#steering wheel trim

[mrs-trophy-wife]

[dewwinchester]

stitches | d.w.

synopsis: dean texts you for help, and you drop everything for him.

requested by: @dingo-ate-my-hot-lettuce-crazy

pairing: pre-series!dean winchester x reader

word count: 1.6k+

warnings: fluff, some angst, john winchester, blood, wounds/injury, stitching up wounds, typical spn series warnings. no use of y/n, no pronouns used!

a/n: if john winchester has no haters, i'm dead <33 also, it's currently 12am, so if the editing is a little wonky, pls forgive me

You gripped the steering wheel tightly, knuckles turning white as you navigated through the torrential downpour hammering down around you and your car. The rain was relentless, blinding you as it pounded against the windshield. The smell of wet asphalt filled your car as the tires slipped on the rain-soaked road. Your heartbeat pounded in your ears – a mixture of adrenaline from trying to avoid a horrific car wreck and anxiety from the message still illuminating your car in a dim light.

I need your help.

It wasn’t a message you were expecting. Normally, in your line of work, pleas for help came in the form of a frantic phone call or a scream in the dark. They never came in the form of a random text message.

And they never came from Dean Winchester.

You were having a relatively normal night, working a case and staking out a couple of vamps, when your phone buzzed with several messages from Dean. First, he asked if you were busy. Then, he asked if you were nearby. Moments later, he sent you an address to a motel. Then, came the message that caused you to leave the stakeout completely and go frantically speeding down the road.

Your tires screeched as you rounded a corner. The neon light of the motel soon appeared ahead, its reflection dancing across the many puddles on the asphalt. You pulled into the first parking spot you saw and stepped out of your car. The rain immediately soaked you to the bone, wetting your hair and your clothes, sending a chill through you, but you couldn't find yourself caring as your eyes scanned for Dean's room number.

The motel was rather seedy-looking – more so than normal. The wooden palings were splitting, and the paint was chipping off the trimmings and walls. There wasn't any other car in sight. You wondered just how bad things were if Dean had found himself in a place like this.

Once you found his room, you practically ran over to the door and threw it open, not bothering to knock. Your eyes immediately landed on Dean, who sat on the edge of one of the beds, his back to you. A wave of relief washed over you – he was alive – but the sight of his tense shoulders and the untouched beer bottle in his hand kept your anxiety simmering.

You closed the door behind you and took off your saturated jacket, leaving it next to Dean's leather one.

"Hey," you said with a sigh, "You okay?"

Dean responded with a curt nod but said nothing more. You stepped closer to him and placed your hand gently on his shoulder. He flinched at the touch, and you felt a pang in your chest. When you finally got close enough, you quickly scanned his face. The bags under his eyes were darker than usual, and his normally sharp gaze was clouded with exhaustion. HIs hair was wet and spiky, and his lip trembled from the cold.

Your eyes continued to trail down to his side, where his shirt clung to his skin, dark and wet with blood. Three jagged and deep gashes spread across Dean's side. His shirt was torn.

Your eyes widened as panic once again surged through you. You frantically looked around for anything you could use to stop the bleeding. You grabbed the first towel you could get your hands on and pressed it to his side, grimacing when Dean winced in pain.

"Jesus, Dean. What the hell happened?"

"Werewolf," he gritted out.

"I think you're gonna need stitches."

There was no first aid kit in sight, so your mind began running through alternatives. You could go to the front desk and ask if there were any supplies, but asking for anything more than a simple band-aid would cause suspicion, and the last thing you needed was someone knocking on the door asking too many questions.

You could use dental floss. You had known plenty of hunters that used it in the past and not had a problem, but you weren't sure there were any needles…

"There's a sewing kit in the bathroom."

You raised your eyebrows in surprise. "You read my mind."

“One of my many talents.” 

----

Needle, thread, dental floss, tissues, water. You looked over the supplies in front of you, mind racing at a million miles an hour. Despite being a hunter yourself, you weren’t exactly a natural when it came to stitching wounds and performing first aid. In fact, the sight of too much blood caused your head to throb and your legs to go numb.

Dean had already taken off his shirt, leaving you to see the full extent of his injuries. The gashes started at the top of his ribs and curled around to his left shoulder blade. Blood continued to trail down his back, causing your mouth to go dry. Pins and needles tingled your toes, and the room began to spin…

You shook off your thoughts and shifted your weight between your two feet, hoping to get some blood flow back there. You put your thoughts and discomfort behind you and prepared to begin. 

“This isn’t gonna feel great,” you said, trying to control the shake in your voice. 

“Not my first time,” he replied. 

You grabbed the needle and thread, and – with shaky hands – tried your best to thread the cotton through the eye. You sat behind him, deciding to start around his shoulder. With a damp cloth, you tried your best to clean around the area, whispering apologies whenever Dean flinched. 

“What happened?” you asked quietly, using your gentlest touch to guide the needle through. 

“I told you,” he said through gritted teeth, “werewolf.”

“Yeah, I know, but…” you trailed off. “Where’s your dad?” 

Dean clenched his jaw, and you immediately knew you had touched on a rough subject. Throughout the time that you had known Dean, you had learnt his relationship with his father was far from healthy. John Winchester was not your favourite person in the world. In fact, you and Dean had gotten into plenty of arguments about him in the past. 

“He’s not here.”

“That’s not what I meant,” you said, continuing your stitching. “Why isn’t he here?”

“Do we have to do this–?”

“--Yes.”

Dean sighed, scrubbing his hand down his face. The anger and tension radiating off him was palpable, his shoulders were tense and his breathing was heavy. You finished stitching the first gash, and tied the thread off with a neat little knot. Instead of immediately moving on to the next one, you moved around and knelt in front of Dean so you were eye level. You placed a hand on his right knee and traced gentle circles into his skin with your thumb. You raised your eyebrows, sending him a look that was simultaneously stern and empathetic.

You just wanted to know he was okay.

“We’d been stakin’ out the thing for weeks,” Dean began. “We finally pinpointed it to this boathouse. Dad was sure that it was in there, so he sent me in first to sweep the area.”

“And…?”

“Turns out it was a lot smarter than we thought,” Dean said, a dejected smile on his lips. “It was waitin’ there for us. Dad knew, but I didn’t.” 

“Then why did he send you in there?”

Dean shrugged. “Couldn’t tell you. But the thing had me on the ground before I even realized what was goin’ on. Put it’s claws in me and ran.”

You shuddered. 

“Dad didn’t stay,” Dean continued. “The second he realised it jumped ship, he went too. Left me with my phone and wallet… I walked here.” 

“What?” 

If Dean’s anger was palpable, you were damn-near irate. You pressed your lips together, trying to control yourself from spewing all sorts of profanities. If you had it your way, you would have marched your way up to John Winchester and given him what for. You would have knocked his lights out if Dean had let you. 

You stood and pressed the heels of your palms to your eyes.

"He – you? God!"

"Alright hot-head, calm down."

"No, I will not calm down!" You spun on your heel, turning to face him again. "Your own father left you for dead!"

"He's done worse."

You laughed bitterly. "That doesn't surprise me."

"Alright," Dean sighed, raising a hand to stop your tirade. "I'm okay! I'm still here, aren't I?"

"Oh yeah, you're the pinnacle of okay."

"Your sarcasm isn't helping."

You shook your head. Angry tears pricked the corners of your eyes, but you were too stubborn to let them fall.

"I just wish you would understand that you deserve better," you said, trying to keep your voice steady. "You could leave his ass behind any time you like -"

"Oh yeah? And then what?"

You paused, and looked down to your feet. 

"You could come with me?" 

For half a second, Dean smiled. “You and I would kill each other in half an hour.” 

He was right – but you’d never let him admit it. 

“Why’d you text me then?” You asked. “If we’re just gonna kill one another–”

Dean shot you a pointed look. 

“– I’m serious.” You said. 

Dean stood up with a groan and walked over to you. You stood with your arms crossed, a slight frown creasing your brow. Nothing could be heard but the rain that battered against the windows and the thundering of your own heartbeat in your ears. 

Dean tucked a strand of your wet hair behind your ear, “You’re the first one I thought of… The only one I wanted here.” 

A blush crept onto your cheeks and you shook your head fondly. “You’re fantastic at changing the subject.” 

Dean winked, but his smooth-talking was soon replaced by a painful scowl. 

“Let’s finish this up later, shall we? I’d rather not bleed to death.” 

You helped Dean back to the bed and prepared to finish stitching him up. You knew this was far from over – with Dean, it never was – but for now, you would focus on the rain that pattered against the roof and the relief that Dean was with you, safe. 

[ceilidho]

prompt: blue collar worker ghost knocking reader up in a gas station bathroom on a whim. (nsfw, 2k)

-

Just to look over at him on the driver’s side drives you crazy.  

His buzz cut uncovered by a hood or balaclava is the new normal. It makes your blood rush to think of dragging your fingers across it, never long enough to really grip; heats you up faster than sitting by a fire or plunging into warm water. It’s the same new normal as the bristly, naked skin of his jaw, which flexes under scrutiny. He hadn’t gotten around to shaving earlier—rarely does these days as long as he can keep to a five o’clock shadow—and it makes you shiver when you think of the raw tenderness on your inner thighs, a consequence of that decision. 

These are the consequences of trust and loyalty. Not long ago, you wouldn’t have expected more than a glimpse of dark eyes behind a mask. 

The window is cracked open just enough to let the smoke from his cigarette out. Black fingerless gloves, nails bare and trimmed, dirt and ink trapped always in the grooves of his fingers. Eyes heavy lidded as always from poor sleep, shot nerves the takeaway from an old life of brittle thin sleep. His cortisol levels, to this day, must ride high in the bloodstream. You’d give anything to ease it at a touch, but that’s not how things work. 

“Keep lookin’ at me like that and we’re gonna have a problem,” Simon says when you glance over at him for the fifth time in as many minutes. 

“A problem?” you repeat. You’re not trying to be coy—you’re really not—but it comes out that way regardless. A bit breathlessly too, you realize with a small degree of embarrassment. You’ve got no shame these days. 

He grunts instead of answering. Your fists close over your thighs as you dry to concentrate on the road ahead of you instead of the persistent ache between your thighs. It’s not his fault that your pussy picked now of all times to get desperate. 

You peer over at him again out of the corner of your eye. 

“Bird,” he growls. Doesn’t even have to look over at you to know that you’re staring. Just another weird six sense from another life. It’s a warning though, one you hear loud and clear. 

“I didn’t say anything,” you say in a huff, turning your head fully away from him now to stare out the window. 

Only a handful of minutes tick by with you watching the brown patches of grass and the trees lining the motorway before you shift in your seat. Acutely aware of the wet spot between your legs, the way Simon’s fingers curl over the steering wheel loosely when he drives one handed, the smell of smoke on the upholstery, the grimy spots on the windshield where the wipers don’t reach, the moment he shifts and the weight of him makes the leather squeak. 

You peek over at him again.

He doesn’t bother signalling before veering into the rightmost lane, ignoring the furious honking from the car right behind you. You yelp when he takes the exit at a breakneck speed, fingers gripping the underside of your seat before whipping your head around to glare at him. 

“What’s the matter with you?” you scream, spine stiff from the sudden lane change. 

Simon doesn’t answer you, but you notice that the exit leads to a rest stop just off the motorway. It’s one of the less frequented ones—just a cluster of fast food restaurants and a gas station. He pulls into a parking space and practically slams on the brakes, making you jerk forward in your seat. Simon’s never been the most cautious driver, but this is a whole new level for him.

“Simon—Simon, what are you doing—” you hiss through clenched teeth, but he’s already up and out of the car, circling around to your side. 

Your heart goes hummingbird quick in your chest, stomach in knots. When you pant out a breath, it comes out shaky with nerves and excitement. You toy with the idea of pressing down on the child lock when he comes around but think the better of it. There’s already a twitch in his eye. 

You look up at him through your lashes when he opens the door and leans in to release your seatbelt. 

“Get out,” he orders, and yanks you out before you can reply. 

The walk to the gas station is tense and you struggle to keep up with him. He walks too fast and expects you to keep up, growling down at you to move it, but you drag your feet a little. It’s shameful how even that gets you worked up. 

“Are we gonna—?” you ask breathlessly, irritation seeping out of you. Simon doesn’t answer, just tightens his hand around your wrist. 

A chime above the door jingles when the two of you walk in, heading straight for the back. You catch the attendant staring at the two of you with open contempt and give a tight, embarrassed smile back. Simon doesn’t so much as glance over. You think he’d let the man call the cops if it came down to it. 

The gas station bathroom is one of the crummier bathrooms you’ve ever been in, but you hardly register that with how Simon hauls you up against the door he just slammed shut and kisses you within an inch of your life. His kisses are ever slick and wet, dangerous for you—drugging when he drags his tongue over yours and a hand cups your head to angle it just right. You want to give as good as you get, but it’s easy to let yourself get swept away and open your mouth to let him in because you feel his hunger. 

“That cunt never gets tired of me, does she?” Simon mumbles into your mouth. He steals your words from you when he slots his lips over yours again. Only gives you enough space to drag in a sharp breath. 

It’s in your best interest. The only words available to you are pathetic little pleas, desperate fingers digging into his jacket and trying to pull it off so you can feel the muscle underneath. Trying to get as close as possible to him, to wrap yourself around him. A needy, pitiful thing. 

“Poor thing,” he sighs, pulling away from your mouth and laughing when your lips chase after him. Standing up on your tiptoes to kiss him again and kiss, hands tugging him down by the back of his neck. “So horny that you nearly made me crash the fuckin’ car.”

“Couldn’t wait,” you whine, peppering his neck with kisses when he draws up to his full height, nearly dizzy now. “Sorrysorrysorry, please—please fuck me, Simon—please—”

“Not here, bird—want you to see how desperate you look.”

He drags you over to the other side of the bathroom and makes you stand on his boots and face the mirror covered in lipstick and sharpie and god knows what else—“c’mon, up you get”—while he rucks up your dress. The stark contrast between the two of you in the mirror makes you baulk. Like you haven’t slept with him before and lived to tell the tale. He’s all dark clothing and mountains for shoulders, mouth always set in a flat line of impatience that would make anyone else turn the other way. 

You, however, press yourself back into him. 

Rough fingers tug your panties to the side, not bothering to check if you’re wet. Assuming that you are—that you always are with him, eager to cant your hips and offer yourself up to him.

You try not to think about how your pelvis is already tilted towards him.

Simon holds your head up with a single hand under your chin, squishing your cheeks a little. “Fuckin’ hell…look at that,” he rasps, eyes almost black with lust. 

“You’re being mean,” you whine, pushing back against him and wiggling your hips. 

“Doesn’t matter how many times I give it to you—always whining for it. Cock hungry bird.”

It would hurt if you didn’t already know how much he wants you too, the deep rasp in his voice betraying an aching, insatiable hunger. An arm locks like a bar across your chest to hold you in place, his hand fitting over a breast just to have something to hold. He can tell you again and again that it’s just you, but you know that he wants it just as badly as you do. 

He reaches around to undo his pants and then you feel a familiar cock bully its way into you, a tight fit only eased by the wetness almost glistening on your inner thighs. He grunts when his cock pushes into you, the same hand reaching around to rest low on your stomach, pinkie brushing the top of your mound. 

The first thrust jostles you, forces your palms to slam down on the mirror even though the arm across your chest keeps you tight to his chest. It’s sticky under your fingers. You wince when you think of how much Purell you’ll need after this, but the thought melts away when he pulls his cock almost all the way out of you before slamming back in. 

“Yes, yes—fuck—” you gasp, staring at your reflection in the mirror. After a couple hours on the road, you’re not exactly in tiptop shape—sweaty and in need of a shower and coffee—but any timidity evaporates under Simon’s hot gaze. It eats you up. 

His jaw flexes with each thrust, eyes flitting between your tits bouncing under your dress and your face until it stays there, devouring you in a single heated look. Every time your shoes almost slip off his boots, he pulls you tighter into his chest; you couldn’t get out of his hold even if you wanted to. The thought makes the blood rush through your ears. 

“Almost need someone else jus’ to take care of you when I’m not around,” Simon growls. He gives your breast a rough squeeze, an admonishment. 

“No—no one else—” 

“Jus’ me then, pet? No one else can take care of this little cunt?”

