care that your blouse is torn and your panties are ruined and there’s a case file crushed under your ass.

He kneels down, drops a kiss on your thigh, then your stomach, then he stands up and on your mouth finally. This one is slower. Sweeter. Satisfied.

You watch him as he puts himself away, zips up with hands that are still shaking.

He raises an eyebrow.

"You coming home with me, or do I have to fuck you again right here first?"

You smile.

"You got more in you, Peña?"

He smirks. "Baby, I haven't even started yet."

[slowdrawl]

Third Sunday of June | Husband!Joel x Wife!reader | one-shot | 18+ minors DNI

| Jackson!Joel | established relationship | canon divergent | ~3.8k words |

Summary:Father’s Day comes quietly this year. Your daughter is asleep on Joel’s chest. The world is still. There’s no fanfare, no gifts—just softness and the weight of what you’ve built. He���s not sure he deserves it. You spend the day reminding him he does.

A/N: Spent my morning thinking about Jackson!Joel with a newborn on Fathers Day. So I made this. It’s grief, healing, memory, devotion. And Joel Miller saying “mama” in a way that will stick to your ribs. if you like to get horny and cry at the same time this one is for you. ps. i wrote and edited this real quick, sorry if its a mess

Warnings: 18+ MDNI , grief (Sarah mentioned), BREEDING KINK,SMUT, ITS ALL SMUT,baby in established relationship, domestic softness, emotional intimacy, smut (fingering, oral f receiving, piv, creampie, praise kink, use of “mama,” slight dom!Joel, tooth rotting.

You wake up slowly. Sunlight filtering through the little gaps in the curtains, painting the room with streaks of gold and pink. You reach over beside the bed, arm searching. You find nothing When you roll over, you feel him, solid and warm against you. Joel is lying there, pillow propped up behind his head, awake. His eyes are puffy, you can’t tell if he’s even slept at all. Your daughter is sleeping on his chest, he’s got one arm wrapped below her, cradling her. He makes her look so impossibly small. “Good morning, lover,” you whisper, voice barely awake. He rolls his head toward you, looks down, and smiles softly. “‘Mornin', darlin’,” he mumbles, his voice too rough with sleep, maybe something more. His throat sounds a little tight, eyes are wet. “Did you sleep alright?” you ask. He just nods once, slow, looks down at her in his arms. “She woke up for a while an hour or so ago, got her back down quick,” he whispers. “You always do, think your voice makes her feel safe,” you say, “probably all that talkin' n’ singing to her you did before she was born.” He smiles again, just barely. Doesn’t say anything. He just curls his hand a little tighter around her back. You watch his thumb start to move, rubbing tiny absent-minded circles—like he’s grounding himself. His face is set in soft worry, as if he’s scared that if he stops touching her, one of them will drift away. You shift closer to him, tucking into his side, resting a hand over his. “She’s perfect,” you murmur. His jaw shifts some, and he closes his eyes. You feel it in the way his breath catches in his throat. The way his hand stills. “She looks just like her sister,” he says. You nod. “Yeah, I see it too.” The words, the room, the light. It all hangs there. Fragile. You don’t try to patch it, just listen, just let him speak if he wants. “I keep thinkin’—“ he starts, then shakes his head. “Hell. I don’t know what I’m thinkin’”

You press your lips to his shoulder.

“It’s okay if it’s everything all at once.”

You hear him swallow hard.

“Feels like I’m cheating. Lovin’ her like this. Havin’ her at all.”

You sit up slowly, shift so you can take the baby gently from his chest, and lay her down in the bassinet beside you. She stirs once, just for a moment, then settles.

Joel watches you the whole time, eyes fixed and glassy, throat working around something he can’t quite say.

Once she’s settled, you turn back to him, knees tucked at his sides, your hands bracing on his chest.

“Joel,” you say, voice gentle, but firm. “You never stopped loving Sarah.”

He stays silent.

“You just… didn’t let the world stop forever. Didn’t stop living. And that’s okay.” You bring your hand up to his face, caressing his jaw. “You’re allowed to keep moving forward, she’d want you to, baby.”

“I don’t know how to do this.” He exhales something shaky from his chest, “It’s been so long, I feel like I forgot how.”

You’re scratching the nape of his neck now, both hands on him, reminding him you’re here, you’re real. 

“You don’t have to know everything. That’s why we have each other.” 

You prop yourself up on an elbow, kiss the corner of his mouth. “Why don’t I make somethin’ for you to eat?” you offer, “pancakes?” 

He looks at you, caught off guard. Like he wasn’t expecting kindness today.

“You don’t need to do that.” He says.

“Let me take care of you.” You whisper, kissing him again, on his lips now.

 He doesn’t keep protesting, just looks at you with his big brown eyes as you slip out of bed and walk out of the room.

The light in the kitchen is still gentle, golden.

You move through it quietly, just to let him have the stillness.

You cook, shape the pancakes into little hearts.

It's simple, but it's the simple things that take you back to before this. Before everything got dark.

You go into your pack and pull out the gift you've been holding onto for a few weeks.

You put the card on the table. The one you scrawled in crayon. The one you spent an hour trying to get just right while he was on patrol.

Paint everywhere, from her head all the way into every nook of her toes. She'd fussed the whole time.

Her little footprint was perfectly stamped in the middle of the paper in blue.

You set the table, and plate the food. Put the card on his seat.

You know he'll come out as soon as he smells it.

You boil the water and take it out. Coffee.

You traded one of the gentlemen who came through town a few weeks ago. Joel didn't know. He thought you were at Tommy and Maria's, but you were really with that man's family, painting them a portrait. He gave you a tin of coffee beans, you thanked him, and thanked him, and thanked him. He didn't know.

You grind them up, and as soon as it hits the hot water, you hear his feet hit the ground.

After a few minutes, he rounds the corner with your baby in his arms, both of their hair messy from sleep.

He doesn't speak, just walks up to you and leans his forehead against yours, holding her between you like she's the most precious thing in the world. Like she's everything. Because she is.

You eat in silence. Nothing but the sound of birds outside, the sound of cutlery scraping, and her cooing every so often.

When he opens the card, his eyes go glassy all over again. He picks it up and turns it over in his hands like it might crumble. Or maybe he will.

"You're too good to me," he murmurs as he sips the coffee. 

"Not possible," you say, sitting right next to him, resting your hand over his on the table.

"You are my heart, Joel. You always have been, always will."

You squeeze his hand, he lifts it and kisses the back of it, looking right into your eyes. His gloss over with something too soft to name, no edges today.

The rest of the day passed like a dream.

But not in the way where it felt unreal—no. In a way where everything blurred at the edges. Where the light felt like it stayed warm a little too long, the breeze was too gentle to be anything but divine.

You sat on a blanket in the grass while Joel strummed the guitar, back leaning against the old porch post, your daughter nestled in his lap.

She kicked her feet, babbled. He stared at her, listening like she was preaching scripture. She swatted at the strings, and he just smiled, letting her. Didn't even try to stop her when she slapped the frets and giggled like she'd invented the very concept of music herself. He just kept strumming, singing something soft and low, the melody familiar and broken in, like an old t-shirt.

You watched them like that for hours, something deep in your chest, something you couldn't speak either. Something much too big for just love.

When the sun sank low behind the horizon, and the bugs came out, you cooked again. Something simple, warm. Pasta. You stood in the kitchen together, and he kissed your shoulder as you cut herbs. The baby giggled at every sizzle of the pan.

Later, you both bathed her. Joel held her like she was made of porcelain, crooning quietly under his breath while you rubbed soap through her soft little curls.

Eventually, when you put her down, he read to her. The same dog-eared books he always chose. Sesame Street, Robert Munsch… His voice was steady and soothing. Her little hands clung to his finger even as she nodded off.

You played cards, sitting cross-legged at the coffee table. You let him beat you at rummy. Twice. Then you teased him, accused him of cheating. He looked smug as hell, happy. After, you told him that if he was gonna hustle you, he'd better be the one doing dishes. He said, "Yes, ma'am," in what was still left of that lazy southern drawl you loved so damn much. It made your stomach flutter.

Now you’re in the bathroom, running the shower. You make him get in, reluctant as he is, you convince him. He trusts you. He loves you. You pour shampoo into your palms and lather it, scrubbing his hair with all the tender care in the world. He sighs into your chest as you scratch at his nape. Tipping his head down so you have easier access. He does the same for you. When the soap is rinsed and the water begins to cool, you press your body to his, arms wrapped and wet around his shoulders. You kiss him. Not hard, not desperate, or fueled. You just let your bodies melt together while the water runs over you like rain. When you break the kiss, you look up at him, water cascading through his curls, over his face. His lips are red and a bit swollen, his eyes aren’t glassy anymore, they’re dark. Hungry. The water seems to have been able to wash away some of the weight of today. He leads you out of the shower, wraps your hair up in one towel, and takes a second to dry off your body, paying perfect detail to every inch. You do the same for him. There is something so special about days like these. Where everything feels slow, comfortable, connected. They don’t come often anymore, not since the baby. You both get dressed in pajamas, he puts on pants, you just a shirt. Trying your very best to be quiet as you open drawers so the baby stays sound. He stands behind you as you stand at the end of the bed and watch her for a while. He wraps his arms around your middle, palms flat on your belly. He  leans his head onto your shoulder, mouth beside your ear, whispers, “Thank you for giving me her.” You turn your head, look him in his eyes for a minute, and respond. “No, Joel.” You kiss him again, “Thank you. Thank you for making me a mama.” “I love you.” is all he responds, mumbling it into the curve of your neck, kissing the soft skin there, sending static waves all the way through you. He wraps his big hands tighter around your belly, kissing up from your shoulder to your jaw as he slowly walks you backward toward the bedroom door. As soon as you let the door softly click closed, the air in the house changes. It charges. He doesn't say anything when you guide him toward the couch—no. He just follows, like you're tethered to each other. His hands are still locked on you as you make your way to the couch in the dark.

He pushes you down onto it, then drops down to his knees. You reach forward and run your fingers over his bare shoulders, digging them into the tension that's there, today, every day. You massage him, cradle his face, and touch everything you can reach. He kisses you like he means to undo you. Slow at first, like he's still not quite convinced this is what he deserves. Like every inch of you is prayer, and he's scared to speak it too loud. His hands trail up beneath the shirt you're wearing. His shirt. Callused fingers palming gently at your sides, up and down like he's relearning the shape of you. He leans in and kisses you, harder this time. Still not demanding, it's like he's just claiming you as his. It's the kind of kiss that breathes in you like he's starving for oxygen and tastes like memory. Like every version of him that's ever loved you is all showing up at once.

You moan into his mouth when he slides his hand down from your jaw, over you collarbone, down lower. He stops to cup your breast, circling his fingers so gently over your nipple. His mouth moves down your body and replaces his hand. He sucks and flicks at your skin through your shirt, rolling his tongue over and over.

You can feel his restraint start to slowly slip. Feel it leaving him through short, little panting breaths.

The way he touches you is slow, full of that all-familiar ache. His hands find your thighs, your waist, and finally up under your shirt. When he pulls it over your head he pauses like he's seeing you for the first damn time.

Your hands reach for his face, thumbs brushing the sides of his jaw, rough with stubble.

You watch his eyes darken as they make their way over your body, traveling, lingering at the softest parts. Your belly, your chest. All of the places that bore witness to what you built together

He lays his palms flat against your stomach and stops.

"She was right here," he says, voice quiet. "You carried her right there."

You cover his hand with yours, pressing it tighter into your skin. "She was," you whisper. "And you loved me through every second of it."

His other hand slips down, cupping between your thighs—you feel him shudder when he finds you already wet, needy.

"Still love you like that. More, even."

You breathe out something shaky. "Then take me there again, Joel."

You watch his throat as he struggles to swallow, his brows twitch into the smallest furrow for a moment. He leans into you, rests his head against your bare thigh.

"I've been feeling like the word was gonna end again," he murmurs. "Like this peace...this quiet...this thing we built is just borrowed." he keeps his head down, "I don't wanna waste it. I wanna remember everything."

You slide your fingers into his hair and tug. Not hard, just enough to make his eyes flick up to you, glinting in the low light.

"The world isn't ending again, Joel, we're gonna keep building ours, together. Everyone's safe," you say.

He kisses the inside of your thigh, then higher, then higher, then higher.

He hooks a finger underneath the waistband of your panties and then looks up at you, like he's asking for permission.

You nod, and when he peels them down, he doesn't just look—he stares.

"Fuck, so wet already" he says, voice dripping in awe "You miss me too mama?"

That word—oh god, that word. Mama. It hits you like a chord strummed right through your ribs, makes you pussy clench, has your whole body aching. It wrecks you every time. The way he says it is like praise. Like a god damn title.

"Think I'm not always like this for you?"

He grins, its soft, not cocky, but maybe proud.

Pleased.

"You ruin me so easily," he says, voice low and worn. "Every fuckin' time."

"Joel," you whine, grinding your hips down toward his face.

He chuckles against you, then flattens his tongue, licking a long stripe right down your center, groaning when he tastes you. His lips wrap tight around your clit and he sucks, gentle at first—then firmer. He works you until your back arches and your hands are fisting the cusions.

He eats you like it's the first time, maybe like it might be the last. Like this is the only way he knows how to say thank you for staying.

You whimper, tilting your hips, thighs tightening around his neck.

"Baby, fuck--"

"Yeah, that's it," he murmurs against you. "Give it to me. Let me take care of you."

Your whole body arches when he slips two fingers inside, curling them just right. It's too much, it's not enough. It's perfect.

"God damn, I love the way you sound when I got my mouth on you," he says. "Wanna feel you, c'mon, wanna feel you fall apart for me."

You come, mouth parted in a soundless cry, legs trembling, until his name pours out of your mouth like a broken hymn.

His pace doesn't falter; he doesn't stop. Just licks you through it, lets you ride it out on his tongue. Holding you still, taking everything you give.

When he finally rises from your thighs, his beard is glistening, his eyes are dark.

He kisses your belly, then higher. Then your lips, like he's giving it back to you. Your taste, your need, your surrender.

"Gonna let me love you right?" he asks, voice rasped. "Let me give you everything?"

"Yes, please, Joel--need it. Need you."

"Been thinkin' about this all night. You. The way you looked this morning with her in your arms." He crawls over top of you. "You were made to be a mama."

Your breath stutters, heart kicking.

"You know, you're real mean when you talk like that," you whisper.

He looks down at you, grinning as he tugs down his sweats. You watch as his cock springs free, thick, flushed and leaking.

"You sayin' it's a turn on?"

You nod, biting your lip.

He groans low in his throat, wrecked, and lines himself up. The head of his cock drags through your slick.

He pushes in slowly, inch by inch, watching your face the whole time. Eyes wide, mouth open in awe.

A moan is torn from you, loud, head falling back. He sinks in all the way, hips flush to yours now.

He stays still once he’s buried deep. His hands frame your face.

“I’ve never loved anything like I love this,” he says. “You. Her. Us.”

Your eyes sting. Your chest cracks open.

“I know,” you whisper. “Me too.”

He starts to move—slow, deep thrusts that drag along every inch of you, rolling his hips into yours.

He grabs your hand and puts it over your belly with his. Pressing down right where you’re full of him.

