#until they step outside and breathe in fresh air for the first time.

[fickleminder]

the intern

Office!AU. There’s a charming new intern at your office.

Written for the Blacjak’s Prompt Roulette event organized by @obeymevents! My prompt was Office!AU 😬

"Hi! How's it going?"

You nearly jumped out of your seat. The handsome face beaming at you was unfamiliar, a stranger and an enigma. Who the hell was this cheery on a Monday morning?

"Um, I'm doing alright, I guess." You glanced around, but nobody seemed to be paying the two of you any attention. "Can I help you?"

"It's my first day here! Figured I'd take the office tour and get to know some people along the way!"

"Oh, I didn't see your introduction email…"

The man's grin dropped a few megawatts. "Introduction email?"

"I'm not sure if your boss mentioned this yet, but it's common practice for new hires to send out an email to the entire department on their first day," you explained. "Just a simple icebreaker, nothing fancy: a little bit about your background, your hobbies, which team you've been assigned to…"

"I'm uh— I'm just an intern! Interns don't have to do that, do they?"

"No, they don't. I guess you're good then."

Being an intern made more sense. No full time hire would be this enthusiastic about working a desk job forty hours a week. Interns could at least afford to count the days until they had to return their badges and never look back.

That being said, this man definitely seemed much older than most interns your company usually hired. A mid-career switch, perhaps? Either way, you were in no position to judge, and the least you could do was make him feel more welcomed here. Deciding to take a break from staring at your monitor all day, you introduced yourself. "Where are you seated? Who's your mentor?"

"Call me Yamamoto! My cubicle is right outside the printer room, and I'll be working under Lucifer!" Yamamoto adjusted his glasses, his eyes glinting with excitement as he leaned in. His cologne tickled your nose pleasantly. "Is it true that he'll fire you if you don't hand in your paperwork?"

You shook your head with a laugh, wondering if Mephisto had already gotten to the poor guy. "Lucifer is strict and has high standards, but he's also fair. I'll let you in on a secret: so long as you get your work done on time and show up for meetings, he won't mind if you come in a little late or leave a little earlier."

"Thank you, that's good to know!" Yamamoto checked his watch and pouted. "I have to go now, but it was nice meeting you! I hope you won't mind if I stop by to chat again?"

"Not at all," you smiled. Yamamoto was a breath of fresh air you didn't know you needed. Easy on the eyes too, especially with that slicked-back hair and sharp jawline. "I'll see you around."

.

.

.

"—never did ask, what do you do here?"

"I'm part of IT, but not front line support. Basically I'm supposed to step in only if there's anything the service desk needs to escalate or can't handle."

"Sounds like they call on you often."

"That obvious, huh? Those guys are supposed to be tech trained, and yet they come to me even for stuff they can find solutions to on the internet. It's really frustrating sometimes."

"I'm sorry to hear that. You must be pretty busy then. I'm not imposing, am I? It's halfway through lunchtime and you're still at your desk…"

"Nah, I usually pack my own meals since it gets pretty crowded in the staff canteen. Speaking of, do you know where to go for food? I can recommend a few places if you want."

"Do tell!"

.

.

.

After the printer finally finished spitting out all of your documents, you put your phone away and gathered them up. The warmth from the papers was a soothing contrast to the chill of the air-conditioner, especially on this side of the floor. You clutched the stack close to your chest as you sighed and started making your way back to your desk.

"Are you okay?" Yamamoto's head popped up from behind the dividers of his cubicle. You'd forgotten this was where he sat. "That was a pretty loud sigh."

"I'm good. Nothing like freshly printed paper to make you feel like you're getting a warm hug," you joked.

Yamamoto was already halfway out of his chair with open arms before he caught himself. He cleared his throat with an awkward laugh. "Oh, sorry, I don't know what came over me. Haha…"

It was your turn to look concerned. "You doing alright there?"

"Yes, yes," he coughed into his fist before straightening with a smile. "If you have some time for a break, how about a coffee? I haven't tried all the capsule flavors yet."

"Sounds good to me!" You were ahead of schedule anyway. A third cup wouldn't hurt. "Let me put these away first and I'll meet you at the pantry."

.

.

.

"—heard he's ex-military, but he really doesn't seem like the type. He's bad at saying no, so more often than not we end up taking the shit other teams throw at us."

"Yikes, that's rough. I'll have to talk to Levi about that."

"Huh?"

"Uh, I mean, Lucifer wanted me to meet the different team leads as part of my program, for exposure! I could bring up your issue with him, if you like."

"That's really sweet of you, but unless you can convince him to give me a raise, don't worry about it. Just focus on your internship and learn all that you can, okay? I'll be fine; I've been doing this for years now."

"If you insist…"

.

.

.

"Four hot chocolates."

"Three, but I'll throw in one of the Christmas capsules."

"Deal." Yamamoto rummaged in his bag for sachets of caffeine-free tea. "I can't believe we have to resort to bartering for these things."

"Hey, when an unmentionable colleague constantly cleans out the pantry, you do what you gotta do: hoard and trade." You dug through your own stash hidden in a drawer. "At least the weekly refills are always on schedule."

"Is that code?" Yamamoto peered at the colorful text on your monitor as he handed you the tea. "I didn't realize you were a programmer too."

"Just a side project I'm working on when I have some time. It's supposed to help the service desk track cases better, and manage our hardware and software lifecycles," you explained. "Technically out of my job scope, but Levi's been pretty supportive since he thinks this could be a useful initiative with the enough manpower and resources. I just need to get a proof-of-concept working first…"

"Half of what you said flew over my head, but I'm rooting for you!" Yamamoto gave you a thumbs up before arching an eyebrow at the goods you handed him. "Wait, four hot chocolates?"

"Intern special." You winked and tossed the Christmas capsule towards him. "And because you're cute."

.

.

.

"I need you to drop whatever you're doing and head to management's floor."

"What— now? But Levi, we have that meeting in ten minutes…"

"Lucifer's orders. He wants to talk to you about an assessment or something. Don't worry about the meeting, I can tank it."

"You're my boss; shouldn't you be there too?"

"I would, but he asked for you only. Better not make him wait."

.

.

.

You knew — you just knew — it had to do with Yamamoto somehow. The guy had just wrapped up his internship and left last week, and now you were being called into the head honcho's office.

Did he leave negative feedback during his exit interview? Had you behaved unprofessionally? You did interact with him more than strictly necessary, especially since both of you were in different teams, but he never seemed to mind your company. In fact, Yamamoto was always friendly, inviting and—

—sitting in the CEO's chair, glasses off and hair slightly tousled and a freshly pressed suit fitting him in all the right ways.

His eyes were up there, you had to remind yourself.

"—above and beyond the call of duty, don't you agree, Lucifer?"

"Yes, Diavolo." The lines on Lucifer's forehead said otherwise, but he was in no position to argue with the man who literally owned the entire building they were in. "Though, to conduct a staff evaluation in the middle of the financial year—"

"I saw it on a show once and had to try it! It was a very enlightening experience." He shot you the same wide smile you'd seen countless times over the past few months, one that never failed to send your stomach on a rollercoaster. For entirely different reasons this time, however. "Apologies for the deception, but I called you here to share some of my findings since you were instrumental in assisting my evaluation."

Shit, you couldn't remember anything he'd said before this. "Uh, you're welcome sir?"

"No need to be so formal, haha!" His boisterous laughter drowned out Lucifer's groan. "You'll be happy to hear about the new innovation fund I'm proposing. But before that, regarding that raise you mentioned…"

[gemrambles]

I Did My Time - A.H

summary: you and hotch have always had a close relationship. when hotch officially signs the divorce papers, you're the first person he wants to be with.

pairing: aaron hotchner x fem!BAU!reader

warnings: NSFW, 18+ MDNI!, unprotected p in v sex, infidelity vibes??

wc: 2,497

A/N: i've been obsessed with "fresh out the slammer" by taylor swift recently so....

The buzz of laughter filled the bullpen as the team packed up for the night, energized by a rare early wrap on a case. Plans were made, large bar tabs anticipated, and the mood was light - until Hotch emerged from his office with a folder tucked under one arm and something unreadable in his expression. 

The team didn’t press him. They knew that look. When he murmured that he’d catch up later, they gave him space. 

You, of course, missed all of it. 

You’d stepped out briefly - gone to the washroom to freshen up after the jet ride before heading out. When you had returned, the bullpen was nearly empty. You frowned, checking the time on your phone, then turned toward the conference room only to find it empty as well. 

Your gaze shifted up to the second floor. 

Even before you had officially joined the team, there had always been something unspoken between you and Hotch. It wasn’t obvious, not to others. But it was in the way his gaze lingered just a second longer on you in briefings. The way he always made sure you got the quiet seat beside him on the jet. The way your name sounded just a little different when he said it. 

No lines had ever been crossed. Yet there was something. 

Confused, you made your way up the stairs to Hotch’s office. You could see that the lights were still on inside, casting a glow against the walls. You knocked lightly on the doorframe. 

“Hey. Did I miss the memo? Where’d everyone go?”

Hotch looked up from his desk. The folder was still in front of him, now closed, his fingers resting on top of it. 

“They went ahead. Said you’d meet them there.” You quirked a brow and stepped inside, walking up to his desk with a familiar playful grin. One that had gotten you out of more than a few reprimands. “And you? You hiding up here instead of celebrating?” He huffed a faint breath of amusement, eyes lifting to meet yours. There was something softer in them tonight. Tired, but lighter.

“Just finishing something important.” You tilted your head. “Something bad?”

“Final,” he said simply, tapping the folder. “I signed the divorce papers.”

Your expression shifted instantly, smile fading to something gentler. “Aaron….I’m -”

He shook his head. “No condolences. It was overdue. And it feels…finished.”

You hesitated, then slowly and playfully extended your hand toward him, palm open and inviting. “Well. In that case…come have a drink with me.”

He looked at your hand for a long second before his own lifted almost subconsciously, fingers curling around yours. His thumb lightly brushed across your knuckles.

You blinked in surprise at the contact, your heart skipping, but recovered quickly. You gave his hand a little tug. “Come on. Fresh start, right?”

He stood, still holding your hand. His lips curved into a quiet smile. “Yeah. Something like that.”

The bar’s lights glowed golden and low, casting a soft haze over the remaining patrons as the evening wore on. The team did a double take when you and Hotch walked in hand-in-hand, but no one said a word. Not yet. 

He didn’t let go of you all night, always close, always touching in some small, grounding way. 

Hotch glanced down at you, a rare hint of mischief in his eyes. “You ready to go?”

You looked up at him, your gaze filled with warm and admiration. “Only if you’re coming with me.”

He gave a soft chuckle, sliding a hand around your waist. “I’m not letting you out of my sight tonight.”

Outside, the night was cool, the air crisp against your flushed skin. You hailed a cab, his hand finding yours again as you slipped into the backseat together. There was a tension - sweet and charged - settling between you, thicker than anything you’d shared before. 

Hotch’s knee bumped yours gently, his thumb stroking the inside of your palm absently. You turned toward him slightly, eyes searching his face in the quiet dark.

“You doing okay?” you asked, your voice softer now. 

His gaze flicked to you, “I am now.” You leaned in slowly, testing, breath brushing his cheek. “You sure?” you teased, though there was real concern threaded beneath your voice.

He didn’t answer with words. Instead, his hand came up to cup your cheek, and he kissed you. Deep and slow. Reverent. As though he’d been waiting years to do it - like the only way to survive now was to start something new, something just for the two of you.

The cab rolled to a stop. He pulled away, breathing a little heavier, eyes locked on yours. 

“Come upstairs with me,” you whispered.

He didn’t hesitate. “Lead the way.”

You unlocked the door with slightly shaky fingers, the weight of Aaron’s presence making every movement feel more deliberate, more aware. His hand rested on your lower back, following you inside. Your apartment was dim and quiet, the door clicking shut behind him. 

Slowly, you turned to face him, toeing off your shoes. “Still feeling like you want to be around me?”

He stepped closing, his hands instinctively finding your hips, his voice was low and certain. You watched as his gaze briefly flicked down to your lips, then back to your eyes. “More than ever.”

You grinned. “I’ve been thinking of this all night,” you whispered, your fingers curling into the lapels of his blazer, pulling him down towards your lips. The kiss wasn’t rushed. It was deliberate. Slow. As though he wanted to memorize every part of you. 

You slightly pulled back, your forehead resting against his. “Is this okay?” you asked, voice breathy. 

“More than okay,” he murmured, his hand sliding up your side to cradle your jaw. “I’ve thought about this,” he began, eyes glazing over your body. “More than I should have.” 

His confession made your heartbeat speed up, your stomach flipping. A shy smile broke out across your face. “Yeah?” you asked, eyes soft. “Have you been dreaming of me?” you teased. 

His eyes darkened slightly. “If only you knew the thoughts I’ve had about you.” 

Your grip on his shoulders tightened as you felt your knees weaken. His voice was deeper than normal. Full of lust. You had never needed anything more than you needed him in this moment. 

He kissed you again, this time with purpose, with something deeper behind it. And when he pulled you toward your bedroom, his fingers intertwined with yours, it was a certainty that neither of you would be letting go anytime soon. 

The bedroom door shut softly behind you, and Hotch turned to you with a look that sent heat curling in your belly. You stepped closer, fingers toying with the first button of his shirt. 

“You gonna let me undress you, Hotchner?” you murmured, teasing, emboldened by the way his eyes darkened.

He raised a brow, tilting his head. “Thought you said you were thinking about this all night. You want me to stop you now?”

Hurriedly, you pushed his jacket off of his shoulders, abandoning it on the floor. “No, sir.”

His breath caught at the title, and a low sound escaped him - half groan, half growl - as his hands rested on your hips and backed you toward your bed.

When your legs hit the mattress, he paused, cupping your face with startling gentleness. “You’re sure about this?”

You nodded, pulling at his tie to bring him closer. 

“Need to hear you say it,” he murmured in your ear. “Use your words, sweetheart.”

“Yes, Aaron,” you whimpered. “Been sure since the moment I saw you tonight.”

He kissed you then - hungrier than the times before. Clothes were lost in the heat of mouths and hands, slow at first, then hurried, desperate. He laid you down, every touch reverent, worshipful, like he needed to relearn what it felt like to be wanted.

“This what you were thinking about?” he questioned against your skin as he kissed his way down your chest. Down the valley of your breasts. His teeth teasingly grazing your nipple. 

You tangled your fingers in his hair desperately, gasping. “This - and more.”

He looked up at you, lips parted, eyes storm-dark. “Good. Because I’m not stopping until you forget anyone else ever existed.”

A gasp left your lips as his hand pushed your legs open, his body fitting perfectly between. Your hips bucked up towards his in anticipation, your fingers threading themselves into his hair. You could feel all of him. He was hard, ready, and completely focused on you. 

“Aaron,” you whispered, already breathless. 

He groaned against your neck. “You have no idea what you do to me, do you?”

“I think I’m starting to,” you teased, your voice shaking. 

That earned a low, rough, chuckle. His mouth found the edge of your jaw, his stubble scraping just enough to make you shiver. 

“I’ve wanted this, wanted you, for so long,” he said. “Every time you smiled at me in the briefing room, every time you said my name,” 

His voice trailed off, replaced with a groan before his lips reconnected with yours. His hands were all over your body. 

You pulled back just enough to look at him. Seeing his chest rising hard, his hair astray from your fingers, his lips were flushed and parted. You’d never seen him like this. Unrestrained. And it was for, and because of, you. 

You wished you could take a picture to cherish forever.

“Tell me to stop,” he said suddenly, sitting up and away from your body to better look at your face. “If you’re not sure,”

You quickly silenced him with a kiss. “I’m sure. God, I’m so sure, Aaron.”

That was all he needed. 

He slotted his body over yours once again, pinning your wrists to either side of your head. 

“I’ve wanted this for so long. I’ve thought of you since you first walked into my office to interview,” he muttered against your skin, trailing kisses down your neck, over your collarbone. “I used to hate myself for it. You were my escape.”

“And now?” you whispered, arching into him.

“Now you’re mine,” he groaned. 

Hotch’s hands roamed your body like he was rediscovering something precious. Every curve, every sound you made under his touch, he committed to memory. In case this was the last time. His only opportunity. 

You knew it wouldn’t be the last.

His breath was hot against your skin, his voice low and reverent. “It was so hard to stay away from you.”

Your fingers trailed down his bare back, your nails lightly digging into his skin. “Then don’t hold back. Please. I don’t want you to,” you begged. 

That did something to him. His hands tightened at your waist, his grip firm. Possessive. It was as though he had to remind himself that you were real, here, his. 

You felt his fingers at your core. Running through your wetness. Eliciting loud moans from you. His name falling from your lips like a prayer.

“Aaron,” you whimpered.

Hotch stilled for half a second at the sound of his name on your tongue. So soft. So full of trust. So needy. 

“What do you want?” he asked, his eyes locked with yours as you watched him move downwards on your body.

“Need you. Please, Aaron,” you begged. Impatiently, you began pushing his head towards your core, a loud gasp filling the room when you felt his fingers push into you.

It felt like you were dreaming. Years of tension finally breaking open. 

His mouth eagerly met your cunt, his tongue parting your folds. He began slowly. Testing the waters, seeing how your body responded.

His fingers were still pumping you, increasing in speed at the sound of your moans and the involuntary bucks of your hips. 

His other hand reached upwards, resting gently on your lower stomach, stilling your movements.

Soon, his mouth has fallen into a rhythm. Devouring you. As though he was starving, and nothing had ever tasted so sweet. Your hands were tangled in his hair, his name the only coherent thing you can say. 

Your thighs began to shake violently as you felll apart. 

He didn’t stop until you began squirming, slightly pushing him away. 

Hotch sat himself up. His hands rested on your knees, his face covered in your arousal. The back of his hand lifted to wipe his mouth. 

You blushed, unable to meet his gaze. 

His hand gently lifts your chin upwards. Forcing your eyes to lock with his.

“So beautiful,” he whispers, leaning down and kissing you. 

“Need you in me,” you beg. “Please.”

“So polite. Such a good girl.”

A whimper fell from your lips at the name. 

You watch as he began pumping his length. Preparing himself for you. Without a second thought, your hand reaches forward, replacing his with your own. Like a moth drawn to a flame. Low groans fell from his lips when you took over - pumping him slowly from the base of his cock to the tip. 

“You’re so big. Can’t wait for you to fill me up.”

His movements were quick. Gently pushing your hand away, he began guiding himself into your cunt. You felt the tip of his cock entering, his eyes darting to your face to see how you were doing. 

With a nod from you, he began pushing his cock in more, continuing to slowly ease his way in. 

Loud moans echoed throughout the room when he’d completely filled you up. His movements stilled, waiting for your permission before he did anything further. 

“Aaron, please,” you whined. Your hands gripped his biceps, squeezing them gently. 

A smile broke out onto his face. He loved seeing you like this. Completely submissive to him. So needy. Entirely his. 

And then he was moving. A deep roll of his hips drew a gasp from the both of you. Your body arched into him, your mouth parting with a soft moan that only spurred him on. 

His pace quickened. Every thrust was a declaration. I’m here. I choose you. I want you. 

“You feel like home,” he murmured, pressing his forehead to yours, voice cracking slightly. “God, you feel like home.”

Your heart swelled, eyes fluttering open to meet his. 

The world narrowed to this. To his body moving with yours. To your moans tangled together in the quiet. To his hand slipping into your hair, tangling his fingers in it. Anchoring you to him. 

You came first - your second orgasm of the night stronger than the first. You clutched onto him tightly, burying your face in his neck as a cry of pleasure left you. He followed soon after, breaking apart with a groan so deep and guttural that it made your entire body shiver. 

Hotch collapsed against you, breathing hard, lips brushing your cheek as he whispered, “I’m not letting you go.”

You smiled against his skin, heart full and aching. “I wasn’t planning on going anywhere.”

[regressionschool]

Going full toddler part 2: arrival

Find all other Chapters [here]

The car rolled to a stop in front of the cottage, the tires crunching softly against the gravel driveway. Marie rubbed her eyes, still slightly groggy from the long drive, her thumb absentmindedly brushing over the edge of her sippy cup.

Her first thought as she peeked outside was that the place looked like something out of a storybook. The cottage had soft, cream-colored walls with ivy climbing up the edges, and the windows had little flower boxes bursting with bright, happy blooms. A white wooden fence lined the garden, and behind it, there was a small swing swaying gently in the breeze. Everything about it felt warm, peaceful, and oddly perfect.

But her second thought—the one that sent heat rushing to her cheeks—was the realization that Steve was already stepping around the car to open her door.

Her stomach flipped.

She suddenly became hyper-aware of everything: the thick padding pressing against her bottom, the unmistakable crinkle that followed her every move, the soft pastel overalls stretched over her diaper, the childish pigtails that Daddy had put her hair in that morning. And yet, as Steve unbuckled her seatbelt and lifted her effortlessly out of the car, the friendly faces of the neighbors didn’t even blink.

A woman in a flowy sundress waved from a nearby porch. A man watering his garden gave a small nod before returning to his work. No one stared. No one whispered.

It was almost like… like this wasn’t unusual at all.

Marie’s blush deepened as she buried her face against Steve’s chest, wrapping her arms around his neck while he carried her towards the house.

“Aww, is my little one feeling shy?” he teased, giving her a soft bounce as he adjusted her in his arms.

Marie mumbled something unintelligible into his shirt, not daring to lift her head. She didn’t understand why no one seemed surprised to see her like this. Normally, in public, Daddy was a bit more subtle, a little more discreet. But here? He didn’t hesitate at all.

“Come on, princess, let’s get you inside.”

Steve pushed the front door open, and Marie barely had time to blink before she was completely overwhelmed.

The moment they stepped inside, Marie’s breath hitched. The inside was nothing short of a Little’s paradise.

The first thing she noticed was the playpen set up in the living room—a large, soft, padded space filled with plush toys, blocks, and a fuzzy pastel rug that looked perfect for crawling around on. Against one wall sat a massive crib, its wooden rails painted a soft cream color, big enough for her to sleep in comfortably. The changing table nearby had neatly stacked rows of thick diapers, powders, and wipes, everything meticulously arranged.

Her stomach flipped.

She didn’t even realize she had taken a small step backward until Steve’s hands landed gently on her shoulders, keeping her in place. “Like it, princess?” he asked, his tone teasing but warm.

Marie swallowed hard. Her fingers fidgeted at the hem of her shortalls. “I… I mean…”

Steve chuckled, clearly amused by her flustered state. He turned her gently, steering her toward the kitchen.