You shake your head, maybe nod, maybe sob a bit. It’s hard to tell. The hand on your low belly grips into the flesh, holding you in place while he rails you over the sink. Impossible to look away from the man towering over you, a man you’ve let willingly bend you over and get between your thighs. You wouldn’t even if you could. He’s the summation of everything you’ve ever hoped for, packaged in the too big body of a gun for hire, riddled with nerve damage and a nasty temper. You wouldn’t trade him for anything in the world.

Your eyes slip shut.

“Tell you what,” he breathes into your ear, the burr of his stubble rubbing your neck raw. “I’ll give you somethin’ else to keep you busy.” 

Your eyes spring wide open.

He shifts his stance and drives into you with renewed vigour, muffling your sounds with a hand over your mouth. The mirror fogs up through the gaps between his fingers, the room damper and stickier now than when you entered it. Tears build in the corners of your eyes. 

When he goes quiet, you know what’s about to happen. Your toes curl in your shoes when he exhales a ragged breath, gritting his teeth when he meets your eyes again in the mirror. Something about his gaze alone makes you come, like a deep press into your soul. The fat cock stretching you out is just a bonus. 

The come down is harsh, laboured breaths panting out of you until your chest finally settles, until it feels safe enough to move. You lower one foot from on top of his boot just for Simon’s arms to constrict even more, holding you fast to his chest. He can probably feel your heartbeat against his wrist. 

“Quit squirming,” he scolds, giving you a little warning squeeze.

“‘M sweaty,” you complain.

“We’ll towel off at home,” Simon says, rolling his eyes. “Don’t bitch.”

“I’m not bitching, I’m hot—” 

He lets you carp and moan about your inner thighs being covered in beard burn and come while straightening out your dress, pulling your panties back into place. He’s quicker with himself, doesn’t even bother grabbing a paper towel to wipe himself off before shoving his cock back into his pants and zipping up. When you ask him to hand you one, the look he gives you scorches you right to the bone. 

“Wait ‘till we get home,” he says, hand on your back when he unlocks the bathroom door.

“Like you aren’t gonna do it all over again the second we get there,” you mutter.

His smirk isn’t smug, but it’s a near thing.

[ribbonprincess]

🍯࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

note: road head (don't do that folks!) reader and Rafe refers to him as daddy,rafe is a head pusher.

You and Rafe are driving back home after a long afternoon of golfing,more like him as you were just admiring your boyfriend from the golf cart and sometimes giving him his club. He looked so hot with his white shirt and the few drops of sweat that you would occasionally see roll down the side of his face. So you do the only thing that seems right in your mind.

"Jesus,stop that- I'm driving,you're gonna make us crash!" Rafe's pushing your hand away from his crotch,making you whine as you put it back "please..wanna make you feel good rayray,I'll be quick! You just need to focus on the road,I'll be quick!"

Your boyfriend seems hesitant,looking at you before looking back at the road "okay...yeah,fine. Always need something in your mouth hm? Even while I'm driving." You're quick to undo his pants and pull the zipper down,pulling his dick out of his boxer and smiling widely before bending down to kitten lick at his tip. "thank you!" you mumble with your mouth full of him.

Rafe's eyes are stuck on the road as he tries to keep the steering wheel straight "jeez,what even got into you" one of his hands move to sit on top of your head,sighing shakily. "you just look so hot today,daddy- needed to have you." He nods to himself,pushing you down on his length "there you go...good girl" a small smirk creeps up on his face once he steals a quick glance down. Your eyes are glazed over,tears treating to spill over and ruin your mascara and he can see himself bulging into your cheek as you continue to work on him.

One of your hands cup his balls,massaging them softly making the man above you release a low growl "fuck, you're gonna get yourself in trouble princess. Behave" he says before pushing you completely down,your nose touching the small patch of nearly trimmed blonde hair "hm! Can't breathe rafey!" you whine immediately,coming back up for a quick breath.

"Hey,where are you going? back to work sweetie,cmon I'm close" you have no time to complain as he pushes you on him again,thrusting you into your mouth as best of his abilities "yeah...that's what I mean,nice and warm for me. Always taking me so well baby" your mascara Is now completely smudged all over your cheeks and under eye,making your lashes stick together uncomfortably. "help daddy out a bit baby" Rafe reminds you.

You're clenching your thighs together,moaning at the small friction you get "needy girl,sucking daddy's dick makes you horny?" he chuckles before giving you another small push "c'mon,I'll make you feel good later. Need you to focus on me"

Breathing through your nose you focus back on your work,pressing your tongue against one prominent vein that runs on the side of his dick before sucking on his tip,making him groan out loud. "fuck,yeah...'m so close sweetheart,so close" you look up at him,squeezing at his base with one hand while the other resume the work on his balls. Rafe grunts one more time before he's filling your mouth with sweet and sticky cum,making you close your eyes to enjoy the moment before pulling off him and smiling. "god...are you happy now?can't believe you just did that" He mumbles,tucking himself back in his pants with a low hiss from oversensitivity "yeah!I am,thank you rayray!" pressing your lips to his cheek you leave a sticky stain behind before settling into your seat like nothing ever happened "jeez,'m dating a freak."

[joemama-2]

a dead end | chap. 4

༺♰༻ gojo x fem reader

𓉸♱𓉸 synopsis: you were a star under stadium lights, gojo satoru a savior in sterile halls. now, the world rots, and survival is your only stage. amid the relentless dead and the horrors of the living, an unsteady bond forms—but trust is as fragile as life itself. in the shadows of ruin, love and death walk hand in hand. which will claim you first?

༺♰༻ wc: 7.8k

༺♰༻ tags/warnings: death, angst, violence, smut, cannibalism, murder, blood, gore, zombie apocalypse, crazy people, reader is a little bitchy at first, character development, torture, guns, weapons, alcohol, drugs, medical talk here and there, research talk, mentions of a leaked sextape, bullying, betrayal, lying, love, surgeon! satoru, cheerleader! reader, small age gap

༺♰༻ series masterlist < previous chapter < next chapter

The drive to his place was nothing short of insufferable. Not only did you practically scream at him to avoid the bodies littering the pavement of what once was a road. And not only did you have to remind him to drive slowly and vigilantly, but also to stay on the lookout for those things. He listened—sort of. 

Chatting your ear off about the most mundane, irrelevant things. You would’ve thought he’s just an insane man who finds normalcy in a now fucked up world. However, the way sweat subtly trickled down from his hairline to his eyebrows before being wiped off, the way his Adam’s apple bobs with what you can only assume is feigned nervousness, and the rhythmic tapping of his finger on the steering wheel told you otherwise. You didn’t voice any of this aloud. Why would you? You barely even know this man. 

His residence isn’t very far from this hospital, probably due to his occupation and the need to be on call and ready for any unforeseen emergencies. It’s a nice place—nicer than yours at least. You keep your saltiness to yourself—a two-story house that blends beautifully with a traditional style Japanese home, but also hints of modernity. 

The exterior is a perfect blend of old and new—dark wooden panels, clean white walls, and a gently sloped roof that gives it an almost temple-like serenity. A stone pathway leads up to the entrance, lined with carefully placed lanterns that would’ve looked beautiful at night—if the world wasn’t falling apart. The front yard is surprisingly well-kept, though some fallen leaves scatter across the stone tiles, a sign that he hasn’t been home for at least a day or two. Gojo parks in the driveway, killing the engine before leaning back with a dramatic sigh. “Ah, home sweet home,” he drawls, stretching his arms over his head. “Did you enjoy our little road trip?”

You unbuckle your seatbelt, unimpressed. “No.”

He grins, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Brutal.”

Stepping out of the car, you take in the finer details of his home. The four-panel, glass front doors at the entrance slide rather than swing, framed by sleek black trim that complements the modern glass windows scattered across the façade. A small porch extends from the front, complete with a wooden bench and a wind chime that barely moves in the dead air. It’s the kind of house that exudes both quiet luxury and warmth—something you wouldn’t have expected from someone like him. You assumed big, loud—something that screams ‘I’m rich! Look at me!’. Well, maybe that all went to his personality. 

You follow as Gojo unlocks the door and steps inside, flipping on the lights. “Welcome to Casa de Gojo,” he announces, kicking off his shoes.

The interior is just as polished as the exterior. Wide, open spaces with natural wood flooring and soft lighting. The living room is spacious, with a sunken seating area around a low, dark wood table. A modern sectional, black leather couch sits nearby, facing a flat-screen TV mounted above a fireplace that looks untouched. Built-in bookshelves line the walls, filled with a mix of medical texts, philosophy books, and an absurd number of manga volumes. Your eyes sweep across the space. The decor is minimal but intentional—warm-toned wood, neutral colors, and the occasional pop of blue that likely reflects his personal taste. There’s a quiet elegance to it all, but the subtle mess—an unfinished cup of coffee on the table, a jacket draped over the couch, a pair of house slippers kicked haphazardly near the entrance—suggests that while the house is expensive, Gojo himself isn’t overly meticulous.

He gestures grandly. “Make yourself at home. Just don’t go snooping in my room unless you wanna see something scandalous.”

You give him a flat look. “I doubt there’s anything in there worth seeing.”

Gojo gasps, clutching his chest as if you just stabbed him. “Ouch. Right in my fragile heart.”

You roll your eyes, stepping further inside. The house is nice—far nicer than yours—but right now, all you care about is whether it’s safe. The doors are locked, the windows are shut, and for now, it seems like you have a moment to breathe. But you both know that moment won’t last long. “Sliding front doors don’t seem very stable,” you comment.

“Stable enough, I’m still alive, right? No break-ins or bloody murders happening.”

Or maybe because you’re in a gated community. You sigh and run a hand through your hair. “What are you looking for again?”

“Gonna change, maybe shower and cook up a nice dinner.”

You whip your head to him. “No, we need to go to my place too.”

“We can,” he shrugs, walking to the kitchen. You’re right on his tail, annoyance slowly rising. Further inside, the kitchen is pristine—almost too pristine, as if it’s rarely used. Stainless steel appliances line the walls, a stark contrast to the wooden cabinets and open shelves that hold an impressive collection of tea sets and expensive liquor that looks like it’s just there for decoration. Another lone coffee mug sits by the sink, an abandoned stirrer inside, suggesting he hadn’t had the chance to finish it before everything went to hell. “Tomorrow morning.”

“No,” you’re quick to rebuttal, speeding up to stand in front of him, fixing him with a steely gaze. “I did not sign up for that. You said you’d do whatever you’d need to here, then we go to mine and then a gas station for your damn snacks. That was the plan, not you lounging around without a care in the world.”

Gojo tilts his head, lips curling into an easy smile. “I didn’t realize we had an itinerary. And technically? I never said when we’d leave for your place. Just that we would.”

Your fingers twitch at your sides, torn between wanting to smack that smirk off his face and wanting to drag him out the door yourself. “Don’t play semantics with me. You think it’s safe to just wait around here? The longer we stay, the worse things can get out there.”

He exhales through his nose, running a hand through his hair. It’s slightly damp, strands clinging to his forehead from sweat. “Look, we just drove through what was essentially hell on earth. You’re on edge, I’m on edge, and neither of us knows what the hell is happening. So, we rest, get our shit together, and then we go. If you want to run off now, be my guest, but you won’t get far without a car, and I’m not giving you mine.”

Your jaw tightens. He has a point, and that pisses you off even more.

Gojo watches you, waiting for your response with that infuriatingly calm expression. It’s not that he doesn’t take the situation seriously—you saw the tension in his grip on the steering wheel earlier, the way his eyes constantly flicked to the mirrors, scanning for threats. But unlike you, he refuses to let the weight of it crush him.

You release a strained breath. “That’s not the point. My place has supplies I need. We don’t have time for you to play house.”

He exhales through his nose. “Relax, sweetheart. The sun will begin to go down in an hour and a half, give or take. And then what? Run around at night with no plan? Not exactly the best survival tactic.” He gestures vaguely toward the dimly lit window. “We stay here, get some rest, leave at sunrise. That way, neither of us end up dead before we even get there.”

You hate that he makes sense. You really, really do. But you also hate staying in an unfamiliar place, in a house that feels too open, too exposed, with a man you barely know. He reads the conflict on your face before you can mask it. “Tell you what,” he continues, crossing his arms. “We barricade the doors, make sure everything’s locked down. I stay far away from you when it’s time to hit the hay, and you do the same. If anything happens, we leave immediately. Deal?”

You exhale sharply through your nostrils, resisting the urge to curse him out. “...Fine,” you grumble. “But don’t get comfortable.”

Gojo grins, clapping his hands together. “Great! Now, dinner. Any dietary restrictions I should know about? Or do you just survive off anger and spite?”

You glare at him. He chuckles.

Yeah, this was going to be a long night.

Indeed it was. Hearing his grating voice sing in the shower was ruining your patience. You were this close to yelling at him to shut the hell up, but you held your tongue. Sitting stiffly on his couch, hands curled in your lap. Your eyes kept flickering to the doors that are now barricaded with a few chairs, a table from his study, and a piece of the sofa. He was in there for about twenty minutes already and you were starting to get restless. In order to keep your head, you stand up, deciding to get a good layout of the place you’ll unfortunately be camping out for the night. It’s good—you’ll know where the exits are in case something does happen. 

The house is deceptively spacious, its traditional-meets-modern design making it feel both airy and structured. The polished wooden floors don’t creak under your weight as you move, a small mercy given the situation. You start with the first floor, sweeping through the open living room, past the neatly arranged bookshelves and minimalist furniture. A framed picture of Gojo with a few other people—colleagues, maybe?—sits on one of the shelves, but you don’t linger on it.

The kitchen, you’ve already seen, is borderline unused. A dining area extends beyond it, the sleek wooden table looking like it’s only been touched when necessary. The house doesn’t feel particularly lived-in. More like a place of convenience rather than a home. Must be the life of a surgeon. You move toward the hallway, finding a guest bathroom, his study, and what seems to be a spare bedroom, but the door is slightly ajar, and from what you can tell, it’s practically empty aside from a neatly made bed and a desk with a shut laptop. No personal touches, no real signs of frequent use. Then, there’s a staircase leading up to the second floor. You hesitate, ears straining. Gojo is still singing, oblivious to your slow exploration of his home. Rolling your eyes, you take the steps carefully, mapping out each one in your head. 

The second floor is quieter, save for the sound of running water from the master bedroom’s en-suite bathroom. You glance down the hall—two more doors. One leads to what you assume is another office room, considering the slightly ajar door reveals stacked paperwork, books, and a white coat slung over the chair. The other…

You push it open slightly, peeking inside. A bedroom, obviously his. Larger than the guest room, but still frustratingly neat. The bed is king-sized, sheets dark and crisp, not a single wrinkle out of place. A dresser sits across from it, and to the side, a walk-in closet, the door left open just enough for you to see neatly arranged clothing—mostly work attire, some casual wear, and a few pairs of shoes lined up at the bottom.

Nothing about this place screams Gojo Satoru, the insufferable, obnoxious man currently singing off-key in the shower. It’s all calculated, controlled, sterile, even.

You don’t know why that unsettles you.

With a final glance around, you step back, deciding you’ve seen enough. Now all that’s left is waiting for Gojo to finish whatever the hell he’s doing so you can finally get some rest. However, just as you’re turning on your heel to walk back downstairs, something—or someone catches your eye. 

A framed picture, all by its lonesome—rested atop his nightstand. 

Your eyes squint and you pad closer. Satoru stands to the right, he looks younger. Wearing a cap and gown with a youthful smile. His arm is wrapped around the shoulders of a girl. You blink. She looks almost exactly like him. From the albino hair to the crystalline orbs, and even to the way both of their eyes crinkle when they smile. She seems younger—shorter. Your fingers hover over the frame, but you don’t touch it. There’s something oddly intimate about the way the photo sits there—deliberate, not thrown together like a forgotten memory. It stands alone, unlike the other, which was grouped with his colleagues.

A sister? You assume as much. The resemblance is uncanny. But there’s something about the way she’s smiling—so full of light, unburdened. It’s different from Gojo’s usual smirks, the ones laced with amusement, arrogance, or mischief. This is pure. Unfiltered happiness. There’s a warmth in the way Gojo’s arm is wrapped around her, in the way they’re both looking at the camera, like they’re sharing some private joke just between the two of them. The background of the picture is a blur of other graduates and family members, but your focus remains on them. It’s… unexpected. You’ve known him for less than a day, and yet the thought of him having a family, of having someone important to him, is strange. You never considered the possibility.