“Wanna give you another one” he breathes. “Wanna keep fillin' our life with good things”

“Joel—”

He grabs your hips tighter, ruts harder, deeper. It doesn't feel like fucking. It feels like this is carving. This is memory. This is making something.

“You want that?” he asks, voice breaking. “You wanna give me another?”

“Yes,” you gasp. “Fuck, yes.”

He slows down some, shallower, grinding against you, the head of his cock catching on your opening over and over driving you insane.

“Turn around,” Joel murmurs, he growls. “On your hands and knees, baby.”

You don’t argue. You don’t ask. You feel it in his voice—that threadbare edge, the way he’s holding back like it’s costing him something. And you want to take the leash off.

So you nod. Slow. Wordless.

And roll.

Every limb feels loose, useless, boneless from how hard he just made you come with his mouth, but you shift, dragging your trembling body onto your stomach, then pushing up to your knees.

Your arms buckle a little under you. Joel’s hands are there instantly, one bracing your hip, the other gliding up your spine.

“Easy, sweetheart. I got you.”

You arch for him, shuddering, and you hear the crack in his breath. The way he exhales, like it hurts. Like the sight of you like this just knocked the wind out of him.

“Goddamn. Look at you,” he whispers. “Still fuckin’ cryin’ for me.”

You whimper when his hand spreads you open, thumb brushing through your folds. You’re slick everywhere. Down your thighs. Pooling between them. The contact makes you gasp.

“Fuck, you’re dripping,” he says, almost like it’s a prayer. “All over my fuckin’ couch. That from me, mama?”

Your voice is ragged. “It’s all from you.”

That earns you a moan.

You hear the soft slap of him stroking himself, the wet sound of his cock in his palm. You arch a little deeper, offer him everything.

And then he’s there.

The head of his cock presses back to your entrance and you both gasp as he slides inside.

The stretch hits different from this angle. Sharper, meaner, fucking heavenly. He presses in all the way, to the hilt, hands locked tight on your waist.

“Jesus Christ,” he hisses. “You feel like you’re fuckin’ made for me.”

You drop your head between your arms, mouth falling open. “I am, Joel.”

That makes him grunt. Low and rough.

He pulls back and thrusts in again, and it makes your knees slide an inch forward on the couch. Makes your voice break on a gasp.

The rhythm he sets is brutal—faster, deeper now. Dragging, grinding thrusts that punch the air from your lungs. “Still got more in you?” he pants, hand sliding up your back. You nod, forehead to the cushion. “As much as you want.”

His hand slides down again. Palms your ass. Spreads you wider.

“You said you wanted to feel it,” he murmurs. “Want me to make it count this time?”

“Yes,” you breathe. “Yes, Joel.”

He leans in over your back, one hand dragging up your belly now, wet with sweat, with slick, with heat.

“Then take it, mama,” he growls in your ear. “Take all of it.”

The sound you make is wrecked. Raw, wordless.

The filth from his mouth has your head swimming.

“You feel that? That’s me. All of me. Still fuckin’ hard for you. You’re wringin’ me out, baby. You want another one so bad? I’ll give it to you. I’ll fuckin’ give it to you.”

You don’t even recognize your own voice when you sob, “Please—please don’t stop—I need you—”

He grabs your hips, both hands now, and drives into you so deep it’s like he’s trying to break you.

You cry out. Eyes wet. Skin burning.

He moans, broken.

“Gonna come—fuck, baby.”

“Do it,” you whisper. “I want it, Joel, I want all of it.”

That’s it. He breaks.

He slams in once, twice. Then groans loud, slurred and filthy as he buries himself deep and pours into you.

You feel it. Warm and thick. A slow bloom of heat that makes your whole body tremble.

He stays there, cock still pulsing, his breath ragged, his hands bruising your hips like he’s scared you’ll disappear.

You both collapse on the couch, spent, wrecked. Happy Neither of you moves for a long, long moment.

He lays a kiss between your shoulder blades. “I hope it sticks,” he breathes. You turn your head to look at him, eyes glassy but glowing. “It will,” you murmur. You guide his hand to your belly, covering it with yours. Anchor to anchor.

“Happy Father’s Day, baby.” Then,  from down the hall, soft and sudden. A cry.

Tiny, insistent, familiar.

Joel’s breath catches in his throat. He presses his forehead to your back. You feel his shoulders shake.

You whisper, “She knows.”

And he laughs, choked up and tear-wet. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, she does.”

[cirilla-fiona-riannon]

Welcome to Beast's Party

Translations may not always capture the exact nuances or tone of the original text. Expect grammatical errors and inaccuracies.

In a guest room at the castle, an unusual mix of princes and one official were holding a meeting.

Clavis: "I want to throw a party to thank Emma for always working so hard."

Clavis: "The reason I called you all here is to invite you to help me plan that party."

Keith: "I think it's a great idea! I'm in—let's get started right away!"

Sariel: "I didn't expect such a reasonable suggestion from you. I'm in as well."

Kagari: "If we're throwing a party, we can't forget a mountain of dorayaki. It's a tradition in Kogyoku."

Keith: "Kagari, you know you shouldn't lie, right?"

Clavis: "Thank you, everyone, for expressing your agreement in your own unique ways."

Clavis: "But a plain, ordinary party wouldn't be any fun, so I've come up with the perfect entertainment."

Keith: "Can I take it back and think it over?"

Sariel: "This discussion is over."

Kagari: "I've never been on the performing side before, so let's hear it."

Clavis: "Thanks again for your three very unique responses. Now, back to the topic at hand."

Clavis: "We'll write a romance story together and perform it as a play!"

Clavis: "If anyone refuses, the party will consist solely of weird-colored dishes, and traps will be set up throughout the castle."

Keith: "You really moved straight into the threats there, Clavis."

Sariel: "I can sense a long history of rejected ideas behind this."

Kagari: "Is it because the princess likes reading romance stories?"

Clavis: "Exactly. Both writing the story and performing it are all for Emma."

Clavis: "This is probably a billion times more sensible than my usual proposals."

Sariel: "Not something to brag about, but you're not wrong."

Sariel: "Prince Keith, Prince Kagari, what do you think?"

Keith: "I was a little wary at first, but after hearing the plan, I think it's brilliant."

Kagari: "I'm in too. I've never done this before, but leave it to me. So, what kind of story will it be?"

Kagari: "How about a tale of a dorayaki seller and a samurai? A bloody feud between red bean paste lovers and smooth bean paste lovers."

Sariel: "I'd love to hear how that turns into a romance."

Clavis: "Unique, but a bit too niche."

Clavis: "How about this: A prince is turned into a clay figurine by an evil witch. He goes on a journey and falls in love with a woman he meets. Then, when they share a true love's kiss, she also turns into a clay figurine, and they live happily ever after."

Keith: "Everyone defines happiness differently, but wouldn't this just make Emma cry?"

Sariel: "Rejected. That ending is straight-up horror."

Kagari: "I think it's interesting, though—a love story between clay figurines."

Keith: "They're human! Don't let him mislead you!"

Clavis: "It seems the world isn't ready for it yet. I'll save it for my next life."

Clavis: "Keith, let's hear what kind of story you'd come up with."

Keith: "Alright."

Keith: "How about this: A fairy falls in love with a prince, makes a deal with a witch to trade her voice for a human form, and sets off to confess her feelings."

Keith: "But halfway through, her true identity as a fairy is discovered. She makes another deal with the witch—this time giving up her ears to turn back time to before she was discovered."

Sariel: "This fairy is taking on way too much loss. I'd be seriously worried she's the kind who easily falls for scams."

Kagari: "Keith, are you into tragic love stories?"

Keith: "Not usually, but maybe this time I am."

Clavis: "That one would make Emma cry, too. Next—Sariel."

Sariel: "A prince and a princess from enemy nations fall in love, but are torn apart by war only to be reunited in their next life. How's that?"

Clavis: "Bittersweet, but it ends on a happy note. Annoyingly enough, it's not bad."

Kagari: "Clavis, we're supposed to act out the play ourselves, right?"

Clavis: "Of course. I told you—we'll write a romance story and perform it as a play with this group."

Kagari: "So four guys are going to throw their whole bodies into acting out a love story?"

Clavis: "…………."

Keith: "……………"

Sariel: "………….."

Keith: "This is starting to sound like a punishment game—for both the actors and the audience."

Sariel: "Even imagining it makes my stomach churn."

Clavis: "I can already picture the forced smile on Emma's face. No, this might actually damage my mental state."

Kagari: "In that case, why don't we use that for the play instead?"

Moments later...

Clavis: "Puppets. That's a great idea—this way, even with just four of us, we can still put on a romance play."

Sariel: "Still, how did you manage to prepare such intricate puppets in less than a day?"

Kagari: "I made them."

Sariel: "You made them? I must say, I'm impressed by your craftsmanship."

Kagari: "Feel free to keep the praise coming."

Kagari: "This actually takes me back. When I was a kid, I used to make these for fun."

Keith: "Whoa, they move so delicately—like they're actually alive. I could watch this forever."

Kagari: "Seriously, don't hold back on the praise."

Kagari: "Clavis, do you have the script ready?"

Clavis: "Of course. I pieced it together from all the story ideas you suggested."

Keith: "Wait, seriously? That was fast."

Clavis: "I used to write stories for my younger brothers. This was nothing."

Keith: "I used to read stories to my little sister, but I was never good at writing them. You're amazing, Clavis."

Sariel: "Oh? The roles are already assigned, too. How efficient."

Clavis: "Everyone got your puppets? Then let's begin the rehearsal!"

[The Rehearsal Begins]

Cast:

A noble lady on the brink of ruin – Kagari

A pleasure-loving prince – Clavis

The prince's trusted retainer – Sariel

The noble lady's personal butler – Keith

Prince: "It's been a long journey. I'm finally about to see the legendary treasure with my own eyes. Just you wait!" Prince: "Huh? I sense someone nearby. Who's there?" Noblewoman: "Oh my, what a handsome gentleman. Is this love at first sight? May I ask your name?" Loyal Butler: "Milady, this is the 101st time you've fallen in love at first sight. Please show some restraint." Prince: "What perfect timing. Could this meeting have been fate?" Prince: "Do you know of the legendary treasure—the winged clay figurine? I came here to obtain it." Noblewoman: "It's in our barn." Prince: "I love you. Let's get married right now." Noblewoman: "Yes! I've finally escaped ruin!" Prince's Retainer: "Prince! I've found you!" Prince: "Oops, I've been found. I thought I had sneaked out of the castle unnoticed." Prince's Retainer: "Enough! A wicked prince like you must DIE!!" Prince: "Ugh…"

Keith: "Okay, maybe let's pause for a second."

Kagari: "The prince just got stabbed by his retainer."

Keith: "There's way too much going on right from the start. My brain can't keep up. What did we just watch?"

Sariel: "This is suspense disguised as a love story. Emma's going to cry."

Clavis: "Because of your terrifyingly convincing performance."

Sariel: "It was strange from the get-go. It felt like the prince was written specifically for you, Prince Clavis."

Clavis: "Because he was."

Clavis: "Kagari's completely flat delivery really highlighted the contrast with the prince's energy. Well done."

Kagari: "My performance was top-tier. Leave the noble lady role to me."

Keith: "Oh, so the retainer stabbed the prince because he was actually an assassin? Yeah, it is a suspense story."

Sariel: "The noblewoman's butler is actually the prince's half-brother. This isn't a romance anymore, is it?"

Clavis: "But aren't you just a little curious about how it ends?"

Keith: "W-Well, yeah. I guess with so much to comment on, it's kind of intriguing."

Kagari: "Who knows? Maybe the princess is actually into this kind of plot."

Sariel: "That's possible. She does love immersing herself in stories regardless of the genre."

Kagari: "Clavis, let's run it from the top. This time, I want to check how the puppets move."

Clavis: "Of course. You and I have the most scenes together, after all—let's take our time and polish it to perfection."

Clavis: "I'm sure the quality of the performance will move Emma to tears."

Kagari: "I want to see that."

Clavis: "Then we'll keep practicing until it's flawless!"

Sariel & Keith: "…………"

Sariel: "There's a lot I want to say about the script, but I don't want to kill his momentum."

Keith: "Yeah. Seeing them so fired up kind of makes me want to try even harder, too."

Keith: "After all, we all want to make Emma smile."

Sariel: "Just this once, I'll turn a blind eye to how ridiculous the plot is and join the rehearsal."

Keith: "You're pretty soft on Clavis, Sariel."

Sariel: "A leftover habit from when I used to be his tutor, perhaps."

→ Silvio, Azel, Yves, Leon's side

[writeonwhiskey]

act like you love me: ch 8

a/n: apologies this is late. i listed the dates to post these chapters before taking into account the changes in my schedule for the summer 🫨 word count: 4k tracklist: behind the light [ fic master list ]

8 - Mostly Professional

WEEK 6 (continued)

Waking up next to Hyunjin’s warm body confirms last night wasn’t a dream.

And more than that—it meant something.

The last few weeks of whatever has been brewing between you hadn’t just been in your head. The feeling—the connection, it was all real.

But that doesn’t stop the alarm bells from ringing.

Because no matter how much you wanted it, you don’t know if it should have happened.

Still, you don’t move away. With one leg draped over his, his arm loosely around your waist—you stay where you are, letting yourself feel the terrifying comfort of it.

You fit together too well. Like you were made to.

And that scares the hell out of you.

You shut your eyes and press your forehead against his chest, as if the pressure might quiet the panic rising within you.

You were hoping this wouldn’t feel like anything. A passing curiosity…an itch you both wanted to scratch.

But this? This morning-after cuddling? This soft, sleepy warmth wrapped around you? This feels like the beginning of something. And that’s a problem.

You’ve worked too hard to let a whispered rumor ruin it all. So has he. You know how the industry works—people love to talk. One careless moment, one slip, and suddenly your name is tangled up in headlines that have nothing to do with your talent.

On-set romances are messy. They’re dangerous. Career altering. You told yourself you wouldn’t go there. And yet—here you are.

But it’s not because you were caught up in the heat of the moment…not really. It’s also not because it felt impulsive or reckless. It wasn’t like that at all. It was a slow, inevitable crossing of a line you kept redrawing, closer and closer, until there was nowhere left to stand. You let this happen. You wanted it, even knowing the cost.

It felt that powerful.

Behind you, Hyunjin stirs. His hand slides up your back, and then he mumbles sleepily, “Don’t move.”

You bite your lip.

You don’t want to.

God, you don’t want to.

So, you stay a little longer, letting yourself have this one small, selfish moment. One soft, quiet breath where it’s just you and him and none of the consequences.

But eventually, you do pull away. Slowly. Reluctantly. His arm tightens reflexively before loosening. He shifts to his side and sprawls across the bed as you slip out.

You cover yourself with an over-sized, off-the-shoulder sweater before padding to the bathroom to wash your face, brush your teeth, and to try steadying your thoughts.

In the kitchen, you put the kettle on and lean against the counter, fingers brushing your lips.

Why did it have to feel that good?

It would have been easier if it were bad.

But it wasn’t.

It was incredible. The ache between your legs is a traitor’s reminder of just how incredible it was.

But it’s not just the sex. That’s what makes it dangerous.