There, in the center of the room, stood a large highchair. It looked sturdy, designed for someone her size, with a soft cushioned seat and a little tray attached. She could already picture herself sitting there, kicking her feet while Daddy fed her spoonfuls of something mushy. The thought made her squirm.

“And if you ever want some fresh air…” Steve guided her to the back door, swinging it open to reveal a small garden with a swing hanging from a sturdy oak tree.

Marie sucked in a breath. It was overwhelming—so much thought had gone into this space, so much preparation. This wasn’t just a weekend getaway.

This was a place built for her.

Before she could protest or try to piece her thoughts together, Steve lifted her effortlessly under her arms and carried her back into the living room. “Alright, little one. Daddy needs to unpack. And you…” He walked toward the playpen.

Marie’s eyes widened. “W-Wait, Daddy, I can just—”

Her protests were cut off as Steve set her down inside, his hands firm but gentle as he guided her to sit. The moment she did, she felt the thick padding beneath her press against her, the faintest squish reminding her that’s she was already wet.

Her blush deepened as she looked up at him, pouting. “Daddy…”

Steve crouched down, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “No fussing, sweetheart. I’ll only be a few minutes. I want you to play like a good girl.”

Marie’s lips pursed. She crossed her arms but didn’t argue. Not really.

Steve smirked knowingly. He reached into the playpen and grabbed a soft stuffed bunny, placing it in her lap. “Be good, princess.” With that, he stood, ruffling her hair one last time before heading off toward the bedroom to unpack.

Marie huffed, gripping the bunny in her lap. She looked around the playpen, her gaze flicking over the plush toys, the stack of colorful blocks, the soft blankets. Everything in here was meant to keep her entertained, meant to make her feel small.

Marie sat in the playpen, clutching her bunny tightly as she watched Steve move back and forth, unloading the car. At first, she tried to act disinterested, her eyes flicking around the room like she wasn’t paying attention.

But she was.

She saw him bring in the diaper bag first, the familiar pastel tote that she knew was packed with all the necessities for the weekend—extra diapers, wipes, powder, cream, and even her pacis tucked neatly into the side pockets. Her stomach flipped at the sight of it.

Then came his suitcase, a sleek black one that looked downright boring compared to everything else. He set it by the bedroom door before disappearing back outside.

Marie shifted in place, the thick padding beneath her crinkling softly. She pressed her stuffed bunny against her chest and rocked a little, telling herself she was just sitting—not playing. Not getting caught up in little space.

But then… her eyes landed on the soft plush blocks stacked neatly in the corner of the playpen. The pastel colors caught her attention, the letters and numbers embroidered in gentle, looping stitches. Her fingers twitched.

Before she could think too hard about it, she reached out, knocking the stack over with a tiny push. The satisfying thump of soft fabric hitting soft fabric made something flutter in her chest. She picked up one block, turning it over in her hands, tracing the shape of the letter stitched into it.

Then another.

Then another.

And before she even realized it, she was lost in her own little world, stacking the blocks as high as she could, only to giggle softly when they tumbled down again.

She didn't notice how much time had passed. Didn't even hear Steve moving around the house anymore.

It wasn’t until her body gave her a different kind of reminder that she snapped out of her daze.

A pressure in her bladder.

At first, she barely reacted, shifting slightly in place. But as the feeling grew, she instinctively pressed her thighs together, her bottom shifting against the thick padding. It was a subtle reminder—one she could ignore if she really wanted to.

But the moment she focused on it, her body took care of the rest.

A tiny gasp left her lips as the warmth spilled out of her, soaking into the thick, crinkly padding beneath her. Her breath hitched. She didn’t even fight it—just let it happen, her body melting into the familiar sensation of relief.

By the time she was done, her entire posture had softened, her shoulders drooping as she sank deeper into little space. The wet padding pressed against her, warm and squishy, hugging her in a way that made her cheeks burn.

And then—without thinking—she reached for her bottle.

She didn't even realize what she was doing until she was already drinking. The cool liquid filled her mouth, and she suckled softly, small rhythmic pulls that felt… comforting.

It wasn’t until she was a few gulps in that the realization hit her.

She had just wet herself, without hesitation. Without even stopping to think about it.

And the very first thing she did after was reach for her bottle—like a good girl.

A deep, involuntary blush spread across her face. She squirmed, shifting in the now soggy padding, but instead of pulling away from the feeling, she found herself curling around it, hugging her bunny closer as she nursed from her bottle.

The warmth. The comfort. The way she felt so little in that moment…

Her tummy flipped, and she whined softly behind the bottle’s rubber nipple, embarrassed and weirdly proud all at once.

She wanted Daddy to notice.

Would he check her soon? Would he praise her for being such a good girl?

Would he tease her?

Marie sucked a little harder, her legs pressing together, her breath a little quicker now.

And then, as if on cue, she heard the soft creak of the bedroom door opening.

Footsteps.

Daddy was coming back.

Steve stepped back into the living room, his eyes immediately landing on Marie.

The sight that greeted him made his smirk grow.

There she was, nestled in her playpen, nursing her bottle with both hands, cheeks flushed pink, her legs shifting just enough to betray her squirmy state. She looked up at him briefly but quickly averted her gaze, her lips still wrapped around the nipple of the bottle.

His sharp gaze flicked from the scattered plush blocks around her to the way she fidgeted, her movements slower, heavier—and he knew exactly what had happened.

His little girl had gone potty for Daddy.

Crouching beside the playpen, he reached in and ruffled her hair, making her squeak softly. “Look at you,” he murmured, voice dripping with amusement. “Such a thirsty little girl. Having fun?”

Marie gave a tiny nod, still suckling at her bottle, her fingers gripping it tighter. She peeked up at him shyly, but when she shifted again, a tiny squish filled the space between them.

Steve’s smirk deepened.

He knew that sound.

Slowly, deliberately, he reached down, pressing his warm palm gently against the front of her shortalls, his experienced touch confirming what he already suspected.

Marie froze.

The pressure of his hand against her made her whimper softly, her legs squeezing together on instinct.

Steve chuckled, giving her a teasing squeeze, feeling the soggy warmth beneath the fabric. “Mmm,” he mused, voice full of knowing praise. “Someone’s all squishy and warm.”

Marie’s face burned.

She wanted to deny it, to squirm away, but she couldn’t. The evidence was right there, pressed snug between her thighs, and Daddy had already found out.

Steve wasted no time, his fingers moving with practiced ease to the snaps on the crotch of her shortalls.

Pop.

Pop.

Pop.

Each snap undone so effortlessly that Marie had no time to protest before her shortalls fell open, revealing her very wet, swollen diaper.

She wriggled, flustered beyond words, but Steve’s hands were already on her hips, keeping her still.

“Uh-uh,” he murmured firmly. “No fussing.”

Marie whimpered again, her fingers clutching her bunny as she tried to hide her face, but that only made Steve’s smirk widen.

He admired the sight before him—his little girl in nothing but a damp, swollen diaper, the padding pressed so snugly against her.

He cooed softly, his fingers trailing over the smooth plastic of her diaper before giving it a gentle pat.

“You didn’t even try to hold it, did you, sweetheart?” he praised, his voice warm and teasing.

Marie shook her head, still sucking her bottle, still so small under his gaze.

Steve’s expression softened, his fingers brushing along her cheek. “That’s my good girl,” he murmured. “That’s exactly what diapers are for.”

She whimpered at that, feeling herself sink even deeper into her little space, the praise making her tummy flutter.

Then, without another word, Steve slipped her shortalls off completely, tossing them aside.

Marie’s eyes widened. “D-Daddy…?” she mumbled behind her bottle, her free hand instinctively tugging at the hem of her shirt to cover herself.

Steve’s smirk never wavered as he watched Marie’s fingers fidget with the hem of her shirt, her subconscious attempt to cover the swollen, soggy state of her diaper. It was adorable, really—how she still tried to be shy about something so inevitable.

With a slow, knowing shake of his head, he reached forward, effortlessly prying her hands away from the fabric and pinning them gently at her sides.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he cooed, tilting his head as his fingers trailed lightly over her exposed tummy. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Marie squirmed, her breath hitching as she clung to her bunny. “N-Nothing…” she mumbled behind the bottle, her voice barely above a whisper.

Steve chuckled, one hand drifting downward, his palm coming to rest on the thick, swollen front of her diaper. He gave it a firm but gentle pat, grinning as the squish beneath his hand confirmed just how soaked she was.

“Mmhmm,” he hummed knowingly, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “Doesn’t seem like nothing to me, princess. Looks like someone’s trying to hide her little soggy pampers from Daddy.”

Marie whimpered, her face practically glowing red as she tried to look anywhere but at him. But she didn’t pull away.

Steve sighed dramatically, shaking his head as if she had just said something completely ridiculous. “Now, now, you know better than that, don’t you?” He leaned in, brushing his lips against her forehead in a teasingly sweet gesture before continuing, his voice laced with condescension, but full of love.

“Toddlers don’t get to hide their diapers, sweetheart,” he murmured, his thumb lazily rubbing over the warm padding between her thighs. “Especially not when they’re this squishy.” Another squeeze, another tiny crinkle-squish that made Marie’s breath hitch. “That’s just part of being little. You don’t worry about things like that.”

Marie wriggled, gripping her bunny tighter. “B-But—”

“No buts, princess,” Steve interrupted smoothly, his hand still resting against her puffy diaper. “In fact…” He gave her bottom a few more pats, each one making the damp padding press snugger against her. “This makes Daddy’s job so much easier.”

Marie blinked, confused, peeking up at him shyly. “Wh-What do you mean?”

Steve smirked, his fingers trailing along the waistband of her diaper before slipping a single finger past the leg guard, pressing just enough to confirm what he already knew—she was absolutely soaked.

Marie squeaked, her whole body tensing as her legs snapped together.

Steve just chuckled. “See, little one?” He withdrew his hand and booped her nose, his voice thick with amusement. “No need for fussy diaper checks when my baby girl’s got nothing to hide.” His eyes flicked down to her exposed, swollen padding. “All Daddy has to do is look, and he knows when his little princess needs a fresh diapee.”

Marie whined, wriggling in place, the squishy warmth between her thighs making her feel even smaller under his teasing gaze.

“Besides,” Steve continued, his voice taking on a mock-serious tone as he gave her puffy bottom one last loving squeeze. “We wouldn’t want any leaks, would we?”

Marie bit her lip, shaking her head quickly. “N-No, Daddy…”

“That’s right,” Steve praised, reaching for her empty bottle and swapping it out with a fresh one. “Good girl.”

Marie reached for it instinctively, only hesitating when she realized the liquid inside wasn’t just plain water this time.

Steve caught her hesitation and smirked. “It’s a special juice mix, sweetheart,” he explained, tapping the side of the bottle. “A little apple, a little pear, and just a touch of a little something something.”

Marie’s stomach flipped. “B-But—”

“Hush,” Steve interrupted smoothly, slipping the bottle into her hands. “Just drink up like a good girl.”

[lilyinmysoul]

A Loving Feeling

QZ!Joel x F Reader

WC: 3k

Summary: Joel has a shit day, so he finds you to take his mind off of it.

Warnings: smut, piv, joel lowk uses reader (a little mean!joel bc of this), oral (m receiving), joel jorking it, dom!joel, yk what, sleazy joel too

Note: Another request fic, I wanted to finish this asap because I have too much studying to do, but half of this thing got deleted when I forgot to save, so I rewrote it aaanddd sorry if the second half looks rushed to you. It was. But I hope you at least somewhat enjoy it either way. If you do please reblog and send more requests mwahaha

The blood pumping in Joel’s ears aligned with the heavy vibration of his heart as it thumped against his chest. His footsteps were heavy as he ran, and when his feet would hit the ground, they were loud.

The mud was slick, and he did what he could not to fall. It would have helped to slow down, but he could not. The sky was getting too dark. There were muffled voices of FEDRA officers in the distance. He could hear the fuzzy sound of their radios as they updated each other on the unidentified smuggler running for his life through bushes and tunnels, ducking under pipes and hopping over cars. There were too many, and they were too close. He was in good shape, but it was in moments like these that he thought to himself, ‘I’m getting too old for this’.

The air was damp on his skin, the cool moisture mixed with the sweat on his face to overwhelm him further. He only knew that he couldn’t get caught. He needed to run, make it back to the tunnel, back home to his apartment. His mind couldn’t help but wander to all of the luxuries he always failed to appreciate until he wound up in the middle of nowhere, running like hell.

But, this wasn’t nowhere. No, he knew where he was, and there wasn’t much longer to go until he would duck soundlessly into a tunnel that led him back to the QZ, where he was free to go with time to spare before curfew. He could catch a shower, treat himself. He could smoke one of the cigarettes he had set aside for trading. He could surely use a fuck.

But now, he is panting even harder, his lungs starting to burn. It won’t be very long now, and the sounds of officers are fading into the rushing wind and the rustling of trees. The air is hitting his face almost violently, and his cheeks are surely redder than ever.

Joel’s speed has hindered by the time he dips behind a clearing and down a small hill, revealing to him the tunnel door, framed by leaves and vines. Breath heaving, his hot hand engulfs the cold metal knob and turns.

The air in the hallway is warm, stuffy, and moist. Despite having been through dozens of times, Joel still secures his mask over his face—the debris in the air looks like spores. He can’t be too sure.

His breath is still heavy as he walks, his lungs prickling as he holds back a cough. He tells himself that he won’t be doing any more late runs for a while.

When he steps, the sound reverberates off of the cracked concrete walls, and the hall seems to be empty, desolate. He doesn’t even hear the vicious groan of a runner—he is alone.

It feels like hours; the time it takes for Joel to pass through, from the empty and unfinished concrete halls and through fungus-coated rooms. He travels down the lift, emerges from behind the bookshelf and traipses tiredly through a final hallway, his breath steady now as he pulls off his mask, his muddy shoes leaving prints on the old tile of the building, and—oh, God, does the air feel good on his skin once he pushes open the double doors. The streets of the QZ are nothing particularly special, pleasant, or clean, but they are open. He’s breathing fresh air again, and he is safe.

Joel takes his time as he returns to his flat, and he doesn’t talk to anyone. His backpack is heavy and he is about ready to shrug it off, first chance he gets.

The streets are less busy in the evening, but people are still outside. Some smoke on street corners, others converse or clean. The occasional FEDRA officer will stroll along, shooting glances of distrust at inhabitants—Joel pays them no mind. His focus is on his home, what waits for him; not much, admittedly, but he will make do.

When he gets there, when he slides his key in the lock and closes the door behind him, he lets out a sigh of relief. His backpack is off first, then his shoes and socks. His sweat-stained flannel is peeled off of his damp skin next, and he unhooks his belt.

His first instinct is to chug a glass of water—so he does—and his second is to start running the shower. Joel enters the bathroom, his feet stepping onto the cold and battered linoleum. His clammy hand wraps around the old glass knob, and turns. The stream begins to pour, and he will soon find out if cold water is all he has in store today. It is rare that he can run a hot shower, for there are no new water heaters in an apocalypse. And his—along with that of virtually every other building—is a piece of shit.

Joel does not hesitate to shed his clothes. He pulls his dingy and faded white T-shirt over his head and tosses it carelessly on the floor. Next, he pops the button and pulls down the zipper of his jeans, dirt stained from the shin down. He has too much laundry to do. He’ll figure it out some other time.

Tugging down his boxers, he is finally bare. He runs a hand through his messy hair as he glances into the mirror at his appearance. He is disheveled and tired—more so than usual, his beard more overgrown and the lines on his forehead more prominent. Joel certainly feels older. He finds himself increasingly exhausted and his bones a bit more fragile, but his body is still defined by hours and days of labor—lifting, running, killing. He examines his abdomen, littered with scars and defined by a tough and tight pad of muscle. It’s no six pack, but he’s tough. From his belly button trails a line of hair that leads between his legs, a mess of curly strands that nobody has time to upkeep anymore. He runs a hand over his face and steps into the shower.

The water is cold—go figure—but, he’s just glad to have it at all. He needs to get clean after all this time; feel the sweat, grime, and dirt fade and wash away from his skin.

He submerges his head under the steady stream of water, rinsing away the filth. Joel has gotten used to the crisp and tingling feeling of cold water over time, and it has become a welcomed sensation. He’s had to learn to live with it, and it’s not too bad.

Joel scrubs at his skin with what’s left of his soap bar, dragging it along his arms, and then his legs. Suds form on his body—a sight he hadn’t seen in too long—and they wash away, gone as quickly as they’d come.

Soon enough, he was clean. He splashes his face with water, his hair fresh and dripping, his limbs cleaned with soap. He stands under the water a moment, and with either boredom or frustration—probably, a mix of both—his hand wanders down and takes hold of his cock. He sloppily circles a thumb over its tip and a finger down its base. For effect, his free hand splays over his abdomen and then moves down to cup his balls; and soon enough, he’s hard.

The water still beats down on his head as he gazes down at himself, the water working as slick as he strokes himself between two fingers.

Initially, his mind is empty, only registering the feeling of his movements and the stream of water on his shoulders. He lets himself relax, untensing his body. He feels a sore muscle in his arm twitch as he moves it up and down himself. Up and down… he feels, now, more pent up than anything. This isn’t enough.

Joel’s thoughts wander to you, and he wonders if you’re still awake. You surely are; it’s no later than eight. He thinks for a moment, contemplating. He debates whether it would be worth it, leaving his place and the comfort of his shower to seek you out at this hour. His hand is still stroking his cock.

Joel is pent up, and although he’s rather comfortable where he is, there isn’t anything he wants more now—after the day he’s had—than to fuck. The magazine in his top drawer certainly wouldn’t cut it. Both begrudgingly and eagerly—somehow at the same time—Joel shuts off the water.

With a towel from the floor, certainly unwashed, Joel dries off his body. He rubs his wet hair with the material, leaving it a damp and tousled sea of brown and grey. As he pats off whatever moisture from his skin that he can, he lets the towel fall to the floor before approaching his dresser.

He slides out the drawer, picking at random a T-shirt, pair of boxers, and some plaid pajama pants. One by one, he dresses in the faint light of his living room.

He steps into the boxers, pulling them up and hissing when he tucks his still-hard length into them. He is throbbing a little now, but he does his best to ignore it as he pulls his pants on over them. His T-shirt is last, and he hastily pulls on a pair of socks and slips on his shoes.

He scoops up his keys, and he’s gone. He clicks off the light behind him, locks the door, and sets off down the hallway. His feet tap dully on the carpet floors as he passes door after door—none of which were yours.

To get to your apartment, he’d need to take the stairs.

The stairwell air is stale and dusty, as always. He breathes in deeply anyway when he pushes open the door and begins his ascent up the steps. His legs are tired from his lack of sleep and their increase in activity, but he doesn’t pause. He counts one, two, three flights until he reaches your level, forcing the heavy door open and starting down your hallway.

He’s got it down, he knows where your flat is; but he still glances at the other room numbers, counting down to yours.

912, 913… 914.

Joel’s hollow fist raps on your door. The sound is firm, but not too loud. He doesn’t want to draw any attention, he wants you. ‘Get in, get out’, he tells himself.

He suspects you don’t hear him at first, so he raises his hand to knock again when you peep through the hole and open the door. You both look at each other for a moment; you’re wordless and run a hand through your hair.

“Hey.” You finally speak.

Joel doesn’t answer, stepping inside and kicking off his shoes. He closes the door behind him, turning the lock and glancing at your form as you lean back against the wall. He looks tired and restless at the same time, and it’s abundantly clear why he’s here. The two of you really only ever meet for one reason—which is fine by you—you just wish he’d stay a little longer.

“Hard day?” you ask.

A dry chuckle from Joel as he begins to remove his pants. He looks nice in the dim old lamp light. “Somethin’ like that.”

He approaches you as you rest against the cool wall, effectively trapping you against it and resting a hand on your hip. It rests there as his mouth assumes its position on your neck, kissing restlessly and eagerly.

“Tell me about it.” you insist.

“Got better things to do…” he replies, his lips moving rather fervently, and he assumes that you can feel his still-hard bulge against your front. It matters not. Joel’s hand rubs up and down your side before shifting its attention to your breast, kneading rather eagerly.

“But if you must know…” another kiss. “Got chased by a bunch’a FEDRA assholes. Got a good five miles of straight sprintin’.”

He doesn’t expect any kind of answer, and instead traps your lips against his. Joel’s mouth tastes vaguely like liquor, a tang that only strengthens when he pushes his tongue into your mouth. He seems to have so much energy and none at all, and clearly expects you to fix it.

His hand leaves your chest and finds yours, guiding it to the front of his dented boxers. “Feel that?” His question is rhetorical, and he follows up with, “And you know I’ve had a shitty day. Don’t have much time for this.”

With that, his attempts at working you up or growing the tension are gone. His hands find the button to your pants, and when he pops it open, you assist him, pushing down the fabric of your jeans and taking your underwear down next. Joel pulls on the plush fabric, hitching one of your legs over his hip and leading the panties down your legs and slyly tucking them into his back pocket. 

Once it’s all gone, your lower half is exposed and your core is glistening—it’s almost shameful, the things he does to you. You wrap an arm around him, pulling him close as he yanks on the waistband of his boxers, his red and ready cock springing against his clothed stomach and looking at you temptingly.

Joel doesn’t seem to have the restraint or the will to wait much longer, notching himself against you. A heavy breath escapes his lips and a hum from yours, as he gives your center a few slaps. It’s a nice feeling, but it isn’t enough—and he seems to realize that, too. When he rubs his cock against you a few more times, slickening himself between your thighs and he lets the tip rest right at your entrance, ready to plunge right in; and when your back arches slightly and your hips push forward with the contact, he finds his hips slowly pushing inward, and his eyes fall downward to watch as he disappears inside of you.

“Goddamn…” Joel mutters as his hips continue their movements. His movements are slow, but not measured. They aren’t controlled—he seems to lose himself in the feeling.

“Yeah…” he continues, one hand splayed upon your lower back and the other fastening your leg to his hip. His movements hasten, the feeling seeming to overwhelm his senses. He rests his chin on your head. “S’good. Real good, you lettin’ me have you whenever I need to.”

You don’t have an answer, or any kind of counter, it’s simply the truth. Even so, you wouldn’t be able to articulate a retort, anyway. The most you can offer is a pleasured hiss from between your teeth.

To accommodate the rising speed of his thrusts, he moves both hands to your hips. It’s up to you to keep your leg in place, and you do. Joel is concerned now only with his own pleasure, watching his cock appear and disappear into the warm, wet cavity between your thighs. The sensation is strong and tingling, splitting at the same time. Some kind of squeaking sound leaves the back of your throat and Joel chuckles gruffly, either at your noise or your disheveled appearance, your body rocking against the wall as he fucks you.