You can’t help but begin to wonder where this girl is now. Is he worried about her safety? What about the rest of his family?

You glance around the nightstand, noticing that this is the only framed photo in his bedroom. No others litter the dresser, no scattered images of friends, no sign of parents or anyone else. Just this one. Your stomach twists slightly. You don’t know why.

A sudden shift in the air—maybe the water shutting off—snaps you out of your daze. You blink, as if breaking out of some spell, and quickly step away from the picture. You shouldn’t be snooping. You shouldn’t care.

You can hear him shuffling around in there and you’re suddenly reminded of the fact that you’re in his room. “Shit,” you mutter to yourself, gaining your bearings and quickly turning around to leave. But just as you do so, your toe collides right into the damned protruding, sharp corner of his wall. "Ah, damn it!" you curse under your breath, clutching your foot. The sharp pain shoots up your leg, and you hop a little, trying to regain balance. But that only makes it worse as you stumble back and bump into the dresser. A few items clatter to the floor, and you freeze, suddenly feeling the weight of your situation. Of course, this would happen.

A brief silence follows and you feel like slapping yourself. 

The silence stretches on, each second feeling like an eternity. You wince, still holding your foot, and glance around the room in a slight panic. The last thing you want is for him to hear you making a fool of yourself, but it's too late now. You can hear him shuffling closer, the sound of his steps growing louder with each passing moment. Panic bubbles in your chest, and you quickly drop to your knees, trying to pick up the fallen items off the floor before he gets there. But with the way your foot throbs, it’s a slow, clumsy process. You curse under your breath again, wishing you could just disappear. Just as you're about to give up and admit defeat, the door creaks open behind you.

"Uhhh…everything okay in here?" His voice is light, like he's expecting something completely mundane.

You freeze for a moment, embarrassment creeping up your spine. "Yeah, just—" You take a deep breath, trying to steady your nerves. "Just tripped. Foot’s fine. Nothing to worry about." You can hear your own voice crack as you say it.

Satoru steps into the room, pausing when he sees you crouched by the dresser, items scattered around you. His expression shifts for a brief moment, eyes narrowing slightly before he lets out a quiet sigh. "Careful there, you're gonna hurt yourself."

You glare back at him from your position on the floor, biting back a sharp retort and the urge to linger your eyes on certain areas that are concealed by a mere towel wrapped around his waist—broad, glistening, sexy chest on display. “You really need to renovate around here. It’s a hazard.”

He raises a brow, leaning against the doorframe, arms casually crossed. “Maybe you should stop snooping around my stuff and focus on not hurting yourself.”

His tone only irritates you further. “I wasn’t snooping,” you mutter, standing up slowly, trying not to favor your injured foot. “I was just—looking around.”

Satoru nods, clearly unconvinced. “Uh-huh. Well, looking around doesn’t usually lead to this,” he gestures to the scattered items, his voice now tinged with exasperation. “Anyway, I’m sure you’ll survive. But next time, watch your step. Don’t want you getting all hurt before we even get out of here.”

You shoot him a glare, but decide it’s best to let it go. For now. The last thing you want is for him to think you’re making a bigger deal of this than it is. “Are you done now? I’d like to wash up too, if you don’t mind.”

He hums lightly, pushing off from the doorframe. "Yeah, yeah. Go ahead, I’m almost done here anyway." His eyes flicker down to your foot a hint of concern crossing his features. It’s brief—barely noticeable—but you catch it, and for a moment, you almost feel like you might not be completely annoying him.

Almost.

"Take it easy on that foot," he adds casually, shrugging his shoulders. "Wouldn't want to carry you to the hospital, would I?"

You snort, letting out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. "I’ll be fine. Not everyone needs a knight in shining armor." The words escape before you can stop them, and you feel a slight tinge of regret immediately after.

Gojo walks over to his dresser, passing you in the process. It takes everything in you not to sniff at the air like a dog at the scent of his…really good soap. "You sure about that? Because I'm really good at playing hero."

“Just…give me a towel, please? And some clothes, if you have it.”

“Towel, yes. Downstairs, a door next to the guest bathroom. However, clothes? I’m afraid I can only interest you in things left from my previous rendezvouses.” 

You can’t help but scoff. “...you want me to wear clothes left behind by your hook-ups?” 

The muscles in his back flex, arms lifting over his head as he puts on a basic, black tee. 

He chuckles at your incredulity, the sound of fabric stretching as he pulls the shirt over his head, perfectly at ease. “Hey, don’t knock it ‘til you try it,” he teases, turning to face you with a playful glint in his eye. “Some of them have pretty good taste. You might get lucky.”

You purse your lips, trying not to let his cockiness get under your skin. “I’ll pass, thanks.”

He shrugs nonchalantly, clearly unbothered by your rejection. “Your loss.” His gaze lingers on you for a moment, eyes flickering down to your foot before snapping back up. "Alright, alright. Don’t worry, I’ll hook you up with something more... appropriate."

He starts rummaging through the drawers of his dresser, pulling out a pair of dark sweatpants and a plain hoodie, and tossing them to you. “These should fit. No promises on style, but they’re clean. Unless, of course, you want to try the hook-up clothes after all,” he adds with a smirk, tossing the clothes onto the bed.

You hesitate for a moment. There’s something almost absurd about the whole situation. Here you are, stuck in a post-apocalyptic mess, and you’re being offered clothes from his past lovers. “Keep your exes’ clothes, I’ll take these,” you mutter, gripping them closer with a small huff, still trying to shake off the awkwardness.

Satoru grins and pats you on the shoulder. “Suit yourself. But hey, if you ever change your mind, just let me know. I’m a man of... many connections.”

You can feel your eye twitch at his insistent teasing, but you bite back your frustration. The last thing you need is to lose your temper again. You just want to shower, change, and get some rest, not get wrapped up in his ridiculous antics. Turning on your heel, you head out of the room, back downstairs toward the bathroom, muttering under your breath. “You’re impossible, you know that?” 

His laughter rings out behind you as you descend the steps, making your way into his guest bathroom and closing the door with a soft click. You exhale, finally feeling a sense of relief that you're alone, if only for a moment.

That night, dinner is nothing short of an awkward, silent meet-up between two strangers. You sit on the opposite end of the table, Satoru facing you from his end. He talks here and there, but he’s much more invested in chowing down the stir-fry. You’re grateful for that. And when you two do to sleep, you ignore his dramatic farewell about sleeping well and not letting the bedbugs bite. Barcading yourself in the guest bedroom, in fear of not just him probably coming in during the middle of the night because you still haven’t gaged if he’s a weirdo perv, or just…unlikeable. But also for the fact that there’s still chaos reaping the world just outside the confines of his home. 

You get hardly any sleep.

As soon as the sun is shining, you change out of the clothes he gave you and back into the ones from yesterday. Satoru wakes up about thirty minutes later, coming downstairs with a long-sleeve on, paired with dark wash jeans that if you look closely enough, hug his ass quite well. He’s wearing his thin-rimmed glasses once more, but this time with a simple black baseball cap, the symbol of the Yomiuri Giants taunting you. There’s a backpack slung over his shoulder as he grabs his keys.

 “What’s in there?” you ask him, ignoring the way the ‘G’ twists at your stomach.

"Essentials," he replies nonchalantly, adjusting the strap over his shoulder. "Food, first aid, a few weapons—y'know, the usual end-of-the-world starter pack."

You arch a brow. "Weapons?"

He smirks, tossing his keys in the air and catching them with an effortless flick of his wrist. "A knife and a gun. Nothing too crazy."

Your eyes widen. “You…have a gun? How do you even have a license? It’s strict as hell.”

Satoru laughs, clearly reveling in your disbelief. "Who said anything about a license?" He winks, tucking the keys into his pocket before slinging the backpack over both shoulders.

You stare at him, unimpressed. "Great. So not only are you annoying, but you're also illegally armed."

He sighs playfully, shaking his head as he heads toward the front door. "Relax, sweetheart. It's not like I’m running around committing crimes. Just a little... precaution. You never know when you'll need protection these days."

You cross your arms, not entirely convinced. "You do realize that if you get caught with that, it won’t just be the zombies we have to worry about, right?"

Satoru waves a dismissive hand. "Oh, please. The world's gone to hell. The last thing on the government's mind is some guy with an unregistered gun." He gives you a look, one that almost feels too knowing. "Besides, it's not my first time handling one."

Something about the casual way he says it makes you uneasy. Part of you wants to question why a health care worker has illegal possession of a firearm, but you have bigger fish to fry. "Right," you mumble, shifting your weight onto your good foot. "You ready to go, or do you need another five minutes to admire yourself in the mirror?"

Satoru tilts his head. “Oh, you’re implying I take too long to get ready? This,” he swipes his hand up and down his body vaguely. “Effortless.” 

You roll your eyes, already regretting asking. "Let’s just go."

He grins one last time and motions for you to follow him out the door. "After you, my dear reluctant partner-in-crime."

You don’t dignify that with a response. Instead, you step outside, squinting against the morning light. The world beyond the safety of his house is eerily quiet, too still. A constant reminder that whatever life used to be, it’s long gone now. Satoru locks up behind you. You follow him to the BMW parked out front, getting into the passenger’s side. Once he’s seated behind the wheel, he does a quick look around of the interior, then outside, before he’s reversing. One hand placed to your headrest, his left palm guiding the car back and to the left. “Where do you live?” 

You hesitate for a moment, debating whether or not you should even tell him. Does it really matter? Your apartment, your belongings—hell, even your bed—none of it means much in a world that’s already fallen apart. Still, old habits die hard, and there’s a part of you that clings to the remnants of what once was. You glance at him, noting the way his sharp profile remains focused on the road as he expertly maneuvers the car onto the empty streets. There’s something oddly reassuring about the way he drives, confident but not reckless. “The high-rise apartments in Shibuya,” you finally answer, shifting slightly in your seat. “Near the station.”

Satoru lets out a low whistle. “Damn, you really like to live dangerously, huh?”

You furrow your brows. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He taps his fingers against the steering wheel. “Shibuya must’ve been hit hard, it’s a big metropolitan area, those places are always first to go. If you think we’re just gonna waltz in there and grab your stuff, you’ve got another thing coming.”

Your stomach sinks. You already knew it was bad—hell, you saw the state of things with your own eyes before finding temporary shelter—but hearing him say it out loud makes it feel more… final. “I have to at least try,” you say, voice quieter now. “There are things I need.”

Satoru hums in thought before making a sudden turn onto a different road. “Alright,” he says, as if he’s already made up his mind. “We’ll check it out. But the second things get dicey, we’re out. No hero shit.”

You roll your eyes but nod. “Fine.”

For a brief moment, neither of you speak, the low hum of the car’s engine filling the silence. Your eyes are glued on the window, watching the decimated pieces of what used to be normality wizz past the car. Buildings stand in eerie stillness, some with shattered windows, others marked with the dark streaks of smoke and fire. Cars sit abandoned on the road, doors left wide open as if their owners had fled in a hurry. The further you drive, the more the devastation sinks in—the world you knew is truly gone. You wonder how many people survived the night, how many people didn’t. 

Satoru drums his fingers on the steering wheel, gaze flickering between the road and the rearview mirror. His expression is unreadable, but you don’t miss the way his jaw tenses when he spots something in the distance.

“What is it?” you ask, already tensing up in your seat, looking back over your shoulder.

He doesn’t answer immediately, instead making a sharp right into a side street, one that looks a little less exposed. “Nothing,” he finally says, though you don’t believe him for a second. “Just being cautious.”

You press your lips into a thin line, but let it go. If something was truly wrong, he’d say it… right?

Minutes pass, stretching into what feels like hours as the car winds through the remnants of civilization. You glance at him again, watching as he adjusts his cap, his glasses slipping slightly down his nose. He looks far too composed for someone driving through the apocalypse. “You’ve done this before,” you muse, turning back to the window. It’s not a question.

Satoru chuckles, the sound low and knowing. “What, drive?”

You shoot him a look. “You know what I mean.”

There’s a pause, long enough that you almost think he won’t answer. But then—

“I’ve been in bad situations before, of course.” His voice is lighter than it should be, as if he’s trying to downplay something much heavier. “This? It’s just another shitty day in a long list of shitty days.”

Something about the way he says it makes your stomach twist. You don’t push for more, but you file it away, another mystery to add to the growing list of questions surrounding him. The car slows as you near Shibuya, the once-bustling city now nothing more than a graveyard of collapsed buildings and burned-out cars. Your fingers tighten into your palm.

Satoru exhales sharply, shifting the car into park. “Alright,” he says, stretching an arm over the back of your seat as he turns to face you. “Tell me exactly what we’re looking for.”

You look over. “I just need some stuff. Change, some clothes, weapons, I guess. Whatever will help me.”

He nods, eyes flickering to the windshield. Your apartment building still stands tall amongst the chaos. He juts his chin in the direction of them. “This it?”

“Yep.” 

“What floor?”

“The highest one.”

“Damn,” he shakes his head, lifting his cap to push his hair back before setting it back down. 

“What?” you grunt. 

“You live on the top floor of one of the most expensive places to live. Impressive, what do you do?”

“Not up for discussion right now,” your fingers reach to open the door, but his hand on your other arm stops you. Slowly, you look back over at him and his features have settled into a serious expression. 

“Listen,” he leans closer. “Game plan: stay quiet and close, we move quick. Like I said, if things turn awry, we’re out. At least I am.”

Your brows furrow, eyes narrowing at his emphasis on the word ‘I’. “Not exactly reassuring.”

Satoru merely smirks, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m just being honest. No use making empty promises in a world like this.”

You study him for a moment, searching for any sign of deceit, but all you find is that same self-assured confidence that’s been there since you met him. He’s not lying—if things go south, he will leave. Whether or not he’ll leave you behind is another question entirely. With a slow exhale, you nod. “Fine. Got it.”

He releases your arm, and you step out of the car quietly, the weight of the city’s silence settling over you like a thick fog. The air is stagnant, carrying the faint scent of smoke and decay. Shibuya had always been loud, a place of endless movement and life, but now… now, it feels hollow, like the ghost of something that once thrived. Satoru joins you, shutting his door with a quiet click before adjusting the strap of his backpack. “Let’s move,” he murmurs, voice softer now, as if speaking too loudly might awaken something lurking in the ruins.

You weave through the wreckage together, careful to step over broken glass and twisted metal. The further you go, the more the damage becomes apparent—collapsed storefronts, overturned cars, belongings strewn across the pavement like remnants of a life abruptly abandoned. Some buildings are burned out husks, their insides blackened and exposed. Others remain eerily intact, but you know better than to assume they’re empty. Your apartment building looms ahead, standing tall amongst the destruction, its pristine facade marred only by a few shattered windows and scorch marks near the base. A miracle, considering the state of the rest of the city.

Satoru sighs lowly, tilting his head back to take it all in. “Damn. Guess even the apocalypse couldn’t knock this place down.”

You don’t respond, already stepping toward the entrance. The glass doors are cracked but still intact, and with a bit of force, you manage to push them open. Inside, the lobby is a mess—furniture overturned, decorative plants wilting, papers scattered across the marble floor. The scent of mildew lingers, mixed with something more acrid, something you don’t want to think too hard about.

Satoru steps in beside you, adjusting his glasses as he takes in the scene. “Cozy.”

You roll your eyes and make a beeline for the elevator, only to be met with an unlit panel and unresponsive buttons. Of course. Power’s out. “Stairs it is,” you mutter, turning toward the emergency exit.

Satoru groans dramatically behind you. “Top floor, huh? You couldn’t have lived on, like, the third floor? Maybe even the tenth? Something reasonable?”

You shoot him a glare over your shoulder. “Feel free to stay down here if you’d rather not make the trip.”

He gives you a shake his head as he follows you to the stairwell. “And leave you to get eaten by whatever’s lurking up there? What kind of man would that make me?”

You scoff, pushing the door open. “A smart one.”