It’s the fact that it’s too easy to like Hyunjin after peeling back some of his layers. It’s too easy to want to be around him. Too easy to memorize the way he smiles when he thinks you’re not looking. Too easy to feel wanted when he touches you.

You start telling yourself it can be a one-time thing. A mistake you won’t repeat. Something you can tuck away and forget as soon as you step back on set. You only have a month left of filming and then he’ll return to a world of glitz and glamour far beyond the scope of what you ever imagined for yourself. You can get through this.

Your phone rings, pulling you back to reality. You swallow the lump in your throat and glance at the screen. It’s your agent.

“Hey,” you answer softly.

“How’s everything going?”

“It’s going really well,” you say. And for the most part, it’s not a lie.

“Good, I’m glad to hear it.” She pauses for a beat. “Have you given any thought to the KBS offer?”

You exhale. It’s a big opportunity. A shift. But one that could change your trajectory as Hyunjin mentioned last night.

“Yeah. I’ll do it.”

“Really?” she sounds surprised. “I was sure I’d have to twist your arm a little.”

“No—I’m okay with it. Tell them yes.”

“Okay, I’ll get the contracts drawn up. We’ll need to boost your socials. A few curated posts to grow your following in the days leading up to your appearance on the show.”

“I don’t know what to post.”

“Don’t worry about it, we’ll get the team on it. Oh! You’ve gotten kind of close with Hyunjin, right?”

Your heart immediately starts hammering behind your chest.

“We’re friends, sure,” you say too quickly.

As if summoned, Hyunjin emerges from the hallway, gloriously naked. Your eyes snap away, heat rushing to your face.

“Do you think he’d be open to some behind the scenes shots? Nothing that gives away the plot, just enough to tease the chemistry. Maybe he can post it as well and tag you—it would give your account a boost.”

You feel like you’re choking.

This. This is why it’s too risky.

Because using him for clout—packaging intimacy into content—feels like betrayal. Of him. Of yourself. Of what last night meant.

Your agent asking this confirms that a relationship with him would only diminish the hard work you’ve put in on your own.

“I don’t know. I’ll ask,” you murmur.

“Keep me posted. And remember—run everything you post through the team first, okay?”

“Yeah. Will do. Bye.”

You set your phone down and exhale sharply.

When you turn around, Hyunjin is standing across from you now, pants on but shirtless, a lazy smile tugging at his lips.

You don’t want them to, but your eyes trail down the lines of his chest, taking in the way those chiseled muscles taper into his jeans, and that damn slutty waist of his.

"You just gonna run off without saying anything?" he teases lightly, voice still rough with sleep.

You gesture toward the stove as the kettles start to whistle. “I’m making tea.”

“I used your toothbrush, by the way.”

You scrunch your nose. “Gross.”  

“Really? That’s too intimate for you? After everything we did last night.”

Touche. It hadn’t been once. Or twice. To be honest, you’d lost count after the shower. You devoured each other, over and over.

“I have spares. You could have asked.”

“I wanted to use yours,” he says, stepping behind you. His arms slide around your waist as you pour the scalding water into two mugs.

You catch yourself as you start leaning into his embrace, snaking away from him. "We should...talk.”

You drop the tea bags into the mugs and turn to lean against the counter. You push at his chest gently to create some space between you, and he lets you.

He props himself against the opposite counter, watching you too closely.

"We have to keep things professional,” you begin. “On set. Around the team. It’s better if we pretend nothing happened."

Hyunjin's smile fades into something softer, unreadable. "For the project?" he asks, like he already knows the answer.

You nod, feeling the tightness in your chest. “Last night was…great, but we both know there’s no future here. That was the one and only time.”

He tilts his head. “Just ‘great’?”

“Hyunjin.”

“Okay, okay,” he relents, hands raised. “Go on.”

“There’s too much at stake for both of us,” you say. “This thing—whatever this is—it can’t go anywhere.”

“Shouldn’t we get to enjoy our lives, too?”

“It wouldn’t lead anywhere. That’s what I’m saying.” You brush him off. “Let’s just agree to keep it professional.”

“Sure,” he says, standing up straight. He starts toward you, and you can feel your heartbeat pick up with every step. “Professional.”

He stops in front of you, gaze never leaving yours. He lifts your hand to his lips, kisses your knuckles, then higher, brushing your wrist, then your forearm. A shiver runs through you.

You should pull back. You told yourself you would. But instead, you find yourself leaning in, drawn by the quiet pull of him, the way he makes it so easy to forget every reason you had to resist.

"Hyunjin..." you whisper, caught somewhere between warning and want.

“Tell me to stop.”

He says it so softly. So dangerously—like he knows that phrase is your kryptonite.

His mouth trails up your arm, to your shoulder, then your neck—each kiss unraveling more of your resolve.

“Tell me…” he murmurs.

But you don’t.

You can’t.

Your hands wrap around his neck — tugging him closer, needing more. You slide your hands up to his head, rubbing the velvety texture of his hair as you pull him harder against you.

"Just one more ti—" you start, but his lips capture yours before you can finish.

Your sweater slides off your shoulders, pooling around your hips as he lifts you onto the counter, stepping between your legs. His hands roam—your waist, your thighs, your back—exploring like he’s reclaiming you. You tilt your head back, granting him more access, and he takes it greedily, kissing a path down your throat.

He lifts you again, arms strong around you, and carries you to the living room. You don’t say anything to stop him.

You don't want to.

At the back of the couch, he sets you down and pulls away just enough to look at you. He cups your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek. You meet his eyes, breathing heavy, lips parted in anticipation. He kisses you once more before turning you around. He lifts your sweatshirt, revealing that you didn’t bother to put anything on beneath it when you got out of bed.

“Fuck, y/n…” he groans.

His hands skim down your back, over your ass, fingers sliding between your legs. He rubs his fingers up and down your slit, feeling how wet you already are as he laces your back with kisses. He works your pussy as if he became an expert in one night, teasing your clit one minute, then fucking you with his fingers the next.

His other hand comes up, groping your breasts, pulling a moan from your throat.

“You like it a little rough, yeah?” he murmurs into your ear as he pulls at your nipple.

You nod, unabashedly.

Then his hand climbs higher—wrapping around your neck. He doesn’t squeeze, just holds, grounding you against his chest as his fingers fuck your pussy. You gasp, body trembling from the overload of sensation.

“Does that feel good?” he breathes.

“Yes,” you pant, hips circling against his hand.

His hand at your neck slides around to the back, and he guides you down until you’re bent over the couch. You hear him drop to his knees behind you and feel his fingers part your cheeks.

“How am I supposed to stay professional,” he muses, “when I’ve already seen this pretty pussy?”

His tongue replaces his fingers, and you push your ass back for more. But before you can enjoy his tongue too much, he slips two fingers back inside.

“You want me to pretend like I haven’t tasted you?”

He withdraws them slowly, then brings them to his lips, sucking them clean.

“I’m not that good of an actor.”

He stands, pushes down his pants, and without hesitation, sinks into you with one firm thrust.

Every thought you had earlier? Gone.

Every rebuttal? Shattered.

This—this is what you want.

Giving your body to him completely.

To cry his name.

To push back against his cock and beg for more.

He grips your hips and fucks you harder. You hold onto the couch to keep yourself steady, meeting each thrust with your own.

You were wrong before.

This will be the last time.

It has to be.

WEEK 7

But it’s not.

The next week slips by in a haze of long hours and secret glances across crowded sets.

You and Hyunjin are getting along better than ever—laughing between takes, moving through scenes with an easy rhythm that has the crew praising your chemistry.

It’s a dangerous dance you’re playing behind the scenes. Stealing moments when no one’s looking. Disappearing into one of your dressing rooms under the pretense of running lines when all you’re really doing is touching, tasting, needing each other in a way that feels addictive.

And although it feels like you’re doing a good job of hiding it, you can’t tell if Minho and Han are starting to catch on. During a scene where Jae-hoon and the innkeeper share a lingering look, Minho smirks as soon as Chan calls cut.

“Should we leave you two alone for privacy?” he asks, loud enough that you and Hyunjin can hear him.

Han throws his arm around Minho, grinning, “Nah, let’s stay. See the good stuff for ourselves.”

You try to laugh it off and scrunch up your face in disgust.

“We’re just good at what we do,” Hyunjin shrugs it off.

Thankfully Minho and Han leave it at that, but Hyunjin shoots you a wink when they’re not looking. You shake your head and turn away, clenching your jaw to keep from smiling.

Whatever that’s going on between you isn’t negatively affecting filming. So it feels fine. Like maybe you can get through this while having your cake and eating it too, because you don’t want to stop fucking Hyunjin. Sleeping next to him. Laughing with him. Holding him.

It’s thrilling.

But every time you let it happen again, you always tell yourself it's the last time. That you'll be smarter tomorrow.

You pull the innkeeper’s pants back up while Hyunjin is seated on the couch in his trailer, still shirtless, catching his breath. As you pull the pants up near your ass, he lurches forward, hooking a finger in the belt loop and drags you to him.

“Don’t put that away yet,” he says, cupping your ass as he kisses your bare stomach.

“We’ve been ‘running lines’ for twenty minutes,” you say, looking around for your shirt. “We need to go back.”

He lifts his gaze, locking eyes with you as he nibbles at the soft flesh of your stomach. “But my dick is still hard.”

You close your eyes, as if not being able to see him will release you from the never-ending temptation that is horny Hyunjin wanting you.

He tugs at the pants, but you hold onto them tighter to keep them from moving. Not one to back down from a challenge, he manages to slip a hand beneath your underwear, his path clear since you haven’t buttoned the jeans yet. His fingers find your folds, stroking between them until your hips are rocking towards his face.

“And your pussy is still dripping,” he murmurs.

You place your hands on his head, wishing his hair wasn’t buzzed off so you had something to grip. You palm his forehead and push until he’s leaning back against the couch, but his fingers are still on you.

You grab his wrist, but he doesn’t still his movements, and you can’t stop the moan that falls from your lips.

“Don’t make me put you in timeout, Hyunjin. Stop.”

He doesn’t play around when that word comes out of your mouth.

He sighs, reluctantly removing his hand. “What if I can’t?”

“You just did?” you counter, buttoning up your jeans.

“No, I mean in general,” he says, reaching for his shirt to pull over his head. “What if I can’t stop wanting you?”

You’ve asked yourself that very question.

Is it normal to want someone this much? Is it just infatuation onset by the close proximity and the developing emotions of the characters you’re playing? Will these feelings fade when filming ends?

You lean back against the vanity as you button up your shirt. “Have you ever done this before?”

“Sex?” he sasses, pulling his briefs back on.

You look around the vanity for something to throw at him, but there’s nothing.

“With a co-star.”

“No,” he says softly. “I haven’t ever wanted to…before you.”

You mull over that for a moment, letting his words wash over you.

“Do you think this is only exciting because it’s a secret we’re hiding from everyone?”

He’s quiet as he considers your question.

“No,” he says again. “It adds to it, sure, but I don’t think that’s all this is.”

“It is,” you say, defiantly lying.

He stands from the couch and closes the distance between you. He leans down so you’re eye to eye.

“Bullshit,” he calls you out. “I could never get a good read on you at first, you know that? I wasn’t sure if you felt this too, and I wasn’t sure if you’d even want to cross this line with me for a million different reasons. But we did. And I like it. And so do you.”

“What would your agency say?” you counter, because one of you must remain level-headed.

He leans back at that.

“Exactly,” you say in response to his silence. “It’s just fun. That’s all it can be.”

He steps forward again.

“So now I’m just a good time?” His leans down to kiss you briefly.

“You’re impossible.”

He grins, pulling his pants back on. “You love it.”

“I don’t,” you shake your head.

Love is too strong of a word. It’s not allowed in this space.

Week 8

The sneaking around continues. The whispered declarations that this can’t work, that it’s just a phase, become fewer and farther between. At some point, you both surrender to the pull. It’s not a relationship—not officially—but it feels like more than just sex.

After a late night of filming, you, Hyunjin, Minho and Han go out for dinner. The four of you fall into easy conversation over shared plates and empty soju bottles. You make sure to sit at the opposite end of the table from Hyunjin, and he respects that choice.

You’re not feeling great, but you’ve put on your best face, not wanting to miss out or draw attention. You push your food around your plate more than you eat it, hoping no one notices.

Minho nudges you lightly. “Don’t tell me you’re full already. We have another course coming.”

“I’m pacing myself,” you lie with a small smile.

Across the table, Hyunjin meets your gaze for the briefest second—just long enough for his eyes to soften, the hint of concern flickering there before he looks away again. He doesn’t push. He plays it cool, leaning into the performance of indifference, but every so often you feel his attention on you like a phantom touch.

And once you’re back at the hotel, taking the elevator up, the familiar pull begins. It’s quiet—just the four of you. Everyone’s mellow from the alcohol and the long day. Minho and Han are talking about some game they’re planning to play when they get back to their rooms.

When the elevator dings at your floor, you step out with Minho and Han—but then Hyunjin follows, like he’s on autopilot.

Minho arches an eyebrow. “Where are you going. Mr. Penthouse?”

Hyunjin freezes mid-step. For a second, it’s like the mask slips—the man who’s been sneaking into your bed without hesitation now caught in the act.

You shoot daggers at him with your eyes, trying to will him back inside the elevator. Your heart pounds—not from fear of discovery, but from the weight of realizing how much you want him with you tonight, even though sex is the furthest thing from your mind.

Hyunjin backpedals with a shrug and a crooked grin. “Too much soju. This isn’t the top-billed cast member floor.”

The tension in your shoulders ease as he steps back inside casually, like it was nothing, but you both know better. The ache of wanting and not having simmers beneath your skin all the way back to your room.

Your body aches—not just from the long day, but from the dull, persistent cramping that’s been nagging at you since this afternoon. You hadn’t mentioned it at dinner—at a table full of men. You’d smiled and laughed and played your part, even when you weren’t feeling up to it.

You shower, change into your pajamas and just when you’re curling up in bed, your phone buzzes.

Pastry Prince👑 [11:48 PM]: you want to come up?

You hesitate, then start typing.

You [11:50 PM]: Not tonight. Sorry. I’m kind of dead and cramping.

There’s a pause, and you wince at the reply you expect: a thumbs-up emoji, maybe. Silence. Instead—

Pastry Prince👑 [11:52 PM]: cramping like…period cramping?

You stare at the screen, a little surprised he even asked.

You [11:52 PM]: Yeah.

Pastry Prince👑 [11:53 PM]: got it. stay put.

You [11:53 PM]: Literally wouldn’t move if I could.

No response.

You turn on the TV in your room for some background noise, flicking through the channels before settling on a recently released movie.

Thirty minutes later, there’s a soft knock at your door.

You pull yourself out of bed to answer it. You open it just a crack—only to see Hyunjin standing there with a plastic bag clutched in both hands and a very awkward expression on his face.

“Don’t judge me,” he says immediately, pushing the door open wider. “I ran over to the convenience store but had no idea what to get.”

He steps inside, kicks off his shoes and walks through the hotel room, turning the corner toward the bedroom. You follow after him, catching him inside unloading the bag on the bed like he’s giving a presentation.