You hear a deep groan from Joel, the movements of his hips slightly more erratic, and his mumblings more frequent and audible. “Fuck…”

His quick and desperate thrusts slow to a stop when his muscles get too tight and he gets too close. He couldn’t cum in your pussy—it was absolutely off the table—but he liked your mouth. Anywhere was fine, but today, he needed it.

Joel slowly pulls out his cock, slowly retracting himself, his length wet with you and still very much hard.

“Knees?” Joel’s question is less of an ask than it is a command. He knows you’ll do it, and he is right, like always. Soon enough, his back is the one against the wall, and you’ve ducked down onto your knees in front of him. The hard wooden floor is a bit painful under them, but you don’t mind.

Like they often do, your eyes admire him, your eyes level with his red and leaking tip, a hand wrapping firmly around it as you look up at him.

His eyes are intense; eager and expectant like usual, and he can’t decipher whether you are gawking at or scrutinizing him, but either way, it’s taking too long. His big palm covers the back of your head, nudging your mouth closer to him before it encloses around his tip. He hisses when he feels the sweet contact of your lips, pushing still on the back of your head and shoving more of himself down your throat.

What you can’t take, you stroke with your hands, your excess saliva functioning as lubricant, the occasional drop dripping on the floor. Joel’s hand is still pushing at your head, fingers laced into your hair and it has taken an extraordinary amount of restraint not to gag.

“Oh, shit…” Joel’s grunts and groans only get louder, and you’re convinced that he only has the balls to make such sounds because he’s in your apartment, and it’ll be your neighbors who complain about his filthy noises. His fingers tense and his hand presses harder, his eyes gazing down at you as your mouth takes him resiliently.

“Fuck… ‘m close…” Joel grumbles. “Gonna cum so deep, y’wont even gotta swallow. Ah…”

And Joel does keep his promise—although not really a promise—when his hips rut one last time into your face before the spring inside him snaps, his balls emptying themselves into your throat, with only the slightest salty taste left in your mouth as he pulls out. With a few deep breaths and a tap of his softening cock on your lips, he tucks himself back into his boxers and stands from the wall.

You stand, too, and you both slide back on your clothes. As soon as his pants are back on, his shoes are, too, and the door is closed behind him.

You sigh and for a few moments, your eyes linger on the door before wandering back to your forgotten book on the table.

Thinking of adding a taglist, if you want on, let me know!

[sasheemo]

Knock Knot

Pairing: Alpha!Agatha x Omega!Reader

Summary: In the height of your heat, you find yourself at the mercy of the one Alpha you could never resist.

Tags: Omegaverse, Alpha/Omega Dynamics, Smut, Knotting, Breeding Kink, Porn Without Plot, First Omegaverse Attempt

Word count: 4.3k

A/N: Well ngl, this is a twist I didn’t see coming. Up until two weeks ago, I never would’ve imagined myself writing Omegaverse smut, but apparently, the universe (aka all the lovely humans that voted in the poll) had other plans. So, here I am, delivering what you asked for!

This is my first attempt at the genre, so I’d love to hear your thoughts! Be nice, though—or don’t, I can take it. If this goes over well, who knows? I might just write more. Enjoy! 💜

MASTERLIST

Read on AO3

You had underestimated your heat.

You should have known better. This isn’t your first time, but it’s unlike anything you’ve ever endured. The faint hum in your belly started four days ago, a subtle, manageable thrum—or so you thought. 

By the second day, the ache became unbearable. The suppressants you decided to rely on seem to be useless, failing to dull the relentless fire spreading through your core. Your scent has saturated your home, thick and cloying, clinging to every surface. No amount of pacing or distraction able to smother the inferno roaring inside you.

You’ve done everything to stay hidden—locked every door, shut every window tight, and isolated yourself in the living room, far from prying eyes. But the ache isn’t a dull pulse anymore. It’s a living, breathing thing, clawing at you with every passing moment. It’s not just release your body craves. It’s an Alpha.

And not just any Alpha.

The thought alone sends a fresh wave of heat rolling through you. Her scent haunts your senses, rich and spiced, lingering even in memory. Agatha Harkness isn’t just commanding, she’s overwhelming, the kind of Alpha who can ruin you with a single glance. You’ve crossed paths at coven meetings and social gatherings, but you’ve always avoided her sharp, knowing eyes. 

She has a way of looking at you that makes you feel stripped bare, vulnerable. And you hate her for it. You hate how small she makes you feel. But now, with your body betraying you, she’s all you can think about.

The knock comes softly at first, almost hesitant, but it slices through the quiet house like a thunderclap. You stop mid-step, your frantic pacing halted as the sound reverberates through the air. Your pulse pounds in your ears, drowning out the oppressive silence that had been your only companion for days.

Another knock follows, firmer this time. “Open the door.” a voice calls, equally smooth and firm, its authority impossible to ignore.

Agatha.

Your breath catches, panic blooming in your chest as her scent seeps through the door, heady and intoxicating even from outside. You press your back against the wall, trying to ground yourself, but it’s no use.

“I know you’re in there, Omega.” she calls again, her tone silk-wrapped steel. “Don’t make me break this door down.”

Her words send a shiver down your spine, your hands trembling as instinct overpowers logic. Before you can stop yourself, you’re gripping the handle, the cool metal slick under your palm. The door creaks open, and there she is.

Agatha stands in the doorway, her icy blue eyes locking onto yours like a predator sizing up its prey. Her presence fills the space instantly, her scent flooding your senses with an unbearable intensity. Her lips curl into an alluring smile, dark and confident.

“Did you really think you could hide from me?” she asks, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation.

You step back instinctively, your pulse hammering in your chest. 

“I… I didn’t—” The words stick in your throat, faltering under the weight of her gaze.

“You didn’t what?” she cuts in, kicking the door shut behind her with a resounding thud. “Didn’t think I’d notice?” Her eyes rake over you, lingering on your flushed cheeks and trembling thighs. “Your scent’s been calling to me for hours, Omega. I could smell you from down the street.”

Your knees wobble, heat pooling low in your belly as her words sink in. “You shouldn’t be here…” you say, though your voice holds no conviction.

Her smirk widens as she takes another step forward, deliberate and unhurried. 

“Oh, but I should.” she murmurs, her tone laced with amusement. “Look at you. You’re drowning in your own heat. Did you really think you could handle this on your own?”

“I just—I didn’t think you would—” you stammer shaking your head, retreating another step as her scent wraps around you like a vice.

“But I do.” she interjects, tilting her head slightly as she studies you. Her eyes gleam with something dark, something that makes your stomach twist in knots. “I’ve been waiting for this. And now, you’re mine to handle.”

You swallow hard, panic and desperation clawing at your chest. “I don’t… Agatha, I can’t—”

“You can’t what?” she cuts in once again, the sound of her steps making your heart stutter as she closes the distance between you. “Admit you need me? Tell me, little Omega, should I leave?”

The words hang in the air, heavy and suffocating. You open your mouth to speak, but no sound comes out. The truth feels uncomfortable, but so does the thought of her walking away.

“That’s what I thought.” she says, her smirk sharpening as she her presence presses against you, her scent overwhelming, and you stumble backward.

Your thighs hit the edge of the couch, and the sudden shift in balance forces you to sink onto the cushions, your hands instinctively clutching the armrest to steady yourself. The air between you thickens as Agatha steps closer, her legs brushing against yours.

Her gaze sweeps over you, dark and assessing, the weight of it alone making your breath hitch. Slowly, she leans in, saturating every corner of your awareness. Her hand rises to cup your cheek, her thumb brushing the curve of your jaw with an almost maddening slowness.

“You’re such a mess, Omega.” she murmurs, her voice low and rough, just above a whisper. Her fingers trace the line of your jaw, trailing down to the sensitive skin of your neck. “So soft. So warm. Just sitting here, waiting for me to make it better.”

Your breath stutters as her other hand settles firmly on your thigh, her grip possessive. Her thumb starts to draw slow, soothing circles, the sensation igniting a fresh wave of heat low in your belly. You whimper despite yourself, and her lips curl into a satisfied grin.

She leans closer, her nose brushing against your temple, then lower, tracing the line of your cheek as her fingers tighten their hold. 

“This is where you belong.” she murmurs, her lips ghosting over the corner of your mouth. “Right here. Under me.”

Your thighs tremble beneath her touch, your body betraying you completely as her knee presses between your legs with unrelenting firmness, urging them wider, allowing her to take her rightful place between them. 

Her closeness makes your instincts take over, and your head tilts back, exposing the delicate, vulnerable curve of your throat to her predatory gaze.

She doesn’t waste the invitation. Her teeth graze your earlobe first, then drag lower, scraping against your pulse point as you shudder. Her grip tightens on your thigh, grounding you, holding you exactly where she wants you. When her lips finally press against the curve of your neck, the sensation sends a jolt through you, your gasp echoing softly in the still air.

“Fuck, you smell divine.” she murmurs against your skin, her voice tinged with reverence. Her tongue flicks out, tasting the salty sheen of sweat on your skin, and you whimper, the sound breaking into soft, frustrated whines that only seem to spur her on.

“Say it.” she commands, her voice firm, dripping with authority. “Tell me what you want.”

Your breath hitches as both her hands come to rest on your hips, her grip firm and unrelenting, sending a clear message that resistance is not an option.

“I can’t do this alone, Agatha…” you gasp, your voice cracking as your head falls back against the couch.

Her eyes roam over your features, their intensity pinning you in place. 

“That’s not enough.” she scoffs, her fingers digging into your hips with a possessive pressure that makes your breath hitch. “If you want me, Omega, you’re going to have to beg like you mean it.”

Shame flares hot in your cheeks, but it’s quickly overshadowed by the smoldering heat coiling deep within you. Your body trembles as the words burst from your lips, raw and unfiltered.

“Please, Agatha, fill me.” you gasp, your voice cracking as your hips shift against her grip, desperate for relief. “I need you to fuck me until I can’t think, until I can’t even stand.”

Her smirk falters, her pupils dilating as she leans in closer, her breath hot against your lips.

“Keep going.” she murmurs, her voice rough and dripping with hunger. “Let me hear how desperate you really are.”

Your body arches into her as the heat claws at your senses. 

“I want you to knot me so hard I feel it for days.” you sob, your hands clutching at her shirt as the words rush out of you, like a river surging past its banks, drowning everything in its path. “I want to feel every inch of you, every thrust. I want you to fill me so completely it drips out of me every time I move.”

Her growl comes immediately, vibrating deep in her chest as her lips skim along your jaw, hot and possessive. One hand slides lower, her touch purposeful, searing. 

“Fuck, Omega.” she hisses. “You’re so pretty when you beg.”

You don’t stop. You can’t stop. Her words fuel you, each one stoking the fire in your core, her need blending seamlessly with your own, leaving no room for restraint.

“Please, breed me.” you plead, your voice trembling as tears begin to blur your vision. “I want you to keep going until I’m so full of you I can’t take it anymore.”

Her grip on your hips tightens instantly at your words, her nails carving crescent marks into your skin as her chest rises and falls in ragged, heaving breaths. 

“You want me to breed you?” she snarls, her voice low and feral. “You want everyone to know that pretty cunt of yours belongs to me? That you belong to me?”

“Yes!” you cry, your gaze locking onto hers with unflinching intensity. Desire blazes in your eyes, bold and shameless now, challenging her to claim everything you’re offering. “I’ll take everything, Agatha. All of you. I’ll be yours.”

The last shred of her control snaps.

“Prove it to me, Omega. Every. Last. Word.” she growls against your lips, her voice shaking with the weight of her need.

You don’t even have time to process her words before her lips crash against yours, fierce and unyielding. Her tongue claims yours immediately, delving deep as if she’s devouring every ounce of your desperation. The kiss is all hunger and possession, leaving no room for gentleness. And you wouldn’t have it any other way.

Her teeth graze your lower lip before sinking in just enough to draw a sharp gasp from you. The sting sends a shiver racing down your spine, your breath hitching as her hands begin to roam your body with deliberate intent. One slips beneath your top, her fingers brushing against heated skin as she drags the fabric upward.

“Arms up.” she commands, her voice velvety, demanding obedience without question.

You obey instinctively, trembling as she pulls the fabric over your head and tosses it aside without a second thought. 

Her eyes take on an even deeper shade as they sweep over your exposed skin, lingering shamelessly on the curve of your breasts. Her lips part slightly, her tongue darting out to wet them as if savoring the sight, and the way her gaze tracks your every breath makes your chest heave even harder under her scrutiny.

“You’re just… perfect.” she murmurs, her voice a hushed reverence laced with hunger. 

One hand ghosts over your skin before pinching a sensitive nipple between her fingers, catching you off guard with the sharp jolt of sensation. The other trails downward with intent, her fingers brushing against the waistband of your pants as a wicked smirk tugs at her lips.

“Agatha” you whimper, your voice trembling as your hands pull more insistently at the fabric of her shirt. “Please, I—”

The words die in your throat as her hand slips lower, cupping you through the damp fabric of your underwear. The pressure makes you cry out, your hips bucking against her palm.

“Look at you…” she murmurs, her voice thick with smug satisfaction, the edge of mockery sharpening her words as her fingers press harder, the friction sending sparks through your body. “So wet, so needy… you’ve been aching for this for days, haven’t you?”

You nod frantically, your teeth sinking into your trembling lower lip in a futile attempt to stifle the lustful sounds spilling from your throat. Your eyes are glassy with unspoken pleas, the sheer effort to contain yourself only makes your surrender all the more obvious.

She chuckles darkly, her lips trailing down your neck to your collarbone. 

“Poor little Omega.” she murmurs against your skin, her teeth grazing the sensitive flesh. “But I’m here now, and you’re finally going to get what you need.”

Her hands move quickly, tugging your pants and underwear down in one fluid motion, leaving you completely bare beneath her. The cool air against your heated skin makes you shiver, but it’s nothing compared to the intensity of her gaze as she takes you in.

“You have no idea what you do to me…” she says softly, her voice filled with quiet awe as her hands slide up your thighs, spreading them apart.

A loud moan tears from your lips, your cheeks burning as her fingers trail boldly against your slick heat, exploring your folds with an almost cruel precision, testing and teasing until your breath comes in shallow, broken pants.

“Gods” she groans, her voice rough and strained as she pushes two fingers inside you. The stretch pulls a sharp gasp from your lips, the burn of it melting into a rush of pleasure that has your thighs trembling. Your body clenches around her instinctively, and the sound she makes is a primal, dangerous growl. 

She sets a slow, unrelenting rhythm, each thrust dragging a broken moan from your throat as pressure builds deep in your core. 

“Your body’s screaming for me to fill you.” she whispers, her words dripping with anticipation, almost lost in thought, as if she’s speaking more to herself than to you. There’s a raw wonder in her eyes as her fingers curl deeper, savoring the way your walls tighten around her, imagining how much more you’ll give her.

“F-fuck, Agatha! Please, please I can’t take it anymore!” you cry, your hips bucking against her hand.

Agatha doesn’t waste another second. She pulls her fingers away suddenly, leaving you whining and gasping for relief. With feral growl, she grabs your thighs and pulls you forward, dragging your hips to the very edge of the couch. Her strength leaves you breathless, the suddenness of her movements forcing a sharp gasp from your lips.

“You’re going to take every inch of me.” she snarls, her voice rough and dripping with authority. “Every inch, every thrust, until you can’t think about anything but how good it feels to be mine.”

Her words make you shudder, your head tipping back as your eyes flutter shut, her fingers digging into the flesh of your thighs with a bruising grip that promises vivid reminders on your skin for days to come.

“Look at me.” she orders, her grip tightening further as if daring you to disobey.

Your eyes snap open, meeting hers, dark and wild with need. It doesn’t look like she’s going to let you get away with anything less than complete submission.

“That’s better.” she growls, her voice edged with control as her lips curl into predatory grin. “Now, keep your eyes on me while I ruin you.”

She doesn’t bother undressing fully, her movements urgent and almost frantic as her fingers fumble with the clasp of her pants. She impatiently tugs them down just enough to free herself, the fabric pooling loosely around her hips. The sheer tension in her body is palpable, every motion speaking to a need barely held in check.

The sight of her hard cock steals the air from your lungs. Thick and flushed, a bead of precum glistens at the tip, catching the dim light as she wraps a firm hand around herself, stroking once to spread the slickness. 

The way she towers over you, every part of her commanding and unapologetically Alpha, leaves you trembling in anticipation.

“Spread those legs wider.” she orders, her tone resolute, demanding. “I want to see all of you. Don’t you dare hide from me.”

You obey, trembling as her tip brushes against your entrance, teasingly sliding through the slickness that coats you. Her cock glides up and down your folds, unhurried, pausing just long enough to make you ache for more. She taps it lightly against your clit, drawing a sharp gasp from your lips, before sliding lower, the head pressing briefly against your entrance only to retreat again, trailing back up with maddening slowness.

The deliberate rhythm has you squirming beneath her, every teasing stroke sending shivers through your body. Her cock catches on every ridge, every sensitive spot, heightening the unbearable tension with each pass. 

When she finally aligns herself, her tip presses firmly, and with one slow, unyielding push, she begins to sink in, the stretch immediate and all-consuming, setting every nerve in your body alight.

“Fuck” she groans, her voice thick as her hips roll forward, driving herself deeper. “So warm… so fucking tight. You were made for this, made for me.”

You cry out, your nails digging into the couch cushions as she fills you completely, the heat overwhelming as your body struggles to accommodate her.

“That’s it.” she growls, her hands sliding up to grip your hips. “Take all of it. I want you to feel how deep I am, how fucking good it feels to be full of me.”

She picks up her pace, and the sound of her hips colliding with yours echoes through the room, harsh and rhythmic, mingling with the wet, obscene noises that accompany every thrust.

“You hear that?” she asks, her voice dripping with satisfaction as her nails bite into your skin. “That sound—that’s what it means to belong to me.”

“Ag—oh, fuck!” you whimper, your voice cracking as your head falls back, your body trembling under her assault.

“Say it!” she snaps, her teeth grazing your jaw before biting down hard enough to make you gasp. “Say my fucking name.”

“Agatha!” you cry, your voice pitching higher as her hips drive forward with a ferocity that leaves you gasping for air. Each thrust buries her deeper, the growing swell of her knot pressing insistently against your entrance, stretching you further with every punishing movement. 

The sheer intensity of it sends a fresh wave of arousal pooling between your thighs, the undeniable slickness amplifying the pleasure that teeters dangerously on the edge of unbearable.

“Scream it louder, Omega! I want the whole fucking street to hear who owns you.” she growls, her voice a low rumble as her lips find your neck, sucking hard enough to leave a mark.

You sob her name, your nails clawing at her back as she shifts her angle, the new position sending a jolt of pleasure so intense that stars dance behind your eyes.

“You’re taking me so well, like you were made for my cock. Like you were made to be mine.” she groans, her thrusts becoming messier, rougher. Her hips slam into yours mercilessly as her hands slide to the back of your knees, pinning you in place. 

“I’m yours, Agatha. Only yours.” you cry, your body arching into hers, chasing the heat that coils tighter and tighter in your core.

Her left hand slides between your bodies, her fingers finding the most sensitive part of you as she circles it with brutal precision. The wet slap of skin against skin grows louder, the sound mixing with your cries and her deep, guttural groans.

The added pressure on your throbbing clit sends a jolt through your entire body, making your walls flutter and clench around her cock. Her rhythm starts to falter, thrusts turning erratic as her groans deepen into primal, animalistic grunts, vibrating against your neck as her need consumes her.

The knot at her base swells even more, pressing insistently at your entrance, stretching you impossibly wide. The sensation is overwhelming, the perfect mix of pleasure and pain, and you can’t take it anymore.

Your voice, breathless and desperate, breaks through her haze, each word drenched in urgency. 

“Oh fuck, yes! Give it to me, Agatha.” you plead, your hands clutching at her shoulders as your gaze locks onto hers, unflinching and shameless. “I need you to fill me up, please.”

The words obliterate the last fragile threads of her restraint. Agatha’s body seizes above you, her hips snapping forward in one final, devastating thrust that buries her completely inside you. 

The knot locks into place, stretching you to your limit as she comes with a deep, feral growl. Her cock pulses inside you, thick and hot, each wave of her release filling you so completely it feels like it could spill over.

And the sudden fullness, combined with the steady friction on your clit, triggers something deep inside you. The sensation is intoxicating, unbearable in its intensity, and it sends your body spiraling out of control. You cry out as your climax washes over you, violent and unrestrained, your walls squeezing around her, greedily milking her until there’s nothing left to give. 

“Fuck!” Agatha snarls, her voice shaking as your body reacts to her. Her hands grip your waist tightly, her fingers digging into your skin as she rides out the intensity of her own release, her hips jerking involuntarily with each pulse. “That’s it. That’s my good Omega.”

Your hips roll instinctively against hers, desperate to take everything she’s giving you. Her cock, her knot, her cum, her words, her growls—it’s all so overwhelming, you feel like you might pass out from the sheer intensity of it.

“You feel that?” she murmurs against your ear, her voice weak and wrecked, yet still dripping with dominance. “That’s me, filling you. Breeding you. And you’re taking it so perfectly.

Her words push you even higher. Your moans break into breathless cries, and your vision blurs, a single tear slipping down your cheek as the overwhelming sensation consumes you entirely, leaving you trembling and undone beneath her.

Agatha keens softly, her lips brushing against the sensitive skin of your neck as her body finally stills.

“You’re mine.” she whispers, her voice gentler now as her knot remains locked inside you, keeping her warmth exactly where it belongs.

The aftershocks ripple through you both, your body still clenching around her knot as you collapse back against the couch. Her hands roam over your thighs, soothing and grounding, as her lips press a lingering kiss to your temple.

You remain still for a few minutes, basking in the lingering haze of passion as the intensity of the moment refuses to fade. Agatha’s knot starts to soften, each slow shift of her hips pulling a satisfied whine from her lips as she moves, her careful withdrawal drawing a wince from you at the residual stretch. 

The slick, wet sensation of her release slipping free leaves you shivering, a warm gush spilling from your core and pooling beneath you in a sinful mess.

Agatha leans back slightly, her gaze sharp and intense as she takes in the sight of you—completely wrecked, your chest heaving, your skin flushed, and her cum dripping from you. A satisfied smirk curls her lips, and she reaches out, her fingers dragging lazily through the mess she’s made.