The stairwell is dimly lit by the weak morning light filtering through a few narrow windows. The air is thick, stale, carrying a heaviness that sets your nerves on edge. You grip the railing tightly as you begin your ascent, ears straining for any sound beyond the echo of your own footsteps. Satoru trails behind, his presence an oddly steadying force despite his usual antics. He’s quiet now, focused, movements careful but purposeful. It’s a reminder that beneath all his smug remarks and easygoing attitude, there’s someone who knows how to survive. Floor after floor, the silence persists, save for the occasional distant creak of settling debris. Your legs burn by the time you reach the highest level, breath slightly uneven. Satoru, of course, doesn’t look winded in the slightest.

“Not bad,” he muses, peering down the empty hallway. “You kept up.”

If you could, you’d give him another death glare. Insetad, stepping past him out the door and down the familiar hall, toward your apartment door. It’s a sharp right and a few hundred feet away. The number staring back at you, familiar yet foreign—like something out of a past life. With a steadying breath, you reach for the doorknob—only to find it slightly ajar.

Your stomach drops.

Satoru notices immediately, his posture shifting, hand moving to the knife at his belt. His voice is lower now, serious. “That how you left it?”

You shake your head, pulse quickening.

Someone’s been here. Maybe still is.

And you have no idea what you’re about to walk into.

Satoru steadily positions himself in front of you, carefully opening your door and being the first to step inside. You follow, holding your breath like you’re waiting for someone to pop out—human or not. As you both slowly enter, you’re looking around. However much your dismay, things look exactly how you left them yesterday morning. That feels almost more alarming than finding your place askew. Satoru’s eyes dart around the room, scanning for any signs of movement or disturbance. His posture remains poised, like a predator stalking its prey. He’s already in full survival mode, but there’s an odd tension about him. The room is eerily quiet, and as your gaze sweeps over the familiar space, the silence grows louder.

You take a step forward, heart racing as you absorb every detail. Your apartment, for all its remnants of normalcy, feels strangely hollow now. The sunlight filtering through the blinds feels too bright, too exposed, and every creak of the floorboards beneath your feet sounds amplified. The once-comforting space is now just another shell of what it used to be.

Satoru motions for you to stay back as he moves deeper into the living room. His steps are slow, measured, and almost soundless despite the creaking wood beneath him. He pauses for a moment by the kitchen area, his eyes narrowing as he takes in the state of your belongings. Everything seems untouched—your furniture, your personal items—everything as it was, but the feeling in the air is different. "Nothing's been disturbed," Satoru mutters, his voice low and almost to himself. He turns to face you, the serious look in his eyes replaced with something unreadable. "You sure you didn’t leave the door like that?"

You shake your head quickly, a chill running down your spine. "I locked it when I left, I always do." The words feel flimsy, even to you. They don't sound like they carry much weight anymore.

His eyes flicker to the hallway, then to the bedroom door, which stands slightly ajar, though just enough to seem unnatural. His hand moves to the small gun at his side, fingers brushing the handle as he starts toward it with slow, deliberate steps. “Stay close, hurry and get your stuff.” he mutters.

With a quick nod, you make your way to your bedroom with him right behind you. A small look around and you deem it okay to breathe normally for a bit. “Don’t touch anything.” 

Satoru doesn’t say anything in response, but you can feel his eyes on you as you rummage through your closet. His presence is imposing, as if he's waiting for something to go wrong, and it only adds to the heaviness in the air. The subtle rustle of clothing is the only sound that fills the room as you work quickly, pulling down one of the black backpacks you use for hiking trips. It’s sturdy, and practical—just what you need right now. You swing the bag over your shoulder, quickly scanning your closet for what you need. A few changes of clothes, nothing too fancy—just some comfortable jeans, shirts, a few pairs of underwear and socks, and a spare jacket you can throw on if things get worse. You shove them into the backpack, careful to make sure you don’t take too much, just the essentials.

You urge him to turn around, changing out of the filthy clothes from yesterday and into a nice, clean set. A simple t-shirt, one you used regularly for the gym or practices, a thin, but offering enough jacket. Finally, your running shoes and comfortable yoga pants. If you’re truly in the apocalypse now, you’d be damned if you’re caught dead wearing something that doesn’t hug your ass right. You walk back into the main room and into the en-suite bathroom, rummaging around for products you know you’ll need. Feminine care products, a hair brush, a couple hair ties, some wet wipes, a new travel-sized toothbrush with paste, along with travel-sized shampoo and conditioner. You’ve never been more grateful to be an avid traveler than you are now.

“Hey,” he calls out, causing you to turn your head over your shoulder. His back is turned to you, but when he faces you, your eyes practically bulge out of your skull. “Is this yours?”

You quickly stomp over and snatch the pink vibrator out of his hand. “What did I say?! No snooping!” 

“What?” he shrugs nonchalantly, watching you hide your stash back into the not-so-secret drawer anymore. 

“I said to not touch anything, you pervert!” Your hand makes connection with his arm, giving it a good few whacks. 

Satoru raises an eyebrow, unfazed by your outburst, and shifts his weight back slightly, clearly amused. His expression is almost too casual, but there’s a glimmer of mischief behind those sharp eyes. “Hey, I didn’t know you were into toys.” His smirk deepens as he watches you practically shove everything back into the drawer with the kind of force that could make even the most nonchalant person flinch.

You glare at him, cheeks flushed with embarrassment, and cross your arms tightly across your chest. “I told you not to touch anything. Is that really so hard to understand?” Your voice comes out sharper than you intended, but the irritation bubbling up in your chest refuses to be contained. It’s the last thing you want to deal with right now—Satoru playing the role of the curious, annoying asshole.

“Look, no need to get all defensive.” He raises his hands in mock surrender, the teasing smile never leaving his face. “I was just checking if you were fully prepared for the end of the world, that’s all.” His gaze flickers to the bathroom counter where you’ve left a few items, eyes darting over the travel-sized toiletries. He walks over, brushing past you with a little too much proximity for comfort. “You’ve got everything packed up, but don’t forget about the essentials.”

Your eyes narrow, watching as he picks up the small bottle of hand sanitizer you’d almost missed. His fingers are carelessly grazing over the edge of the bottle, clearly ignoring the growing discomfort in the air.

“Essentials?” you ask, crossing your arms even tighter. " If you’re implying I need to carry more weapons—"

"No," he cuts you off, his voice smooth and disarmingly calm. "I mean things like this." His hand flips the sanitizer bottle between his fingers, inspecting it before setting it into his pocket. "Hygiene is important, even if we’re fighting to survive." You blink, momentarily thrown off guard by his sudden seriousness. His eyes meet yours, no longer teasing, but steady. “You’ll need to keep your wits about you,” he says, “and hygiene matters. You’ll want to be able to think clearly. So don’t let anything slide.”

You don’t say anything at first. You’re not sure if it’s because of his bluntness or the strange sincerity in his voice, but for a split second, the world outside his apartment—the wreckage, the violence—feels distant. Almost like a dream. You don’t have much time to contemplate it, though, before Satoru turns to face you with that same playful glint in his eyes. “Alright, I think we’re all set then. But I’ll admit, I wasn’t expecting you to have… this kind of ‘emergency kit’.” He gestures vaguely.

Your face burns again. “That’s none of your business and I won’t ever forget or forgive you for being a perverted snoop,” you snap. He’s already back to being a nuisance, and you can’t help but let out an exasperated sigh.

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, tapping his finger against the counter. “So, what’s next? You wanna grab your weapons, or are we heading out with just your stylish gear?”

You roll your eyes. “I think I’ll keep the weapons to myself for now,” you mutter, feeling the weight of your bag on your shoulder and the growing tension of needing to leave. There’s no room to play around. No time to be embarrassed. “Let’s just get moving before things get any worse.”

“After you, princess,” Satoru teases, stepping aside and giving you space to pass.

Finding your way back into the kitchen, you grab the only weapon that could be found in your home, unlike others—a simple kitchen knife. You keep it’s guard on as you lodge it into the thigh pocket of your pants, where cellphones would usually go. 

“You know,” his annoying voice perks up again. You groan and are ready to hurdle a ‘shut the hell up’ at him when you realize what he’s staring at. A team picture of you and all the girls hung up on your wall near the TV. For a moment, you feel yourself stiffen, fingers clenching by your sides. The face of Yui and Sayo feels like a cold smack to the face. “I knew I recognized you from somewhere, explains how you can afford to live here.” He turns back to you, eyebrows raised. There’s a silence few seconds, like he’s waiting for you to speak or confirm everything.

You don’t.

And he sighs dramatically. “Right, you’re probably humble.” The sarcasm doesn’t stream past you. “I’ve heard a loooot about you, I guess yesterday I just didn’t really have the time to connect the dots. My junior, Ino, he’s—” he cuts himself off, blinking like he has a sudden epiphany. It confuses you, but you allow him to reign in on whatever the fuck is going through his mind right now. A shaky exhale leaves his lips, an attempt at what must be a chuckle, lifting his cap off his head and repeating the same antsy actions you’ve already picked up on. “Anywho, you’re…yeah. Seems fitting.”

Instantly, your lips downturn into a scowl, jaw clenching so hard you can hear your teeth creak. “He told me he wasn’t mar—”

“Not that,” he smoothly cuts you off, waving his hand and walking leisurely to the front door. 

You bite back the impulse to snap at him, fingers twitching towards the handle of your knife. He’s baiting you, prodding at your past, and you refuse to let him get any satisfaction. But the urge to respond is there, burning beneath the surface, tangled with the memory of friends' faces, the weight of the team, and everything you’ve lost so quickly. The silence stretches, thick and uncomfortable, hanging between you both. You could ask him what he’s really getting at, could demand answers, but the room feels smaller with every passing second. You just want to get out of here. You just want to leave this place, put the past behind you for once.

Satoru notices your discomfort, his expression shifting just enough for you to see it. A flicker of understanding, or maybe just amusement, passes across his face. Then, he turns back toward the door, breaking the tension with the simple act of opening it. “Don’t worry,” he says, his voice softening just a little. “We’re wasting daylight. Got a lot to do, right?”

You don’t respond, but you’re aware of the tiny crack in his facade, the hint of something unspoken between you both. It’s not sympathy, it’s not pity—it’s something else. Something too complex to put into words. Instead, you focus on the door, taking a deep breath, pushing the overwhelming emotions aside. You can’t afford to be distracted now. Not by him. Not by your past. The world outside is still waiting, and you don’t have time for whatever games he’s playing. You don’t have time for anything except survival. With one final look back at your home, your solitude, you life, everything you hold close and dear to your heart, you follow him outside and back into the stillness of the hallway. 

Without a word, you two make your way back to the stairs. It feels slightly more awkward now, maybe even tense. You’re used to people recognizing your face and name, but now that  he has, you feel a sick, twisted bundle of emotions rise in your gut. And the all point back to the main eruptor: infuriation. He doesn’t look it, but he’s not doubt judging you in his head, they always do now. He’s probably regretting the fact that he saved you yesterday, because you’re probably the last person who deserves it. 

That fucking asshole.

You linger behind him, burning holes into the back of his head. You take another step. And another, then another, and another. You two are just about to make it back to the stairwell when—

“Y/N?”

a/n: jk, out today instead of Wednesday :p

(if i forgot to tag you, pls let me know) taglist: @sukuxna0 @heartsteelkaynconsumer @myahfig4 @kirachuyuu @sypnasis

@ducky1232 @oromanticism @2late4breakfast @beabamboo @dickktektive

@sleepyyammy @tbzzluvr @beabamboo @lovely-maryj @n1vi

@ojdubije @reixtsu @istha5 @ritsatoru @sadmonke

@zoeyflower @topmeyelena @sourairi @jlandersen01 @vamppirez

@ac27dj @aquariusscollection @itzkawaiix

[kxsagi]

Hello girlie🩷 I hope you doin well,

I saw u open u request today :).

I wanted to ask if you could a headcannon or smth like which kind of car drivers are the blue lock boys and would they drive gearshift or automatic, which car would they drive?

I personally think Kaiser can drive both and he is a cocky driver. He is german so I guess he is a good driver and would absolutley use the no speed limitation on german highways. Isagi probably swears and curses a lot. Could you pls write it for Kaiser,Isagi,Sae,Rin,Bachira,Barou and whoever you like🩷

“𝐩𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬𝐬? 𝐧𝐨”

a/n: i'm doing well and i hope are you too! i absolutely love this request ❤️

ft. kaiser michael, isagi yoichi, itoshi sae, itoshi rin, bachira meguru, barou shoei

kaiser michael

drives: both. obviously. he could drive a tank if you asked him to. 

car: obnoxiously loud BMW M8 Competition with blacked-out rims and illegal neon lights that scream “main character.” 

driving style: spawn of satan meets fast & furious audition reel. 

he drives like every road is a racetrack and he’s got a sponsorship deal on the line. 

one hand on the wheel, other on your thigh, doing 210km/h with zero fear of god or death. 

“buckle up, liebling. we’re gonna pass 12 cars and a soul today.” 

listens to eurobeat and EDM (like 700 main street that song is so good idc). subwoofers so strong your bones vibrate. 

randomly revs the engine when another guy looks at you. 

brake checks people for fun. 

will lean out the window to yell “move it, snail boy” at slow drivers. 

the police? fans. they ask for selfies. 

isagi yoichi

drives: automatic only. thinks stick is a myth invented by the show top gear. 

car: toyota corolla, the 2023 “sport” trim that he swears has more horsepower (it doesn’t). 

driving style: unhinged, but law-abiding. 

he’s the type to hit the brakes 0.002 seconds after the light turns yellow, clutching the steering wheel like it personally betrayed him. 

screams internally every time someone merges without signaling. road rage is most definitely present. 

“HELLO?? it’s not a personality test, it’s a damn traffic light. MOVE.” 

accidentally floors it when you're just trying to chill. 

swears under his breath with the windows up but immediately apologizes after: “sorry love, that was not very respectful of me. i’m just… really passionate about traffic etiquette.” 

gps volume at full blast. still misses the turn. 

itoshi sae

drives: automatic. doesn’t need stick – that’s what other people are for. 

car: mercedes-benz S-class, silver, polished like a mirror, smells like “wealthy indifference.” 

driving style: smooth, silent, emotionally detached. 

never makes sharp turns. it’s all glides and glances. 

has never parked crooked in his life. 

listens to ambient lofi or complete silence. 

“why would i honk? that’s embarrassing.” 

lets pedestrians walk even when they shouldn’t. 

will drive an extra 15 mins to avoid traffic but act like it was his plan all along. 

always looks like he’s in a commercial. he could run someone over and still look cool. 

itoshi rin

drives: manual. said “automatic is a metaphor for mediocrity” and meant it. 

car: black mazda RX-7, pristine, waxed weekly, emotionally significant. 

driving style: laser-focused, but not chill about it. 

adjusts his mirrors exactly three times. won’t move the car until the seat feels “symmetrical.” 

“don’t talk. i’m merging.” 

refuses to use drive-thrus. too inefficient. 

slams the brakes at yellow lights like it’s a moral stand. 

speed limit? 1km/h over. rebellious. 

gets irrationally mad when you fiddle with the radio. 

doesn't let you eat in his car. you once dropped a fry and he nearly pulled over to exorcise it. 

uses apple maps even though he memorized every street. 

bachira meguru

drives: automatic (but makes it look manual somehow). 

car: bright yellow jeep wrangler with anime decals and at least 12 hanging plushies. 

driving style: feral and fearless. 

rolls the windows down no matter the season. yells compliments at strangers. 

parks diagonally like it’s an art piece. 

will drive into the forest just because “the trees were calling him.” 

doesn’t use turn signals. he “lets the vibes decide.” 

GPS? nah. he just follows the sun and the stars. 

keeps snacks, glitter, and possibly feral raccoons in the back. 

“do you want to hear my car playlist or my car chase playlist?” 

there is no peace when he’s driving. only laughter, speed bumps, and spontaneous detours. 

barou shoei

drives: manual. automatic is for weaklings and children. 

car: dodge challenger hellcat, blacked out like his soul. 

driving style: aggressive. like "fasten your seatbelt or meet god" aggressive. 

merges like it’s a battle for survival. 

absolutely has a custom license plate that says KING23. 

revs his engine at red lights because “the car needs to BREATHE.” 