“A heat patch,” he says, placing it down. “Two, actually. I wasn’t sure how long they last. Also got chocolate, ice cream…and this rice porridge thing that looked comforting. I don’t know. And tea. And water. And, uh—” he pauses, reaching into the bottom of the bag, “—some ibuprofen.”

You stare at the assortment, warmth slowly flooding through your chest. For a second, you forget about the dull ache in your lower belly. All you can feel is his thoughtfulness. His care.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” you tell him.

But part of you aches at how much you wanted someone to. Because it’s been so long since someone did. With your family on the other side of the planet, you’ve learned to manage everything on your own, to pretend any moment of weakness is no big deal.

“I know.” He shrugs, setting the last item down. “But I wanted to.”

You glance up at him. His face is a little red, and he won’t quite meet your eyes.

You don’t know what to say. Not really. So, you just nod, figuring it’s a more favorable response than bursting into tears.

You wanted this to just be sex. Wanted to believe that’s all it was. But this? This is the part that will break you. This is what makes you start to hope for things you know you shouldn’t.

“Thank you,” you murmur. “Seriously.”

He smiles—small, soft. “Get into bed. Do you want some ice cream?”

You nod again.

You lay in bed, paying more attention to the sound of him moving around in the kitchen than what’s on the TV. He comes back and you both eat bowls of ice cream together, cross-legged on the bed with a fresh movie playing in the background.

He disappears again when you’re done eating, leaving you with the chocolate and telling you to utilize one, or both, of the heating pads.

When he comes back, he climbs into bed next to you. He situates himself before wrapping an arm around you and pressing your head into his chest. Your body curls into his instinctively.

No kissing. No touching, beyond the warmth of his hand tracing circles around your back.

It’s the quietest night you’ve had together.

And somehow, the most intimate.

a/n: and i OOP. what are these wishy-washy feelings!? how could you resist hyunjin, though? lets be real. more soon -- still adjusting to my summer schedule (and trying to date? who am i rn??) so i may not be able to post for this fic twice a week moving forward since my time is cut down quite a bit.

@hwangjoanna / @hanniesbubuwife / @straycat420 / @tsunderelino / @dessianna1 / @akindaflora / @tirena1 / @krayzieestay / @ehstay / @spookiesakura / @aria-again / @sakuraseyebrow / @brekkers-whore / @sailor--sun

[springismss]

cw: hair pulling, cream pie, reader has pet names, cum stuffing. not proofread.

a/n: just something while i take a little break from working on requests and other works. he could dick me down anyway he wanted 🤭

bnha/mha masterlist

voice that drops an octave or two. obscene noises filling the small room. whines of desperation and need sounding out.

the tension heavy in the air as neediness grows.

it’s had always been you and him against the world for as long as you could remember, an unstoppable duo with a name for yourselves.

now here you were, on all fours, head pulled back with slender fingers laced into your hair. mouth agape and moaning desperately. needing to feel that euphoria crackle through you body.

large hand on your hips, fingers digging in as they help guide your hips in a fast rhythm. “fuck, taking my cock so well, doll”. wet sloshing noises gaining volume the more you push back.

makeup ruined and lipstick smeared. you didn’t care, not when you were being dicked down so beautifully. the beautiful stretch of your cunt a welcome feeling amid the chaos of your life.

mushroom cock head kissing that spongy spot, as the veins rub your walls in the right ways, sending jolts of electricity though your veins.

panties pushed to the side, top ripped with tits hanging free, juggling with each hard thrust. “pretty little pussy sucking me deeper, made just f’me”.

small whines and needy moans gaining volume, slapping of skin on skin making the fire in the out of your gut grow. “cum for me princess, want to feel you squeeze my cock before i stuff you so full of my seed, you’ll be dripping me for days”.

pads of slender fingers trailing to your clit, rubbing the small bundle of nerves in circles as your body is manoeuvred, back pressed flush against his chest.

loud cries as the new angle pressed him deeper, cunt split open further. bites on your neck that cause that you to snap. pussy walls clamping down on the cock deep inside, eyes rolling back and mouth open, drool slipping down your chin.

a few hard thrusts before you feel his cock twitch deep in you, heat flooding your body as he soils his cum inside. body falling forward as he lets go, pulling out to watch your cunt clench, strings of his cum still attaching you both.

eyes watching as his seed slowly seeps out of you, proof your his and he’s yours. same slender fingers gathering it up before pressing back into you, stuffing his cum back into your pussy.

“be a greedy girl and keep it in there. i’ll reward you with more if you do”.

smirk tugging as you moan out, wiggling your hips in a silent beg for him to stuff you full of his cock once more. hips soon moving in desperation as you steady yourself with hands splayed on his chest, his fingers moving in tandem with your already stuffed cunt.

he always had a way with you, fucking you whenever and wherever he wanted. “my pretty little cock sleeve, you take it so well”.

turquoise eyes burning into your soul, white hair invading your vision, patchwork skin and staples pressing against you.

you knew you were doomed from the moment you met him, but you didn’t care. as long as you were the one being fucked dumb by his cock, you’d accept any fate you were given.

© springismss 2025 - don’t repost, copy, translate, steal or modify.

[luciemggio]

Need You Now

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Inspired by the song Need You Now by Lady Antebellum

Warnings: Angst | Emotional Reunion | Healing |

1:17 A.M.

The wine in your glass had long gone warm. You weren’t sure if it was your third or fourth, and it didn’t matter. The soft glow of the TV lit the living room in flickering shadows, but you weren’t watching. The only sound was the low murmur of late-night news you weren’t listening to.

You were wearing his sweatshirt. The navy blue one that still smelled faintly like his cologne if you pressed your face into the collar—something you swore you didn’t do anymore. Something you lied to yourself about.

You weren’t okay.

Not really.

You got up. You went to work. You smiled at friends. You laughed when appropriate. You said “I’m fine” so often it became muscle memory.

But every night, at this exact hour, you felt the emptiness settle into your chest like a second skin.

That was when the phone buzzed on the coffee table.

You didn’t move at first. You just stared at it, hesitant.

Bucky

1:17 a.m.

“You up?”

You read it once. Then again.

Your heart pounded so hard it felt like your ribs would bruise from the inside.

You hadn’t spoken in three months. Not since the fight. The one where he shut down so completely it felt like a door slamming shut on your chest.

You had cried, begged, asked him to stay.

He had stood there, jaw clenched, guilt written in the lines of his face, and said, “You don’t understand what I am. What I’ve done. You shouldn’t have to love someone like me.”

And then he left.

That night, you sat on the floor for hours, staring at the door.

You hadn’t cried like that since your mother died.

And now, here he was. A text. At 1 a.m.

You stared at the screen, fingers trembling.

Then without replying, you rose and crossed the room. You unlocked the door. And opened the window, the one he used to sneak through when the world felt too loud.

Because part of you always knew he’d come back.

1:43 A.M.

The knock was soft. Hesitant. Like he was already prepared for you not to answer.

You didn’t give him a chance to knock again.

The door opened to reveal him standing there in the yellow glow of your porch light. A hoodie pulled over his head, hair damp from the fog, shadows under his eyes like he hadn’t slept in days.

He looked thinner. Sadder. Like he’d been walking through hell barefoot.

You weren’t sure if you were angry or just relieved he still looked like your Bucky under all that pain.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you said softly.

He nodded, eyes scanning your face, your figure, your bare feet on the wood floor. “I know.”

Silence stretched between you like a rubber band—taut and ready to snap.

“Then why are you?”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed. His voice came out hoarse, cracked like glass. “Because I’ve tried everything else. Drinking. Running. Fighting ghosts. And nothing’s worked. You’re still there. In my head. In my dreams. Every night, I see your face. I hear your voice.”

He hesitated. Looked down. “I couldn’t take it anymore.”

You held onto the doorknob like it was anchoring you.

“You said you needed time,” you reminded him. “You said you weren’t good for me.”

“I thought I wasn’t,” he admitted, meeting your eyes. “I thought loving you would hurt you. That leaving would protect you. But I’ve been gone for ninety-four days, and I feel like I left my ribcage behind with you.”

Your chest ached.

“I still wait for your key in the door,” you whispered.

He stepped closer. “And I still sleep on the left side. Just in case you walk back in.”

You looked up at him, breathing shallow. “I didn’t walk away.”

“I know,” he murmured. “That was my mistake. The biggest one I’ve ever made.”

The street was silent. Only the distant hum of a passing car. The world had fallen quiet enough to hear hearts breaking.

“Bucky,” you said, your voice barely a whisper. “If you walk in right now, it can’t be like before. You don’t get to disappear again.”

“I won’t,” he said immediately, firmly. “I don’t want to live like that anymore. I thought cutting you out would make me feel in control again. But I lost more than I thought I could live without.”

Another step.

“I lost you.”

You stepped aside. And he walked in.

2:05 A.M.

The room was silent. Just the hum of the fridge and the rain beginning to whisper against the windows.

You stood in the kitchen, barely a foot apart.

He looked around like nothing had changed, and yet everything had. His eyes landed on the framed photo on the shelf—your birthday last year. You in his arms. His lips pressed to your temple.

“I saw that photo in my head every night,” he said softly. “Even when I didn’t want to.”

You leaned against the counter. “I told myself I hated you for leaving. But really, I just hated how empty everything felt without you.”

He moved closer. Gently. Slowly.

“I don’t want to run anymore,” he said. “I’ve done enough running for a hundred lifetimes. I want to stop. I want to stay.”

“Do you think you can?” you asked, voice trembling. “Stay, I mean?”

His hand brushed against yours on the counter. Warm. Solid. Real.

“I don’t know how to fix everything I broke,” he admitted. “But I’ll try every day for the rest of my life to make it right.”

A beat passed.

And then you reached out and touched his face.

His eyes fluttered shut. Like that single act undid every wall he’d ever built.

“I still love you,” you whispered. “Even when I didn’t want to.”

“I never stopped,” he breathed. “Even when I told myself I had to.”

You didn’t speak again. Not with words.

You kissed him like you were trying to stitch the cracks together. Like your lips could remind him what home felt like. And he held you like you were the only thing left tethering him to this world.

You didn’t go to bed that night. You curled up on the couch like you used to, legs tangled, his head buried against your shoulder, your fingers in his hair.

And when you finally slept, it was the first time in months you didn’t wake up crying.

Later, he whispered into your neck:

“It’s a quarter after one. I’m all alone and I need you now.”

You smiled sadly, sleep heavy on your eyelids.

“You’re not alone anymore.”

[inextricayblybound]

i’ve been writing this fic for some time …. bear with me Bear with me….

since the hexcore is directly linked to the arcane, when jayce and ekko are transported through their two different alternate universes, viktor is sent to the timebomb universe where zaun is a flourished fully developed city along with ekko.

in this universe, viktor is still disabled, but since he never had to move to the classist and non disabled friendly city that is piltover, he gets better treatment for his leg and back there. better meds, better doctors, better image of himself.

since it is canon that, in this universe, jayce never got to create HexTech, viktor isn’t a scientist. he’s a meek, gentle and smart mathematician who gardens from time to time (reference to his flower field in the commune) and also helps with managing the Last Drop bar.

he walks himself to the grocery store one morning, intending on buying food and some tape for the upcoming Innovator’s Competition’s decorations, when he catches a reflection of himself in one of the glass door fridges. his hair is longer, down to his shoulders, and dyed blonde at the ends.

seeing himself like this is what triggers him to recognize that something is wrong : like when ekko saw he was wearing an earring upon the first seconds he got his first headache in the alternative universe. viktor then realizes he isn’t holding himself up on a crutch anymore, he’s just using a simple cane. he isn’t wearing a metallic leg brace over his bad leg, but just a plush brace for his knee and ankle under his pants.

he buys what he needs to and hurries to the bar. there, he meets jinx, vander, claggor and everyone else, all people he knows, talks to on a regular basis and is friends with — but something feels wrong, all of a sudden. like he’s done something terrible and is waiting for all of them to rain down on him. he ignores the feeling, silently deciding he’s just in a dream—he did die in the explosion, after all—and he chats with vander, compliments jinx’s outfit, asks mylo and claggor about their flower hybrids— until jayce walks in.

he has a beard. his hair is longer, his clothes are different. he’s more muscly than viktor knows him, proof of his hard work as a blacksmith and engineer, and he catches viktor’s eyes through the bar and it’s like viktor’s mind collapses in on itself ; just like when ekko saw benzo walk into his workshop.

jayce runs up to him and holds him up, brings him to sit on a stool. vander brings viktor a glass of juice—they all know viktor has trouble standing and needs a bit of help sometimes, they’re happy to give it to him—and jayce tucks viktor’s long hair behind his ears and asks if he’s had anything to eat today. kisses and hugs him like they’ve been dating for years.

and maybe they have. maybe, in this delirious dream that viktor’s dead mind conjured up to make himself believe his life wasn’t all pain, maybe jayce and him have been a couple for years. they aren’t famous scientists, aren’t daily and nightly searching for answers to save the world. they’re just a normal couple like anyone else. right…?

up so close, viktor can see that jayce has a chipped scar running down the side of his temple and a small bald spot at the left edge of his crown. he also isn’t wearing the gemstone bracelet he never takes off, not even to shower: he just has a tattoo of the stone on his wrist. (how long has he been living in zaun???)

jayce walks off to go talk to someone, and viktor is immediately approached by ekko, a man he’s never seen before. he’s trembling, sweating, obviously scared out of his mind, and asks if his name is viktor. viktor nods, and ekko grabs his arm and pulls him out the back of the bar anddddd ….

WHAT HAPPENS HAPPENS!!!!!! ^_*

[scary-grace]

Enough to Go By (Chapter 28) - a Shigaraki x f!Reader fic

Your best friend vanished on the same night his family was murdered, and even though the world forgot about him, you never did. When a chance encounter brings you back into contact with Shimura Tenko, you'll do anything to make sure you don't lose him again. Keep his secrets? Sure. Aid the League of Villains? Of course. Sacrifice everything? You would - but as the battle between the League of Villains and hero society unfolds, it becomes clear that everything is far more than you or anyone else imagined it would be. (cross-posted to Ao3)

Chapters: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27

Chapter 28

When you wake up, you’re on a gurney, being moved through the halls of UA. Your hands aren’t cuffed or tied to the bed, but when you try to sit up, someone’s hand descends on your shoulder and pushes you firmly down. “You went into minor cardiac arrest,” an unfamiliar voice says, and when you glance in its direction, you find UA’s Recovery Girl motoring along at your side. “Since we don’t know the origin of your heart condition, we have to proceed under the assumption that exertion is a factor.”

You had a heart attack? Whatever happened to Tenko, it must have been bad – and he must be really far away from you right now, because even lying still, your body’s under strain. “Where are we going?”

“A strategy meeting.” Recovery Girl doesn’t look at you. She keeps walking, staring straight ahead. “That’s all I know.”

The rest of the journey passes in silence. You don’t recognize the part of UA you’re moving through, or the door that opens to admit you, but once you’re inside, you recognize nearly every person who’s already in the room. Mitsuko and Ryuhei. Manami. A boy you recognize as Endeavor’s youngest son. Uraraka Ochako, hero name Uravity. Kurogiri, or Shirakumo, whichever of them is in charge of the body at this point. All Might and Midoriya. Some guy you don’t recognize with a nine o’clock shadow and a police badge pinned to his shirt. And in a chair next to Kurogiri, arms crossed over his chest with an eyepatch over one eye and a bandaged stum for a right hand, sits Eraserhead.