“Look at you.” she murmurs, her voice rough with satisfaction. “So pretty. So fucking full.”

You flinch at the overstimulation, your body twitching under her touch, but you’re too spent to move away. Despite yourself, your thighs clench involuntarily, a traitorous reaction that doesn’t escape her notice. She chuckles darkly, an indulgent sound dripping with pride, as if savoring the proof of how thoroughly she’s unraveled you.

Her fingers glide higher, smearing the evidence of her claim over your inner thighs. Her half-lidded eyes lock onto yours, and the insatiable lust simmering just beneath the surface makes your throat go dry. 

“That’s mine, Omega.” she murmurs, her voice low and reverent, each word rolling over you like a caress. “Every single drop.”

Her hand lingers, tracing the sticky trail she’s left behind, and she leans down, her lips brushing a firm kiss to the curve of your hip. 

“Could watch you like this all night.” she purrs, her tone dripping with admiration. “My perfect, ruined little Omega.”

A soft, pleading sound escapes your throat as your hand snakes down to grip her wrist. The longing in your gaze is undeniable, your swollen lips parting as if to say something, but no words come. Instead, you tug her toward you with surprising force, crashing your lips against hers in a kiss that’s nothing short of a necessity. It’s gentle, yet fervent, your teeth grazing her bottom lip as your nails dig into her skin.

For a moment, Agatha freezes, her surprise palpable. Then, as if spurred by instinct, she returns the kiss with equal fervor, her tongue sweeping past your lips to claim you all over again. 

Her hand slides up to cradle the back of your head, angling you deeper into the kiss as she presses her body closer, her dominance bleeding through even in her response.

When she finally pulls back, her mouth remains slightly parted, her breath coming in shallow, uneven draws as she gazes down at you. Her eyes glint with wicked promise, and her lips glisten with the remnants of your kiss.  

“Rest now.” she mutters, her voice softer than you’ve ever heard it, yet still carrying the weight of her authority. “You’ll need your strength… I’m nowhere near done with you.”

[ijustmissyouraccenths]

A Real Good Doctor

Where Y/N is running and hurts herself but there happens to be a doctor who can help.

Doctor Harry

Word count: 5,108

Content Warning: Falling, blood, stitches.

Y/N pulls open the door to her flat, stepping into the dimly lit hallway. The air inside is warm, carrying the familiar scent of polished wood and faint traces of someone’s morning coffee. She moves quickly down the stairs, her footsteps light against the worn steps. Outside, she knows the city is already awake, but for now, the building is quiet, save for the occasional creak of a door opening on another floor.

As she reaches the lobby, she spots the doorman standing near the entrance, his hands tucked into the pockets of his navy-blue coat. His expression is neutral but kind, a hint of familiarity in the way he straightens slightly at her approach.

“Morning,” she says with a small smile.

“Morning, Miss Y/N. Enjoy your run.”

She nods in thanks before pushing through the heavy glass door. The crisp morning air greets her instantly, cool against her skin but not unpleasant. The street outside is alive with the early stirrings of the city. Cars pass in steady streams, their tires hissing over the damp pavement. The scent of brewing coffee drifts from a cart stationed on the corner, mingling with the faint metallic tang of the lingering morning chill.

She takes a deep breath, stretching her arms overhead before adjusting her sleeves. The city feels different in the morning—calmer, quieter, yet still thrumming with an energy that never quite fades. With one last roll of her shoulders, she takes off at a steady pace, her footsteps blending seamlessly into the rhythm of New York waking up around her.

The wind is chilly as Y/N picks up her pace, the cool air biting at her cheeks as she moves through the city streets. Her breaths come evenly, her body warming with each stride. The rhythm of her footsteps against the pavement is steady, matching the hum of New York around her.

She turns a corner, then another, cutting through familiar side streets where the crowds are thinner. The scent of fresh bread wafts from a bakery as she passes, blending with the ever-present aroma of exhaust and damp pavement. A few early risers sip their coffee at outdoor tables, bundled in light jackets, their conversations a quiet murmur beneath the city’s morning soundtrack.

Her pace quickens, muscles fully awake now as she pushes herself into a full run. The energy of the city fuels her, the blur of storefronts and passing faces barely registering as she weaves between pedestrians. A man in a suit steps aside just in time, his coffee sloshing dangerously in its cup as she brushes past. She dodges a woman walking her dog, then sidesteps a slow-moving couple engrossed in conversation.

The wind rushes past her, her pulse pounding in her ears. She barely notices the slight unevenness in the sidewalk until it is too late.

Y/N’s sneaker catches on a crack in the pavement, the sudden jolt sending a sharp shock through her body. For a split second, she thinks she might be able to steady herself, her arms flinging out in a desperate attempt to regain balance. But gravity is faster.

Her stomach flips as she stumbles forward, her footing completely lost. The world tilts around her, the blur of passing faces and city movement twisting into a mess of colors. A sharp gasp escapes her lips as she realizes there is no way to stop it—she is going down.

The impact comes fast. Her knee slams against the rough pavement first, sending a searing pain up her leg. Her palms hit next, scraping against the cold, unforgiving concrete. The force of the fall knocks the breath from her lungs, leaving her stunned for a moment as she blinks at the ground beneath her.

Pain throbs instantly through her knee, a sharp, burning sensation that spreads as she slowly lifts her hands. The rough asphalt has left angry red scrapes on her skin, and when she looks down, she sees blood beginning to pool around a deep gash in her knee, staining the torn fabric of her leggings.

A mix of frustration and embarrassment bubbles up in her chest as she presses a shaky hand against her wound. Around her, the city moves on, pedestrians barely giving her a second glance as they continue on their way. She takes a slow breath, wincing as she shifts her leg, trying to assess the damage.

Y/N barely has time to catch her breath before she hears footsteps slowing near her. A shadow falls over her, and when she looks up, she sees a man standing just a few feet away. He is dressed in an athletic outfit—black running shorts, a moisture-wicking long-sleeve top, and a pair of well-worn trainers. His hair is neatly styled, not too short but nowhere near long, and his face is flushed, likely from his own run. There is a slight crease between his brows, his green eyes sharp with concern as he looks down at her.

“Hey, are you alright?” he asks, his voice steady but gentle.

Y/N’s face flushes instantly with embarrassment. The last thing she wants is attention, especially from a stranger, especially in the middle of a New York sidewalk. She quickly nods, brushing a few strands of hair away from her face as she shifts her weight.

“I’m fine,” she says, forcing a small, tight-lipped smile.

He does not look convinced. His gaze flickers down to her knee, where blood is steadily pooling around the torn fabric of her leggings, staining the pavement beneath her.

“That doesn’t look fine,” he says, crouching down beside her.

Before she can protest, his hands are already reaching out. He is careful but firm as he gently pulls her leg forward, his fingers wrapping around her calf to steady her. The touch is warm even through the thin layer of fabric. Y/N sucks in a sharp breath, her knee throbbing under the new angle.

“It’s not that bad,” she insists, though the pain tells her otherwise.

He lets out a quiet scoff, tilting his head as he inspects the wound. “You’re probably going to need stitches,” he says, his tone matter-of-fact. “That’s deep. You’ll need a real good doctor to fix you up.”

Y/N shakes her head, already knowing where this is going. “I’ll be fine,” she says again, this time a little firmer. “I can clean it up myself.”

He exhales through his nose, clearly unconvinced. “You should really go to a hospital,” he tells her.

She hesitates before admitting, “I can’t really afford to go to the hospital.”

That makes him pause. His grip on her leg loosens slightly, and for a brief moment, there is something unreadable in his expression. Then, he nods as if he has already made up his mind about something.

“You’re in luck,” he says, his lips quirking into the hint of a smile. “I happen to be a doctor.”

Y/N blinks up at him, her breath still uneven from the fall. She had not expected that. He does not look like a doctor—not in the way she imagined one. His athletic gear, his flushed cheeks from running, the casual confidence in his stance—it all feels too relaxed, too effortless. But there is something about the way he speaks, the calm certainty in his voice, that makes her believe him.

She nods, still slightly dazed. “Oh. Okay.”

He glances back down at her knee, assessing the steady trickle of blood seeping through the torn fabric of her leggings. “My apartment is just around the corner,” he tells her. “I can stitch you up.”

She hesitates, her mind briefly flashing to all the reasons why following a stranger home in New York City is not the best idea. But then she looks at him again—the steady, unshaken way he watches her, the kindness in his eyes, the quiet authority in his voice. Something tells her he is not lying, and right now, with her knee throbbing and blood pooling onto the pavement, she does not have many options.

“Alright,” she agrees, her voice quieter now.

He does not waste any time. Shrugging off his long-sleeve athletic shirt, he kneels down in front of her, gently lifting her leg to wrap the fabric around her knee. His movements are efficient but careful, making sure to apply just enough pressure to slow the bleeding without hurting her more than necessary. Up close, she notices the way his jaw tightens in concentration, the faint sheen of sweat on his forehead from his run.

“This should help for now,” he says, securing the makeshift bandage.

She watches as he straightens, rolling his shoulders back slightly now that he is left in just a fitted short-sleeve undershirt. He reaches out a hand. “Come on, let’s get you to a bench.”

She lets him help her up, wincing as she puts weight on her injured leg. His grip is steady as he guides her toward a nearby bench, keeping a firm hold on her arm to make sure she does not stumble again.

“Sit tight,” he says once she is settled. “I’ll pull my car around.”

Y/N watches as he jogs toward the street, her fingers gripping the bloodied fabric tied around her knee. The city moves around her, indifferent to the small moment unfolding between them. The pain is still there, pulsing through her leg, but it is dulled now by the strange realization that, somehow, she has just been saved by a man she had never seen before.

A sleek black Range Rover pulls up to the curb, the engine purring softly as it slows to a stop. Y/N watches as the doctor steps out, moving around the front of the car with quick, purposeful strides. He opens the passenger door, offering her his hand.

“Come on,” he says, his voice steady but still carrying that edge of concern.

She takes his hand, gripping it tightly as he helps her stand. The pain in her knee flares when she shifts her weight, but he is there, keeping her steady as she eases herself into the plush leather seat. As soon as she settles in, she notices it—the scent lingering in the car. It smells good, clean, and warm, a mix of something woodsy and fresh. It smells like him.

The door shuts with a solid click, and moments later, he is sliding into the driver’s seat beside her. His tattooed hands grip the wheel effortlessly, the ink on his skin stark against the dim morning light filtering through the windshield.

The car moves smoothly down the street, the hum of the city slipping into the background as they drive. Y/N exhales, glancing down at her knee, still wrapped in his makeshift bandage.

“Thank you,” she says after a moment. “And… sorry.”

His eyes flick toward her briefly before returning to the road. “What are you sorry for?”

She shrugs, feeling suddenly self-conscious. “For ruining your run. For bleeding all over your shirt. For making you do… all of this.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “I think I’ll survive.”

She smiles faintly, relaxing just a little before realizing something. She turns her head to look at him, studying the sharp angles of his face, the way his brows stay slightly furrowed in concentration.

“I never got your name,” she admits.

He glances at her again, this time holding her gaze for just a second longer. Then, with a slight smirk, he says, “It’s Harry.”

“Y/N,” she tells him, her voice softer now as she watches him navigate the busy street with ease.

Harry nods once, like he is committing it to memory. “Nice to meet you, Y/N. Even under these circumstances.”

A few minutes later, the car slows as he pulls up to a brick-front flat on a quieter street. The Range Rover eases to a stop, and before Y/N can even think about how she is going to get inside without making a mess, Harry is already out of the car.

She watches as he jogs around to her side, moving with effortless speed. The moment he swings open the door, his hands are on her again—gentle but firm as he helps her maneuver out of the seat.

“There are a few stairs,” he says, glancing toward the entrance. His brows furrow slightly before he looks back at her. “Is it alright if I pick you up?”

Y/N hesitates, glancing toward the short staircase leading up to the door. She appreciates the question, at least. “I think I can make it.”

He tilts his head slightly, unconvinced. “You’re already in pain. No need to make it worse.”

She exhales, feeling slightly guilty. “I feel really bad,” she admits, her fingers still gripping the fabric tied around her knee.

Harry just smirks as he bends down slightly. “Consider it the weight-lifting portion of my workout,” he says before sliding an arm beneath her legs and the other around her back.

Before she can protest, he lifts her with surprising ease, holding her securely against his chest. Her hands instinctively grip onto his shoulders as he starts toward the flat, climbing the steps effortlessly.

“You’re way too good at this,” she mutters, the heat creeping up her neck only half due to the fact that she is being carried by a complete stranger.

Harry chuckles, the sound deep and warm. “I’d be a pretty shit doctor if I wasn’t, wouldn’t I?”

Harry reaches the door and carefully sets Y/N down just long enough to unlock it. The key turns with a quiet click, and he pushes the door open before turning back to her. Without hesitation, he scoops her up again, his grip just as steady as before, and carries her inside.

The flat is warm and inviting, a mix of modern and lived-in. The scent of something clean and vaguely citrusy lingers in the air. Large windows let in the morning light, casting a soft glow over the neutral-colored furniture and shelves lined with books and small personal items.

He moves effortlessly through the space, bringing her over to the couch and gently lowering her onto the cushions. He makes sure she is comfortable before stepping away, disappearing toward a nearby closet. She listens as he rummages through supplies, the sound of cabinets opening and closing before he returns, his arms full.

He sets everything down on the coffee table—gauze, antiseptic, a needle, thread, and medical tape, along with a few other tools she does not want to look at too closely. Without a word, he heads into the kitchen. Y/N hears the faucet running and the rustle of paper towels being pulled from a roll. A moment later, he is back, hands now washed, rolling up the sleeves of his undershirt as he kneels in front of her.

“Alright,” he murmurs, his voice calm as he gently lifts her leg, propping it up to get a better look at the wound. His fingers brush against her skin, warm against the chill that still lingers from her time outside. His expression is unreadable as he assesses the gash, but she can tell he is already figuring out exactly what needs to be done.

“This is going to sting a little,” he warns, reaching for the antiseptic. “But you’re tough, right?”

Y/N exhales, bracing herself. “Guess we’re about to find out.”

Y/N gasps sharply as the antiseptic makes contact with her wound, the sharp sting shooting up her leg. Her fingers grip the edge of the couch cushion, her jaw tightening as she exhales through the pain.

“Sorry,” Harry murmurs, his voice smooth and steady as he works. “Just a little longer.”

She nods quickly, focusing on her breathing as he continues dabbing at the cut with practiced precision. Despite the pain, she cannot help but notice how careful he is, how his hands are steady and sure, never lingering more than they need to.

After a moment, the burn starts to fade, and she watches as he reaches for a small vial, squeezing a bit of clear liquid onto a cotton swab. “This’ll help numb it a little,” he tells her. “Should make the stitches easier.”

She hums in acknowledgment, watching as he gently applies the numbing agent with slow, deliberate movements. His fingertips press lightly against her skin, ensuring it spreads evenly. It tingles at first, then gradually, the pain dulls into something distant.

Harry sits back slightly, rolling his shoulders before grabbing the needle and thread. He glances up at her, a hint of amusement flickering in his expression. “Now, I won’t lie to you. This might still hurt a little,” he says, pulling the thread through the needle’s eye with an easy familiarity. “But I’ve been told I’m really good at this.”

Y/N swallows, her eyes drifting to his hands as he prepares the first stitch. His movements are fluid, effortless, as if he has done this a hundred times before—which, of course, he probably has.

Her gaze shifts up, taking him in properly for the first time. His features are sharp but not unkind, his jawline defined, his lips slightly parted in concentration. There is something about the way his brows furrow slightly as he focuses, the way his green eyes flicker between the wound and his hands with such quiet confidence.

He is attractive. Really attractive.

She feels a warmth creep up her neck that has nothing to do with the numbing agent. Of all the people who could have found her bleeding on the sidewalk, it had to be a ridiculously good-looking doctor with tattooed arms and a quiet charm.

“You alright?” Harry asks, glancing up at her just as he prepares to make the first stitch.

Y/N blinks, quickly pulling herself from her thoughts. She nods, clearing her throat. “Yeah. Just… watching.”

His lips twitch slightly, like he knows exactly what she was doing. “Well, try not to stare too hard,” he teases. “Wouldn’t want to distract me while I’ve got a needle in my hand.”

She huffs out a small laugh, rolling her eyes. “I’ll do my best.”

Y/N exhales slowly as he starts the first stitch, her fingers curling against the couch cushion. The tug of the thread through her skin is uncomfortable, but the numbing agent does its job, dulling most of the pain.

“Thank you,” she says softly, watching as he works with careful precision. “I really appreciate this.”

Harry glances up briefly before focusing back on the stitches. “Of course.”

She hesitates for a moment, then adds, “Most people wouldn’t have stopped.”

His hands don’t falter, but something shifts in his expression. He pulls the thread through smoothly, then knots it with a practiced ease before speaking.

“That’s why I wanted to be a doctor,” he says simply. “To help.”

Y/N watches him closely, the way his jaw tenses slightly like he is considering his words carefully.

“If I couldn’t do that,” he continues, his voice quieter now, “then what would be the point?”

She lets the words settle between them, the weight of them heavier than she expected. There is something unshakable in the way he says it—like this is not just a job to him, but something deeper.

For the first time since she fell, she forgets about the sting of her knee, the embarrassment of tripping, even the fact that she is sitting in a stranger’s apartment while he stitches her up. All she can focus on is him, and the quiet sincerity in his voice.

After a few minutes, Harry ties off the last stitch, his movements just as steady and precise as when he started. He snips the excess thread and leans back slightly, inspecting his work with a quick nod of approval.

“All done,” he says, reaching for a clean cloth to wipe away any lingering blood before applying a fresh bandage over the wound.

Y/N watches as he smooths down the edges of the bandage, his fingertips light against her skin. There is something oddly comforting about the way he does it, like he genuinely cares.

“The stitches will fall out on their own in about a week or two,” he tells her, tossing the used supplies into a small bin beside him. “You’ll want to keep it clean, avoid putting too much pressure on it.”

She nods, but part of her feels an unexpected disappointment at the thought. A week or two. That meant no reason to come back. No follow-up appointment. No excuse to see him again.

She clears her throat, pushing the thought away. “Thank you,” she says, meeting his eyes. “Seriously. I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t been there.”

He smirks slightly as he pushes himself to his feet. “Probably would’ve bled all over the sidewalk,” he teases.

She rolls her eyes, but she cannot help the small smile tugging at her lips.

“Let me give you a ride back to your place,” he offers, already grabbing his car keys from the table.

Y/N shakes her head immediately. “No, you’ve already done so much. I don’t want to take up more of your time.”

Harry tilts his head slightly, like he is debating whether to argue, but after a moment, he just sighs. “Alright,” he relents. “But here.”

He pulls his phone from his pocket, unlocks it, and hands it to her. She hesitates for a second before taking it and typing in her number. A second later, her own phone vibrates in her pocket.

“In case you have any questions,” he says, slipping his phone back into his pocket. “Or if something doesn’t feel right.”

She swallows, glancing at the contact now saved in her phone. She doubts she will need to ask him anything, but there is something reassuring about having his number.

“Thanks,” she says, standing carefully. He steadies her with a hand on her arm as she gets her balance.

He walks her to the door, holding it open as she steps outside. The morning chill has eased, but the air is still crisp against her skin. She pulls out her phone and quickly orders an Uber, glancing at Harry as he leans against the doorframe, arms crossed casually over his chest.

“Looks like I’ll live,” she says lightly, rocking on her good leg.

He smirks. “I’d hope so.”

A car pulls up to the curb a minute later, and Y/N glances back at him one last time before opening the door.

“See you around, Doctor,” she says with a small smile.

His lips twitch slightly, like he is holding back a grin. “Take care of yourself, Y/N.”

She slides into the car, and as they pull away, she catches a glimpse of him in the rearview mirror, standing in the doorway, watching her go.

The moment Y/N settles into the back seat of the Uber, she pulls out her phone and quickly unlocks it, her fingers already flying across the screen as she starts a message to Poppy.

Y/N: You are NOT going to believe what just happened to me.

A few seconds later, the typing bubbles appear, then disappear, then reappear.

Poppy: Oh god. What now?

Y/N exhales, still feeling the slight sting in her knee, but mostly just riding the adrenaline of the past hour.

Y/N: So I was on my run, right? And I totally wiped out. Like, full-on face-plant into the sidewalk.

Poppy: LMAO are you okay???

Y/N: I mean, kinda. I busted my knee open pretty bad. Like BAD bad.

Poppy: Oh my god. Did you go to the hospital??

Y/N: Nope. A HOT doctor who was also out on a run just happened to find me bleeding out on the pavement and took me back to his apartment to stitch me up.

This time, the typing bubbles take a little longer to appear.

Poppy: …You’re messing with me.

Y/N: I SWEAR ON MY LIFE.

Poppy: WHAT DO YOU MEAN A HOT DOCTOR TOOK YOU BACK TO HIS APARTMENT???

Y/N: I mean exactly that!! He was all like “You’re in luck, I happen to be a doctor” and then he carried me up to his flat, cleaned me up, stitched me up, gave me his NUMBER in case I had any issues, and then walked me out.

Poppy: HE GAVE YOU HIS NUMBER????

Y/N: …Yeah. But like. In a professional way.

Poppy: Babe. I need a full description IMMEDIATELY.

Y/N bites her lip, glancing out the window as the city blurs past. She can still smell the faint trace of his cologne in her hoodie from where he carried her, and the image of him threading the needle, his tattooed hands moving with practiced ease, flashes through her mind.

Y/N: Tall. Green eyes. Tattoos. Really nice arms. Smelled amazing. Also, annoyingly charming.

Poppy: You’re literally living in a rom-com.

Y/N: It’s not like that.

Poppy: Babe. He carried you. In his ARMS. Like a damsel in distress.

Y/N: …Okay that part was kinda nice.

Poppy: Text him.

Y/N: NO.

Poppy: You HAVE to. What if he was into you?? What if this is FATE??

Y/N sighs, staring down at Harry’s number in her recent contacts. She has no reason to text him. No medical emergencies, no lingering pain, no excuse at all.

But still… she hesitates before locking her phone and tucking it away, a small smile playing on her lips. 

A few weeks pass, and life moves on as usual. Y/N’s knee heals well, the stitches falling out just as Harry said they would. She thinks about him more than she probably should, but she never texts him. There is no reason to, and she convinces herself that what happened was just a one-time, serendipitous moment. Nothing more.

Today, she and Poppy are spending the afternoon shopping, bouncing from store to store, their arms slowly filling with shopping bags. The air is crisp, just on the edge of winter, and the city is alive with holiday decorations starting to appear in shop windows.