“i don’t slow down. they get out of the way.” 

will stare into other drivers' souls at stop signs like it’s a standoff. 

has rock blasting as he parallel parks. 

glove compartment has protein bars and nothing else. 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[wheelsgoroundincircles]

1968 AMC AMX

408-Powered 1968 AMC AMX 4-Speed

1968 AMC AMX

This 1968 AMC AMX was modified under previous ownership during a refurbishment that is said to have been conducted over the course of 10 years and was completed in 2013. Refinished in black over red vinyl upholstery, the car is powered by a 408ci V8 paired with a four-speed manual transmission. Refurbishment work reportedly involved resurfacing the cylinder heads as well as installing an Edelbrock intake manifold, a performance camshaft, Hooker long-tube exhaust headers, billet pulleys, an aluminum radiator, cross-drilled front brake rotors, and lowering springs. Additional equipment includes 15″ Vision wheels, aftermarket headlights, chrome bumpers, a Hurst shifter, tilt steering, and a push-button AM radio. The seller acquired the vehicle in 2015. This modified AMX is now offered with a service manual, books, a model kit, unused Go Package–style stripe decals, spare and removed parts, and a Nevada title in the seller’s name.

1968 AMC AMX

The car was refinished in black as part of the aforementioned refurbishment. Additional work is said to have included repainting the wheel wells and the floors along with replacing the bumpers, door handles, grille, mirrors, headlights, weatherstripping, and bright trim on the window and headlight surrounds. The “AMX” badging on the exterior features red letter Xs.

1968 AMC AMX

Aftermarket 15″ Vision wheels are mounted with 215/60 front and 265/50 rear Cooper Cobra Radial G/T tires. A space-saver spare is located in the trunk. The car is equipped with lowering springs, and braking is provided by cross-drilled front discs and rear drums.

1968 AMC AMX

The split front bench seat is trimmed in red vinyl upholstery complemented by a color-coordinated dashboard, door panels, and carpeting. Other features include crank windows, a fold-down armrest, a Hurst shifter, tilt steering, and an American Motors–branded push-button AM radio. The headliner, carpets, and sill plates were replaced under previous ownership.

1968 AMC AMX

The three-spoke steering wheel fronts a 120-mph speedometer, a tachometer, and a combination gauge for fuel level and coolant temperature. An AutoMeter tachometer is mounted to the steering column, and a trio of smaller AutoMeter gauges affixed beneath the dashboard monitors oil temperature, coolant temperature, and oil pressure. The five-digit odometer shows 13k miles, less than 500 of which have been added by the seller; true mileage is unknown. The seller notes that the clock and the factory tachometer do not work.

1968 AMC AMX

The engine is said to be an AMC 390ci V8 that was bored and stroked to displace 408ci. Additional work during the refurbishment included resurfacing the cylinder heads as well as installing forged engine internals, an Edelbrock intake manifold, a performance camshaft, ceramic-coated Hooker long-tube exhaust headers, billet pulleys, an aluminum radiator with electric fans, and an aftermarket exhaust system. An oil change and coolant flush were performed in preparation for the sale. The car’s chassis number indicates that it was originally equipped with a 360ci V8 topped by a two-barrel carburetor.

1968 AMC AMX

Power is sent to the rear wheels through a four-speed manual transmission and a Twin-Grip rear axle with 3.55:1 gearing. An Ace Racing Powerforce clutch was fitted during the refurbishment.

1968 AMC AMX

A 1968 AMC service manual, books and magazines, an AMT model kit, unused Go Package–style red stripe decals, and spare and removed parts will accompany the vehicle.

The Nevada title notes the odometer brand “Exempt.”

[tobiosbbyghorl]

Hyper&Chill | psh

act 20: Distraction

previous

You were casually scrolling through your phone, waiting for Sunghoon to pick you up for your date when a message notification popped up.

Lolove💕: "Got a new haircut. What do you think?"

Attached was four selcas—Sunghoon in a black tank top, his freshly trimmed hair perfectly styled. But that wasn’t what caught your attention first. No, it was the way his broad shoulders and toned biceps filled the frame. The sharp cut of his jaw, the slight smirk tugging at his lips—he looked effortlessly attractive, and suddenly, your room felt ten degrees warmer.

You blinked. Swallowed. Blinked again.

You were supposed to be getting ready, but now you were sitting there, flustered, your face heating up at the sight of your boyfriend looking like that. It was unfair. He had no business looking this good when you still had to face him in person.

You typed a response. Deleted it. Typed again.

You: "...Are you serious right now?"

Lolove💕: "What? Do I look bad?"

Oh, he knew. The little menace knew exactly what he was doing.

Before you could reply, another text came in.

Lolove💕: "You okay? You’re taking a while to respond."

No. No, you were not okay. You were suffering.

You forced yourself to breathe and tossed your phone onto your bed, determined to finish getting ready. But as you looked in the mirror, all you could think about was seeing Sunghoon in that damn tank top in person.

This date was going to be a challenge.

Sunghoon was going to be the death of you.

It was bad enough that he sent that selca before meeting up, but now, sitting beside him in his car, you had to deal with the real thing—his broad shoulders, his flexing biceps, his stupidly perfect face.

"Hey, Lolove," he greeted smoothly, his deep voice sending a shiver down your spine. His smirk was subtle, but you knew he was enjoying this way too much.

You cleared your throat, forcing yourself to look anywhere but at him. "Hey."

Sunghoon tilted his head slightly, glancing at you between shifting gears. "You good?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"You barely looked at me."

You sucked in a breath, gripping the strap of your bag. "I looked."

"Once."

"That’s enough."

Sunghoon let out a soft chuckle, low and teasing. "Is it because of the selca?"

You stiffened. Busted.

"Did you like it?" he pressed, glancing at you with that infuriatingly smug expression.

"It was fine," you muttered.

"Just fine?"

You rolled your eyes, exhaling sharply. "Do you want me to say you looked good?"

Sunghoon’s grin widened. "So you did think I looked good."

Your face burned. This was so unfair.

"Focus on the road," you muttered, looking out the window to avoid his knowing gaze.

But Sunghoon wasn’t done tormenting you. "You were acting normal before I sent it. Then you took five minutes to reply. What were you doing, Lolove?"

Your jaw clenched. "Praying."

Sunghoon laughed, rich and full, before his hand left the wheel to gently squeeze your thigh. "Cute."

You were not making it through this date alive

As Sunghoon drove, still chuckling at your reaction, you decided to change the subject before he got too cocky.

"You’re only wearing a tank top?" you blurted out, eyeing his broad shoulders and toned arms again.

Sunghoon glanced at you, amused. "Yeah? Why?"

You frowned. "Are you planning to make everyone stare at you, LOLOVE?"

He smirked at the call sign, clearly pleased. "You don’t like it?"

"No," you said honestly, crossing your arms. "I don’t want other people seeing you like this."

Sunghoon let out a low laugh, shaking his head as he reached for something in the backseat. "You’re lucky I brought this, then," he said, pulling out a sleek black blazer and slipping it on effortlessly with one hand still on the wheel.

You exhaled in relief. "Much better."

"So possessive," he teased, shooting you a sideways glance. "It’s hot."

Your face burned. "Shut up and drive, LOLOVE."

Sunghoon only smirked wider, his fingers tapping against the steering wheel as he whispered, "Yes, ma’am."

©️tobiosbbyghorl - all rights reserved

taglist: @iboughtnjz @rikidaze @pocketzlocket @jaerisdiction @ijustwannareadstuff20 @doririsstuff @whateveridontcarsheesh @rikifever

permanent taglist: @ijustwannareadstuff20 @hoonielvv

a/n: I CRASHED OUT WHEN HE POSTED THAT AND I KNOW YN WOULD BE TOO AAAA

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Mission Control 25

Warnings: non/dubcon, violence, blood, stalking, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Captain Hydra

Summary: a man marches into your life on a mission

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

You shiver in the front of the military grade truck. The back shifts as the soldier moves around in the cargo bed. You watched him lift his dusty motorcycle before he pointed you up to front. The heat is blasting but it’s not enough to cut through the frigid chill. 

You glance at the crooked cabin. You’re both happy and scared to leave this place. You examine the lumpy ground, wondering which rises and falls are traps, trying to pinpoint where you got yourself snared. 

The driver’s door swings open and jostles the whole truck. The soldier heaves himself into the seat and snaps the door shut. You turn your head straight as you feel him watching you. He frowns and twists the dial for the heat. It’s strange how he never seems to feel the cold. Then again, he isn’t the same as you. 

He grips the large wheel and steps on the gas. There’s no pretense in your flight. You wonder why though. Is it because of what he did there? Of that iron smell that won’t quite leave the floorboards? Or maybe it’s the constant cold and whistling winds? Do those things even affect him? 

He peels a hand away and gestures, a placid wave as if to calm you. You stare at him. He grabs the wheel again and his eyes stay on the road. He huffs. 

“I’ll try not to be afraid,” you say. 

He nods. That’s good enough. He doesn’t look concerned. He’s always rigid and alert but if he’s not geared up for a fight, then you won’t expect one. 

You cross your arms and try to relax. The seat is stiff and smells dingy. The motor is loud and the axle rattly. He steers with ease, with determination. Wherever you’re going, he won’t stop until you get there. 

The sky’s hue rolls from gray to slate to near pitch black. He drives on. He hands you a packet of trail mix and you nibble on it. Your eyes begin to droop and you yawn, fighting to stay awake. You flinch as he reaches to pet your head. 

He caresses behind your ear then flutters over your cheek. He’s giving you permission to sleep. You should at least cry. You close your eyes and lean against the quaking truck. You sink into a shallow trance, your racing mind stymied by your exhausted body. 

You feel the light change beyond your eyelids. You only lift them as the grayness turns almost white. You sit up as the engine continues its thunderous growls. You sit up and rub your cheeks. 

You look ahead at the large cedars dusted in frost. The truck chugs up the steady winding incline of the hills. The soldier’s gaze is set. He will not stop until you arrive. You sense that you’re close to wherever he means to be. 

He curves around a final deep swerve in the road and through the trees, you spot a peaked roof. He slows as he approaches the facade. It’s entirely unlike the place you just left. The ground is smooth and undisturbed, a layer of snow carpeting cut by the treads of the tires as they crunch through. 

The wooden exterior is trimmed in white as the flakes continue to swirl down. The rich brown planks frame large windows that let in the winter haze. You stare in disbelief. It looks... normal. More than that, it is luxurious. 

You draw around the back of the house, down a crooked side path, and he steers behind a cluster of trees. The shifter cranks as the truck jerks to a stop. The soldier kills the motor and rips the keys from the ignition. 

He gets out first. You wait for him before you dare. He helps you down in the clunky boots he offered. They’re much too big but you expect it’s not unintentional. Your injured leg requires a bit of extra space. As you step off the metal ledge and into the snow, he tuts. 

Before you can stop him, he has you in your arms. The boots hang precariously from your ankles. He carries you toward the back of the house. The back deck is littered in more snow. The house is dark within but not ominous like the backwoods hideaway of before. 

He stops to unlock the door. Another keypad. You can tell it’s newly installed. You have no doubt he is well prepared. He did not choose this place by chance. 

He carries you inside, stopping to kick his boots on the mat. You crane to see through the nearest archway that peeks into a large kitchen. No corrosion, no dust, no dingy stains. He presses on and only stops to set you on a cushy sectional cast in shadows. 

His footsteps stalk away and a light flicks on above. The iron chandelier with its crisscross arms is set with small round bulbs that give a soft glow to the space. You peer around in awe and confusion. How did he find this place? 

He paces the edge of the room, as if inspecting. He goes the large fire place and opens a hidden panel in the white brick. He tweaks the controls and flames pop to life. You gasp. He shuts the cover and turns to you. He stares expectantly. 

You sit forward, “it’s nice.” 

His expression eases and he nods. His fingers unfurl and he takes another glance around. His steps turn listless. 

“The stuff... it needs to come in?” 

He holds up his hand and stops you. He wags his finger. You recline and give a shrug, “alright, I’ll stay.” 

He drops his hand then marches out. You peek after him then make a face. This is... odd. You can’t complain about the upgrade but it’s still very unnerving. How long will this last? How long until the next place? 

The back door opens and closes, several times between the clomping of his thick soles. He continues in and out until finally he twists the latch back audibly. You want to get up and see what he’s doing in the kitchen and between the shuffling and shifting. You’re a bit too tired for that and the prospect of standing makes your leg pulse. 

When he appears again, he traces a mop along the edge of the rug, then returns with a broom to dust off the carpet. His boots are gone. He’s settling in. 

When he finishes cleaning the mess he trailed in, he comes to take off your boots too. He carries them away then scoops you up altogether. You squeal as the sudden rise brings you out of your stupour. 

“Captain?” You eke out. He falters and look at you. His eyes skim away thoughtfully and he shakes his head. “Sorry.” 

He exhales and carries you out of the room. His cheek twitches as he thinks. You didn’t mean to upset him. You don’t know what else to call him. He takes you upstairs, pausing so you can flip on another light, then strides confidently to a doorway. Another switch flicked up. 

He angles you through the door and presents the ivory and teal tile. The large basin tub stands centerpiece to the space and a wall of mirrors reflect it. It’s a lifestyle magazine worthy room. He sets you gently onto the clamshell lid of the toilet. He steps back and points to the tub. 

“Oh, uh, yes, I do feel a bit grimy.” 

He crosses the room and taps the fluffy cotton towel on the bar. Then the gestures to the bath shelf with all the bottles and jars. You can’t help but brace for the boot to drop on your head. 

You get up gingerly and limp over to him. He shies away as you do. You reach for his jacket and he shakes his head, catching your hands. He clings to them for just a moment before he guides them to your dress. 

“Alone?” You ask. 

He nods. 

“Okay,” you slip free of his touch. You back away and turn to peer into the tub. You sway as the porcelain calls to you. A nice, clean bath. “Um,” you spin to face him as he heads for the door, “wait.” 

He stops in the frame and stiffly turns back. Your heart races as you search for the courage to ask. You remember the stories, the legends of what he once was. Maybe he’s still there. 

“Can I call you Steve?” 

He flinches as if you slapped him. You suck in air and cover your mouth. Oh no, you’ve gone too far. You stare at each other as he trembles slightly. He tilts his head as his hands fidget on his belt. 

He slowly raises his hand and taps his ear. You shake you’re head, confused. You lower your arms. “I’m sorry--” 

He stomps and tugs his lobe before gesture a beak with his hand. His eyes blaze at you. You twine your fingers through each other. “Steve.” 

His brows rise and he takes half a step before stopping himself. He nods. Pauses. Nods again. Then he just goes. He leaves you alone with the echo of his name. 

[carsthatnevermadeitetc]

Citroën GSA Break Cottage, 1983. A special edition of the GSA estate that utilised the alloy wheels and some trim items from the GSA Pallas saloon. Like all LHD GSA models it featured a dashboard with auxiliary controls on pods that could be reached by fingers without moving hands from the steering wheel. The speedometer was on a rotating drum. It was powered by a 1,299cc air-cooled flat-4 engine

[xxblairexxss]

Breaking news

Pairing : Charles Leclerc x girlfriend!reader

Your Instagram story caused a commotion amongst the fans

ynusername has added to their story

ynusername has added to their story

“Baby, what’s wrong?”

You had connected the call to your car so you could talk to him while driving home because you didn’t know if you could see the hair saloon again without crying even more. You put on the signal before turning the steering wheel as you sobbed, your boyfriend’s question left hanging in the air.

“Are you okay? Where are you? Do you want me to pick you up?”

“N– no, I’m already on my way back.” You sobbed again.

“Want me to stay on the phone with you?”

“Yes– yes, please. I can’t stop crying!” You wailed and looked at the rear view mirror before switching lane.

“It’s okay, baby. It’s okay. I don’t know what happened but as long as you are already on your way back, it’ll be fine.”

Soon as you took off your sneakers, Charles opened the door and pulled you into a hug. You were no longer crying because you had accepted your fate at this point.

“Are you hurt? What happened?”

Breaking the hug, you took a step back, your bottom lips jutting out.

“What? Baby, talk to me. What happened?”

You twirled and cried out. “They cut my hair too short! How can you not see it!”

Charles’s breathe was stuck in his throat. He had been walking back and forth, waiting for you to come back home wondering if the worst thing happened. This, wasn’t in any of those thoughts he had in mind.

“You were crying because they cut your hair too short?” His voice trailed off as he stared at you in disbelief.

“I have never had my hair this short before!”

“You were crying because of this?”