You really don’t know what you’re looking at. “Um –”

“Saintess, as requested,” Recovery Girl says to All Might. She adjusts your bed to sit you up, then steps through the door after you and shuts it behind her. “I’ll remain here, in case she crashes again.”

“Crashes?” Mitsuko repeats. “What the hell have you people been doing to her?”

“Keeping her alive,” Recovery Girl says, not a little frostily. “Between her last medical checkup and when she was taken into custody, Saintess developed a heart condition.”

“Really?” Manami’s staring hard at you, and you stare back, willing her to keep quiet. You never told Mitsuko or Ryuhei about your quirk, which means that Manami’s the only one here who could spill the beans. “Is she going to be okay?”

“Once we figure out what’s causing it, yes.” Recovery Girl glances briefly at you, then back to All Might. “Perhaps you’d finally like to tell me what this is about.”

“Yes,” All Might says at once. “As you know, the Hero Public Safety Commission was one of the first organizations to be targeted by the Paranormal Liberation Front.”

After what the HPSC did to Kazuo, you’re not shedding any tears over whatever Re-Destro and the others did to them. But Midoriya and All Might are looking at you like it means something, and you don’t have a clue. “Why does that matter?”

“It matters, because it means nobody’s officially in charge of the heroes right now,” Midoriya says. “We’re all trying to work together when we can, but Shigaraki has a quirk that messes with communications equipment –”

“Radio Waves.”

“Yeah, that one. So it’s hard,” Midoriya says. “There’s not really a strategy right now. We’re all just kind of –”

“Midoriya, do you think before you talk?” Eraserhead interrupts sharply. “That’s not the kind of information you should share with your enemy.”

“No offense, but they kind of already know,” Ryuhei says, and Eraserhead turns to glare at him. Ryuhei stares back, unfazed, and you spend a ridiculous second wondering what would happen if Eraserhead tried to use his quirk on someone whose quirk automatically bounces things back. “Anybody who watches you guys knows you’re not operating as a group. Not like her boyfriend’s gang of crazies is.”

“That is true,” All Might agrees hastily. “The point young Midoriya and I were trying to make is that the lack of centralized authority allows us to take actions that might be – er, frowned upon by a governing body like the HPSC.”

“That’s why I’m here,” the police officer says. He looks like he’s about to fall asleep on his feet. “I’ve talked over the plan, and in my capacity as law enforcement, I’m sanctioning it.”

“It’s insane,” Eraserhead says flatly.

“It’s harm reduction,” the officer retorts. “There are too many lives at stake. Let’s start with what we know.”

It’s quiet for a second. Then Uraraka speaks up. “So, um – I talked to Toga –”

“Is she okay?” you demand at once. Uraraka startles. “I’m sorry. I just – is she okay?”

“Um, it kind of depends. On what counts as okay,” Uraraka says. Her eyes are haunted. “According to her, she dropped off the radar on Shigaraki’s orders.”

“Are you sure it was Shigaraki and not All For One?”

“Yeah. She said she can tell,” Uraraka says miserably. “She argued with All For One about something while he was in charge, and the next time Shigaraki got control, he told her to run. He gave her an extra quirk, too – Warp. That’s how she’s been staying ahead of everyone.”

Tomura gave Warp away? Why? “She says it’s not good with them,” Uraraka continues. “All For One hurts Tomura’s body on purpose. Bad, sometimes. She doesn’t know why. And when people try to stop All For One – us, Liberation warriors, anybody – he does awful things to them. And he always takes their quirks, even if he says they’re useless.”

You wait for her to say more, but she looks away, her mouth turning down at the corners. Endeavor’s son speaks up. “My sister and brother – and my mom – they found a way to get to my oldest brother,” he says. “Touya said that people inside the PLF are giving advanced warnings of the attacks to whichever heroes they can get ahold of. When the warnings are inaccurate, it’s because All For One changes the target at the last minute.”

“Why did your brother leave?” the police officer asks Endeavor’s son. “Was he also ordered to do so by Shigaraki?”

Endeavor’s son shakes his head. “He left on his own. That’s why he didn’t get an extra quirk.”

You wonder who his brother is, but only for a split second. Once it occurs to you, you’re both floored and completely unsurprised. “Your brother’s Dabi?”

Endeavor’s son nods. No wonder Dabi told you to stay away from Endeavor with the quirk-canceling bullets. His mission this whole time was just to screw over his family? You thought it was actually something important, and hysterical laughter begins to bubble up in your throat. All Might is questioning Endeavor’s son. “Did Dabi leave before or after Toga departed?”

“After,” Endeavor’s son says. “Toga didn’t leave until after what happened with Twice.”

Your stomach drops. You knew he was missing, but Uraraka hadn’t talked to Toga yet. What if something worse happened? “What happened to Twice?”

“He lost his quirk,” Kurogiri says. “We don’t know how.”

“All For One – or Tomura –”

“If they had it, they’d have been using it,” Eraserhead says shortly. “Twice’s quirk is gone, and Twice himself has vanished. He hasn’t been seen in weeks.”

He hasn’t been seen. Toga hadn’t been seen, either, and Uraraka found her. Dabi’s siblings were able to track him down. Twice could still be out there, still be alive – and quirkless? That’s the part you can’t wrap your head around. “Whatever the reason, it has become unsafe for the original members of the League to remain at Shigaraki’s side,” Kurogiri says. “Although their departures may not have been at All For One’s behest, they certainly serve his purposes.”

“Kurogiri thinks – and we agree – that All For One is trying to take away the people Shigaraki is fighting for,” Midoriya says. “So Shigaraki won’t have a reason to fight him any longer.”

“Then you guys really fucked up,” Mitsuko says, which lands about how you’d expect it to with this crowd. “Taking away his friends is what’s making him insane? How about murdering his goddamn girlfriend? You got us all killed the second you decided to pretend she was dead!”

“She’s been good for Tomura ever since he found her,” Kurogiri says, except he sounds like Shirakumo now. “It’s – I mean, you guys wouldn’t get it, but it’s kind of sweet. She’s been around longer than the League has. It always seemed like she calmed him down.”

Uraraka nods. “That’s what Toga said, too.”

“And it aligns with the other reports we’ve collected,” All Might says. “Which is why we are going to give her back.”

There’s a sharp intake of breath from at least a few people. It sounds like Eraserhead is choking on his own spit. “You’re going to – what?”

“We’ll leak information that a high-value prisoner is being transferred,” the police officer says, like Eraserhead didn’t speak up at all. “That information needs to get to Re-Destro or to Spinner without reaching All For One. Do you think Toga would pass this information?”

He’s looking at Uraraka, who nods warily. “I think she would,” she says, “but I don’t want her to get hurt trying. I’ll ask. I’ll try.”

“Thank you,” All Might says. “If that fails, we’ll come up with another plan. Once the leak has occurred, we will attempt to move Saintess from UA to the stronghold at Shiketsu High. That will put her well within the PLF’s reach –”

“And put those responsible for the transfer at considerable risk,” Recovery Girl says, a sharp edge in her voice. “Just who are you planning to send? Haven’t we lost enough heroes already?”

“Um –” Manami actually puts her hand up, and All Might calls on her. “Maybe the PLF shouldn’t rescue her. Maybe we should do it?”

“We?”

“Me,” Manami says. “Gentle would help, too – he loves me, and she’s my cousin. And you –”

She’s looking at Ryuhei. “Yeah, I’m in,” Ryuhei says grimly. “Shigaraki knows me and Mitsuko. It wouldn’t be hard to believe that we’d try to save her from you all.”

“And if you’re the ones rescuing her, we can stage it, and nobody will have to get hurt!” Midoriya looks relieved. “You three – uh, four – you’ll really bring her to Shigaraki?”

“Yeah, we will. She didn’t have a heart condition when she was with him.” Mitsuko has a good poker face when she wants one, but she’s been death-glaring every single hero who’s opened their mouth. “She’s our friend. We’ll get it done.”

“It will be dangerous,” Eraserhead says flatly. “Shigaraki may be familiar with the three of you, but All For One is unpredictable. You’re civilians, without training in the use of your quirks for combat. Is that a risk you’re willing to take?”

“Somebody has to take some risks. Things are going to shit out there,” Ryuhei says. He shrugs. “If this works, I want my record wiped.”

“Mine, too,” Manami chimes in. “And Gentle’s. We want to open a tea shop.”

All Might nods. “I believe we can arrange that,” he says. The police officer looks like he’s half-asleep, but when All Might asks him directly, he confirms it. “Now, Miss Inada – are there any requests you’d like to make?”

“I don’t have a record,” Mitsuko says. She points at you. “What about hers?”

“She hasn’t been charged.”

“Yeah, but she’s gonna be. If you all win, you’re going to hit her with –” Mitsuko glances at Eraserhead, then rattles them off. “Treason, conspiracy to commit treason, assault with a deadly weapon, unlawful possession of a deadly weapon, voluntary manslaughter, and whatever else you cook up for taking someone’s quirk. If she goes back there to help you out, All For One might kill her. What are you going to do for her?”

“Er –” All Might and Midoriya both glance at the police officer. “I’m sure we can work something out.”

“Work it out right now.” Mitsuko crosses her arms over her chest. “We’ll wait.”

You wouldn’t have thought to hedge your bets in case the heroes win. Mitsuko’s looking out for you, like she did way back when the two of you first met in middle school. All Might and the officer leave the room to talk, and the room falls into quiet, tense discussions. Kurogiri is talking to Eraserhead, and you pick up just enough from the conversation to realize that the people named Hizashi and Shouta are in fact Present Mic and Eraserhead, both of whom he’s known since high school. It’s beyond strange to think about Kurogiri befriending the two of them.

The conversation doesn’t sound too friendly, though. Kurogiri wants to go along with the students to hand you off, and Eraserhead is saying no. “You’re too great of a threat,” Eraserhead says shortly. “If All For One recaptured and reprogrammed you, our position would worsen dramatically. There’s considerably less risk in sending the villain.”

“I’m a villain,” Shirakumo says. “Is that the only reason?”

“No.” Eraser’s voice softens. “Yamada and I lost you once. We won’t let it happen twice.”

You want to keep eavesdropping on that, but Mitsuko and Ryuhei are on their way over, and you want to talk to them, too. “Since when do you have heart problems?” Ryuhei asks, keeping his voice low. “You look like shit.”

Manami’s come over, too. She has a notebook and she’s writing fast. It’s her quirk. It’s like mine but it costs her instead of him.

“You’re powering him up?” Mitsuko hisses at you. You shake your head. “Then what?”

Manami passes the notebook to you, and you write with a shaky hand. His healing factor. Ryuhei swears under his breath; Manami seizes your free hand in both of hers. The closer together we are, the less it costs me. If I’m far away –

“Then you have fucking heart attacks.” Mitsuko takes the notebook away from you midsentence. “Every time a hero blasts him. The sooner we get you out of here, the better.”

You couldn’t agree more, but not for the same reason. It doesn’t matter what happens to you, but you have to get back to Tenko. You have to help him shake off All For One again. In the silence that falls, a hand sneaks between Manami and Ryuhei to tap your shoulder. “Can I talk to you?” Uraraka asks. “Alone?”

You nod. Ryuhei and Manami duck out together. Mitsuko gives Uraraka a long stare, than glances at you and nods once before following them. Uraraka looks weirded out. “Does she hate me?”

“Her quirk lets her read people’s intentions,” you say. “She was checking to see what you had in mind.”

“Um –” Uraraka looks nervous. The hand that didn’t tap your shoulder is clenched into a fist at your side. “We met before, didn’t we? I helped you carry your boxes.”

“That was really nice of you.”

“I would never have thought you were a villain,” she mumbles. “You don’t look like one.”

“We don’t wear big signs that say “I’m evil” on them,” you say. Wherever Ryuhei and Mitsuko are, they’re close enough to eavesdrop, because you hear a familiar snicker. “I didn’t lie to you. I wanted to know if Eri was okay.”

Uraraka nods distractedly. “Himiko says you aren’t like the rest of them,” she says. She calls Toga by her surname when she’s talking to the others, but her given name talking to you. Maybe Toga’s chances are a little better than you thought. “She gave me this.”

She opens her hand, and you see your locket resting in her palm. Your throat goes tight. “She says he gave it to her when she left. To keep it safe,” Uraraka continues. “When she found out you were alive, she made me take it. Since it’s yours.”

You lift it carefully out of her hand. It looks kind of beaten up, but when you open it, it swings forward on the hinges just like it’s supposed to. There’s the photo of Tenko that’s been in there for more than a decade, one of the only pieces left of your best friend. And on the other side, which was empty before, there’s a photo of Tomura.

You don’t know who took it, or how Toga got ahold of it, but you know when it’s from – the joint birthday party, because Tomura’s hair is still wet from the fluid in the stasis capsule and because he looks healthy. And happy. He looks truly, honestly happy, just like he does in the photo from when he was Tenko and no one else.

You’re not going to cry. You’re done crying for possibly the rest of your life. “Thank you,” you say to Uraraka, and mean it. “Toga – is she really okay? Did anything happen to her before she left?”

“I don’t know,” Uraraka says. You fasten the locket back around her neck. “She says you guys are her family, and All For One is hurting her family. But she doesn’t know how to – cut him – without hurting Shigaraki, too.”

It’s so easy to imagine Toga saying it. You can hear her voice, exactly as it would sound, except she wouldn’t call him Shigaraki – she’d call him Tomura-kun, like she always has. The League is her family, and All For One’s taking her family away. It’s not just Tomura he’s hurting. It’s all of you. And if you can get back to him – if you can help him resist – the PLF still has the upper hand against the heroes. If Tomura can come back to himself, he’s going to win the war.

For the first time it dawns on you the kind of risk these few heroes are taking. They’re willing to face Tomura at his full powers, Tomura who as far as they know wants nothing but total destruction, rather than let All For One continue to control him. Does Midoriya think that taking away All For One’s influence will save Tomura? What does saving Tomura even mean to him? You should probably figure that out, sometime before they let you go.

The door opens, and All Might steps back through, followed by the police officer. “Since you’re aiding what’s left of the government, we’ll drop the treason charges,” the officer says. “The manslaughter charge is hearsay at this point – we haven’t had any chance to investigate, and the evidence is gone. There are too many witnesses to drop the weapons charges.”

The charges they’re dropping are the most serious ones. You’ll take the hit on the weapons. You did shoot people with quirk-canceling bullets, and you did it unprovoked. And you’re not sorry. “However,” the officer continues, “should you decide to help restore the quirks you destroyed, we’ll consider dropping those charges, too. Do we have a deal?”

You’d say you need time to think it over, but there’s not much to think over, and you need to get back to Tomura fast. Still, there’s one person you refuse to leave behind in this. One person who gave up everything helping you. “Kiyohara Kazuo,” you say. “He gets the same stuff as we do.”

“Agreed.”

It won’t matter much. Once Tomura wins, Kazuo will be free, just like Manami and your friends. “Everyone rest up tonight,” All Might instructs. “Regain as much of your strength as possible. We’ll begin the operation in –”

The officer’s phone buzzes, along with what sounds like every hero’s phone in the room. He yanks it out of his pocket, and as he reads the message, his face goes dead white. “Seikan is under attack.”