“I need caffeine,” Poppy groans, adjusting the strap of her bag over her shoulder. “Like, immediately.”

Y/N laughs. “I could go for a coffee too.”

They turn the corner and spot a small café tucked between two larger storefronts. It looks warm and inviting, with fogged-up windows and the smell of fresh espresso wafting through the open door as a customer steps out.

“This looks cute,” Poppy says, already leading the way inside.

The bell above the door jingles as they step in, the scent of roasted coffee beans and vanilla filling the air. It is cozy, with a mix of people scattered at tables—some working on laptops, others chatting over pastries. Y/N and Poppy step up to the counter, scanning the menu.

“What are you getting?” Y/N asks, fishing her wallet from her bag.

“Probably a caramel latte,” Poppy says, before turning to her with a smirk. “Are you getting tea? Or are you finally going to admit that coffee is better?”

Y/N rolls her eyes. “I drink coffee sometimes.”

“Barely.”

They place their orders, stepping to the side to wait. Y/N glances around, taking in the warm glow of the café, the low hum of conversation, the baristas moving efficiently behind the counter.

And then, just as she reaches for her cup when her name is called, she hears a familiar voice behind her.

“Y/N?”

Her breath catches slightly. She knows that voice.

Turning around, she finds herself face-to-face with none other than Harry. He stands just a few feet away, dressed casually in a dark sweater and jeans, his green eyes flickering with recognition. He looks different than the last time she saw him—not sweaty from a run, not focused on stitching up her knee, but just… normal. And somehow, just as annoyingly attractive.

“Oh,” she says, blinking in surprise. “Hey.”

Poppy, who had just grabbed her own coffee, looks between them with wide eyes, barely containing her excitement. “Oh my god,” she whispers under her breath, not-so-subtly elbowing Y/N’s side.

Y/N ignores her. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

Harry smirks slightly, holding up his own coffee cup. “I could say the same thing. How’s the knee?”

Y/N glances down at her knee, instinctively brushing a hand over it. The skin is smooth now, with only the faintest trace of a scar left behind.

“Healed really nice,” she says, looking back up at him. “Barely even a scar.”

Harry grins, taking a slow sip of his coffee. “That’s what I’m known for,” he says, tilting his head slightly. “Although… a battle scar could’ve been kinda cool.”

She laughs, shaking her head. “Yeah, because I’d really want to tell people I tripped over a sidewalk crack during a run. Very heroic.”

He leans over slightly, bumping his shoulder against hers. “Could’ve made up a better story,” he teases. “Shark attack. Saving a child from a burning building. Something dramatic.”

Y/N laughs again, but the warmth in her chest has little to do with the joke. She had almost forgotten how easy it was to talk to him, how effortlessly charming he was.

Before she can think of a response, Harry shifts slightly, glancing down at his cup as if debating something. Then, without looking at her, he says casually, “I was kinda hoping you’d text me.”

Y/N freezes, her grip tightening slightly around her coffee. She had thought about it—more times than she wanted to admit. But she never knew what to say, never wanted to overstep, never wanted to assume that he had wanted to see her again.

Her face heats as she looks down at her drink. “I wasn’t sure,” she admits. “Didn’t want to bother you.”

Harry exhales through his nose, shaking his head slightly. “You wouldn’t have.”

She peeks up at him, and for the first time, his teasing smirk is gone. There is something softer in his expression now—something genuine.

Poppy, who has been silently sipping her coffee but watching the exchange like it is the best show she has ever seen, suddenly clears her throat.

“Well,” she says dramatically, clapping a hand on Y/N’s shoulder. “I think I’m gonna go check out that bakery next door. Y/N, why don’t you stay here and catch up?”

Y/N shoots her a look, but Poppy just grins, winking before practically skipping toward the door.

Harry chuckles, watching her go before turning back to Y/N. “Subtle.”

“She has no shame,” Y/N mutters, shaking her head.

Harry lifts his cup toward her. “So… catching up?” he prompts. “What do you say?”

Y/N bites her lip, trying to fight back the smile threatening to take over her face. “I think I can stick around for a little bit.”

Part Two

[animasola86]

🐺 A KNOT TO REMEMBER

m!werewolf x f!reader 🔥 very explicit 🔥 words: 7.6k

In search of some fresh air, you stumble through a beautifully arranged garden. The full moon shows the path, or so you think, until you find yourself face-to-face with something very large and very hairy.

WARNINGS: NSFW! Explicit sexual content! Werewolves! Abduction! Dubcon? Knotting! Breeding! Cum inflation! Fluff? (READ ON AO3!)

A/N: This is part 4 of my CHOOSE YOUR OWN ADVENTURE smut series! 1 🔸 2 🔸 3 🔸 4 🔸 5 🔸 6 🔸 7 This is OPTION 3 - but can be read individually, let me just set the scene.

CONTEXT: You were invited to a Halloween party in a mysterious house, dressed as Little Red Riding Hood, and on your search for the bathroom, you come to a long hallway full of doors, and you decide to go through the door at the end of it, thinking some fresh air would be preferable now.

When you walk through the door, a cold breeze passes by you, making you rub your exposed arms. It's been a mild October thus far, so you didn't bring a jacket. All you have is the red cape that gives your costume its name. Pulling it around your shoulders, you follow the short hallway to another set of doors that lead you straight outside. The fresh air is numbing, but also strangely clearing, and the deeper you inhale, the steadier you feel.

The full moon stands high in the sky, illuminating a beautiful garden before you. You see rows of neatly trimmed hedges, large flower pots and other intricately laid out plant arrangements fit for the season, broken up by either a bench or a little lamp casting additional light into the dark night, with a narrow gravel path snaking through the vast grounds.

You decide to walk off the strange feeling in your guts. With your hood over your head, you quickly feel warmer again. The low thump of the music from the house quiets down with every step you take away from it, deeper into the garden. Soon you find yourself in the middle of a maze, with hedges too high to look over, and paths just wide enough to walk through comfortably. A sinking feeling grips you as you keep walking, but everything looks the same.

Quickening your steps, you feel your heart beating harder in your chest. Good idea to walk through a maze in the freaking dark, you scold yourself, but before you can think of a clever retort, you suddenly hear a strange howling noise, seemingly far away, probably past the forest surrounding the house. It still makes your blood run cold. You stop in your tracks, listening hard, but all you can hear is your own rapid heartbeat and the gentle swish of the wind through the leaves around you, there are no animal sounds, no owls hooting, no insects chirping, no critters running about.

Just eerie silence – until another howl cuts through the night, making you gasp. This time it's much closer, louder, and without even thinking, you turn around, trying to run back to the house, knowing you shouldn't be out here in the first place. Your flight instinct is cut short when you run blindly into... something. Something solid, big, warm...

Stumbling back, you look up with wide eyes, panting heavily, and when you see what you ran into, you freeze, holding your breath, shock settling into your limbs. It's a wolf. As tall as a man. Wait, it is a man, he's standing on his hind legs, but he's got the head of a wolf, with a long snout, sharp eyes and teeth, fluffy ears and all a wolf would have, but below his wide shoulders he may just be a very hairy man, muscular, bulky even, despite the rough looking dark fur covering every inch of his massive body, very intimidating, and he also has a long bushy tail swishing lazily behind him. When he speaks, which surprises you, his voice rumbles through the air like thunder.

“Are you lost, little girl?” he asks, tilting his large head.

You stare up at him with your lips parted, too dumbstruck to process anything. “I... uh... yeah,” you mumble, eyes scanning the large figure in front of you frantically. He really is very hairy, hairy enough he doesn't even need clothes you notice. “I think... I mean... the house is right there, isn't it?”

The wolf man turns around before a low chuckle escapes him. “Not quite. You went a little too far, didn't you, Little Red?”

You blink at the nickname, but then remember your costume – and your initial disappointment that there hasn't been any wolf at the party to match your freak. Well, now you've found him, or he you. And his costume is impressive. Might just be one of those fur suits, one of the more realistic looking ones, because the way he stares down at you almost feels a little too realistic. It's not a mask, is it? But it probably is, it has to be. The alternative would mean he is a real werewolf, and you know that those things don't exist.

Right?

Swallowing hard, you take a cautious step backwards. He moves with you, his imposing body getting closer again, threateningly. You let out a scared little whimper.

“Oh, don't be afraid, little one. I won't hurt you. Not too much anyway,” he adds with a low growl that might have been a laugh. You don't feel like laughing back.

“A-are you –” you stammer, your shoulders shaking with how frantic your chest rises and falls. “A... a... you know... a werewolf?”

He tilts his head again, putting his large hands (paws?) onto his hairy hips as he watches you curiously. “What do you think?” he rumbles, licking his long tongue around his muzzle, showing off razor sharp teeth that gleam in the moonlight. Nope. That's not a mask. This is fucking real.

“Oh God!” you cry out, and in your panic you turn around and run, nothing but terror pulsing through your body as you stumble headlessly through the darkness, away from whatever monster you just encountered. In your haste to round another corner of the maze, your cape gets caught by some thorns, ripping right off you, but you keep running, fleeing into the night.

“He won't help you here,” you hear the deep voice behind you, rapid footsteps following you before you feel a rush of air that knocks you right over. Or rather it's the wolf jumping onto your back, crashing you into the hard ground beneath you. You scream in shock, the pain only registering a few seconds later when you feel your knees scraping open and your palms rubbing over rough gravel.

You squirm in desperation, wailing helplessly beneath him. His hot breath hits your nape, and you freeze immediately, stiffening in fear. He sniffs your hair, and then you feel something warm and wet along the side of your neck. He's licking you, coaxing a sorrowful whine out of your throat.

“Shh, it's alright, little one. Don't be scared. No need to run from me. Wouldn't you say we were destined to meet?” His voice vibrates through you as he presses his snout against the side of your head while his large hands rub along your sides, his strong thighs bracketing your hips, his weight pushing you deeper into the ground. “My little Red Riding Hood...” he continues, poking his wet nose against your cheek. “Weren't you looking for your wolf too?”

You can only wail pathetically, too panicked to consider his words. “Please... no...”

He huffs a warm breath against your skin. “Well, it can't be helped. Fate brought us together. You are mine now,” he says in his deep voice, and suddenly he moves back, off your body, giving you a moment to breathe, but only so long before he grips you around the waist and throws you over his hairy shoulder. At first you're too shocked, then you start squirming and struggling in his hold, gripping his fur, slapping his broad back, kicking your feet. But it feels hopeless. He is just too big, too strong, holding your thighs together with only one hand.

A deep sigh sounds from him as he walks you further into the darkness, ignoring your weak attempts to fight back. Eventually you go limp in his hold, hanging upside down as you do, quickly feeling all the blood rushing into your head, adding to the nausea you felt earlier. Your fingers dig into his pelt, and you're surprised to find it rather soft. Not as rugged as it initially looked.

It doesn't help much to focus on the texture of his fur when you suddenly feel a change in elevation as he carries you down a set of stairs. Then your world is spinning once more when he pulls you off his shoulder, unceremoniously throwing you onto the ground. You land hard, with all the air being pushed out of your lungs, groaning as you roll onto your side, raspy breaths rattling in your tight throat. Before you can take a look around, something drapes over your head.

You cry out, frantically gripping whatever fabric is blocking your vision, only to find it's your red cloak. Staring at it after you've pulled it off your head, you frown.

“Put it on,” the large wolf man tells you in his gruff voice, and you frown even more. “And ditch the rest of your clothes.”

“What?” you gasp out and sit up quickly, looking at him with wide eyes, your heart beating faster.

“Do it yourself or I'll rip them off for you,” he replies, glaring down at you.

“W-why?” you stammer, hugging the cloak to your chest protectively.

An exasperated grunt escapes him. “Why do you think? It's the full moon, and that means one of two things: one, I either find a victim to eat... or two, one to eat out and fuck senseless. I figured you'd prefer the second option.”

Your lips part in a mixture of indignation and shock. Confusion is in there too. You should have known it would come to this, why else would he have carried you away, into his lair presumably, definitely not to talk. He told you not to be scared, but that was probably just a ploy to calm you down some. You are now far from it as hysteria grows within your fluttering stomach.

It's not necessarily the prospect of sex with a stranger, but this guy is a freaking wolf. A werewolf. An animal. Isn't that bestiality or something? And don't werewolves have special... cocks? You feel your cheeks warming up badly as your mind wanders, as do your eyes, lower down his large body, but before you can look for any genitalia between all that fur, you huff a grunt and look away, shaking your head.

“Hmm, you wanna make this difficult, little one?” he growls, slowly stalking closer until he's crouching in front of you, his large hands finding your shoulders, his claws pressing threateningly against your skin. “You should consider yourself lucky I think you're too cute to eat.”

You look back at him, into those dark eyes, his long snout so close to your face you can feel the warm breath on your chin. A shiver crashes through you, and to your biggest embarrassment, there's a throb between your legs, a familiar warmth settling in your core. You press your lips into a thin line and avert your eyes again. He exhales against your face.

“Well?” he huffs.

“You... you're a wolf...” you mumble in response, squirming in his hold. “How... how's that gonna work?”

His laugh catches you off guard. “Oh, little one, don't worry. I still have all the hardware needed for this, trust me. I bet you'll enjoy it more than you think...”

Chewing on the inside of your cheek, you blink slowly before focusing your eyes on his large head once more. You have to give it to him. He could have just taken you, taken what he wanted, ripped your clothes off and pounded into you like the feral beast he is, but he actually seems to ask for your consent in a way, or at least gives you time to consider it, which only adds to your confusion. The worst thing about it, is that your body already knows the answer.

He suddenly moves his snout, pressing his wet nose against your neck and sniffs, and you feel both ashamed and angry with yourself that he can probably smell your arousal as well. In an attempt to distract him from it, your hands shoot up as you dig your fingers into the thick fur of his chest, trying to push him away. He leans back and watches you curiously. You're breathing harder as you face him and the things that are bound to happen.

You can't fight him, he's too strong. From what you can see, he's brought you into some kind of basement and probably locked you in as well. There's no use trying to escape. You are here now, in his clutches, and he may be a werewolf with werewolf anatomy, but he's also talking and when you ignore the large wolf head, you can try to convince your mind that he's just a very hairy man.

And you did come to this party to let loose, to enjoy yourself, to experience an adventure. You had no idea it would turn into a sex adventure, but here you are. And if the alternative is being eaten alive by a monster, than what are you waiting for? Inhaling deeply, you let go of him and move your shaking hands to the buttons of your blouse, slowly undoing one by one as you keep him in your sight, while your heart beats faster with every inch of skin you expose to him.

He leans back on his haunches, his snout seemingly morphing into a wide smile. “What a good girl,” he growls, licking his sharp teeth.

You swallow hard as you continue to strip for him, until your chest is bare and you fidget to get your skirt over your hips in your sitting position. A yelp escapes you as he suddenly grabs your waist and pulls you up, lifting you effortlessly as he stands up to his full height, holding you in front of him like a frightened kitten with your feet dangling in the air. You don't fight it anymore, you just look up at him, blushing as you notice his hungry stare wandering up and down your naked body.

He sets you to the ground again, gentler this time, then leans down to grab the cape and slowly drapes it around your shoulders, his large hands/paws fumbling to try to bind the string into a loop. You reach up, your small hands brushing against his furry digits, before you fasten the bow yourself, keeping the cloak from sliding down again. It does give you a bit of security, even though it leaves your front fully exposed to him. You should probably feel worse about this, but despite a heavy blush creeping down your chest, you try to remain as still as you can, forcing yourself to play along, not wanting to provoke him into eating you after all.

He huffs a satisfied grunt before he grabs you again and lifts you onto his arms. You hold onto his furry shoulders as you gasp softly from the sudden motion. Breathing harder, you focus on him instead of your surroundings, it would only make you want to find an escape route if you knew where he was taking you. First you have to finish this, satisfy the beast, and once he's sated and done with you, hopefully too exhausted to follow you, you could try to sneak away. That is the plan anyway.

You just hope you won't enjoy your predicament too much.

His heavy footsteps echo through the basement, and before you know it, he's throwing you down again, a little bit gentler and this time onto a softer surface, not a bed, but an assortment of thick blankets and pelts on the floor. There's even some straw beneath it all. Primitive, as you would expect from a beast snatching up random women in the night. Even though you may not have been as random as you think.

Fumbling to untangle the cape that got caught around your neck, you look towards him as he stalks closer, bent over like the monster he is, an imposing figure, a terrifying sight that makes goosebumps ripple over your exposed skin. When he suddenly prances forward, you yelp in surprise, trying to scoot back, but his large hands find your thighs, pinning you down and spreading your legs, and with your mind still reeling, you don't even have time to comprehend his next move until you feel his hot breath right against your center.

“No... wait...” you wail quietly, your hands shoving at his large head, but he doesn't budge, and when he opens his large maw and extends his long tongue, you watch him in both terror and with a strange fascination before a deep moan is ripped from your throat as you feel that same tongue lapping along your slit, parting your folds with a strength that makes you throw your head back. “Oh...”

Your fingers dig into the fabric of your cloak that's fanned out around you as you start bucking your hips up, a motion you didn't plan, it just happened, a reflex, a response to the urges boiling within you. It should feel strange to have this beast devour you like this, in a way you never expected, but it also feels too good to fight it anymore. His tongue is hot and wet and large enough to lick up your entire sex, all the way from your puckered hole to your throbbing clit. A single swipe leaves you absolutely breathless, writhing at the edge of pleasure.

He sure knows what he's doing.

And he keeps doing it until you dissolve into nothing but a mewling mess, a puddle of boneless limbs on the makeshift bed, moaning and gasping as the sensations crash through your nerves. On the peak of your orgasm he starts moving his tongue differently, pushes deeper between your folds, and before you know it you can feel it slipping into your clenching cunt, coaxing a strangled squeak out of you.

You hear and feel him huffing against you, low grunts that vibrate through your entire body, enhancing the feeling of his warm snout between your trembling legs. He moves the muscle deeper, laps at your squishy walls, presses into every crevasse he can reach, and all you can do is tilt your hips and contort before him, riding out the most intense orgasm you may have ever had. Most special one also.

Despite your mind turning into mush, filling up with cotton, you still wonder if this may just be a dream. The strangest one for sure, but still a dream. No way could you be eaten out by an actual werewolf. But when he keeps doing what he does, you soon stop caring and just enjoy the feeling. Doesn't matter. You're in for the ride now.

You don't know how many orgasms he pulls from you until he finally leans back and extracts his tongue from inside you. You barely feel it when he laps up your juices, grunting as he does so, but the moment he crawls over you, more of his big body pressing you into the blankets, you blink your eyes into focus and stare up at him, noticing how wet his muzzle looks. You feel your cheeks burning up. Somehow you have the urge to reach your hands up and pat his long snout, and you do, carefully stroking the rough fur all the way to his pointy ears, and he even hums deeply when you scratch him behind them.

A dumb little smile grazes your lips, and for a moment you wish he'd be a real man so you could kiss him, share the feeling of joy reverberating through your insides, but he has the head of a wolf and despite your blissed-out state you don't want to come into close contact with those sharp teeth. How he kept them away from your sensitive skin is still a mystery to you, but also nothing you seem to worry too much about.

He gives you a wide lick in response, his languid tongue stroke reaching from your chin all the way to your eyebrow, and you giggle and try to turn your head away, swatting at his head before wiping at the slobber on your skin. A growl like a laugh echoes from him before he shifts on top of you, strong arms braced on either side of your shoulders, his knees bracketed around your hips as he crouches over you, his shins pressing down on your wide open legs. The rough fur of his stomach rubs against your body, sending shivers down your spine.

“Look at it,” he tells you in a deep rumble, and you blink in confusion before your eyes move lower, and you see it.

It being his cock. It's huge. Bright red with a tapered tip and the hint of a bulbous protrusion near the base, fully unsheathed from within his furry groin as it lies hot and heavy on your fluttering stomach, reaching all the way up to your ribs. You swallow dryly at the sight of it. Too big. It'll never fit. Your eyes move back up to his face, and you can't help it, you shake your head no as tears gather in the corners of your eyes.

He tilts his head, opening his maw to bare his teeth as he growls low in his throat. “You will take it. You were meant for it. You'll see,” he hisses darkly, nudging his wet nose against your chin before he starts lapping at your wet cheeks as the dam breaks and you realize you may have bitten off more than you can chew. “Shh, don't cry. You'll love it, I'm sure,” he continues between licking at your face, slowly moving his snout lower, teasing down your neck until you feel his hot breath on your quivering breasts. “And I will make it fit, trust me.”

You're not sure that's a good thing. But you can't do anything against it now. You are trapped beneath him. Breathing harder, your chest moving rapidly against his relentless tongue as he laps around your hardening nipples, you try to relax under his ministrations, lying back, closing your eyes, white-knuckling the blanket. He shifts on top of you, keeping his maw near your chest as he lines his hips up with yours.

You feel one of his furry hands slipping between your legs, rubbing over your puffy labia, spreading them, coaxing a quiet moan out of you as one clawed finger dips into your hole. Your eyes flutter open again. He looks up then, watching you out of these black eyes, so intense he seems to stare right into your soul, and when he retrieves his finger, you notice out of the corner of your eye how he grips his big cock, strokes it slowly, before pressing its pointy tip between your folds.

You hold your breath, trying to relax while also bracing for his penetration, your muscles already confused as they are. He pushes in then, slowly, almost carefully, and you feel the stretch as soon as his tip disappears inside you. A groan escapes you when he rolls his hips against you, and more and more of his large cock presses into your tight channel, bullying his way deeper. You're whimpering under his scrutinizing gaze as he watches you closely, seemingly looking for any sign of distress, even though he also doesn't seem to mind it too much as you gasp and yelp in pain whenever he forces another inch into you.

His hands circle your head as he leans over you, his wet nose rubbing at your neck. “You're doing great, little Red,” he huffs into your skin, keeping that slow and steady rhythm of moving his pelvis back and forth. “You can do this. You were made for this.”

You wail in response, turning your head to the side, exposing your neck to him, but also to look away from the beast ravaging you. If you focus your mind on the feel, you can almost imagine being fucked by a very bulky man with a very thick and veiny cock, and the thought makes it a little easier. Squeezing your eyes shut as he squeezes the last inches (or so you hope) of his large member into you, you are quickly overwhelmed by it all.