You glowered at his question and paced to the room, leaving him alone while he was still in incredulity. He didn’t even realise there was any changes to your hair because as soon as he saw you, his eyes went to scan on your body for any injuries or maybe some bruises. It never occurred to him it would be something lighter than the all the scenarios he had in his head.

“Baby? You wanna talk about it?” Charles walked in and grinned, trying to act as if he couldn’t see the glare from you.

“I asked them to trim it shorter but not this short, just slightly around my chest but they just cut it right away and I was too scared to say anything.”

“You still look beautiful though.” He could still see the little dots of tears hanging on your lashes as he stared at you in admiration.

“Liar! You are only saying that to make me feel better.”

“I swear! You look beautiful. Trust me.” He tilted your face to look at him and smiled as he studied your face. “See? You’ll always be beautiful, baby. Even if one day you decide to be bald, I’m still gonna find you beautiful.”

“I hate you.”

ynusername

Liked by charles_leclerc, francisca.cgomes and 225,637 others

ynusername how it started vs how it ended

charles_leclerc Still the prettiest girl ever ❤️

username1 new hairrr?!?!

username2 girl we need story time

username3 you should have seen twitter and gossip pages. they went WILD 😂😂

username4 i don’t get it?? someone explain

username5 ppls thought something happened to the couple but they seem to be doing fine 🥰

ynusername

Liked by charles_leclerc, pierregasly and 378,845 others

ynusername Smiling through the pain :)

charles_leclerc The most beautiful girl 😍

username1 GIRL YOU SLAY THE HAIRSTYLE

username2 drop dead gorgeous

francisca.cgomes literally suits you so much 🫶🏻🩷

username3 what do you mean. you look STUNNINGGG 😍😍

charles_leclerc

Liked by ynusername, pierregasly and 1,507,6739 others

charles_leclerc prettiest in long and short hair. any hairstyle, basically 🩷

ynusername i love youuuu! 🥹 Thank you for taking me out on a dinner date to make me feel better ❤️🥹

username1 FAV COUPLE IS STILL GOING STRONG

username2 i thought they broke up 😭😭😭

username3 tell y/n to never do that again

username4 i’m not gonna believe in love anymore if they ever broke up 💔

username5 oh to have my bf take me out on a date after i cut my hair too short 😔

✧.* general tag list! @i83andrew @cltrlne @karmabyfernando @ohthemisssery @ru-kru @tastebaldwin @f1obessed @love4lando @shinrjj @ietss @leclerc13 @darleneslane @buckybarnessweetheart

If your usernames were crossed, meaning I can’t tag you! 😭 Let me know if you would like to be removed or to be added to the tag list! Or if I missed anyone!

[rosylix143]

video games | l. felix

pairing: lee felix x fem!reader

genre: angst (with comfort lol), fluff, suggestive

synopsis: it’s been so long since you’ve seen your darling boyfriend, but he’s got his priorities somewhere else.

cw: MNDI, established relationship, felix is kinda a dick here (it's okay tho i love him :3), feelings of insecurity, tiny bit of dry humping (let me know if i’m missing any)

wc: 3741

———————————・❥・———————————

Today was an exciting day for you. After long weeks of not seeing your boyfriend, you finally got to have a day with him. He had been on tour with his group for months, and you were counting the days until you finally see him again. You were standing before a long mirror, admiring your outfit for the day: blue vintage low-rise flares, a simple maroon top with spaghetti straps and lace trimming, and your favorite pair of platforms. You even grabbed one of your boyfriend’s hoodies because A) it brought the whole outfit together, with its navy blue color and hints of red, B) it was incredibly comfortable, and C) it’s your boyfriend’s hoodie.

After styling your hair, applying some light pink lipgloss and a decent amount of mascara and eyeliner, you grabbed your large sleepover bag, and walked to your car. During the whole car ride, you couldn’t stop bouncing your leg rapidly. Your heart rate was increasing by the minute, and it was hard keeping your hands stable on the steering wheel. You feared that you would jump up and down like a maniac and pounce on your boyfriend the moment he opened up the door.

The only songs you had playing in the car were the new songs Stray Kids released in the past month, and your heart skipped a beat or two every time your boyfriend’s lines came up. Once you finally reached his place, you parked your car—next to the silver blue car that was on the driveway—grabbed your sleepover bag, and walked up to the door.

It was taking everything in you to not let your body explode on the spot and keep the restlessness on the low. You were standing before the front door, and you rang the doorbell. You held your breath as you saw a blurred figure behind the frosted glass. The door opened, and to your surprise, Kim Seungmin was standing before you. You thought he wouldn’t be at the house as promised.

“Y/N?” Seungmin asked, “What are you doing here?”

“I am here to see Felix,” you said, “Is he here?”

“Oh yeah, he’s here. Just go to his room.”

Seungmin moved aside, letting you into the house. You nodded and thanked him before going upstairs and walking to your boyfriend’s bedroom. The door to his room was closed, but that didn’t stop you from wanting to see your man. You knocked on the bedroom door.

“Felix? Honey, it’s me,” you said.

There was no response. You pouted a little, but you decided to knock again. No response. Confused, you leaned your head against the door to hear if Felix was actually in there, and to your surprise, all you could hear were the sounds of lasers shooting and aggressive keyboard smashing. Your stomach churned a little, but you told yourself to not jump to any conclusions yet. You went ahead and opened up the door, and there he was. Your boyfriend, Lee Felix. His back was facing you, and he was seated in his plush gamer chair, staring at a screen while he was playing another level of League of Legends. His eyes were completely locked on the screen, his blue max headphones were on, and he was indeed aggressively pressing his fingers on the keys of his rainbow keyboard.

You sighed and placed your sleepover bag on the ground, right up against the front of his bed. You then sneakily approached him until you were right behind his gaming chair. You knew that you shouldn’t ever do this, but you had no choice. Besides, maybe it would be a pleasant surprise for him to see your face. Your hands reached for the sides of his headphones, pulling them off his ears. Felix jolted and turned his head to see you, completely surprised by your presence.

“What the hell?!” he asked, completely annoyed, “What are you doing here, Y/N?”

You were taken aback by his response. Your eyes widened and all the previous excitement from your body vanished. What am I doing here? Honey, it’s obvious….

Your stomach churned more, and your heart gained 100 pounds. You bent forward a little to meet him at eye level.

“Hey, Felix…” you started, “Ready to go out?”

“Well, obviously not! You just ruined my chance at winning the game! And now I have to restart the whole level! Perfect, just perfect!!”

Felix turned away from you and was getting ready to restart the game. Your mind was racing, mostly with confusion, but you also didn’t like the aggressive sarcasm in his tone. We agreed for today, didn't we?

“But, Pumpkin…you said that we could have our date for today…” you started. You moved to lean back up against his computer desk to at least make some kind of eye contact with him.

“Yeah, well we can just reschedule that.”

Your eyes widened at the suggestion, nearly speechless.

“Reschedule? Felix, we’ve been planning this….and I said that I wouldn’t be free all of next week because of work—”

“Can you just go, Y/N, I don’t have time,” Felix brushed off with annoyance on his tongue, putting his headphones back on.

Another punch to the gut. How could he forget that today was your special day together? After planning this supposedly perfect day with him? Your eyes were starting to well up, and your stomach was swirling. Heat rose under your skin, making you feel dizzy. You quickly snatched Felix’s headphones out of his hands.

“No, Felix! It’s been so long since we last saw each other,” you started, “And you’re just going to take this one day we had and waste it on some video game—”

“You don’t get just how long I’ve been trying to upgrade my rank, Y/N!!” Felix rubbed his head in frustration. “God, you’re so clingy. Fine, if you want my attention so bad, just wait downstairs and let me finish this.”

Silence fell between the two of you, but it was heavy like that sledgehammer of a word. The only thing you could hear was your heart cracking like glass. Felix would never, in a million years, physically hurt you, but his words hit harder than a harsh backhand to the face. He’s never even said such things to you before. Even on days when he was upset, he was careful with his words and tone around you. Especially since he knew you were soft hearted, and you have been nothing but good to him. Clingy? He thinks I’m clingy?

Your heart ached, hoping that this was some bad dream. Your mind was already flooding with flashbacks from the last heartbreak you had. He grabbed his headphones from your hands and put them back on before continuing to play his game. Your hands were beginning to tremble a little. Tears were welling up in your eyes, and you felt like you were going to choke. Your shoulders slumped in defeat, and you solemnly walked out of his bedroom.

“Okay…Go play your video game.”

Your voice cracked, and the weight on your heart got heavier and heavier. You started to cry, quickly grabbing your sleepover bag, and rushed downstairs. Seungmin was in the kitchen grabbing snacks for himself, and worry came across his face once he saw you crying and walking to the front door.

“Y/N?” Seungmin quickly walked up to you, and you stopped immediately to face him. His hand was on the border of the door, leaning in on his side. “What’s wrong?”

You shook your head not wanting to burden him with your troubles.

“Nothing…” you lied, sniffing your nose like crazy and your breath hitching. “I’m going home…”

“Did Felix say something to you? I’ll talk to him if you want.”

“No, no, no, please, Minnie. Don’t worry about it. I’ll just leave you guys alone, okay?” You gently pushed Seungmin away, walked out the door, entered your car, and drove away, rivers of mascara streaming down your reddened cheeks.

Seungmin frowned a little as he watched you leave through the window. He quickly turned around and walked upstairs and stepped into Felix’s room. Felix was still seated in his chair, almost done with his game. Determination was only in his eyes, his fingers were aggressively tapping and smashing against the keys of his keyboard, and it was a miracle that his computer mouse wasn’t already crushed. Felix was breaking a sweat from all the stress built up from finishing the level, and Seungmin only sighed. He knew better than to just interrupt Felix when he’s so deep into a game. However, he wanted to confront his roommate just for making you cry. Thankfully, Felix finished the level, exhaling a breath of relief. He took off his headphones and leaned back, messing with his smooth black hair.

“Okay, Y/N…I’m done with my game—”

Felix turned around, and he was faced with Seungmin crossing his arms. Felix’s eyebrows raised in confusion.

“Seungmin? What is it?” Felix asked, “Can you tell Y/N that she can come back upstairs.”

“She left, Felix,” Seungmin said.

“What?” Felix’s eyes widened, and he stood up from his chair. “What do you mean she left? I simply told her to wait downstairs.”

“She left the dorm. Crying.”

“Crying?” Felix was about to ask why, but he remembered just how awful he was being to you. His stomach ached with guilt, and his heart broke as he remembered the look on your face before you left his room. “Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!! I have to apologize to her, Seungmin!!”

“She said she was going home.”

Upon hearing that, Felix quickly grabbed his jacket. He hastily walked out of his room, and he quickly went downstairs to grab his keys from the little hook on the wall next to the front door.

“You’re going to see her?” Seungmin asked, following Felix.

“I fucked up, so I need to fix it,” Felix admitted, while putting on his jacket. He turned to his friend, who just stood there with his arms casually crossed. Felix’s mind was suddenly flooded with doubtful thoughts, making him feel slightly light headed and nauseous. “God, Seungmin, what if she doesn’t accept my apology? What if she breaks up with me?”

“I don’t think she’s going to break up with you,” Seungmin sighed, “But yes, it was a dick move of you to make her cry like that. So just apologize to her, and hopefully she accepts it.”

“Hopefully. I don’t know when I’ll be back.”

“That’s alright. Just take care.”

“You too.”

Felix waved goodbye to Seungmin, and walked to his silver blue car. He quickly sat in the driver’s seat, buckled his belt, started the engine, reversed out of the driveway, and immediately made the journey to your house. He was being careful to not speed on the road, but his heart was pounding with urgency and with the worry that if he didn’t even make it to your house within the next five seconds, it would be over for the both of you.

x•x•x•x

You were on the couch, laying in a fetal position, covered in a blanket. Your pillow was soaked and stained, pieces of white tissue paper were scattered all over the coffee table and the floor, and you were hugging your Bbokari plushie tight. Your eyes were red-rimmed with smeared eyeliner, your nose was stuffed, your hair that was perfectly styled for the day became all frizzy and messed up, and your head was aching with the most painful migraine. You looked like a total wreck, but your mind was even messier.

Felix’s angry words replayed in your head over and over again. “God, you’re so clingy. Fine, if you want my attention so bad, just wait downstairs and let me finish this.”

Is that what he really thinks of me? I’m clingy? He thinks I’m clingy?

Your soft heart pounded and hurt so much as if it was pierced with glass. Your breathing kept going back and forth with it being slow and being rapid with each new flood of tears that wanted to come out. You knew that you were the type to love too hard. You couldn’t help it. When you love someone, you always end up falling so deeply into it that it catches others off guard. Your two ex-boyfriends couldn’t stand it, but Felix was the one who always loved that about you. You were so endearing to him, and he loved the days where you would cuddle with him, bake with him, give him gifts, and support him and his dreams, either from the GA crowds or behind your phone screen. You even played video games with him at times, and those nights were always fun, silly, and sometimes steamy.

He loved you just as much as you loved him, so why would he just dismiss this special day like it was nothing? Why did he call you clingy? Was just one day really too much to ask for? Does he not like me anymore? Did he find someone else while touring? He got sick of me…why does this happen to me every time? Am I just too much? Am I just bound to drive people away with my love? Is this some curse of mine? Why can’t I stop being clingy?

Your doorbell rang suddenly, snapping you out of your thoughts, and you jolted up on the couch, with your blanket still wrapped around you. Your vision was blurry, but your eyes were focused on the door ahead of you. You wiped the tears off your eyes and walked closer to the door, immediately recognizing the silhouette behind the frosted glass. Your heart pounded, and you weakly and hesitantly opened the door. And there he was, Lee Felix Yongbok, standing before you with a face pleading guilty.

“Felix?”

“Honey, I am so sorry!” he rushed into the door and pulled you to his chest, his arms wrapping around you. You hesitantly held onto him and more tears began to pour out. “I didn’t mean to say those things to you. I was being a cunt.”

“What—”

He let go of you for a moment and his hands landed on the sides of your face, his eyes tearing up at the sight of how heartbroken you looked, with your messy hair and makeup.

“Oh what have I done…” he choked back a cry, and held you close once more. “I’m so sorry, Y/N.”

“It’s okay, Felix,” you said with your throat dry from all the crying. “You’re right. I am very clingy…”

“No, no, no, no. You are not clingy at all, Hon. This was supposed to be our day together, and I’ve ruined it by being an idiot. I should’ve remembered that you were coming over and stopped being a League addict for one day. What I said was completely out of line, and I didn’t mean any of it. I was just angry at my game, and I took it out on you when I shouldn’t have. I promise I’ll make it up to you, okay? Tell me whatever it is that you want, and I’ll give it to you.”

He gently wiped your tears with his thumbs, and your heart pounded. You wrapped your hands around his wrists gently.

“You mean it?” you asked.

“Yes, Baby, of course,” Felix whispered, his voice trembling a little. “I love you so dearly. Sometimes, I feel that you’re too good for me with how sweet you are.”

He rested his forehead against yours, and heat rushed up to your cheeks, making your skin glow pink.

“You’re sweet too, Hon…” you said.

“Not as sweet as you,” Felix pulled back a little and shook his head, “I know everyone calls me an angel and everything, but between the two of us….you’re the angel here. Anyways, let me make it up to you please. I’ll even promise no more video games for the time we have left until I leave for tour again. Deal?”

Your eyes widened at his proposal. He really was desperate to make it up to you, even willing to give up one of his favorite pastimes ever in the world. You couldn’t help but chuckle a little.

“Felix, I’m not a monster,” you said, “I’m not going to ban video games from you. I’m always okay with playing some with you.”

“Are you sure?” Felix asked, “It’s okay to be honest with me. I really don’t want to neglect you like that again.”

“Yes, Pumpkin. I’m sure.”

“Okay, then maybe no video games unless I invite my amazing girlfriend over to play some. How about that?”

You giggled a bit and nodded at the new proposal he made.

“Deal,” you said, feeling some of the weight off your shoulders and heart disappear.

“Perfect,” Felix nodded, relieved that you agreed. “Anything else you want me to do, Baby? And I mean anything.”

“Well….a kiss from my man would be nice.”

Felix’s cheeks reddened a little, making the cute freckles on his face pop out more. He leaned in closer, your noses nearly touching.

“Only one kiss?” he asked, his voice a little lower—low enough to make the butterflies in your stomach flutter. “That’s all you need, Sweetheart?”