Eraserhead swears. “We’re out of time,” he says. “Todoroki, Uraraka – take the civilians and the criminal and plan the ambush. Midoriya, help Recovery Girl prep the villain for transport. All Might, find whoever’s in charge of comms and order them to leak the transfer. Hurry.”

You’re surprised to see Eraserhead bossing All Might around, but All Might hops to it. So does everyone else, flooding out the door. Even Kurogiri gets swept up in the rush. It’s just you and Recovery Girl and Midoriya left, and Recovery Girl speaks quickly, tersely. “I hope at least one of you knows CPR. If she arrests again, you’ll need to keep her blood circulating until the defibrillator is charged. I’ll hook her up to a portable heart monitor as well as a pulse oximeter. Both of those should tell you if trouble’s on the way.”

“She’s a nurse, right? She can warn us, too.”

“Assuming she’s awake. So far, the course of events includes her falling unconscious before the trouble starts.”

They’re talking about you like you’re not there, and like it’s urgent. What could make things more urgent than usual in a war they’ve been losing since it started? You force yourself to sit up, right in the middle of their conversation. “What’s in Seikan?”

Midoriya and Recovery Girl trade a glance. “We can’t tell you that,” Midoriya states. “It’s –”

“No longer a secret,” Eraserhead says from the doorway. His face is grim. “It’s a black-site prison. Currently home to All For One.”

Everything is black and quiet inside the Maiden, and it would be a decent place for a nap if the space wasn’t so tight. You’re being moved horizontally, but you can’t turn over, or even move your arms from your sides. If you try to sit up, you hit your head instantly. You aren’t claustrophobic. You’ve never been claustrophobic. You were the kind of kid who’d wedge yourself into ridiculously tight spaces just to make sure you’d never lose at hide and seek. But after what’s already starting to feel like forever inside the Maiden, you’re well on your way to losing your mind.

“Hey, um – are you okay?” Uraraka’s voice is soft in your ear. They’ve got you on an earpiece, just like they’ve got you on a heart monitor. “Your heart rate is picking up. I don’t know what that means, but –”

“I’m good.” You force yourself to take deep breaths. “It’s just kind of small in here.”

“You know, there was a study done a few years ago arguing that transport in a Maiden qualifies as a form of torture,” Midoriya chips in from somewhere. “Tight spaces, low oxygen circulation –”

He keeps talking, but you tune him out, reminding yourself that he’s not some goofy kid. You might be allies right now in trying to break All For One’s control over Tenko, and he might have saved you after Hawks let you fall, but he still hates you for destroying his classmate’s quirk and putting his teacher in the position of choosing between his quirk and his right hand. They aren’t your friends. You’re going back to your friends. Your friends are going to save you from the heroes in a staged fight, and then you’re going straight back to the PLF, to Tenko. You have to get there before All For One does.

You’re surprised at how the heroes handled All For One. Given how completely they botched other parts of the war, you wouldn’t have guessed that they’d nail it, but they synced their attack on the PLF headquarters with a transfer out of Tartarus for All For One, taking him to a smaller, less well known prison with even higher levels of security. Tartarus was always going to be a PLF target. Apparently it was the first place they hit, and they’ve kept looking, destroying prison after prison, burning resources and burning time. You have a feeling that the split in the PLF’s objectives and forces is what’s kept the heroes going this long.

But that’s over now. They’ve found the prison where All For One’s being kept, and although the heroes are probably putting up a serious fight, the Seikan prison’s fall is inevitable. Tomura’s not the one leading the attack – it’s Gigantomachia, who’s been ordered to smash through everything in his path until he reaches All For One. The heroes think that reuniting Tomura and All For One in the flesh will cement All For One’s control over Tomura’s body, and you’re scared they might be right. Unless you can get there first. Unless you and Spinner can help Tomura fight back.

The only piece of reassurance you have is that there’s no extra strain on your body, which means Tomura isn’t being hurt right now. Wherever he is, he’s safe enough. You keep taking deep breaths, trying to clear your mind. There’s a plan to get you back to his side. It’s the heroes’ plan, and it’s insane and desperate, but after everything you’ve seen in the past two years, you’re well aware that an insane and desperate plan can work a lot better than anyone would expect.

The heroes keep the channel open, and you hear the first warnings of the staged attack. La Brava and Gentle Criminal, assisted by two civilians with unspecified quirks, attempting to retrieve the prisoner. Nobody around here has a quirk that lets them pry things open, so they’ll need a key or passcode to get you out of the Maiden, and they’ll have to get it off of whoever has it. That’s the part you’re most worried about, the one that’s going to be hardest to explain if someone questions what’s happening here. Hero students are famously fanatical. There’s no way one of them would just give up the code.

Something thuds against the outer shell of the Maiden, and you startle, as much as it’s possible to startle in such a tight space. Then the door slides open, letting in hazy light that’s still too bright for you. You blink up through it and the face that swims into view is Manami’s. “I hacked the keypad,” she says. “Come on.”

You climb out of the Maiden unsteadily and find yourself in the middle of a wasteland. If it’s a city, you have no idea which one – you could be on the moon for all you know. You glance around and find the hero students, all restrained under what look like bubbles. “Gentle did that,” Manami says, more than a little proudly. “This way.”

“Hey,” Midoriya calls out from beneath one of the bubbles, his voice muffled. “If you’re going to take her away, take her medicine, too. She’s sick. Do you want her to die?”

Midoriya sounds pretty stilted, but you’ll give him credit for trying. Mitsuko snatches the box of medications, along with a file folder that probably has your medical records in it. “There. Happy now?”

“Hey. Do you think you can run?” Ryuhei asks you. “There’s a PLF scout nearby. If we get to them –”

Word will get back to Tomura, and he’ll know you’re on your way. “Yeah. I can run.”

“Oh, but why run when you can fly?” Gentle Criminal sweeps up along side you. Your first impression of your cousin’s boyfriend is “old”. Then again. her first impression of your boyfriend is probably going to be “crazy”. “Follow along, everyone! Step where I step!”

He’s creating elastic spots in the air, things for you all to jump on and bounce forward, but you’re all really bad at it. You especially. Gentle Criminal finally just grabs you out of the air. “Change of plans. We’ll clear this wreckage first, and then we’ll run.”

It’s a high jump over the wreckage, wreckage you realize isn’t a tipped-over skyscraper or a collapsed bridge – it’s a beached aircraft carrier. Is it even beached? What if this is a harbor or something? Or was a harbor before? You believed everyone when they said Japan was in ruins. Could Tomura really do something like this?

As soon as your feet are under you, you break into a run, your friends fanning out alongside you. “Up ahead,” Ryuhei says. You can see a figure moving quickly, scurrying from rock to rock in what you’re now really sure used to be a harbor. “Hey! You! we’ve got something for you!”

“What is it?” The voice sounds familiar to you, but you can’t quite place it. “I know you nabbed something off those little heroes, but – holy fuck, you’re alive!”

The scout disappears, then reappears suddenly, directly in front of you. If the quirk wasn’t enough to jog your memory, her face is – she’s Tesseract, a member of the PLF, with a quirk known as Seven Leagues that lets her travel short distances instantaneously. She’s grinning at you, a grin that you remember as sort of insane but looks more than a little relieved right now. “Oh man, the Grand Commander’s going to lose it when he sees you. ¥500 says he cries like a girl!”

“I’ll take that bet,” Ryuhei says, and Tesseract gives him a sly once-over. “Look, our containment on those heroes won’t hold forever. Are you going to get her out of here or what?”

“I can take you all with me if you want.” Tesseract’s chewing gum, and she blows an enormous bubble that somehow doesn’t pop in her face. “He’s gonna want to thank you personally for bringing back his boo!”

Ryuhei glances at you, and you shake your head. “I’ll make sure he knows who helped me. The others draw up alongside you, Mitsuko included, at which point you realize that she’s pulled off this whole operation in three-inch heels. “It’s not safe for you to go, unless you want to.”

“Works for me.” Ryuhei hugs you around the shoulders, and you manage an awkward one-armed hug in response. “Good luck out there.”

Mitsuko kisses you on the lips, just like last time. This time she hugs you too, and whispers a piece of advice before she pulls away. “I know you love him. If he hurts you, get the hell out of there.”

You nod, and she forces the file folder and medicine case into your hand. Gentle Criminal is kissing your other hand like the gentleman thief he supposedly is, and Manami’s up on her tiptoes to hug you. “Be careful,” she whispers.

“You too.” You hug her back, then turn to Tesseract. “I’m ready.”

“Good call on them clearing out,” Tesseract says. “I’ll tell you straight, Saintess. Where we’re headed might just be the most dangerous place in Japan. And these days that’s really saying something.”

You believe it. “Where are we right now?”

“Now?” Tesseract glances around as she ties your wrist to hers, using what you’re pretty sure is a shibari rope. “Yokohama Bay, baby. When this place went down, it went down hard.”

Your heart plummets. When Present Mic said that the PLF obliterated Yokohama, he wasn’t exaggerating. It’s not just the city that’s gone – it’s the bay too, and suddenly you understand why the heroes are taking this kind of risk. The country’s not just destabilized, not just at war. The ground beneath your feet is being altered for good. No wonder they’re desperate for this to end. Seeing what’s happening, you are too.

“All right, let’s go.” Tesseract spits out her gum on what used to be the seafloor and cracks her knuckles. “Breathe out –”

You breath out, and the world compresses sharply, crushing you even worse than the Maiden did. Then you’re free again – crushed – free – then crushed a third time. Tesseract’s quirk might be even more uncomfortable than the warp sludge. You use track of the number of jumps almost instantly, and all you’re conscious of is intense discomfort and the emptiness of your lungs.

“And breathe in,” Tesseract says, and suddenly you’re upright again, free again. She pulls the rope free from around your wrist. “Nice work, Saintess. Usually people puke when I do that.”

Growing up alongside the twins, you learned how to stop yourself in self-defense. You clench your jaw and breathe through your nose until the nausea fades. Then you take a look around, and the longer you look, the more confused you get. You’re inside a building, an enormous one – and a really fancy one. The floor under your feet is marble, and you see gilded edges flickering out at you from the shadows. “Where are we?”

“New HQ. Kind of a ghost town.” Tesseract marches up to a set of double doors – solid wood, beautifully carved – and bangs on them. “Hey, Spin-It-To-Win-It! I got something for you. Well, not for you. For the Grand Commander. But you’re the one who’s had to deal with him the most, so it’s kind of for you, too!”

She glances at you. “It’s been total sadboy hours while you’ve been gone. The only reason we haven’t all shot ourselves yet is because the other guy is worse.”

You don’t remember Tesseract being this off-the-wall, but you’ve been gone a little while. After a few seconds of banging, the door opens. “What?” Spinner hisses from inside. “He’s trying to focus! If they get back and he’s not ready –”

“I got you something that’s gonna make that a lot easier,” Tesseract interrupts. She shoves the door open at the same time as she beckons you forward. “Feast your eyes on –”

“Saintess?” Spinner’s eyes light up. He steps through the doors and comes straight to you for a hug. You hug him back, noticing as you do that he’s a lot bulkier than he was the last time you saw him. “I knew you were alive. I saw Midoriya catch you – where have you been? What happened?”

“I was in custody. We need to talk.” You glance sideways at Tesseract, too tired to be subtle. “Not here.”

“Nah, it’s chill! I’ve got a patrol to finish, anyway. Make sure you tell the Grand Commander who brought him back his girl!”

Tesseract vanishes with a pop. You look at Spinner. “Is it just me, or is she kind of –”

“Yeah. Not everybody takes the new quirks well.” Spinner’s face is grim. “Let’s go. We don’t have much time.”

He leads you through the double doors, then stops just outside a smaller set. “This is, like, the best day and the worst day for you to come back,” he says. “All For One knows what you did.”

You knew it was likely, but you were still hoping it wasn’t true. Your stomach drops, worse than it did when you saw what happened to Yokohama Bay. “He has Shigaraki convinced that you’re dead,” Spinner continues, “but he knows you’re not, because he’s been using you to keep Shigaraki in line.”

“How?” you ask, puzzled. “If he thinks I’m dead –”

“It’s this sick what-if thing,” Spinner says. “If he makes Shigaraki hurt himself bad enough, it’ll kill you if you somehow made it out alive. He does it as a warning, if he’s in control and Shigaraki’s trying to break out.”

You tried to keep that part of your quirk from Tomura, from everyone, but at least one other person knew. The doctor wouldn’t have hesitated to tell All For One everything. All those times your heart’s started to fail, it hasn’t been heroes attacking – it’s been All For One, forcing Tomura to damage his own body. You didn’t need more reasons to hate All For One, but this makes it worse. And at the same time, it makes you sick to think about – even with a quirk that heals him, you’re still Tomura’s greatest weakness.

You and the rest of the League. You turn to Spinner. “What about the others?”

“Dabi booked it after Kyoto. When All For One killed Endeavor he blew a fuse,” Spinner says, while you reel from the fact that the Number One hero is dead, has been dead for weeks. “He went after All For One, but Shigaraki’s body is basically unkillable, and when it didn’t work he ran. Smartest thing to do.”

“I know Toga left,” you say. “What happened to Twice? Is he alive?”

“He’s alive. Hiding,” Spinner says. “Smartest thing to do, after we destroyed his quirk.”

“What?”

“He wouldn’t use it how All For One wanted him to, so All For One was going to take it. Twice stabbed himself with one of your deleter rounds, and Shigaraki got control back over his body long enough for Twice to run,” Spinner says. You feel hollow. “He’s alive. And Toga’s okay?”

“I think so,” you say. “That’s what Uraraka said.”

“The heroes?” Spinner looks surprised. “Your turn to talk. How did you get out of there?”

You have an explanation, but you don’t want to go through it multiple times. And you want to see Tomura, need to see him. You glance towards the smaller set of doors, and Spinner startles, nods. “Right. Yeah. You can explain in there.”

You were worried you’d never see Tomura again, and now you’re within seconds of being close enough to touch. Your heart stutters in your chest in a way that’s got nothing to do with your quirk at the thought. You’re going to see him again, but you’ve let him down – you thought you protected him from All For One by destroying the original quirk, but you were wrong, and he let All For One in because of what you let happened when Hawks captured you. It's not hard to imagine that he’ll be angry with you. That he’ll blame you. He’d be right to.

There’s only one way to find out, and if he’s angry at you, at least you’ll be looking at him, seeing him one more time. You take a deep breath that catches almost painfully, and you push open the doors.

<- Chapter 27

taglist: @frog-fans-unite @enyaaa2222 @tannyr98 @issaortiz @lvtuss @cheeseonatower @shigarakislaughter @atspiss @baking-ghoul @deadhands69 @dance-with-me-in-hell @babybehh @evilcookie5 @agente707 @warxhammer @boogiemansbitch @handumb @koohiii @stardustdreamersisi @lacrimae-lotos @xeveryxstarfallx @minniessskii @f3r4lfr0gg3r @shikiblessed @aslutforfictionalmen

[dokidokistart]

link to the store here

[fromdove]

THINGS YOU DO THAT THE BATBOYS FIND ATTRACTIVE ! batboys x reader

“God, you’re impossible. And I’m so screwed, because I think I’d let you ruin me.”