Quiet sobs fall from your trembling lips. You feel so incredibly full, so stretched, his cock taking up any available space inside you. You can feel the tapered tip pressing against your cervix, poking at it as if wanting to go deeper. It's a strange hurt, a sharp pain that turns into a weird comfort, almost-pleasure, as your muscles clench around the unfamiliar intruder. For now he is just resting there, heavy on top of you, heavy inside of you, but then, he starts moving.

You squeak like a slaughtered pig when he withdraws slowly before slamming his hips back against you, hammering his cock deep into you, forcing his way through your tense muscles. He gives you a moment to breathe between his thrusts, but only for so long, until he repeats the motion, over and over again. A slow drag along your walls, a forceful slam back into your depths, out and in, pause, out and in, pause, and despite the ever repeating rhythm you yelp out every time, surprised all over again by the sharp pain crashing through your body.

And it's not just his tip bullying your deepest points, it's that strange bulb at the base of his cock that nudges against your pussy lips with every deep plunge. What's it called? A knot? You don't know much about the matter, why would you ever be interested in animal anatomy, but you wish you could do a quick google or something to ease your mind at the strange sensations. Not that it would change anything.

He keeps pounding into you, always increasing his pace a little bit, slowly taking away your little breathing breaks, until he is hammering into you with full speed, just like the feral beast that he is, and all you can do is whine and wail and moan and mewl, unable to think, unable to breathe, unable to do anything but take it. You're squirming beneath him, both trying to get away from his ruthless assault and maybe, possibly, trying to match his rhythm to make it somewhat better for yourself.

His large form looms over you, his low grunts and growls loud in your ear as he nuzzles at your neck, bent over like he is, resting on his elbows, caging you in even further. Your hands shoot up to grip at his fur, and you even raise your twitching legs to steady them as you hook them around his strong thighs. It does help to be able to hold onto him like you do, without any limb moving about bonelessly, and the longer you cling to him, finally meeting his thrusts with snaps of your own hips, it starts to feel really good really fast.

Before you know it, you're arching against him, clawing at his back, gasping and sobbing and panting as the heat gathers inside you, burning through your nerves like wildfire, setting everything ablaze, and every rapid thrust spirals you higher and higher, building up that tension in your stomach that is sure to explode at any second. When it does, you are not ready.

A shrill scream rips from your throat as you press your back into the makeshift bed and stiffen beneath him, your mouth wide open as you squeeze your eyes shut. Warmth spreads inside you, forcing its way past the rapidly pistoning cock pummeling your clenching muscles, and it's like a tidal wave, not soothing as it laps against the shore, but destructive, powerful, all-consuming. It drags you along, threatens to drown you, pulls and pushes you as you lose all control over your convulsing body.

Your orgasm crashes through you with a blinding force, letting you forget anything around as it engulfs you in sparkling lights and mind-numbing bliss. By the time it subsides slowly, you can already feel it building up all over again as he just continues to fuck you in his relentless rhythm, hammering his cock deep into you, grunting on top of you, his maw parted as he growls, slobber glistening on his razor sharp teeth, his tongue hanging out lewdly.

But before he propels you into the next orgasm, he suddenly leans up, propped on his strong arms, licking his furry lips as he stares down at you. You may look up at him out of hooded eyes but you can't really see him, just this large shadow above you, but you do feel when he suddenly leaps back, pulls out with a force that coaxes another scream out of you as he rips his large cock from between your tight muscles. You writhe a little, groaning in frustration as your orgasm deflates, as that empty feeling settles in.

Though you don't have to lament the loss of his cock for too long as he grabs your waist and manhandles (wolfhandles?) you onto your hands and knees, at least he hopes you'd stay like this, but your body is too limp to fully function, and so you sink onto your chest, arms outstretched, face buried in the soft blankets, ass raised on shaking knees, your cloak tangled around you. He grips the fabric, strangling you for a moment before he notices his mistake and rips it right off you, making you gasp.

His large hand is on your head as he turns it to the side. You can feel his wet nose poking at your cheek. “I'm gonna breed you now, little one, and you will take it all, yes?” You blink at his words, so low they're only vibrations through your head, and you wonder if you heard him correctly. “I will pump you full and keep you on my knot until it sticks, you hear me?” Clearly you didn't, because... what now?

You squirm beneath him, trying to get up on your elbows at least, but he holds you down, one large hand on your nape as he shifts behind you, his fur brushing against the backs of your thighs before he nudges his knee between your legs and pushes them further apart. You can sense the heat of his cock before it even gets in contact with your core, and when it pushes inside you again, it feels like a knife cutting through melted butter.

You cry out, arching your back, jerking your hips away, but he is ruthless. He's carved his way into your cunt, but there's still a bit of resistance before you can take him as deep as he desires. He doesn't care though, just pounds into you with hard and fast thrusts, in and out, a rapid rutting accompanied by wild panting, and all you can do is grunt and moan too, your body pushed up and down the blankets. His hands move to your waist, claws digging into your soft flesh as he drags your hips back when he slams his against your cushioned rear, forcing his cock deeper still.

Your head is spinning, your heart thundering, and slowly, the burning pain turns into overwhelming pleasure. He's bullying your cervix again, plunging in and out with languid strokes, and you're so aroused by now that the only sound aside from your heavy breaths is the loud and lewd squelching of your wet cunt. It drives you insane how good it feels to be taken like this, bent over, a primal sensation, to be at the mercy of this beast. In this position, he hits all the right spots, and it's a blinding thing all around you as you come hard, crying out helplessly, hands digging into the blankets and pelts, body spasming against him.

He grunts as you clamp down on his cock, but he doesn't stop, he even moves faster, pushes harder, forces all of him into you. And despite your orgasmic haze you feel his knot pummeling against your entrance, trying to fit through. The pain cuts through the cotton in your mind, sharp little jolts whenever he pushes particularly deep, and when those throbbing bulbs suddenly breach you, as your muscles give way to the rest of his cock, you scream, first in agony at the stretching sensation, then again as another intense orgasm rips through you.

He lets out a low howl when your tight muscles clench around him, milking him for all he's worth, before he continues to snap his hips against your rear, bullying his knot deeper. If you felt full before, you are now close to bursting with how stuffed you are. You can barely breathe between all the gasps and whines, and he doesn't let you either as he continues his shallow rutting, his growls and grunts getting louder, more frantic, his clawed fingers digging into your flesh as he holds you against him.

You are again on the edge of pleasure, floating on that wave that threatens to consume you fully, when he suddenly stills, buried deep within you, tip squished right against your cervix, your cunt holding onto his knot as if you would drown without it, and you feel it throbbing, pulsing, swelling up, stretching you even further. Lightning crashes through the clouds of bliss, making you shriek, hot tears rolling down your already wet cheeks.

And then he grunts, leaning over you, snout nuzzling against your neck, burying in your hair, hot breath fanning over your skin as he gives you those tiny snaps of his hips, and your whole body moves with those motions, connected as you are. You feel him shaking above you before you feel something else deep inside you.

Spurt after spurt of hot cum shoots into the already cramped depths of your cunt, filling up quickly, but with his knot holding it all in place, it has no choice but to look for every nook and cranny it can find, pressing through the tiniest openings, and as it does, you shudder deeply, feeling ready to burst before yet another orgasm rips through you, leaving you shaking like a leaf, as his seed breaches into your womb, more and more, with every twitch of his cock, every pulse of his knot, rope after rope, filling you up until you feel completely bloated.

Somehow you manage to move a hand beneath you, rubbing against your usually soft tummy, but it's tense and hard, rounder than you remember it, and even though you should be terrified by it, you can only lie there and take it, as the wolf man above you leans on you and pumps you as full as he has promised. His breathing eases slowly, yours takes a lot longer to go back to normal, and with your heart thundering inside your heaving chest, you feel utterly exhausted.

He licks his tongue over your wet cheek, a sweet gesture among the feral breeding act, and you can't help but give him a tired smile as you try to look at him out of the corner of your eye. He huffs against you, resting his large head on your back as he relaxes – letting his body work for him, because you can still feel him throbbing, shooting more cum into you at irregular intervals, usually accompanied by a soft little roll of his hips, a little nudge to remind your tight cunt he's still very much stuck inside you.

You wonder how long this will last. But before you can think more about this animal rite, your eyelids grow heavier and the world turns black.

You wake with a shriek as you feel a particularly hard thrust hitting your bruised and probably dilated cervix, the sudden pain crashing through you like the stab of a knife. You're no longer kneeling on the makeshift bed, you're lying on your back on his wide body, legs fallen open over massive furry thighs, two strong arms holding you tightly in their grip, squishing your tender breasts. He's switched you around, huffing and puffing beneath you as he pushes his hips up in a slow but steady rhythm.

“Again?” you groan out, trying to squirm in his tight embrace.

“Not over yet, little one,” he growls into your ear, wet nose poking at your cheek as he shifts beneath you. “More to give.”

“Ugh,” you make, your head lolling back against his shoulder. “But I'm so full...”

“You can take more,” he tells you quietly, a low rumble in the air. One large hand moves down your body, firmly pressing against your bloated stomach. You moan in response, your own hand finding his, trying to feel the same he does.

It's unnatural, that's for sure. That bump should not look and feel like this after only one load of his seed. But then again – he is unnatural, everything about him is. Who knows how special his cum is. Though you really don't want to think about it. You don't want to get pregnant, no matter how hot the whole breeding thing may be in theory. And you probably won't anyway, he's a wolf (man), it sure won't be compatible, right? A groan escapes you as you shake your head to clear it. No more thinking.

Just enjoy his warmth, the way he holds you, moves inside you, locked on his knot for who knows how long. Despite it all it feels comforting, somehow even romantic in a way, to be connected like this. Inhaling deeply, you relax into his soft but also hard body, his fur feels nice against your sweaty skin, the bulging muscles beneath exuding strength and safety. A good bed, that's what he is, with the added bonus of a truly incredible cock that fills you out perfectly, rubbing you just the right way.

Another wave of exhaustion washes over you, alongside what feels like the gentlest orgasm you've ever experienced, a little tingling sensation, a burning deep within, a soothing caress. You sigh contently, closing your eyes, falling deeper into his embrace.

When you come to next, you feel a cold breeze against your face that makes your nose twitch. You seem to move, but your limbs are still out of order, and when you slowly fight your way back into consciousness, you realize you're being carried, with two strong hands holding your thighs up while you are still impaled by that unbelievably resilient cock. A groan escapes you.

“Calm down, little one,” the wolf man grunts into your ear as he walks through the dark basement. “Almost done now.”

“Does it always take this long?” you whisper, leaning into him, your hands grabbing his wrists to steady yourself.

“For the knot to go down? Well, you are particularly arousing, my little Red, I can't help it. Seems you are my special mate after all,” he hums deeply.

You turn your head slightly to look at him, raising an eyebrow. “Mate?”

“Yes, mate. I would have made you mine already, but I wanted to see how you can take me.” He inhales deeply as he presses his muzzle into your hair. “You did amazingly,” he adds, lapping at the shell of your ear. You shiver, squirming away with a surprised giggle that travels through your entire body, making you clench around his hard cock.

“Your stamina is really concerning,” you reply with a shake of your head. “Not sure I could do this again...”

“But you're still doing it, holding my knot so perfectly, keeping my seed inside you,” he huffs gently, licking along your neck as he turns around and walks back the way he came.

“Why are you walking in circles?” you wonder, moving your hands to your rounded stomach. Every movement seems to slosh its contents about. A strange feeling for sure.

“I can't keep you on it forever, I am afraid,” he says in a low rumble. “The moon is setting soon...”

You frown at his words, not even wondering what time it is right now, shifting in his hold to better look into his wolfish face. “And then what?”

“I'll turn into a man again,” he tells you, his dark eyes boring into yours. Something warm crashes through you.

“How is that a bad thing?” you blurt out, more excited about that prospect than you probably should be.

He huffs a low laugh, shaking his large head. “You wouldn't want to be near me when I do. It's painful even for me, and to have you stuck to me would be... devastating.”

“Oh,” you make, blinking as you process his words, chewing on the inside of your cheek.

“Let's try our luck, hm?” he then says, carrying you back to the makeshift bed.

He kneels down with you strapped to his chest like a newborn in a carry-on, and when he bends you forward, you brace yourself, resting on your hands and knees as he shifts behind you. His clawed fingers dig into your plump hips as he gives you a tentative nudge of his pelvis. You wince at the sensation, the stretch and pull on your tight muscles sending shivers down your spine.

His sigh is loud and warm around you, and apparently his knot is still too inflated to budge. Inhaling deeply, you buck your rear against him, trying to relax, ease your muscles, force his cock out of you. He seems to notice your efforts and starts pulling gently, grinding his hips, inching himself backwards. You still feel a sharp pain when his knot nudges against your tight entrance from within, but it's slowly widening, giving way, and when he pops out and slips free, you gasp and collapse on the bed, the sudden loss of pressure almost dizzying.

He lets out a low growl, his hand rubbing over your swollen pussy lips as you feel your muscles contracting around nothing, or rather the flood of cum that's bound to spill from your depths if he wouldn't hold his large palm there. He rolls you onto your side, snuggling against your back, before he pulls his fingers away, pressing your thighs together instead. His wet nose rubs against your jaw as he pulls his strong arms around you.

“Rest now, little one. Keep your legs closed,” he whispers, holding you tightly.

You're too exhausted to protest or care about any possible spillage or whatever consequences may result from this unusual coupling. None of it matters. Sleep does sound really good right about now. The wolf man relaxes behind you, his deep breaths slowly turning into loud snores, and you allow yourself to catch some Zs too. You'll need your strength. For something. Hmm. What was it again? Some sort of plan? Doesn't matter. It'll come to you. Now you just want to rest, let your body recover from whatever ordeal this has been. Knotted and bred by a werewolf. Pfft. What a silly dream...

Your eyes fly open as if someone has turned on the light in your empty mind, illuminating everything that's happened earlier. Oh. Oh God. Oh no! Your breaths accelerate, your heart beats faster as you realize where you are, in whose arms you're lying. His snores still echo through the cavernous room, your body molded to his larger frame, his arms tight around you.

Carefully you wriggle your way out of his embrace, listening closely to his rumbling sounds, but he seems too far gone to notice your frantic escape. You manage to slip from under his arms, your body aching when you move it, but you fight through the discomfort and slowly stand up on shaking legs. Immediately you feel something wet and sticky dripping down your thigh, and a quick touch to your bloated stomach tells you, you are still filled to the brim with werewolf cum. Fuck. This can't be happening.

Turning around, you see the furry beast slumbering away peacefully, his large body moving with every thundering snore. Once you got your bearings, you start looking around the room until you find some clothes. Not yours though, but a big plaid shirt that you slip into. It reaches almost to your knees, so it'll have to do. When your eyes fall on the red cloak next to the makeshift bed, you hesitate, but then you leave it behind. Let him have a small remembrance of your special night.

At least you find your shoes, and once you're ready to leave, you throw a last glance back at the monster. He's still fast asleep, and you almost regret having to leave, but you can't just live in some cave or basement with a werewolf, letting him pump you full of cum to carry his pups or whatever it is he expects of you, no matter how mind-blowing the experience has been.

Biting your lip, you turn around and try to find a way out, and surprisingly enough, he didn't lock you in. After climbing a set of stairs, you find yourself in a small cabin, and when you try the front door, it just opens. Stepping outside into the night (which surprises you, you were almost certain you were stuck on his damn knot for a day or more, or so it felt), you fight the shivers, snuggling into the large shirt that smells like him, a comforting scent that doesn't make it easier to leave.

But you do, trying to find your way through the darkness. The moon is nowhere to be seen, it may just be a cloudy night, or it really was close to setting, you can't be sure, and frankly, it doesn't concern you anymore. You gotta move on, get back to the house, ask someone to call you an Uber...

As you suddenly realize you have no idea where your purse is, you stumble onto a better lit path, but the sight of what awaits you at the end makes you shiver deeply. It's a graveyard.

1 🔸 2 🔸 3 🔸 4 🔸 5 🔸 6 🔸 7

You've come to a (literal) dead end. Or have you?

No, just keep going...

But you can always go back to the beginning and choose another door. Back in the hallway, here are your options:

Reach for the door closest to you.

Go through the door a few feet on your right.

Notes: I'd like to thank @moongurl95 for planting this idea into my head! Thank you so much for sharing your open-ended dream, it really inspired this whole adventure, but particularly this part! I hope I could fill in the blanks! <3

MASTERLIST // AO3 // ORIGINAL WORKS

KINKTOBER 2024 MASTERLIST

[pucksandpower]

On Display

Day 10 → Exhibitionism 💋 Kimi Räikkönen

Warnings: 18+ content

Kinktober Masterlist

Kimi Räikkönen doesn’t care about most things. It’s not apathy exactly, it’s more like everything just slips right past him. He does his job, keeps his head down, says what’s necessary — and even then, not much more than that. It’s enough to keep him going, to keep the world at arm’s length, until you came along.

You're different. That’s what unsettles him.

You’re new, fresh out of university, assigned to be his Press Officer for Alfa Romeo Racing. The team was proud of themselves for hiring you. Young, capable, smart. You’ve been around Kimi for a few months now, and it didn’t take long for something to shift inside him.

He’s not sure when it happened, or how, but it did. And now he can’t stop thinking about you.

Today, the garage is bustling — mechanics clinking tools, engineers hunched over laptops. Kimi stands near his car, keeping himself at a distance like he always does. But then he hears it, a conversation drifting over the noise.

"She's way too young for him," one mechanic says, voice low but not low enough. "Kimi's over forty. She should be with someone … closer to her age."

Kimi doesn't flinch, but he narrows his eyes slightly. The other mechanic laughs, “Like who, you? Come on, man, you’d never have a chance.”

“I’m serious,” the first one continues, “She deserves someone who can keep up with her, you know? Someone who’s not … past his prime.”

Kimi's grip on his helmet tightens.

He knows how it looks — he’s been around long enough to understand how people see him. Quiet, cold, detached. The guy who doesn’t care about anything. But this? This stings more than he expected. He stands there, frozen, until he sees you at the edge of the garage, talking to another team member, completely unaware of the conversation happening just a few feet away.

Kimi makes up his mind instantly.

Without a word, he strides across the garage, brushing past people with a determined look in his eyes. You don’t notice him until he’s right in front of you, blocking your path.

“Kimi?” You ask, blinking up at him. “What’s-”

“Come,” he says, his voice low and commanding. It’s not a request. Before you can ask another question, he’s taken your hand, pulling you along with him. You don’t resist, but confusion paints your face as he leads you through the maze of the garage.

“Kimi, what’s going on?” You ask, struggling to keep up with his long strides. “Did something happen?”

He doesn’t answer right away. He’s too focused on getting to his driver’s room, away from everyone else, away from the noise and the looks. He doesn’t slow down until he reaches the door, pushing it open with one hand and ushering you inside with the other.

You barely have time to catch your breath before he shuts the door behind him, the soft click of the lock echoing in the small space. The room is quiet, a stark contrast to the chaotic energy outside, and you can feel the tension rolling off him in waves.

“Kimi,” you say again, softer this time. “What is it?”

He takes a moment, staring at you with that intense, unreadable expression he always wears. But there’s something else behind it now — something sharper, more vulnerable.

“I heard them,” he finally says, voice rougher than usual.

Your brow furrows. “Heard who?”

“The mechanics.” His jaw tightens. “Talking about you. About us.”

You blink, taken aback. “What did they say?”

Kimi steps closer, his eyes never leaving yours. “That I’m too old for you. That you should be with someone else. Someone younger.”

You open your mouth to respond, but he cuts you off, his frustration spilling over. “They think I can’t keep up with you. That I’m not good enough.”

His words hang in the air, heavy and raw, and for the first time since you met him, Kimi looks … uncertain. It’s jarring, seeing him like this — the man who’s always in control, always so sure of himself, now questioning everything.

“Kimi,” you say softly, stepping closer until you’re just inches away from him. “That’s ridiculous.”

He shakes his head, running a hand through his hair. “Is it?”

“Yes,” you insist, your voice firm. “Why are you even listening to them? They don’t know anything about us.”

His gaze flickers, something close to doubt flashing in his eyes. “But maybe they’re right.”

You can’t help the small laugh that escapes you, though there’s no humor in it. “Right about what? That you’re too old for me?”

He doesn’t answer, but the look on his face says enough.

You take a deep breath, reaching out to gently touch his arm. “Kimi, listen to me. I don’t care what anyone else thinks. You’re the one I’m with, not them. And I’m with you because I want to be. Not because of your age, or your career, or whatever else they think.”

He stares at you, his expression softening just a fraction. “But you could have someone else,” he murmurs. “Someone … younger.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s affection in the gesture. “I don’t want someone else. I want you.”

Kimi stays silent for a moment, his eyes searching yours like he’s trying to figure out if you really mean it. When he speaks again, his voice is quieter, almost hesitant. “Why?”

You laugh, the sound light and teasing. “Do you really need me to list all the reasons?”

His lips twitch, the ghost of a smile threatening to break through, but he doesn’t let it.

“Fine,” you say, stepping even closer until you’re practically toe-to-toe. “You want to know why? Because you’re kind. Because you care, even if you don’t show it the way most people do. Because you make me laugh, even when you’re not trying to. And because when I’m with you, everything feels … right.”

His eyes soften, the tension in his shoulders finally easing. “You really think that?”

“I do,” you say, your voice sincere. “And I don’t care what anyone else says. They don’t get to decide what’s right for us. Only we do.”

Kimi watches you for a long moment, the weight of your words sinking in. Slowly, he reaches up, his fingers brushing your cheek in the gentlest of touches. It’s such a small, simple gesture, but it feels like everything in that moment.

“I’m not letting you go,” he says quietly, but there’s a fierceness behind his words that makes your heart race. “Not for them. Not for anyone.”

You smile, leaning into his touch. “Good. Because I’m not going anywhere.”

For a while, neither of you say anything. The silence isn’t uncomfortable; it’s warm, filled with everything unspoken between you. Kimi’s thumb traces slow circles on your cheek, his gaze locked on yours, and for the first time in a long time, he lets himself feel something. Something more than just the numb routine of racing, more than just the motions of his life.

It’s you.

You’re the difference. The one thing he never expected to care about, but now can’t imagine being without.

“They’ll keep talking,” he says after a while, his voice quieter now, almost resigned.

“Let them,” you reply, your tone defiant. “We know the truth. That’s all that matters.”

He doesn’t respond, but you can see it in his eyes — the way they soften, the way the lines of tension in his face smooth out. You’ve managed to calm him, to ease the storm raging in his mind. And that’s something no one else has ever been able to do.