You nodded, and Felix smiled softly. He closed his eyes, and so did you, as he leaned in for a warm kiss. After what’s been so long without seeing him, your body felt like it was going to explode. It was like drinking water after days and days of drought. You immediately pulled him in close and kissed him back, but it was more passionate and more needy. You both took a moment to breathe, and Felix smirked while you were a blushing mess.

“I thought you only needed one kiss?” he teased, lifting your chin up slightly. “You want more, my angel?”

His deep voice combined with the sensual gaze in his eyes sent shivers down your spine. You swallowed a little and only let out a shaky “Yes please…”

Felix chuckled and kissed you again, but this time it was firm and more heated. He wrapped his hand around your waist and pulled you close to his body—chest to chest—as he kissed you more and more. You whined against his lips, and you pulled him by the shirt and walked backward into your home. Felix quickly closed the door behind him, and you both landed on the black couch, his body hovering over yours.

You both broke the kiss once more, heat radiating off your skins, and you stared into each other’s eyes for a moment. Felix caressed your cheek tenderly and scanned your body, already mesmerized by the way your chest rose and fell. Maybe it was the intimate lighting of the room that made you look extra sexy. He also realized just how cute your outfit was and how well it hugged your curves. Not to mention, the navy blue hoodie you “borrowed” from him the last time you were together. The hoodie was already zipped open, and it looked so big on you, making you look a little smaller than you actually are. If he could, Felix would put you in his pocket forever. He gently tugged on one of the drawstrings on the hoodie and smirked at you.

“You’re wearing my hoodie.”

“It’s too comfy to give back,” you explained.

“Keep it,” Felix whispered, leaning into the crook of your neck to plant a kiss there. “It looks cuter on you than me anyway.”

You blushed and let out a heavy breath at the kiss, and you arched your back slightly. Felix smirked and grabbed your hips as his lips traveled down from your neck to your collarbone to the mounds of your breasts. You shivered more, your skin scorching with need. You tightly grabbed onto Felix’s shirt, like it’s the only thing to ground you.

“You’re so soft, Baby,” he groaned before leaving another kiss on your skin. “My soft angel baby…”

Another breath was sucked out of you the more he kissed your skin. One of his hands wandered up under your shirt, and the other reached down and grabbed your ass, pulling your hips right up against his. You gasped and whined and wrapped your legs around him.

“Felix!!” you whined, as he started to slowly roll his hips right up against you. Heat began to rush and pool down your body, and you let out a little hiss feeling his hardness through his pants, the faster he rolled his hips. Your breathing became unsteady, and your body was overwhelmed with need. “Oh God…”

“Mmm?” he hummed, slowing down his movements. “You uncomfortable, Honey?”

“No…it’s just…” you panted a little. You blushed even more at the sight of him right above you, his dark curtain bangs dangling from his head, looking so silky and smooth. His eyes were heavily focused on you, and his Adam’s apple was bobbing a little. “Maybe let’s take this to my room?”

Felix smirked and chuckled a little, loving just how you asked him so sweetly. He nodded and immediately picked you up, carrying you bridal style. He took notice of the Bbokari plushie that was on your couch, its eyes on the two of you. Felix’s heart warmed up at the sight of the plushie, imagining you holding it tight, cuddling it, in your bed—especially on the days when he’s not able to see you.

“You didn’t see anything,” Felix said to the plushie.

You were confused for a moment at who he was talking to, but you looked at the plushie on the couch, quickly connecting the dots. You couldn’t help but laugh.

“Bbokie’s traumatized now,” you chuckled.

“Well, let’s not traumatize him further,” Felix said before kissing your forehead and carrying you to your room. “Alright, Honey, I got you.”

You held onto Felix tight as he carried you with so much confidence and so much gentleness. The door to your bedroom was already open, so it wasn’t that hard for him to walk in the room. Your heart pounded with anticipation, your body ready for him to pour all of his love, passion, and desire into you. The moment he laid you down in your soft pink bed and went in for another deep kiss, you knew that it was going to be a very long and very unforgettable night.

———————————・❥・———————————

a/n: i really liked writing this one lol. comment down what you thought :)) feel free to reblog if you liked it.

masterlist | taglist

[pastryfication]

american summer | logan sargeant

pairing: logan sargeant x european!reader note: inspired by all the pictures of logan being all american in st. tropez

somewhat an reverse version of this

the moment you step off the plane, the humid florida air wraps around you like a warm blanket, thick with the scent of saltwater and sunscreen. it’s your first time in the u.s., and everything feels both familiar and entirely foreign at once. logan is at your side, his excitement contagious as he rests his hand comfortably on the small of your back, steering you towards the baggage claim.

“welcome to america!” he grins, his blue eyes sparkling with excitement. you can’t help but smile back, even as the loud voices and fast-paced energy of the airport overwhelm you a bit.

"yeah, thank you," you reply, trying to take it all in. it’s just an airport, but it feels so different. maybe it’s the accents, or the way everyone seems to be in such a hurry, yet they somehow appear relaxed, like they’re used to the chaos.

as you leave the airport, logan points out the massive suvs and trucks in the parking lot. “see those? classic american cars. none of your tiny european things here.”

you laugh, shaking your head. “they’re so big! do you need a ladder to get into one?”

he chuckles, squeezing your hand. “you get used to it. and you’ll get used to a lot of things over the summer. like this.” he stops by a sleek black pickup, and before you know it, he’s lifting you into the passenger seat as if you weigh nothing. you let out a surprised laugh, feeling a little silly for not being able to climb up on your own, but logan’s grin tells you he finds it endearing.

the drive to his family’s house is an experience in itself. you watch as the scenery whizzes by, the highways lined with palm trees and billboards advertising everything from fast food to theme parks. everything seems bigger, louder, more colorful than back home.

“you’re going to love it here,” logan says as he drives, one hand on the steering wheel, the other reaching over to rest on your knee. “florida’s got everything—beaches, sunshine, and my mom’s cooking.”

you smile at his enthusiasm, trying to imagine what the next few weeks will be like. the thought of meeting his family makes you a little nervous, but logan’s confidence and good mood is contagious.

when you arrive at his parents' home, a sprawling house with a neatly trimmed lawn and an american flag flapping in the breeze, you can’t help but feel a bit of culture shock. the flag is everywhere—on bumper stickers, hanging from porches, even on clothing. it’s something you’ve seen in movies, but seeing it in person, so prominently displayed, is a different experience.

logan notices your wide-eyed look and laughs softly. “americans love their flags. you’ll see them all over. i can give you a history lesson if you want.”

you roll your eyes playfully. “i think i’ll manage without the lecture, thanks.”

his family welcomes you with open arms, his mom pulling you into a tight hug, his dad giving you a firm handshake. they’re warm and friendly, their accents thick and twangy, and you find yourself trying to decipher their quick speech as they talk about the plans they have for your visit.

the next few days are a whirlwind of new experiences. logan takes you out on his family’s yacht, a sleek vessel adorned with—you guessed it—another american flag. as the boat cuts through the sparkling blue water, you can’t help but feel a bit out of place, unsure of the boating terms and etiquette. but logan is patient, guiding you through the basics with that easy smile of his.

“see, that’s the bow, and that’s the stern,” he explains, pointing to the front and back of the boat. “and don’t worry, you’ll be a pro by the end of the summer.”

you nod, trying to absorb it all, but it’s hard to focus when logan’s standing there in his swim trunks, his hair tousled by the wind, looking every bit like a scene out of a movie. he catches you staring and smirks. “what’s that look for?”

“just . . . appreciating the view,” you tease, feeling a blush creep up your cheeks.

he laughs, pulling you into his arms. “you’re adorable, you know that?”

“yeah, yeah.” you smile to yourself as you snuggle yourself into his bare chest.

his arms stays around your bikini clad figure, the skin to skin contact raising your spirits as high as his friends’. they’re all in a good mood, tipsy on rosé, throwing out slangs and phrases that leaves you looking at logan quizzically.

he laughs at your expression, leaning down to give you a sweet kiss and you think to yourself, this whole american summer thing might not be so bad.

[theskywithin]

Profection Years: The Year Your Soul Turns the Page ( all houses )

Every birthday, your chart shifts without announcement. Like a chapter turning behind your back. You wake up the next morning and something feels different, not louder, not clearer, just undeniable. A new lesson, humming beneath the skin. A new part of you asking to be heard. This is the language of profection years. Twelve-year cycles. One house activated each year. One ruling planet holding the light. Not as fate, but as focus. A lens you start to see your whole life through, whether you mean to or not.

1st House Profection Year

This is the year you become the ground you stand on. Everything begins at the body. Not your image, not your reputation, your pulse. Your breath. The primal instinct underneath the performance. This year, the mask slips. The old names don't fit. You’re not becoming someone new, you’re being emptied of who you were never meant to be. This is the year you remember that identity is not a fixed state but a skin that sheds itself as you grow. You’re rebuilding your reflection from the inside out. The soul reclaims the steering wheel. It’s raw. It’s personal. It’s you before the world asked you to be anything else.

2nd House Profection Year

This is the year you learn what can’t be stolen. Your sense of worth gets stripped to the roots. Not in punishment, in purification. The external scaffolding you’ve leaned on, money, possessions, praise, begins to wobble, not because you're losing, but because your soul is asking: what remains when the performance ends? This year teaches you how to hold value the way the Earth holds water: quietly, unshakably, beneath the surface. You become your own source. You learn to eat from your own garden. To own what no one can take. Not status. Not salary. But presence. Breath. Trust. This is the year you stop renting your worth from the world.

3rd House Profection Year

This is the year your mind becomes a labyrinth and a lantern. You start hearing yourself differently. Not just what you say, but what you repeat. The questions that loop. The beliefs that follow you like shadows. This year doesn’t just sharpen your thoughts, it exposes the architecture of your perception. The stories you've inherited. The phrases you use to keep things safe. You may pick up a pen, speak something out loud, or realize your voice is not what you thought it was. This isn’t the year to silence yourself. It’s the year to trace every thought back to its origin and rewrite the script. Let your language become your liberation.

4th House Profection Year

This is the year your bones begin to speak. You are returning to the memory underneath everything. The quiet ache you’ve carried without knowing. This year opens a door inside your bloodline. A hallway of dreams and ghosts, inherited fears and forgotten promises. It is not always visible. This is underground work. The soul is excavating. You may feel the need to nest, to disappear, to go soft and silent. Trust it. Your roots are being rewritten. You are learning how to be your own home, not in theory, but in texture. In silence. In surrender. In the stories you’re finally willing to unlearn.

5th House Profection Year

This is the year your joy stops asking for permission. There’s a kind of freedom that can only be accessed through the body, through laughter, through mess, through art that makes no sense and needs no explanation. This is the year you stop explaining. The year your soul kicks the door down and demands to feel. Not to perform pleasure, but to practice it. To remember what desire feels like without shame hanging from its neck. Creation becomes instinct. Romance becomes ritual. The world wants to see you bloom and you finally let it, without trimming the petals. This is the year you take up space just because it feels good.

6th House Profection Year

This is the year your healing becomes a rhythm, not a rescue. Forget transcendence. This is the year you meet your healing on the ground. In the dishes. In the breath before you say yes. In how you talk to yourself when no one’s around to listen. This isn’t glamorous. It’s intimate. You begin to notice how much you’ve abandoned your own body in the name of being "productive." You start to listen. To tend. To show up for yourself not as a performance, but as a promise. Every act of care becomes a rebellion. Every pause, a prayer. You’re not being fixed, you’re being fortified. This is devotion, not duty. This is the rebuild.

7th House Profection Year

This is the year you meet yourself in the eyes of another and flinch. Relationships stop being theory. They become threshold. The mirror gets too clear to avoid. Suddenly, the way you give, the way you vanish, the way you perform being “easy to love”, it all surfaces. You may fall for someone. You may fall out of a version of yourself. But either way, you see. This isn’t just about connection, it’s about reflection. You’re meeting parts of you you left behind in other people’s hands. This year asks: Can you be held without disappearing inside it? This is the reckoning. And the repair.

8th House Profection Year

This is the year you lose what you thought you needed, and find what you were born to carry. There is no easy way to write this year. Only truth. Something ends. Something breaks. Something is stripped from your grip not because you did something wrong, but because you’re not supposed to carry it anymore. This is the year of thresholds. Of intimacy so deep it undoes you. Of power reclaimed from the ruins of performance. You learn to trust again, not blindly, but fully. You may grieve. You may tremble. You may finally understand what surrender actually means. This is the year the soul gets honest. And the body learns how to survive without the armor.

9th House Profection Year

This is the year your soul packs a bag and leaves before you understand why. Restlessness isn’t a problem, it’s a message. Something in you wants out. Out of the story, out of the pattern, out of the room where you’ve been pretending to believe what no longer fits. This is a year of search. A year of seeking the language for what you’ve felt your whole life but couldn’t name. You may leave the country. Or just your comfort zone. But you go. Not to escape, but to expand. The soul wants the sky now, not for distance, but for perspective. You don’t need to be right. You just need to be open. And brave enough to follow the ache.

10th House Profection Year

This is the year you rise and decide what it’s for. Visibility comes. But so does the weight. The pressure. The temptation to let the world define your success. But this isn’t about applause. It’s about alignment. You are being asked to claim your voice in public. To live your purpose out loud. Not just in theory, but in action. What you build now will echo. This is legacy energy. It doesn’t have to be big. But it does have to be real. Let your ambition come from your integrity. Let your impact be rooted in truth. You’re not here to perform success. You’re here to redefine it.

11th House Profection Year

This is the year you remember: you’re allowed to be seen and still belong. The crowd becomes the mirror. This year, community comes into focus, not just for connection, but for reckoning. You begin to see where you’ve outgrown the rooms that once felt like home. You also start to imagine futures bigger than yourself. Dreams too heavy to carry alone. This is the year your vision expands. The year your people shift. The year you realize your soul doesn’t want to climb the mountai, it wants to build the village. What you imagine now can take root in the world. You’re not alone. You never were. Now you get to believe it.

12th House Profection Year

This is the year of disappearing to find what’s been buried beneath your name. Let it come undone. Let the noise go silent. This is not a year of rising, it’s a year of dissolving. You are being pulled inward now, not in weakness, but in necessity. You cannot carry this next chapter with your old patterns intact. This is the cocoon. The unraveling. The slow, sacred death before the new self takes form. You may need to retreat. To sleep. To cry for no reason. Let yourself. The soul is doing work the mind cannot name. Trust the quiet. Let the world forget you for a moment. So you can remember who you were before all the performance began.

Want to get to know your birth chart in a real, human way? My book unpacks it step by step, no fluff, just truth. Available here, and all digital platforms!!

[rangerbarbz]

Serving Up Romance pt. 2

Author’s Note: Alright, y’all were eating up the first part of this. (THANK YOU SO MUCH BTW) I am so grateful for all the kind words you’ve given me about my writing. It truly makes me so happy and I enjoy writing for y’all thoroughly. I hope you enjoy this second part! 

You took a deep breath and looked at yourself in the mirror. It was time for your date with Stan, and you were more than just a little nervous. It had been so long since you had been on a date, you weren’t even sure if you knew what to do on one. Do you hold his hand? Do you kiss him? Things were different when you were at the diner. That was your safe space, and you felt more confident there. Now, it was just going to be you and him alone in a car. At night. Watching a movie. Oh, God. 

You sighed and straightened out the fabric of your second-hand dress, removing any wrinkles that were there before. “I hope he likes it,” you mumbled, running your hands through your hair. This was the first time he was going to see you out of your uniform. You sat on the edge of your bed to slip on the sandals you had dug out of your closet. He was going to be here soon. 

Suddenly, the doorbell rang. You sprung up from the bed to put on some perfume. “I’m coming!” you called out, dousing yourself in a vanilla scent you couldn’t remember the name of. You set the perfume bottle down on your nightstand and ran to the door. 

“You got this,” you whispered to yourself, turning the door knob to reveal your date standing on your welcome mat. He was facing the road but turned around when the door opened. He was wearing a brightly colored Hawaiian shirt, blue jeans, and scuffed up leather boots. His mullet was nicely styled, and he had trimmed his stubble. He flashed you a toothy smile. 