— fem!reader, suggestive thoughts in jasons & bruces part (maybe dick too??)

© fromdove— All rights reserved. Reposting, translation, or modification of these works is strictly prohibited, regardless of whether credit is given.

∿　 　 . `💭` ㆍ

JASON TODD

the way you hold eye contact when you're angry

It started as a slow simmer—your voice, low and clipped, each word deliberate, sharp enough to slice through the heavy Gotham air. Jason wasn’t even sure what the hell you were mad about anymore. The way your eyes were locked on his, unwavering, lit from within by something electric—it drowned out everything else.

You stood across the room, spine straight, chest rising with each measured breath. Not yelling. Not crying. Just...burning. And looking at him.

There was something about that. The way you didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. Like you could take every jagged, bloodstained part of him and still meet him dead-on, like you’d never blink first. It made his heart twist in his chest, something old and animal uncoiling inside him. He’d faced down murderers, monsters, lowlife scumbags—but the fury in your gaze made his throat go dry. Not because he feared it. Because he wanted to touch it. touch you.

You took a step forward, the kind that didn’t echo but reverberated, and that subtle movement—how your hands stayed relaxed at your sides, how your mouth didn’t tremble when you spoke—undid him.

“Don’t try to bullshit me, Jason.”

There was a beat. One taut, blistering moment where the only thing louder than your breath was the pounding in his ears.

And then he laughed. Just a breath of it, almost involuntary. The kind of laugh you get when something hurts and turns you on at the same time. He didn’t even mean to. It just escaped him.

You frowned, and that only made it worse. He wanted to bite your lip just to see if your mouth would still taste like fire when it was pressed against his. He wanted to grab your face and kiss you so hard it left bruises.

“You’re so goddamn beautiful when you’re pissed,” he murmured, voice low and hoarse, almost reverent.

You blinked at that—but didn’t back down. And the way your stare softened just a fraction, that flicker of confusion folding into resolve again... yeah. That did it. That almost ended him right then and there.

He stepped closer, slow, deliberate, like approaching a lit fuse. His fingers twitched at his sides, aching to touch, to pull, to anchor.

“You gonna hit me?” he asked, tone dark and dangerous and barely hanging on.

You tilted your chin up. “Wouldn’t waste the energy.”

God. That. That right there. The grit in your voice. He could live off that kind of defiance. He wanted to.

Jason had never been good at softness. He didn’t know what to do with people who crumbled. But you—? You held his gaze like a storm, like a girl who could kill him with her silence, and suddenly, all he wanted to do was beg for a second chance to make you smile again.

Not because he deserved it. Because he’d die trying to.

DICK GRAYSON

the way you reach for him in your sleep

It starts small. Always does. You shift once, twice—barely there. Then your hand moves, unthinking. Across sheets warm with your shared heat, it searches.

You don’t know you're doing it. That’s what makes it criminal. You’re not asking to be loved in that moment. You’re assuming it. Trusting the world to place him where he belongs: next to you.

And Dick—poor, cursed Dick—is already awake.

He lies still, pretending. Letting you find him. Every nerve is alight, tuned to the sound of your breath, the whisper of cotton as your wrist brushes the inside of his arm. Then—finally—your hand finds his chest, right over the scar where a blade once tried to make him quiet forever.

Your fingers twitch. Then still. Then curl.

And that’s it. That’s all it takes.

He’s not thinking about villains or masks or the weight of his last name. He’s not worried about who’s watching, or whether he’s enough. He’s just a man now.

A man undone by the way you, unconscious and vulnerable, reach for him like he’s home. Like your body knows him, wants him, chooses him—without performance, without pride.

And it’s just so fucking sweet. The sweetness that life had never thought him deserving of—never bothered to offer, as if the universe had forgotten him in some quiet corner—was suddenly there, in you. And only then did he realize what he had been starved of.

There’s something maddening about your vulnerability—how you press against him in sleep, skin warm and scent-heavy, mouth parted just slightly. Innocent, yes. But not harmless.

Not to him.

He could write an entire religion based on the way your breath hitches when his hand covers yours. He could burn entire cities if someone tried to pull you away while you sleep.

Because this—this secret, sacred moment where you choose him without knowing— is the kind of thing he’s never let himself want.

But now that he’s had it, he knows.

He’ll want it forever.

BRUCE WAYNE

the way you tilt your chin when you're defiant

It is the tiniest gesture—a tilt of the chin, so slight it might pass for nothing at all. But to him? It is semaphore, a flare in the dusk, a gauntlet tossed with exquisite subtlety.

You do it when you disagree. Not with loud words or theatrics. No. You just raise your chin. Barely. As if your body is saying, “I’m not afraid of you.”“I’ll meet you there, if you push.”

And God help him, he wants to push.

You do this thing where your jaw tightens just slightly, where your eyes go sharp and patient at the same time—like you’ve already calculated the cost of standing your ground and decided to pay it anyway.

You look… royal. As though Gotham’s grime never dared graze your skin. Like tragedy tried and failed. Like you’d walk into fire if it meant protecting what’s yours.

And that infuriates him.

Because Bruce—Bruce—knows what defiance costs. He’s worn it like armor. Bled for it. Buried people because of it.

But when you do it?

It doesn’t look like self-destruction. It looks like purpose. Power. Something beautiful he was never allowed to have.

He wants to touch your face when you tilt your chin like that. Wants to grab your wrist and pull you into him—not to overpower, but to understand. To memorize the blueprint of that defiance. To feel it against his mouth.

You make silence feel like war. And he’s losing.

Because there is something deeply, dangerously erotic about a woman who doesn’t flinch when she should. Who doesn’t soften to make him comfortable. Who looks at the darkest thing in him—and doesn’t look away.

He’s not used to being watched like that. He’s not used to wanting to be watched like that.

And every time you lift that chin, he’s reminded of exactly how easy it would be to give up the act, the mask, the fiction of the untouchable man—

—all for one person who sees him and doesn't look away.

[tojipie]

˚ ✧ ────────

you’re 5 minutes into your first round and to be quite honest, you’ve never been more sure that fushiguro toji and his god given ability to dirty talk is something you’ll take to your grave.

you’d been with other guys before, ones with a nasty habit of running their mouths during sex. ones that’d grab you by the neck and whisper sweet nothings in your ear, telling you how good you felt, how tight you were, how they couldn’t wait to fuck you again.

toji is entirely different. nothing, and i truly mean nothing, compares to that old man when it comes to mouthing off in the bedroom. he’s formulating sentences you never thought possible, spewing stuff that would have you clutching your pearls and running for the hills any other given day.

you’re holding onto your composure by your teeth hearing him say the things he does, thighs and arms burning as you rock back and forth on his dick.

“take what you need pretty. uh huh, keep fucking me,” he chuckles, winding a fist into your hair to pull you back onto his cock when he notices you trying to crawl away.

you honestly don’t think you can take it anymore. if the way your guts were currently being pummeled into oblivion wasn’t enough, the way he’s talking to you right now has you in crisis.

it’s all too good, suspiciously good, and embarrassingly enough, you think you might be nearing your edge only 7 minutes after making it to his bed. your arms fail you as you try to crawl up the bed and away from the too-good feeling currently frying every wire in your brain.

“awww, you runnin’ from me?,” he laughs, letting your hair go to cage you in from behind, two solid arms settling on either side of your head.

your words escape you each time you muster up a response, eyes rolling back and he takes over again, shoving you face down and absolutely destroying that special spot tucked away inside of you. toji’s like a furnace, cooking you alive with the heat the radiates add his abs and chest.

“told ya you couldn’t handle it,” he teases, watching you writhe under him. “not with this dick.”

you feel something wet—a tongue you realize— traveling up the base of your spine and tapering off at your neck before solid teeth clamp down on the skin there.

okay, wow. fuck. you realize he’d lapped up the moisture settling in the dip of your back, licking the sweat from your skin like an animal.

“gonna let me taste every part of you? hmm?” he says in that too sweet voice you only hear when he’s teasing. he lets go of your neck with a pop to admire the bruise his bite leaves in its wake, sucking another one right under it for good measure.

you fall over the edge with no warning, so overwhelmed with pleasure that your mind and body continue to work separately.

the sound toji makes is beautiful. low, long, and guttural. radiating from the deepest part of his chest like a fan, and for a minute, you think he might be feeling the same overwhelming pleasure you are.

“ughh-hah don’t move, don’t move,” he whispers over and over, massaging the fat of your ass while your body flutters around him. you feel something viscous leak out of you, dripping down the seam of your heat and onto the sheets.

“when the fuck did you have time to cum?,” you finally muster. you don’t think you’d be able to move if your life depended on it, limbs sinking into the mattress like tubes of jelly. you really can’t move once you feel 200 pounds of laughing muscle settle on top of you, keeping you grounded like a paperweight on a measly little envelope.

“what, y’ quitting on all of this?” he laughs, gesturing up and down himself so you know just how irresistible he thinks he is. the worst part is that he’s right, just based off of how hard he’d rocked your world in the last 10 or so minutes.

you feel invigorated by some stroke of a miracle, pressing back on his still-leaking dick as a silent invitation.

“what, more? y’need more of me you little minx?” he laughs, grrriiiinding his tip right up against that fleeting spot you would have never been able to get to on your own.

and just like that he’s back to fucking you, pulling you into him like a toy at that same perfect pace.

“bite me hard if y’ want me to stop, you hear me?” he commands, shoving your face back into the pillows once he sees you nod.

[arolesbianism]

Every now and then I remember that oni in fact will eventually have more lore added and I get so excited and scared for a moment and then I remember that it could take months until we see any of that and I proceed to forget abt it again and the cycle repeats

[dollfacefantasy]

kinktober day 20 - size kink jason todd x fem!reader cw: nsfw (18+), smut, p in v, size kink, tummy bulge

"That's it, baby. Take it all. Oh, look at you go. Being so brave for me."

On the surface the words are soothing, but the tone of Jason's voice fills each syllable with condescension. Not in a bad way. The sickly sweet lilt strikes the perfect chord that has you wetter than any body of water on this earth.

Your hips rise and fall in measure rolls, your cunt embracing his thick cock with every motion. You have to take it slow. Otherwise, you feel like you'll tear yourself in half.

"Jay…" you whimper, lip wobbling and eyes gleaming with the need for him to coddle you, "You're so…"

A sharp whine from your throat cuts off your own words. Your head tilts back and then hangs forward. His tip brushes your sweet spot every time you sink down on him. It makes it nearly impossible to remain coherent. You'd never met somebody who could make you malfunction like this.

"I'm so what?" he coos, prompting you to finish your statement. He already knew the words on the tip of your tongue, but he still wanted to hear them spoken into the drafty air of your apartment.

"You're so big," you choke out.

Another moan falls from your lips before you grit your teeth. Your face scrunches up in tandem with your walls clenching around his length. Vaguely, you hear him chuckle. He then pulls you close and cradles you against his chest.

"And you like that, don't you?" he whispers.

He slumps further down on the couch. His feet press hard against the smooth wooden floor beneath the two of you. The muscles in his thighs flex as he begins to pump his hips up and down. You whine and clutch at his meaty bicep, melting against his warm skin and letting him do all the work right now.

You nearly forget he asked a question at all until he continues speaking.

"I know you do, doll. You like that when you're with me, you're helpless. Don't have to think. Don't have to move. Don't have to do anything but let me use this sweet, little pussy till I'm satisfied," he says.

Your toes curl, your thighs clamping around his own. The pressure doesn't stop him from moving though, not in the slightest. You inhale sharply before nodding against his neck. Of course, you like this. You love it.

You could never get enough of Jason's body. You'd study it forever if he let you. Your pupils felt magnetized whenever they had the chance to drift along his chiseled torso or mentally map the pathways of his scars. Adoration wasn't a strong enough word for how you felt in regards to his figure. Obsession seemed more appropriate.

Fortunately for you, Jason behaved much the same about your body.

In the mornings when he thought sleep still had a strong hold on you, he'd run his fingers over every curve he could find. He'd knead the swell of your ass and press tender kisses between your shoulder blades. As you'd start to wake, he'd wrap his hands around your waist and nearly pop a boner right then and there from how large they looked in comparison.

His favorite thing in the world after a long grueling patrol fast became coming home to you. Not even thirty minutes with your delicate body washed away all the stress caused by hard and rough people he dealt with beyond these walls. Some nights he'd prop your dainty legs over his broad shoulders and dive into your slippery cunt. Other nights he'd get right down to it, shoving his fat cock inside you and watching your belly bulge with the intrusion.

Tonight hadn't been either of those. He'd been home for a change. But having you curled up to his side and pressed against him while he read a book got him worked up pretty fast. It wasn't his fault the two of you just seemed to fit so naturally together.

"My good girl. Soft and sweet all for me," he praises as he continues fucking up into you. His heavy balls lightly slap against your ass with each thrust.

Your nails dig into his shoulder as the repetitive strokes start to build on one another. Small, whimpered expletives drip from your lips like a leaky faucet. He knows you're getting there. All he has to do is ramp up his efforts a little.

His hands lock around your waist like they do on hazy mornings. Just like then, he's obsessed with the way your skin dimples beneath his digits now. He boosts you back and starts bouncing you up and down in addition to his thrusts.

Your eyes roll back at the sensation and you take your bottom lip between your teeth. You don't have to do anything in this position still. He's strong enough to hold you upright all by himself. The only thing you had to do was like he said - stay still and let yourself be used.

"Can never get enough of you, baby, fuck," he grunts. His head falls back against the sagging cushion as he keeps working himself into you over and over. He glances back up at you slightly. "Is it feeling good?"

"Mhm," you whine, "So fuckin' good. So deep. All the way inside."

Your head bobbles around with the way he jerks you up and down on his lap. He smirks at your words and the airy way you say them.

"I know. I can see it," he responds, eyes flitting down to that faint and familiar bump. Evidence of his place inside you.

You only whimper in response. He drops you back down against his chest so one of his hands can slot against your center and rub your clit in fast, tight circles. The flickering feeling draws even more noises of pleasure from you.

The edge sneaks up on the both of you fast. You fall over it first. Your body spasms and seizes between his hands, but his strong grip is enough to keep you in place. For him, it explodes in a muted burst of ecstasy before burning into a brighter one. He wraps his arms around your smaller frame and keeps you flush against his sweaty skin as he fucks his load deep inside.

The both of you stay there while you come down. His chest puffs up and down with deep breaths. Even with all his exertion, his hand rubs soothing stripes along the column of your spine. You lie against him completely motionless, limp against the muscles of his chest. A little pleasure doll all for him to play with.