Kimi exhales slowly, like he’s letting go of something heavy. He takes your hand again, this time more gently, pulling you toward him until your bodies are pressed together. His hand lingers on your waist as he pulls away slightly, just enough to look into your eyes. There’s a certain darkness there now, a fire that wasn’t present before. He’s calm, but there’s something electric beneath the surface. You can feel it.

Without breaking eye contact, he reaches behind him, and with a swift, almost careless movement, pulls the door to the driver’s room open. The quiet hiss of the hinges echoes in the small space, but it’s the sudden rush of noise from the garage outside that jolts you.

“Kimi,” you whisper, glancing toward the open door, “What are you doing?”

His gaze stays locked on yours, unwavering, and he says it, voice low and dangerous, “I want everyone to hear you cry my name.”

Your heart skips a beat.

“And I want them to see,” he continues, his fingers brushing along your jawline before tilting your chin up slightly, forcing you to meet his eyes, “to know what I can do to you. That you’re mine.”

There’s no question in his voice, no hesitation. He’s daring you, challenging you in a way that only Kimi Räikkönen can. The kind of challenge that pulls you in, that makes it impossible to say no, even if every part of you is screaming at how reckless, how exposed this could be.

“Kimi,” you start, but the words get lost as he steps even closer, the warmth of his body brushing against yours, overwhelming every other thought.

“You don't want them to know?” He asks, the faintest smirk pulling at his lips, though his voice remains steady. “You don’t want them to hear how you scream for me?”

Your breath hitches, and Kimi notices. He always notices. There’s that rare smile again, the one that barely shows but tells you everything. You’re his, and he’s about to make sure everyone knows it.

You glance again at the open door, the sounds of the team moving about just a few feet away — tools clanking, mechanics talking, engineers calling out data. They’re all out there. They could hear everything.

And Kimi doesn’t care.

His fingers slip under the hem of your shirt, grazing the skin just above your hips, slow and deliberate. “I want them to know,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against the side of your neck, sending shivers down your spine. “I want them to hear.”

The possessiveness in his voice is unmistakable. He’s not asking; he’s telling you, declaring it like an unshakable truth.

You’re his.

He guides you backward with a gentle but firm push until your back hits the wall. The sudden pressure makes you gasp, and before you can say anything, Kimi’s mouth is on yours. It’s not soft — it’s demanding, consuming. Every kiss, every touch is a statement. You belong to him, and now, he’s going to make sure the world knows it.

“Kimi, the door-” you manage to murmur against his lips, but he just kisses you harder, silencing any protest.

“I want it open,” he growls into your mouth, his voice rough with need. “I want them to see.”

His hands are all over you now, possessive, as if he can’t touch you enough, can’t get enough of you. He doesn’t care who hears, who sees. In fact, that’s exactly what he wants. He’s always been reserved, controlled — until it comes to you. With you, all of that falls away.

Kimi pulls back just enough to look at you, his breath hot against your lips. “Say my name.”

You hesitate for a moment, your eyes darting again to the open door. You can hear footsteps passing by, voices just outside, oblivious to what’s happening inside this room. But the way Kimi looks at you, the intensity in his eyes, the sheer force of his presence — it makes it impossible to resist.

“Kimi,” you breathe, soft at first.

He smiles, that dark, dangerous smile that sends your pulse racing. “Louder.”

“Kimi,” you say again, louder this time, your voice trembling with a mix of anticipation and need.

“Good,” he mutters, his hands tightening on your waist as he presses his body against yours. “They’ll hear you soon enough.”

And then he’s kissing you again, hard and fierce, his hands moving to your thighs, lifting you effortlessly as he presses you against the wall. Your legs wrap around his waist instinctively, and you can feel the heat of him through the fabric of his racing suit.

The door is still open.

The thought lingers in the back of your mind, but it’s quickly drowned out by the overwhelming sensation of Kimi’s hands on you, his mouth devouring yours like he can’t get enough. You can hear the faint hum of voices outside, the occasional burst of laughter or the sound of tools clanging against metal, but it all fades away, drowned out by the rush of blood in your ears and the feel of Kimi’s body against yours.

He pulls away just long enough to look at you again, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. “You’re mine,” he says, his voice rough, filled with a kind of raw intensity that makes your stomach flip. “Only mine.”

“Yes,” you manage to breathe, your heart racing in your chest. “Only yours.”

And that’s all it takes. Kimi’s mouth crashes against yours again, and this time, there’s no holding back. Every touch, every kiss, every movement is possessive, claiming. He’s making sure that when you leave this room, there’s no doubt in anyone’s mind who you belong to.

But then, just as you’re about to fall over the edge, just as you feel like you might break apart from the intensity of it all, the door creaks. A shadow falls across the room.

“Kimi-” a voice starts, but it cuts off abruptly.

Your heart skips a beat, your eyes flying open as you realize someone’s standing in the doorway. Kimi’s race engineer, frozen in place, eyes wide in shock.

For a split second, the room is deathly silent.

“Kimi?” The engineer stammers, his voice filled with awkward confusion. “Uh … sorry, I didn’t mean to-”

But Kimi doesn’t move. He doesn’t even flinch. Instead, he turns his head slightly, just enough to glance over his shoulder at the stunned engineer, his expression as calm and collected as ever.

“What?” Kimi asks, his voice steady, almost bored, as if nothing unusual is happening.

The engineer’s eyes dart between the two of you, clearly flustered. “I, uh, I was just going to — there’s a … a data issue, but, uh … I’ll come back later.”

Kimi doesn’t respond right away. He just stares at the engineer for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Finally, he nods, almost dismissively. “Do that.”

The engineer doesn’t need to be told twice. He practically stumbles over his own feet as he backs out of the room, pulling the door shut behind him with a hurried click.

The second the door is closed, Kimi’s attention is back on you, his hands tightening their grip on your hips. His eyes darken again, the fire from before rekindling as if nothing had happened.

“They’ll all know now,” he murmurs, his voice low and dangerous. There’s a possessive edge to his tone, something primal that sends a thrill through you.

“Kimi,” you breathe, your heart still pounding from the shock of being caught.

He smirks, leaning in to press a slow, deliberate kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Let them talk.”

And just like that, he’s kissing you again, his hands roaming your body with a kind of controlled urgency. There’s no hesitation, no pause to think about what just happened. It’s like the interruption never even fazed him.

He’s still in control, still completely focused on you.

“You’re mine,” he growls against your lips, and this time, there’s no room for doubt.

You are his.

And he’s going to make sure everyone knows it.

***

It’s late when the mechanic finally sits down on his worn-out couch, still in his travel clothes. The day had been long, filled with the usual chaos of a flying back home after a race weekend, and all he wants is to shut off his mind, sink into the cushions, and forget about everything for a while.

His phone buzzes on the coffee table, but he ignores it at first, figuring it’s just another group message from the guys. He’ll deal with that later.

But the phone buzzes again. And again. Three notifications in quick succession, and finally, he picks it up.

The screen lights up with a message from an unknown number.

New message: Open this. You’ll want to see.

His brow furrows as he reads it, curiosity piqued. He glances around his quiet apartment, feeling a strange sense of anticipation. He taps the message, and immediately, a video starts downloading. It’s taking its time — bad signal, probably. His thumb hovers over the screen, debating whether or not this is a good idea. Could be spam, or worse.

But something about the message, the cryptic tone of it, makes him wait.

The video finally finishes, and before he knows it, he presses play.

The screen flickers to life, and at first, it’s just a shot of a luxurious bedroom — modern, sleek, with low lighting and dark, rich colors. The kind of place he could only imagine staying in.

And then he sees you.

You’re there, on the bed, your body moving in a way that makes his breath catch in his throat. You’re wearing nothing but a thin, silk robe, and before he can process what he’s seeing, Kimi comes into view, shirtless, standing behind you. His hands are on your shoulders, sliding down your arms with a possessive, deliberate slowness.

“Holy shit,” the mechanic mutters under his breath, his pulse quickening.

In the video, Kimi’s voice is low and commanding as he leans in, whispering something in your ear that the mechanic can’t quite hear. But it doesn’t matter. The way you respond — the way your body reacts, arching slightly into Kimi’s touch — tells him everything he needs to know.

You belong to Kimi.

The mechanic’s hands tighten around his phone, his knuckles going white. He should stop watching, turn it off, but he can’t. It’s like he’s been pulled into something forbidden, something he knows he shouldn’t be seeing, but now that he has, he’s trapped.

Kimi moves around to the front of you in the video, tilting your chin up so you’re looking directly into his eyes. “Tell me,” Kimi’s voice rumbles through the speakers, clear and dominant, “who do you belong to?”

Your answer is immediate, breathless. “You.”

Kimi smiles, a dark, satisfied smile. “That’s right.”

The mechanic watches as Kimi pushes you gently back onto the bed, his movements fluid and controlled, like he’s done this a hundred times before. Kimi climbs over you, his body pressing down against yours, and the camera zooms in, catching every intimate detail — the way your hands slide up Kimi’s back, the way your lips part as you whisper his name, the soft moan that escapes when Kimi kisses your neck.

“Fuck,” the mechanic breathes, his heart pounding in his chest. He shouldn’t be watching this. It’s too personal, too raw. But he can’t look away. There’s something magnetic about the way Kimi moves, the way he commands your attention, your body, your everything.

In the video, Kimi’s voice breaks the silence again. “You’re mine. Say it.”

“I’m yours,” you whisper, your voice shaking, filled with a need that makes the mechanic’s stomach twist.

The mechanic shifts uncomfortably on the couch, feeling a mix of emotions he can’t quite pin down. Jealousy. Guilt. And something darker.

He hadn’t thought much of Kimi before — he’d respected him as a driver, sure, but as a man? He always thought Kimi was cold, detached. He hadn’t imagined that this version of Kimi existed — the one who could make you look at him like you were ready to fall apart, like nothing in the world mattered except him.

In the video, Kimi’s hands are everywhere now — your waist, your hips, your thighs. He’s slow, methodical, taking his time like he has all the control in the world. And maybe he does. The mechanic watches as Kimi’s lips trail down your neck, across your collarbone, lower still, until you’re gasping his name, your body arching off the bed in desperate, silent pleas.

“Kimi,” you breathe, and the mechanic feels it, the way you say his name like it’s a prayer, like it’s the only thing grounding you in the moment.

Kimi doesn’t respond, at least not with words. Instead, he pulls back slightly, just enough to look down at you, his gaze dark and possessive. His hand moves between your legs, and the mechanic can’t help but shift again, the tension in his body building as he watches. Kimi’s fingers are slow, deliberate, as he touches you, making you moan softly into the dimly lit room.

“Do you like this?” Kimi asks, his voice a low growl that sends shivers down the mechanic’s spine, even through the phone screen.

“Yes,” you gasp, your hands clutching the sheets.

“Louder,” Kimi demands, his tone firm but not unkind.

“Yes,” you cry out this time, your body trembling beneath him.

The mechanic’s chest tightens. He knows he shouldn’t be watching this. It’s too intimate, too raw, but there’s something captivating about the way Kimi has you — completely and utterly under his control. The way he commands your body, your voice, your everything.

In the video, Kimi leans down, his mouth capturing yours in a deep, possessive kiss, and the mechanic watches as you melt into it, your body relaxing into the bed as if Kimi is the only thing tethering you to the world.

It’s then that the camera angle shifts slightly, giving the mechanic a perfect view of your face — flushed, eyes half-lidded with pleasure, lips parted as you gasp for breath. Kimi’s fingers move faster now, more insistent, and the mechanic can see the way your body reacts, the way you tremble and arch under his touch.

“Kimi,” you cry out again, your voice breaking with need, with desperation.

Kimi’s response is immediate, his voice rough with satisfaction. “That’s it. Let them hear you.”

The mechanic’s heart pounds in his chest as he watches you unravel, your body shaking, your breaths coming in ragged gasps. He can’t tear his eyes away, even though he knows he should. There’s something intoxicating about watching you fall apart like this, knowing that it’s Kimi who’s doing this to you, who has you completely under his control.

The video continues, showing every intimate detail — Kimi’s hand tightening on your waist, the way your legs wrap around him, the way you moan his name over and over, completely lost in him. The mechanic’s throat feels tight, his skin prickling with a mix of emotions he can’t quite define.

In the video, you’re close — he can see it, the way your body trembles, the way your breaths come in short, desperate gasps. Kimi knows it too. His pace quickens, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispers something the mechanic can’t make out, but it doesn’t matter. The effect is immediate. You cry out, your body arching off the bed as you fall apart beneath him, your voice breaking with pleasure.

The camera lingers for a moment, capturing the way you collapse back against the pillows, completely spent, your chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. Kimi doesn’t move for a moment, just watches you, his hand still resting on your waist, his touch gentle now, almost reverent.

Slowly, he leans down, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, and the mechanic watches as you melt into him, your body relaxing completely. Kimi shifts, pulling you into his arms, your head resting on his chest as you come down from the high, your breaths evening out.

The video ends with that image — Kimi lying back against the headboard, his arms wrapped around you protectively as you rest your head on his chest, eyes closed, completely exhausted. His fingers move through your hair, a soft, almost tender gesture that the mechanic never would’ve expected from him.

For a long moment, the mechanic just sits there, staring at the blank screen of his phone. His heart is still racing, his skin prickling with the intensity of what he just witnessed. He feels … unsettled. He hadn’t expected this. Hadn’t expected Kimi to be so possessive, so dominant, and definitely hadn’t expected you to be so completely his.

He swallows hard, trying to push down the mix of jealousy, confusion, and something else that swirls in his chest. He feels like he’s seen something he was never meant to see — something private, something intimate. And yet, whoever sent this video wanted him to see it. Wanted him to know exactly what Kimi is capable of, exactly how well he can take care of you.

The mechanic leans back on the couch, letting out a long breath as he stares up at the ceiling. He knows one thing for sure: Kimi Räikkönen isn’t someone to underestimate.

And you — well, you’re his, in every possible way, and now the mechanic knows it too.

[the-internets-girlfriend]

Bittersweet Memories: Something Sweet

George Clarke x Reader (Series)

There was something sweet - until it all fell apart. Years later, a viral video stirs up a past neither of them ever quite let go of. In the city where they both changed, something is quietly rising again.

warnings: soft angst, emotional miscommunication, heartbreak, swearing, slow-burn

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series | masterlist | previous part | next part

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

Part Two: Something Sweet (2300+ words)

I didn't expect anything to come from it.

One of my closest friends Maisie - who worked at my bakery with me - came up with the idea on a slow afternoon.

It started as a bit of a joke - just filming something fun to pass the time.

Maisie grabbed her phone and filmed the process of me making a small vanilla sponge cake - and dressing it up with a pink crumb coat, and fresh strawberries.

She spun slowly around me as I worked, catching shots of me mixing the batter, sliding it into the oven, and later, piping the delicate swirls around the cake's border before placing the strawberries just so.

At first, I was awkward in front of the camera, but eventually I loosened up - it was just my best friend filming me after all. I slipped into a casual commentary about how to get the perfect piping swirl and which nozzle to use, proudly showing off my nerdy baking side.

We ended the video laughing, each grabbing a fork and digging into the cake, each flashing a smile and thumbs-up to the camera before stopping the video.

Afterwards, I went home and fell asleep, thinking nothing more of it.

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The next morning, Maisie came barreling into the bakery, clutching her phone - our usual coffee orders noticeably absent from her hands.

"Two million!" She blurted, instead of her casual good morning paired with my iced strawberry matcha.

I blinked at her, half asleep - it was early, so early the bakery had yet to open to customers, "what?"

"Views!" She shouted, shoving her phone in my face. It was the silly TikTok we'd filmed yesterday. She quickly swiped to another app, showing me our Instagram, "and 10,000 likes! And it's still climbing. You're famous now. London's very own cake girl!"

I stared at the screen, stunned.

"I literally just piped swirls," I mumbled.

Maisie laughed like I was being ridiculous, "well Y/N, the internet's in love with your piping then.

Before I could respond, a knock echoes at the bakery door.

I raise an eyebrow at Maisie, silently asking the question - who could that be? No one else is scheduled today. She shrugs, just as curious.

I step toward the door and spot a women standing outside, wrapped in a deep red scarf, clutching a matching bag against her chest. Her breath fogs the glass as she peers in. When our eyes meet, she offers a small wave.

Frowning slightly, I reach into my pocket, fingers brushing against the cold metal of my key clipped to my lanyard. I unhook it with a click and twist the lock open.

The door creaks open with a gust of wind that smells like wet pavement and winter air.

"Hi there," she says quickly, smiling in a way that feels both nervous and determined. "I'm so sorry to bother you - I know you're not open yet, but I saw your TikTok last night and it's my daughters birthday - and I just know she would love something like that. I was hoping to talk about a custom cake?"

I blink. She's older than I expected - maybe late forties - with kind eyes and lipstick that matches her scarf. Her fingers are red from the cold, clutched tightly around the strap of her bag like it's anchoring her to the moment.

"Oh!" I say, realising I have yet to reply - I glance back at Maisie, unsure, "we're not quite open for the day yet, but-"

"We can open early - squeeze her in," Maisie says brightly, already stepping around the counter with that breezy confidence she wears like an apron. "Come in, come in. You'll freeze out there."

The woman lets out a relieved breath and nodes, stepping into the warmth of the shop as Maisie hurries around, making sure everything was set up correct.

I waited at the door for a beat longer - my mind flickering of what this could mean for the bakery - understanding the post may have just changed Gracie's Bakery life.

With a smile, I flick the sign over to face open to the outside.

I turn with a twirl and make my way to the front counter, grabbing the claw clip from my apron and quickly putting my hair up.

"Thank you so much," the women says again, as I come face to face with her at the counter, "I've got my daughters birthday dinner tonight and she sent that video of the vanilla sponge - and well, I thought it would be such a great gift for her."

Maisie gives me a pointed look, one eyebrow raised in a way that says see? viral genius. She grabs the clipboard with the order forms and slides it across the counter to me like a magician presenting a trick.

With sly movement, the clipboard finds itself in my hand, "alright lets talk cake." I say with a grin.

"Name?"

"Catherine," the woman says, settling into the space like she's been here a hundred times already. "Catherine Leigh."

"And for the cake?"

Catherina leans in slightly, eyes shining, "something beautiful. Elegant. But with personality, you know? Maybe floral - she loves flowers."

I smile and give a nod, already picturing colour palettes in my head.

"Flavours?"

"Lemon and raspberry, if you can," Catherine says, smiling at me now. "And oh fresh cream - like the video, it just looked so fresh. Light but special."

I nod. "We can definitely do that."

And just like that, we're talking sponge textures and frosting options. For a moment, everything fades - and my dream feels like it has come true.

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By the next night, the social media posts continued to grow alongside our follower count - I was never one to care for how many followers I received but I knew this would be justice for my bakery.

I was still in dazed shock as I scroll through the TikTok comments on the post.

Then I see a comment that makes my breath catch in my throat.

georgeclarkeey: this looks unreal

I blink. Hard.

Of course I had kept up with his social media - still wanting the best for him but I hadn't checked it in over six months. He had continued to grow since our break up two years ago; collab videos, brand deals, interviews, and meeting the sidemen which I knew he had always dreamed of.

I just didn't expect him to see the video.

I didn't even know he followed the bakery social media TikTok account.

I begin to type out a response and think maybe just liking the comment just to acknowledge it.

But I think back to the times when I felt put down - and I leave it there.

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The dream keeps growing - every day the crowd spills though the door, never thinning for long.

Maisie's flat out at the coffee machine, pouring tiny hearts and ferns into foamed milk for anyone who orders a slice of cake or baked dessert from the glass cabinet. Meanwhile, I've been flooded with custom requests -wedding, birthdays, baby showers. It's overwhelming, but in the best way. Like... maybe this is actually happening.

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Another week has passed, and Maisie has posted a few more videos and photos on social media, and somehow we end up on food blog of 'Top 5 Hidden Dessert Spots in London". Maisie and I joke that we're famous now, but underneath the jokes is a pulsing hum of something I haven't felt in a long time: pride.

It's a thundering Friday when the door chime rings and my past walks in.

I don't see him right away. I'm wiping down a tray behind the counter, humming to myself a Taylor Swift song when I hear the voice.

"See look Arthur, that's the cake I was telling you about. The TikTok one."

My stomach flips.

I lift my head.

And there he is.

George.

The two years felt like nothing as I recognised him right away - the only difference being he grew in a little more facial hair - but he looks older, more confident.

He's standing in the middle of my bakery, damp hair from the rain, next to a dark brunette who is hanging a jacket up on the coat stand. They're followed in my a third man, clutching a camera in his right hand, as he left hand was brushing off rain droplets.

I freeze in my spot.

George hasn't seen me yet. He's bent down, looking at the display case with the cake slices like a normal customer, chatting with his friend Arthur, totally unaware that he's just stepped into a place he probably didn't mean to find.

Maisie walks out of the back kitchen and freezes herself when she spots the customers.

Maisie never got the chance to meet George as she only appeared into my life a year ago when I opened the bakery - but oh has she heard of him. The first time I had spoke about him was a classic; we were having a girls night with two too many wine bottles when the conversation of our ex's got bought up. Maisie spoke about the dating pool and how she was just having fun since her girlfriend just broke up with her. And well I, expressed how a boy broke my heart and I hadn't been interested in dating since.

Maisie sidles up next to me and mutters, "No way. Is that -?"

"Yup."

"Did you invite him?"

"Nope."

"Do we hide?"

Before I can answer, he looks up. Our eyes meet.

He goes still. His smile falters. His friend Arthur still talking away about something. But there's a beat - just one - but it's long enough for the air to shift.

"Y/N?"

I force a smile. "Hey."

He walks up slowly, the cakes and pastries in the case long forgotten.

"You work here?" he asks, voice soft.

I raise an eyebrow, assuming he knew I worked here - thinking to myself if this was a setup.

"I kind of own the place," I say. "Welcome to Gracie's Bakery."

A smile reaches his lip, "oh the same name as your - "

Before he can continue the sentence, I shut it down with a response - not wanting to think of certain memories, "yeah you're right."

A small amount of tension emerges into the air, his friend finding a beat to say something, "George you're right this place does look good."

"Not bad for a hobby, " I say, staring at George before I can stop myself.

His smile falters a little more. "And I deserved that."

I shrug, pretending to smooth the corner of a take away box - in case they select some treats. My aim is to try busy myself to leave the conversation - but George doesn't catch on.

"I didn't know this was your bakery, " he says, eyes still on me.

"I figured. Otherwise I doubt you'd have walked in."

His mate, Arthur, still oblivious to the tension calls out, "George, this cake is insane. We've got to get a full one next time." I turn, wondering how he had gotten cake already but see Maisie stood with our sample tray and tongs.