“Wow, you look foxy!” Stan complimented you, raking his eyes over you. You grinned and gave him a twirl to show off how flowy your skirt was. “Oh, I got you these by the way.” He held out a red, heart-shaped box to you. “I heard that girls like chocolates, so I wanted to surprise you with some.”

You giggled. “This girl definitely does,” you said, placing the box on the armchair of your couch. “Thank you so much.” You tilted your head at him, feeling your smile wouldn’t leave your face the entire evening. “You look so handsome, Stan Pines.” You hooked your arm around his. “I’m one lucky gal.” 

Stan laughed and you noticed a blush forming on his cheeks. “Ah, well, shucks. Thanks, toots.” He looked over at you. “But I think I’m the lucky one here. You ready to go?” 

“As ready as I’ll ever be.”

On the car ride to the drive-in theater, Stan told you about a visitor that he described as a “total nutcase.” You always enjoyed hearing him tell stories because he told every story in a way that made you feel like you were seeing the events play out right in front of your eyes. He was captivating; it was no wonder he was such a successful showman. You were so engrossed in his retelling that you didn’t notice how his arm was behind the headrest of your seat. It was such a small romantic gesture, but it made butterflies grow in your stomach all the same

You finally arrived at the entrance of the drive-in movie theater; Stan rolled down his window to pay the man at the ticket booth. “Alright, sir, park wherever you like, and turn your radio to channel 95.1. Enjoy the movie!” 

“Thanks,” Stan replied before driving into the lot. He leaned against his steering wheel, searching for a parking spot. “Damn, there’s a lot more people here than I expected.” He looked over at you with a frown. “I’m sorry, doll. I think we’ll just have to park the Diablo here. I can’t get around anyone. Is this okay?” He was hoping he hadn’t ruined the date. 

You gave him a reassuring smile. “This is okay. I promise.”

He nodded. “Alright, so that joker said 95.1.” He began fiddling with the knob of his radio to switch stations. “Bingo,” he said after he finally got it tuned correctly. “Now, this is a horror movie, so if you need to, ya know, jump into my arms if it gets too scary, I’ll be ready to catch ya.” 

You burst out laughing. “Same goes to you, Pines. I know how skittish you can be.”

Stan scoffed in response. “Please, I’m the least skittish person on the planet.” 

“THE FRIGHTENING OF OAK AVENUE WILL BEGIN NOW,” the radio blared. Stan jumped out of his skin, letting the expletives fly.

You smirked and raised an eyebrow at him. “Okay, that doesn’t count,” he grumbled.

“That’s okay,” you scooted closer to him. “It doesn’t bother me that you’re such a scaredy cat.” Stan shook his head and wrapped his arm over your shoulder, giving you a gentle squeeze. Oh my goodness. His arm is around you, and he smells really good. Try not to let him see how excited you are.

“Okay, that’s enough sass-mouthing, miss,” he joked. “The movie’s starting.” You giggled as your attention was brought to the screen. To be honest, you could give two shits about this movie. You couldn’t stop thinking about how comforting it was to have his arm around you. 

You didn’t know how far you were into the movie when you saw Stan out of the corner of your eye gazing at you instead of the film. You turned your head towards him, and his eyes quickly reverted back to the screen. You felt your face get warm as you continued watching the movie, but you had failed to suppress a small chuckle. 

“What?” Stan asked gruffly. 

“Nothing,” you replied coyly, leaning your head against his chest. You heard his breath hitch in his throat. “You just make me feel pretty.”

You couldn’t see his face which Stan was grateful for because he was looking like a deer in headlights. You could feel how fast his heart was beating. “You are pretty,” he responded, voice barely above a whisper. “Told ya that the first day I met you. Wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it.”

You straightened up so you could face him when you said this. “Stan, I…I have seen a lot of people walk through those diner doors.” Your nerves were starting to get the best of you. “But I have never had anyone come into that restaurant that made me feel the way you do.” You looked down and began to run your fingertips over the hem of your dress. “I just want to know if you feel the same.” 

“I-I do, Y/N,” Stan replied, stopping your hand from fidgeting by lacing his fingers through yours. “Felt that since the beginning.” He sighed. “Y/N, I know I’m not the type of guy you bring home to your parents, but… If you give me the chance, I know I can be a man you’re proud to be with.” You felt like you were about to cry.

“Oh, Stan.” You cup his face in your hands. His sad, brown eyes gazed into yours; he leaned into your touch as you caressed his cheek. “If you’ll have me, I’ll scream from the top of city hall that I’m dating Stan Pines.” 

He gave you a lopsided smile before kissing the palm of your hand; his hand was gently holding your wrist. Is this real? His face was inching towards yours. “I’m holding you to that.” His hands were now cradling your jaw, bringing your lips to his. They were soft and sure against yours; your eyelids fluttered shut as you accepted his embrace. You placed your hands on his chest and snaked them around his neck, his dark hair falling onto your fingers. His lips were gone too soon as he interrupted the kiss to look at you. His eyes darted over your face, making sure you were still here and okay. It seemed like everything he touched lately disappeared before his eyes. 

He began to shake his head in disbelief. “God, you’re gorgeous.” His lips then crashed back into yours, drinking you in. He loved the way your mouth felt. He then moaned so quietly that you barely heard it yourself, but you did. You smiled against him, fingers tugging at his hair; you licked his bottom lip wanting to taste him on your tongue. His lips then parted letting you explore further. 

Stan whined at the feeling of your tongue swirling around his. His hands moving to the back of your neck and the small of your back to get you as close to him as possible. When you broke free of the kiss, his lips began to travel down your jawline and your neck. He was insatiable; he needed to discover every part of you with his mouth. 

“Fuck,” you breathed when he got to your collarbone. “Don’t stop.” His strong hand grasped at your waist; he now knew you were just as affected by this as he was. He started to suck a bruise into the dip at the crook of your neck. You cried out, desperately grabbing at his shoulder blades. 

When Stan was satisfied with the mark he left, he gave it a soft kiss. His eyes met yours once again. His lips were slightly swollen and shiny from the lip gloss you had applied earlier today. His cheeks were flushed from the intensity of the passionate moment you had shared. He then smiled and leaned in to speak against your lips. “So, what do you think about ditching this movie and heading back to your place?” 

You closed the almost non-existent gap by biting his bottom lip and dragging it through your teeth. Stan let out a sinful groan at the contact before you let him go. “I thought you’d never ask.” 

PART 3 DROPPING SOON  

[reveryfics]

I don't expect this to be done before any pending requests lol, but billy butcher x supe!reader? thanks !!

Inside man

Billy Butcher x Male Reader

Summary: Billy claims an inside man working with Vought can provide Compound V for him and Hughie, but he fails to disclose the source is also a Supe with previous ties to Billy.

A/N: Actually super excited to get a request for Billy. Practically begging for more requests for The Boys (I'm desperate for something other than Marvel)

TW: Suggestive - Language - Crude humor

The chrome edges of the Starlight Diner sulked under the sporadic assault of lightning, each flash momentarily illuminating the rain-streaked facade. Water cascaded down the panoramic windows, a relentless drumming that swallowed the outside world, leaving only the low, guttural rumble of thunder that vibrated through the sticky vinyl of the deserted booths. It was the kind of storm that felt alive, a breathing entity that held the diner in its watery embrace.

Inside, the air was a stagnant broth of forgotten meals, a ghostly aroma of stale coffee clinging to the lingering scent of deep-fried grease. Most of the long fluorescent tubes overhead were dark, casting the space into a patchwork of shadows that writhed with the erratic flicker of the few remaining lights. One above the Formica counter sputtered with a persistent, almost desperate hesitation, bathing the red vinyl stools in a fleeting, sickly glow before plunging them back into the encroaching darkness. Dust motes danced in the weak beams, tiny galaxies in the still air.

In the far corner, a hulking jukebox stood like a silent sentinel. Its once vibrant panels of red, blue, and yellow were now muted by years of neglect, the chrome trim pitted and dull. Only a handful of bulbs flickered within its glass face, casting brief, kaleidoscopic patterns on the dusty linoleum floor. It remained stubbornly silent, its promise of forgotten melodies drowned out by the storm’s relentless symphony. The selection buttons, once eagerly pressed, were now stiff and unresponsive, a testament to countless forgotten dances and late-night confessions.

Outside, the parking lot had transformed into a shimmering expanse of dark water, reflecting the diner’s meager light in distorted, wavering patterns. A lone, dark sedan sat idling near the entrance, its headlights slicing twin beams through the torrential downpour, illuminating the swirling chaos of raindrops. The rhythmic thrum of its engine was a low, persistent hum against the roar of the storm, a lonely heartbeat in the desolate landscape. Wisps of exhaust, ghostly white against the dark asphalt, curled into the rain-soaked air, dissipating almost instantly as if swallowed by the downpour. The car sat with an air of tense anticipation, Billy hunched behind the wheel, knuckles white against the steering wheel, and Hughie a tight knot of nerves in the passenger seat.

They exchanged a brief, charged glance, a silent acknowledgment of the precarious path ahead, before steeling themselves against the elements. Billy wrenched open his door, the wind and rain immediately assaulting the interior, and plunged out into the storm. Hughie followed close behind, hunching his shoulders against the icy onslaught. Billy reached for the diner door, the metal cold and slick beneath his fingers, and pushed it open with surprising ease, stepping into the relative quiet of the interior. Hughie trailed in his wake, his eyes darting nervously around the shadowy space.

"You sure he's here?" Hughie mumbled, his voice barely audible above the receding roar of the storm, his gaze sweeping across the vacant booths and deserted counter.

Billy shrugged, the movement causing rivulets of rainwater to cascade from his soaked hair. He shrugged off his damp trench coat, the heavy fabric making a soft thud as he hung it on a nearby, rickety coat rack. "Supposed ta be 'ere already," Billy grunted, his eyes scanning the dimly lit space with a predatory intensity.

A faint, distant sound – the unmistakable clinking of dishes – drifted from the back of the diner. Hughie instinctively tensed, his hand instinctively reaching inside his jacket. He positioned himself slightly behind Billy, his gaze fixed on the swinging door that likely led to the kitchen, a flicker of fear in his wide eyes.

Just then, a figure leaned out from the small, rectangular serving window that connected the kitchen to the main dining area. The metallic tang of the bell above the window sliced through the silence as you jabbed at it with a playful finger. Billy’s head snapped in your direction, his hand already halfway to the gun tucked in his waistband, his finger twitching against the imagined trigger. Recognition flickered across his face, the tension in his shoulders easing ever so slightly as he registered your familiar smirk.

You offered a lazy wave, your lips curving into a wider smile. You met Billy’s gaze, a mischievous glint in your eyes. “Bit trigger-happy there, Butcher? Almost blew my pretty little head off again.”

Billy sighed, a puff of air escaping his lips as he visibly relaxed, his hand dropping away from his weapon. He grumbled under his breath, “It was one time.”

You chuckled, pushing yourself away from the serving window and sauntering towards the gap in the counter that led behind the diner bar. You leaned against the cool Formica, resting your chin in the palm of your hand, your eyes dancing with amusement. “You also said that when I fucked you in the backseat of your car,” you hummed, your voice a low purr. “Yet I vividly remember the sound of a grown man begging to be fucked in the ass once again just the other night.” You teased, your gaze unwavering as you watched the color flood Billy’s face. “Missing your wife pegging you, huh, Butcher?”

Hughie cleared his throat, the sound deliberately loud, cutting through the charged silence that had fallen between you and Billy. You rolled your eyes, the playful smirk still lingering on your lips as you gestured towards the stools in front of the bar. “Take a seat, boys.”

You reached into the inner pocket of your jacket, pulling out a small, clear baggie filled with a viscous, shimmering liquid – Compound V. Billy’s hand shot out instinctively, but you were quicker, yanking your hand back just out of his reach. “Whoa there, slowpoke.” You held the baggie aloft, your expression turning serious. “Look, I’m on board with you two going against Vought and the Seven. Believe me, I’d throw Homelander into a black hole myself if I could.” You paused, your gaze softening slightly as you looked at Billy. “But as a supe myself… someone who had this crap forced into their veins… I know how dangerous this is, Billy.”

Billy’s jaw tightened. He’d heard this lecture before, the thinly veiled concern that always laced your warnings. He knew you genuinely hated Vought, hated the way your powers had been thrust upon you, turning you into something you never asked to be. But the worry in your eyes, the almost maternal protectiveness that sometimes flickered there, still grated on him. He hated the fact that he was starting to… well, not hate it. He hated the way it made it obvious that you were more than just his inside man, more than just the person he occasionally fucked in grimy motel rooms.

Billy silently mouthed a mocking “blah blah blah” as he once again reached for the baggie. Before his fingers could close around it, Hughie’s hand shot out, stopping him. Hughie’s eyes were narrowed, suspicion etched on his face as he looked at you. “Billy never said his inside man was a supe that worked with the enemy so closely.”

You crossed your arms, a sigh escaping your lips as you dragged your free hand down your face, a gesture of weary resignation. “What’d you expect, sunshine? Beautiful girl with big tits and bleach blonde hair batting her eyelashes for intel?” You scoffed, your tone sharp.

Hughie stumbled over his words, his cheeks flushing slightly. “No, I just… I wasn’t exactly sure if we could trust you, even if it seems like you’re helping.”

Billy noticed the sudden glint in your eyes, the way your nails dug into the sleeve of your jacket at Hughie’s accusation. “Woah, alright, settle down, Hughie,” he interjected, his voice firm. He looked at you, his gaze surprisingly steady. “I trust him. Besides, he’s done nothin’ to suggest he ain’t helpin’.”

You let out a long breath, the tension slowly draining from your shoulders. You gently set the baggie down on the counter in front of them. A small, almost hesitant smile touched Billy’s lips. He reached for the baggie, his calloused fingers brushing against yours for a fleeting moment, before handing it to Hughie. “Alright, lad. You head on out to the car.” He nodded towards the rain-lashed windows. “Get that stashed somewhere safe.”

Hughie took one last, searching glance in your direction, a flicker of uncertainty still in his eyes, before clutching the baggie tightly and hurrying out into the storm. The diner door swung shut behind him, the sound muffled by the downpour.

Billy turned his full attention back to you, scratching at the stubble on his chin. “Appreciate this, songbird,” he said, his voice surprisingly soft.

You rolled your eyes, pushing yourself back from the counter and leaning against it, a genuine smile pulling at the corners of your mouth despite yourself. “Don’t mention it,” you murmured. “Seriously, don’t mention it. Last thing I need is that blonde wack job finding out and ‘making an example’ out of me.” You puffed out your chest and deepened your voice in a mocking imitation of Homelander. “‘Well, well, well, if it isn’t our little double-crosser. Let’s show everyone what happens to traitors, shall we?’”

Billy chuckled under his breath, a low, rumbling sound. “I’d pay for front-row tickets to watch him try.”

You glanced towards the car as its headlights flickered on, illuminating the swirling rain. “Just be careful with that stuff, Billy,” you said, your voice laced with a genuine concern that you couldn’t quite mask. “It’s not a magic bullet.”

Billy cut you off, his hand reaching forward to grasp the collar of your shirt. He yanked you forward, your breath catching in your throat as his lips crashed against yours in a sudden, heated kiss. You let out a choked gasp, but your arms instinctively snaked around his neck, your fingers tangling in the damp strands of his hair as you kissed him back with equal fervor. Your other hand steadied yourself against the cool surface of the counter, the world outside the diner fading into a blurry background of rain and distant thunder.

You and Billy continued to make out, the urgency of the kiss mirroring the storm raging outside, barely breaking for air until the insistent blare of the car horn pierced through the haze of your embrace. You pulled away, your chest heaving, and cleared your throat, gesturing with a nod of your head towards the waiting sedan just outside the rain-streaked window.

Billy sighed, a frustrated sound, and pushed himself away from the counter. He turned momentarily, his gaze lingering on your flushed face and swollen lips. “See ya later,” he murmured, a hint of a smile playing on his own lips.

You smirked, crossing your arms over your chest. “Meet me at the Sunset Motel? Room twelve. I know a few more positions you might enjoy.”

Billy shook his head, a wry grin tugging at his mouth. He flipped you off with a casual gesture as he grabbed his damp coat from the rack and headed back out into the storm. You watched as he climbed into the car, the taillights disappearing into the downpour as Hughie pulled away from the deserted diner. Silently humming a tune to yourself, you turned and disappeared through the swinging doors that led back into the darkened kitchen.