[papayadays]

my man - ln4

⋆˚✿˖° lando just won monaco, but it was supposed to your night with him ⋆˚✿˖° inspired by miss possessive for my so close to what event ⋆˚✿˖° wc: 2.1k+ | a/n: this was finished at 12 am for lando monaco win so sorry it took me forever (so happy for lando)

SASS CAFE WAS BUZZING WELL INTO MIDNIGHT. lando had just won monaco, and of course, it called for a big celebration with his friends. honestly, was it really a lando norris win without a rager? there were celebrities galore, such were lando’s connections, and you even saw kylian mbappe hanging around. rounds of shots had been passed around, with most partygoers buzzed within the first hour or two.

it was how you expected—bass thrumming, lights down low, people crowded together as they attempted to dance to the beat. and there in the middle of it was your boyfriend, the race winner. from lights out to lap 78, it had been a whirlwind, but it ended with you tearing up as you watched lando beam, triumphant, so it was all worth it. had you almost pulled out your hair due to nerves? no comment. had your heart pounded with glee and pride? most definitely.

but it all worked out in the end. lando deserved the stars, in your unbiased opinion, and you knew how much this meant to him. c’mon, it was the monaco grand prix. historic. iconic. magic. and lando, your lando, had won it. in a beautiful, perfect victory no less. how were you supposed to be normal about that? 

the whole time you were fidgeting with whatever was on hand, and a few curse words were muttered, but god, was it worth the anxiety. cisca and adam were also there, a highlight of your day as cisca gave you one of her unique bangles for good luck, and adam narrated everything in extreme detail. they were genuinely some of the sweetest people you’d ever met; it was clear where lando got it from.

you headed back towards the center of action, where lando and his mates were cheering and making a poor attempt to dance to the music. drinks in hand, you stopped in your tracks as you saw what was in front of you.

baby blue eyes wandered up and down your boyfriend’s figure, and a red lip caught by teeth made your blood boil. her outfit certainly didn’t help either; a skintight dress that landed high on her thigh with a slit. the girl leaned over, and you almost rolled your eyes. it was clear she was trying to get lando’s attention, and you didn’t like it. to be honest, it was like watching the fia make decisions: annoying, irrational, and pointless. now, you didn’t—couldn’t—move as you watched her blonde hair sweep over her shoulders, model physique moving closer to lando in that short orange dress of hers that you knew was for attention.

she was beautiful, anyone could see that she had the kind of natural beauty many women would envy. but you kept watching, frozen, as she squeezed his shoulder and giggled way too hard at whatever joke lando was making, shoulders shaking. and your boyfriend was too kind and outgoing to notice, bless his soul. he was oblivious, much to your surprise.

but the initial shock washed off, and a spark ignited inside you. you had already let the rest of the world have their moment with lando after his win. you let zak brown terrorize him. you stood off to the side and let the team have their share of champagne showers and helmet pats. you saw his parents squeeze him tightly, pride shining in their eyes. you went with him to interact with his fans and noticed him taking some time with the random famous partygoers. hell, you even watched on in disbelief as jenson button brazenly flirted with him, charm in full force as he teased lando about “monaco, baby”. everyone else had gotten their time with lando, and it was finally your turn now. or, it should have been.

it was akin to watching a wildlife documentary or something of the sort as the girl’s eyes flitted over your boyfriend yet again, a kind of ravenous desire in her eyes, like watching predator and prey. you knew what she saw—a famous and handsome f1 driver who had just taken a big victory here in monaco. yeah, you knew what she, and countless others,  wanted: to run around and go home with a winner, someone with the status and fame. she wanted a star. she wanted your boyfriend.

something twisted under your ribcage, not a sharp pang but a slow, torturous grind. this wasn’t the first time this had happened, nor would it be the last. the tabloids had made it clear that you were different from the women lando had dated before, that you were cut from a different cloth. the “not a model and more of a normal person” cloth. and honestly? you didn’t expect lando to stay forever; you knew there would be an expiration date. his lifestyle was a magnet for girls like the one with your boyfriend right now, and let’s be real, athletes clearly dated models. part of you thought he saw you as a new challenge, a new kind of conquest that was nice before he went back to his old ways. and you supposed that you were fine with that, despite how it sounded. you liked lando, and it would be good while it lasted.

but tonight, he was yours. not hers. and she really needed to get her hands off your man before you were about to snap.

“lan, baby, here’s your drink,” you hummed, voice dripping with honey as you draped your arm around lando’s neck. you gave the girl a once-over, but if she noticed, she didn’t let on.

“thanks, love,” lando grinned, pecking your lips quickly but still giving you a taste of the champagne he had been drinking. you cast a side glance at the girl, smug as you ran your fingers through your boyfriend’s hair. lando waved his hand, the corner of his mouth quirking up at the sight of you as he introduced you to the girl. “this is my girlfriend, who i really appreciate got me drinks.” you snorted, playfully hitting his arm.

“nice to meet you,” the girl beamed, but you knew she couldn’t have been that happy to see you, as evident from the way the smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. she reached over and patted your arm, nails skimming over your skin in a way that made you stiffen. quite frankly, you didn’t know why she was keeping up the pretense that she really seemed to like you. you hardly knew her, how was she acting like you two were about to become besties? “lando’s such a great guy, you must be very lucky.”

lucky. ha. if only she knew that was actually how you felt. as irritated as you were, you weren’t about to let her see that she had struck a nerve. “oh, i don’t know if it’s luck,” you chuckled, trying to ease the tightness in your jaw. you were already a few drinks in which made you much less cautious than how you usually acted, more reckless and unbothered. “you know fate has a way of bringing two people together.” you took a sip of your drink, trying your best to feign nonchalant indifference and not let her get what she wanted.

“and i’m glad it did,” lando chimed in, a soft, reverent gaze in his eyes.

 he tended to get sentimental when he got drunk, and today was no exception. you chuckled, cupping his cheek for a second as if to ground him. he was making things easier for you, making it easier to prove your point. your hands left lando, fixing your outfit with indifference as you sat down on the couch next to him, one of his arms instinctively wrapping around your waist.

before you could do anything else, max and pietra walked over, with the latter smiling and rushing to hug the girl who had been hovering around lando. so apparently she was p’s friend. okay, well, so be it. your legs shifted closer to lando, and his hands went under your knees, pulling your legs over his, amusement sparkling in his eyes. with a knowing smirk, he leaned forward, voice low and teasing. “i know what you’re trying to do.” his lips almost brushed the shell of your ear.

“and?” you huffed, tilting your head as if to dare him to quit first. “you got a problem with that, lan?” to add to it, you splayed a hand across lando’s chest, playfully kissing his cheek and pushing him back as he tried to be a little shit and get up.

lando opened his mouth to say something, but was cut off as max nudged him, bringing you two back out of your bubble. “oh, we were just talking about you,” the girl added, not bothering to add further elaboration until the awkwardness started to settle like a cold front. “i was just asking p why we didn’t see you at all during the race.” wow, now you knew what it was like for lando in the media pen and the horde of press that loved to stir random things up.

composing yourself, you smiled and laughed like a champ, twisting a ring on your finger to ground yourself. “i’m not one for the spotlight,” you shrugged, leaning into lando, who was animatedly chatting with max about something he saw in the paddock. for a heartbeat, your breath caught at the way the purple light caught on the angles of his face and his wide beam as his hands were gesturing, clearly in the middle of telling a story. you couldn’t help but smile, your boyfriend was happy, and that’s what made you happy as well. he was just…a star, the dazzling sun, and you loved him.

the girl wasn’t impressed, blue eyes narrowing at you as she fixed her hair. she could act indifferent. still, you were so sure that she’d lay a hand on your boyfriend again. “lando, are you staying in monaco for a bit?” she asked, voice saccharine, almost a croon. “maybe the race winner should do a victory lap sometime.” the implication in her tone was obvious; if not, the way she was looking at lando like she was asking him to do her a favor was clear.

you almost rolled your eyes to the back of your head at the girl’s giggle. why the hell was she all over your man? kylian mbappe was literally right there. anyone else except lando, in your humble, unbiased opinion. “i’d appreciate it if you kept your hands off my man.” your eyes met the girl’s, hoping your glare didn’t waver.

lando moved his hand to your knee, giving you a small squeeze as a shit-eating grin stretched across his face, leaning back with an air of superiority. knowing him, he probably thought it was entertaining watching you fight off other girls.

the girl opened her mouth to say something before turning back to lando. “you know where to find me,” she purred in lando’s ear, metaphorically swiping her claws at you with the barbed smile she gave. with that, she walked off with an air of arrogance, presumably to find pietra.

you scoffed, wrapping your arms around lando’s neck. his grin widened, enjoying your extra attention. he closed his eyes as your fingers ran through his brown curls, gentle and bold, a juxaposition. as lando trailed soft kisses to your jaw, you shot a glance at the girl over his shoulder, blowing a mocking kiss to her. she so wished she was you. but alas, she could only wish.

“y’know, you become so vicious when you’re jealous,” lando smirked, the sound low and teasing, nuzzling into your neck. his hands roamed up and down your sides, squeezing your hips in a way that tempted you, looking like the cat who got the cream. “i love it. trying to stake your claim on me?”

it twisted something in you, some part of you that was happy at his pride over you being jealous. everything he did seemed to cater to your needs, honestly. “just didn’t like the way she was looking at you,” you mumbled, suddenly bashful as you ducked your head. “like she wanted the winner to herself when you’re mine.”

something flickered in lando’s eyes, some emotion you couldn’t place—it made you want to reach out and fall into the abyss of his eyes. he leaned forward, arms wrapping around your waist and pulling you closer to him. “yeah? yours?” he grinned, voice soft as his eyes sparkled. and really, how were you supposed to not love him?

“yeah, mine.”

[chastiefoul]

love and deepspace men when you (playfully) reject their kiss ft. zayne, xavier, rafayel

fluff, fluff, FLUFF

zayne

his kiss landed on the outer corner of your lips instead as you turned away at the very last second as he leaned in

he just stared at you for a solid five seconds.

“was this because i left you on read this afternoon?” his voice was soft, uncertainty danced across his feature. you just shrugged, turning away from him to hide the smile you’ve been trying really hard to suppress.

he grabbed a hold of your waist first, keeping you in place. he saw the shameless smile on your face, couldn’t help but let out a little chuckle of his own. “should’ve known.”

you laughed, “but you did left me on read, how dare you?” his thumb moved up and down on your side as he made no change on his expression, like doing a gesture he didn’t even realize doing it. “alright then, i apologize for not replying within twenty minutes, since i did give you a call as soon as i was available.”

you put your hands on either side of his cheeks, he leaned into the touch. of course, it didn’t bothered you one bit when he didn’t reply right away since you knew very well how demanding his job was.

you planted a sweet kiss on his lips, you could feel his little smile as you pulled away. “good work today, zayne.”

“hm, then surely you would indulge me more of that for a moment longer?”

xavier

he’s quiet for a moment; he did kiss you, but he didn’t know why you’d turn your head on the last second like that as he kissed you on the cheek instead.

he casted his gaze downwards, looking like a rejected kitten in a pouring rain searching for its owner.

your heart squeezed at the adorable act, lifting his chin with your palm. he tilted his head questioningly, the words was obvious on his face. did i do something wrong today? were you mad?

xavier stared at you as he recalled today’s events, but he reached his wits end pretty fast since he still had no idea why you’d reject his kiss.

you then giggled at his clueless expression, and xavier immediately understood that you’re being playful. he let out a little sigh of relief, embracing you. his neck deep at the crook of your neck, his soft hair tickling you in the best way possible.

“you’re too playful at times,” he mumbled, he looked like he had all the peace in the world. “sorry, will you forgive me?” you ran your fingers through the back of his head. “i’ll forgive  you if you promise not to reject my kiss ever again,” he said.

you laughed, “okay then, if you insist.”

rafayel

oh. he looked so offended beyond belief. you’d think someone had insulted his painting; a product from his passion and effort. but to think it’s just a face he made because you didn’t want him to kiss you.

“i see what this is,” he started, the dramatic side of him just wouldn’t let this slide. you challenged, “yeah? what is it?”

“you tell me. this is just the beginning isn’t it. first you reject my kiss, next thing i know you’d be packing your bags, telling me you’ve fallen out of love.” he crossed his arms in front of his chest, his pout was the most exaggerated as it’s ever been.

you had to hold your laugh so hard, you covered your mouth with your fist. “it was just a kiss rafayel, i wasn’t feeling it.” you replied, trying your best to sound serious.

“wasn’t feeling it?” he gasped, like you just insulted his whole entire bloodline. he put up a palm in front of your face, like refraining you to say more controversial things. he took a deep breath to calm himself, “it’s fine, it’s not like i was eager to kiss you either.” he mumbled like he was talking to himself, although it’s obvious he’s being a little loud on purpose. also, lies. he practically bounced on air when he approached you.

finally a laugh escaped you, rafayel looked at you and he just fumed. “just so you know i expect you to make up for all the emotional distress i just went through.” you laughed a little more as you grabbed a hold of his face. “i would kiss you many times to make it up but i think someone just said he wasn’t really that eager to kiss me?” you raised an eyebrow.

his eyes lit up for a moment at the mention of a kiss, and next second he looked around frantically to make an excuse. “it’s okay i understand, fighting that many wanderers who make a lot of strange screeching noises? it’d disturb your hearing a little. i said i was eager to kiss you.” he smiled, nodding to himself. you laughed once more at his ridiculousness.

“sure, let’s go with that excuse.” you kissed him and when you pulled away he held your head, giving you multiple kisses before he let you go with a grin.

[stellawish]

precious

summary: just cuteness thats it

MY LOVE❤️‍🔥

he’s not up yet?

nah steel sleeping😴

okay omw

Satoru looked away from the phone and glanced at his son. He rubbed his still-closed eyes with tiny fists. Gojo expected crying, but his baby just sighed.

Your son almost always woke up without fuss, greeting you or Satoru with his sweet smile. But lately, he’s been crying more often during that fine line between the sweet remnants of sleep and waking up. Teething is to blame.

Satoru turned to his side, placed his large palm on Haru’s plump belly, and slowly stroked it. "Papa’s here."

Although Gojo always sulks when the little boy sleeps (since his baby is so cute and he always wants to play with him), there have been times when he accidentally woke Haru during naps because he kissed and poked his chubby son too hard. You always scold him for that.

But now he understands that his little one sleeps restlessly, so he tries to protect his light sleep.

Lost in thought, Gojo didn’t notice any movement beside him until he felt tiny fingers wrapping around his much larger one.

Haru turned his head and smiled sweetly, revealing dimples on his flushed cheeks.

"Hi, baby! Did you have a good nap?"

Your son stretched his short arms, then rolled onto his stomach, smiling shyly. Gojo pulled him closer, supporting his back. Sitting next to him, Haru rubbed his sleepy eyes and yawned.
Gojo kissed his son’s soft tummy.

Haru moved even closer to his father, rubbing his chubby cheek against Gojo's like a kitten.

"Aww, my baby!"

Your husband definitely passed on the gene for the love of physical contact to his boy.

Satoru cooed, "I missed you too! Now tell Papa, what dreams did you have? Was Mama there?" Haru babbled as if answering the question.

When you said you gave birth to an exact copy of Gojo, you weren't even kidding. Besides the identical appearance, your son was just as talkative as his papa.

Gojo lay on his back and put his son on top. Haru reached out his hands to Papa's face and patted his cheeks while giggling. Satoru wiped the drool from his rosy lips and stroked his soft cheek.

"You're the most precious baby in the whole world," Gojo cooed.

"Ahuu"

more dad!gojo and Haru HERE

guys if you want me to add you to my taglist lmk

luv you!💫

all rights reserved ©stellawish. do not copy, repost, translate, or modify my works in any platform.