I turn back to my box and George nods at his friend but never looks away from me. He's looking at me, as if he's trying to figure out if I'm still the same me he once knew.

For a moment, I think he might say something else. Something real. His eyes flicks down, then back to mine. Like he's weighing it. Like he wants to step closer but isn't sure if he's allowed.

But instead, he just says, "It's good to see you."

"You too."

He hesitates, lips parted like there's more - always more - but the moment passes. He glances toward Arthur who is looking at the sample tray in amazement, and lets him know with a nod of the head he'll be waiting out front.

George turns back to me, and nodes like we've just completed a transaction instead of shattering every nerve I've been stitching back together for two years.

And then he leaves.

The bell chimes behind him.

The bell chime alerts his friend that he has left, and he realises he only has limited time left in the bakery.

"Oh shoot - can I actually order a full cake of this sample for pick up in a few days?" Arthur abruptly says.

I give a nod, still in shock of the individual who just left.

"Yeah of course, any special occasion?"

"Oh my friends are just reaching a milestone on their podcast." He replies.

We exchange a quick conversation, as I fill out the order form - organising as to what he wants.

Before he leaves, he asks the question, "and sorry I never got your name - the cake baker is?"

I give the boy a smile, "Y/n."

With a simple one word, his face shifts and it's like something clicks in his mind.

"Oh Y/n? - Yeah that makes sense - Oh thank you, I'll be back soon." He stutters out as he hurries to the door.

And I just stand there, confused about it all.

My mind wandering to George.

Wondering is he knew before he came in. Or if the universe is just cruel enough to bring him back like this - sweet, sudden and completely unplanned.

Just like the first time.

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and welcome everyone to Gracie's Bakery!!... you'll find out later why that is the name hehe.

And yes there has been two whole years between this chapter and the first so they haven't seen each other in awhile...

See you next time,

mwah x

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

taglist x

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[majestyeverlasting]

𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐰𝐚𝐲, 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐡𝐨𝐰 | 𝐟𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐤 𝐜𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐥𝐞

Pairing Frank Castle x Reader [friends → lovers] 

Summary A fresh start with no more loose ends—that’s what you promised yourselves. But when a quick outing stretches longer than expected, dread creeps in and reveals how deeply you care for Frank when he’s finally back by your side [3.7k] 

A/N First time writing for Frank. Deeply appreciate Jon Bernthal’s embodiment of the character ♡

The rain hasn’t stopped by the time the van eases into the parking lot, where the water on the ground reflects the cherry-red motel sign shining against the night. It makes no difference to you—lips parted, head tilted against the passenger side window—until Frank gears into park and taps your thigh with two thick fingers. 

Your eyes flutter open to tiny droplets pattering on the outside of the cool glass. That’s when you notice how still the world has grown. No more potholes, smooth turns, or periodic swells of acceleration to pass other cars who thought they had all the time in the world. 

After cutting the engine, he runs a heavy hand down his face and tips his head back, disheveling the back of his dark hair against the headrest. It’s gotten longer. So has the coarser hair of his beard. He never asked for your opinion, nor had you mustered the courage to give it, but the look suited him, as if it was innately right. As he briefly closes his eyes, he misses the way you turn to study his profile, noting how the bridge of his nose catches the glow of the lights outside.

A satisfied hum escapes you as you stretch out your legs, drawing his attention back your way. He blinks observantly, eyebrows set in that eternal furrow that makes him hard to read. But you know he’s alright—content. There’s no other reason not to be. A couple hundred miles ago, he’d tied off one final loose end, and the world went silent for the first time in a while. It was over. No more living ghosts breathing down your necks. You and Pete Castiglione were free to start a new life, be whoever you wanted to be. That’s what you told yourselves. 

Clearing his throat, Frank shifts in his seat and reaches into the cup holder, tossing the room key into your lap. “Room 103. There’s two queens,” he tells you. “I’ll grab the bags.” The finality in his tone suggests he won’t entertain any alterations to the plan.   

You reach down to grab your crossbody. “Can I get this one, or is it too much?” You’re trying to be funny. He waves you off, mumbling under his breath, but there’s an undeniable flutter in his gut when you smile at him before hopping out of the van. 

He purses his lips when you break into an amusing little jog, eager to escape the rain and key into the room. A muted yellow fills the space as you flip on the lights. No sooner does he watch you peek through the curtains like a groundhog popping up from its burrow. It’s hard to make him out, but you swear you can see him chuckling from behind the windshield. 

It’s impressive how he manages to carry both your belongings in one trip. He hums in appreciation as you hold the door open for him. Rather than dumping everything in the main walkway, he trudges the extra few steps to where more space opens up, and a small bench rests beneath the full length mirror hanging on the wall. 

The air is thick, as it always seems to be at motels, but the citrus undertones suggest recent cleaning. You stake your claim on the bed closest to the bathroom, ready to settle in. The wrapper of a meal bar crinkles as you dig it out from your purse. 

Frank’s own mattress squeaks as he plops down onto the foot of the bed and lays back, tucking his hands behind his head. The movement makes the hem of his hoodie rise up just enough to reveal the light trail of dark hair leading down from his belly button. It’s not the most comfortable bed in the world, but you’d be back on the road in the morning headed for central Virginia. 

A modest house in the Blue Ridge Mountains awaited, courtesy of one of his buddies who lived further north in Quantico. Of all the other options, it seemed like a promising place to find your footing away from the endless bustle of New York City. 

“Frank?” He looks over at you. “Thanks.” For everything, you want to add. 

“No worries,” he says. A few moments pass of the rain slowing down outside. It’s a lulling sound that masks the quiet gurgle of your stomach. 

Eyes closed, Frank hears you begin to peel open the bar you’re holding. It’s one of the protein-packed ones that are supposed to taste like chocolate, but always end up too chalky. It’d been a while since the late lunch the two of you had. 

“I’ll go get you something hot.” He sits up. “Passed a few places coming in.” 

You can see how drained he is from driving. It’s in his voice, the slump of his shoulders. “This’ll tie me over for the night,” you insist.

He looks at you with partial belief. Frank was the type who could get caught up in the task at hand and go without eating, if it wasn’t for your reminders. Earlier, he’d brushed over his hunger, only to sit down across from you in that cramped diner booth and inhale his hamburger and fries as you watched with amusement sparkling in your eyes. That look often spurred him into a spiel about how he could get by on a handful of nuts every few hours if he really wanted. 

But there was no such talk this time around. The food was good and hearty, and he enjoyed sitting down and sharing a meal without having to look over his shoulder. There was also something special about the way the sunlight streaming through the windows caught your eyes. 

“Really, Frank. It’s been a long day,” you say as he stands and makes his way to the door. There was no stopping him when he made up his mind. “I can come with you.” That earns you a disapproving look, and you sigh your defeat. “Drive safe, okay?” 

“Yep.” 

The rain subsides shortly after he slips out the door. To avoid the risk of falling asleep, you decide to take a shower, considering yourself lucky that the warm water doesn’t run out after the first five minutes.

By the time you dry off, moisturize, and change into old pajamas, Frank hasn’t returned. When you peek out the window at the sound of an engine, it ends up being construction workers. Despite how much you try to will it away, a familiar sense of dread settles in your gut. It only roots deeper upon realizing that he’d left his BlackBerry behind on the bed. 

Time continues passing by. 

•••

Red and blue police lights appear blazing in the distance in a showy glow. Frank watches from the inside of a family-owned pizzeria, where beautiful candid pictures adorn the walls. The air is rich with the scent of parmesan and garlic, but his face is fixed in a scowl. There’s bruising beginning to develop on the apple of one cheek, and a thin bleeding slash on the other. A few chairs are overturned while tables are askew. 

Under different circumstances, maybe in a different life, he would’ve been able to appreciate the homey charm of the place without trouble finding a way to fall at his feet. The universe had deemed him as the only alter fit to handle it. 

The woman behind the counter, stout with a long ponytail, nearly collapses in relief as the wailing sirens draw nearer. Frank’s jaw ticks in irritation at the whole ordeal. Other customers who were once inside have either left or are now standing watch from the parking lot. 

Frank turns to look down at the two young men sitting on the floor with their backs against the wall. The masks have been ripped down from their faces, and it’s clear they’ve been roughed up. Despite feeling Frank’s gaze, they refuse to meet it. 

Off to side stands another employee who’s around the same age as the men on the ground. He’s holding a wad of napkins to his bloody nose and can’t keep his eyes from flitting to Frank with reverence and gratitude.  

“Hey,” Frank barks to the seated men. “When they bust up in here, you don’t run, you hear me? Cause I’m gonna be out there and you won’t even make it to the next lot over,” he says. “If you wanna come in here and be tough guys while your buddy’s trying to make a living and do better for himself, then you own it.” 

Their nostrils flare in frustration, but they don’t dare open their mouths. He can see the misplaced anger of his own youth coursing through them. 

“Whatever’s going on between you…you talk it out, yeah?” He looks between all of them. “One bad decision, and your folks will be crying and snotting in a courtroom while some guy with a gavel calls the shots.” 

As the police cars turn into the parking lot, Frank walks over to a table and picks up the carry out bag of food he’d ordered. 

“How do I get outta here?” 

Both the long-haired woman and the young employee point to the back hallway where the bathrooms are, watching him disappear as if he were never there at all. 

Frank makes it to his van as the police enter the pizzeria. In the rearview mirror, he can see the two men standing from the ground with their heads hanging low. Sighing, he pats down his pockets for his phone with the intent to call you. Nothing. All he can do is curse under his breath and start up the engine. 

The No Vacancy sign is switched on when he makes it back. He sees you staring out the window, but you slink back into the room as if the sight of his return was all you needed. A mix of guilt and frustration stir in his chest when you don’t let him in. He has to dig out the key and do it himself with his free hand, the carry out bag crinkling with his efforts. When he slips in and shuts the door behind himself, you’re standing a few yards away. There’s a palpable intensity as you study the afflictions on his face. 

Your body wants to fuss over him and push him away all at once—for leaving his phone, for scaring you, for coming back looking like he’d sought out yet another fight. Most of all, you feel foolish for believing that there was ever a chance at normalcy. There was no rewriting the curse that all the trouble in the world fell at Frank Castle’s feet so he could set things right. 

Unlike eight months ago, when you thought he was bad news, you can’t imagine losing him. You wouldn’t survive it. That magnitude of that fear cloaks itself in anger and puts a target on him when it’s the last thing he deserves. 

“What the hell, Frank? You can’t be serious right now.” 

Your piercing gaze is muddled with a myriad of emotions, and he can see them all. He stops the knee-jerk reaction that almost makes him raise his voice and go on about how he didn’t ask for anything that transpired within the past hour. How happenstance wasn’t within his control. How the whole idea of the two people like you finding a sense of normality was probably closer to a fairytale. 

He doesn’t get into it because he loves you. Even though neither of you have ever said it aloud. It was an unspoken truth, written between the lines of the fact that you worked each other’s nerves, but knew how to sooth them even more. Chasing after a fairytale would be worth it with you. 

“Let’s just eat, yeah? Can we do that?” 

He brushes past you to put the food on the small table. You track his movements, watching as he takes out a few small boxes. There’s wings, garlic knots, mozzarella sticks—a variety so you can take your pick and get your fill. It was never really too late for pizza, but he knew you would complain about the layers of cheese grease so close to bedtime. You’re not even sure you have an appetite anymore, but he motions for you to come sit and you can’t say no. Your eyes follow him as he goes to wash his hands, wishing you had it in you to scream. 

There’s only two chairs and your knees knock beneath the table when he sits down. As you nibble on a garlic knot, you stare at the dried blood on his cheek and the forming bruise. 

“Please tell me what happened.” Your tone is lighter than before.

Frank squints briefly then wrinkles his nose, gears turning in his head. Similar to when he walks into a new room, his gaze tracks around different points of your face, as if he’s trying to piece together what he wants to say as he assesses where you are. His thoughts are always written in his expressions even if they aren’t entirely clear. 

“It was nothing,” he says. 

“Nothing, Frank?” 

Nine times out of ten, him coming back to base camp bearing signs of a fight meant that he’d either taken care of everything or it was time to bounce—no in between. There’s no urgency that suggests the latter, so he must be telling the truth. The events of the night have pissed him off more than anything, like a side quest he couldn’t avoid. As much as he dreaded playing it over in his head for the sake of relaying it back to you, he can see that you need it. 

“Alright, look.” Frank waits for your attentive nod to continue. 

“It was a couple of kids. Came in all loud, making a scene,” he starts. “Long story short, they gang up on their buddy who works there.” Your eyes drift to his lips as he talks, watching the way he wets them every so often. “Everybody starts freaking out, some suit who looks like Mayor LaGaurdia calls the cops.” 

He shakes his head like it was all a big mess. “And I’m not about to sit there and watch this kid get the snot beat outta him, so I get up and do somethin’ about it.” The righteous indignation in his tone stirs an admiration within you. He notices the shift in the way you’re looking at him. 

“What?” 

You shake your head and bite your lower lip. “So you broke them apart?”

He nods. “One of ‘em got a lick in, pulled out a pocket knife,” he says. “Then I shook both their asses up and made ‘em sit ‘til the cops came.” 

“You pulled your punches.” 

“I pulled my punches,” he confirms.

This wasn’t the story you were expecting, but you’re grateful for it nonetheless. Frank breaking up fights and setting kids straight was something you could live with—better than dealing with crime rings, crooked feds, and personal vendettas. 

A wave of rowdy laughter soon erupts from somewhere in the distance. When you look down, you realize the two of you have made your way through more of the food than you were expecting. Frank wipes his hands off with a napkin and leans back in his chair, watching as you do the same. 

The silence is intimate. Frank’s knees are still pressed against yours. He looks like he wants to say one thing but changes his mind to another at the last minute. “I’m gonna go grab a shower, yeah?”  

“Yeah,” you mimic the quick, New York way he always clips the word onto the end of his sentences.  

He’s never minded your teasing. Every time he thinks he’s gotten away with masking his amusement, you always catch a tell that gives him away. This time, it’s the twitch of his nose as he stands up to throw his stuff away. You file it away in your memory. 

“Hey, Frank?” He looks over his shoulder. “I’m sorry. I was scared.” 

“I know.” 

Later, the lights around the mirror provide a Hollywood-esque glow as you stand at the sink brushing your teeth, one hand braced on the counter. The rest of the bathroom is sectioned off behind a door, so you feel the lingering steam from Frank's shower as he steps out in his sleep clothes, drying off his hair. The air smells like the complimentary soap, light and fresh. You absentmindedly shift to make room for him as he drapes the towel around his neck and leans close to the mirror to assess his face. 

Now that the blood is gone, the cut looks less imposing. Unphased that you’re bumping shoulders, he reaches for his own toothbrush. 

You’ve never paid any mind to how heavy-handed he is while he brushes, but it stands out now that you’re right beside him sharing the same sink. Perhaps it only appears that way, but you force yourself to bite back a teasing comment as you move on to floss. Frank just stares at you in the mirror with a soft, tired look in his eyes that makes your insides feel all fluttery. You’re sure he’s not even aware he’s doing it—or maybe he knows perfectly well. 

After he’s ditched the towel and the two of you are making your way to your respective beds, you bring a halt to his movements by wrapping your arms around him. It’s an awkward angle at first because you come at him partially from the side, partially from behind. But he adjusts himself so that your chests are pressed together as he wraps an arm around you—just the one initially, taken aback by your embrace. 

“Okay. Oh, boy,” he chuckles in that low way of his that playfully denotes trouble. 

You’re not sure why you made the move. As he adds his other arm, it occurs to you that there are too many motivations for there to be just one. Affection seldom looks like this between the two of you—maybe once every blue moon during notable partings or close calls. The seamless way you melt into him says otherwise. It’s as if relishing his warmth and the steady constant of his frame was all you were made for. The possibility doesn’t even offend you. You keep holding him and he keeps holding you. 

“You okay?” he asks after a while, smoothing his wide palm up your back. 

You nod before slowly pulling away. “Sorry, I’m just…” You touch a gentle finger to the center of his chest as he looks at you with that familiar furrow between his brows. “Glad you’re back.” Glad he’s still alive.

“Where else would I be, huh?” He taps your chin with his knuckle. “I walk out any door without you, best believe I’m making it back some way somehow.” 

You nod because you don’t trust your voice anymore.  

He gives your chin another affectionate tap. “Alright then. Bedtime.”

•••

A small sliver of light slips in through the slit in the curtains, casting itself onto the lower portion of Frank’s bed right over his feet. Even after staring at it for what feels like forever, you can’t bring yourself to close your eyes and surrender to the grasp of sleep. Yet the steady rise and fall of Frank’s chest continues on like some sort of miracle. You wish you were close enough to feel it for yourself, and when that pull doesn’t go away, you push the covers off and tiptoe over to his bed amid the dark.  

When the other side of his mattress dips, he thinks it’s one of those half-waking dreams until your leg brushes against his in your attempt to join him beneath the sheets. He immediately shifts to accommodate you, tugging more covers over to your side even though there’s already plenty. As he moves, you can smell the familiar scent of his skin and feel the weight of his proximity. 

“Thought you were—thought I was dreaming,” he rasps. 

With the way your heart has begun hammering in your ears, you’re surprised you can hear him. “Is this okay?”

“Yeah, you’re okay, sweetheart.” His voice is thick, but not from tiredness this time. 

Both of you remain still after you’ve settled, scared that moving would shatter this sweet reality that had been woven together by fate. The warmth of his body calls out to you, but you don’t indulge even though you want to. That hesitation doesn’t last long. The moment he reaches out, you press yourself back against his chest. He lets his hand come to rest over your stomach as he tucks his nose into your head, breathing you in. When you relax further into him, his fingertips venture just beneath the hem of your shirt to grace the soft skin above your waistline. The gesture is achingly chaste. The two of you fall asleep just like that. 

Morning seems to come soon, sunlight spilling into the room around the closed curtains. The light is tender in the way it bathes the charming color palette of the room. Frank’s eyes flutter open to find that neither of you had shifted much during the night. You're further away, but his arm remains draped over your middle. He doesn’t know that you're awake—that you’ve been awake. 

The first thing your gaze fell on was the alarm clock nearing nine o’ clock. You’d slept in way longer than usual, especially for what was meant to be another day on the road. You can’t bring yourself to mind. 

It isn’t until Frank withdraws his arm that you finally allow yourself to shift. The sheets rustle in a tell-tale sign that he’s stretching, and you roll over in time to see him on his back with his arms extended, knuckles brushing against the headboard. You scoot closer, resting a hand on his chest after he lowers his arms and tucks the one furthest from you behind his head, bicep flexing. 

Neither of you say anything, but there’s a quiet sense of acknowledgement—of seeing and being seen. With a lone finger, you draw lazy shapes over his pecs through the fabric of his shirt as he slowly blinks down at your hand. And as Frank turns to press a kiss to your forehead, he reckons he could get used to mornings like these.  

-

♡ Thank you for reading! I’d love to hear your thoughts.

[aquaholicsanonymousworld]

Blood and Moonlight

Pairing: Dexter Morgan x Reader

Summary: You are Dexter's neighbor and you have a big fat juicy crush on him.

Dexter Morgan knew obsession.

He had spent his entire life consumed by it—by the silent, inescapable hunger that twisted through him like an instinct. The kind that sharpened his focus, that made the rest of the world disappear until all that was left was the pulse of his need. But this was different. This was you.

At first, it had been small things.

Noticing the way you always seemed to be outside when he got home from work, lingering in the humid Miami air, leaning against the railing of your shared balcony with a cigarette dangling between your fingers.

The way you stretched yourself out by the pool, skin glowing under the sun, perfectly positioned from his window—whether intentional or not.

The way your eyes lit up when you ran into him at the mailbox, your voice always soft, always teasing.

You thought you were subtle. You weren’t. But Dexter didn’t mind. Because while you were watching him, he was watching you. You just didn’t know it.

You sigh, flicking the ash from your cigarette as you lean against the balcony railing, watching the streetlights cast long, slanted shadows against the pavement below.

It’s late. But you’re still here. Waiting. Hoping. And just as you’re about to call it a night, you hear it—the soft, familiar click of a car door closing. Your pulse quickens. You don’t turn your head too fast—don’t want to seem too eager—but when you glance over, sure enough, there he is. Dexter Morgan, back from work, looking just as brooding and quiet as ever.

You lean a little more into the railing, tilting your chin up slightly. “Late night?”

He hesitates, glancing up at you, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. “Yeah,” he says finally, voice smooth, even. “You too?”

You smile. “Yeah, couldn’t sleep.” You tap your cigarette. “Thought some fresh air might help.”

Dexter watches you. His expression is unreadable, his posture relaxed but his gaze razor-sharp, like he’s studying something under a microscope.

You shift under it, heart fluttering in that stupid, schoolgirl way it always does around him. “Want one?” you ask, holding up the pack. He exhales through his nose—not quite a laugh, but close. “I don’t smoke.” You smirk. “Figured. But you could always come keep me company anyway.”

Dexter doesn’t move for a moment. Just stares at you, like he’s processing something foreign and unfamiliar.

He doesn’t understand what’s happening to him. This feeling. It’s all-consuming, just like his urges, but it’s different. Warmer. Lighter. You pull it out of him without even trying. You don’t see him as some awkward, forgettable forensic guy. You see him. And that is dangerous. Because for the first time, his obsession doesn’t end with a kill. It ends with you.

Dexter takes a step closer. Your breath catches, just slightly, but you hide it behind another drag of your cigarette.

He hesitates for a fraction of a second before leaning against the railing beside you, looking out over the parking lot instead of directly at you. The proximity is enough to send a subtle thrill down your spine. You hadn’t expected him to actually take you up on the offer. He was always so distant, so unreadable. But maybe he was warming up to you.

You take another slow inhale from your cigarette before turning toward him, resting your elbow on the railing. “You ever think about quitting?”

“Quitting what?”

You tap the cigarette between your fingers. “Work. Smoking, if you did. Life.” You smirk. “All of the above.”

Dexter exhales through his nose, something between amusement and thoughtfulness. “No.”

You hum. “That was quick.”

“I like what I do,” he says, gaze steady.

Something about the way he says it makes you shiver. You don’t know why. Maybe it’s the intensity in his voice—calm, steady, but laced with something deeper. Something dark. But instead of scaring you, it only makes you more curious.

“And what exactly do you do?” you press, tilting your head.

His lips twitch—barely. “Forensics.”

“Right.” You lean in slightly, dropping your voice as if you’re sharing a secret. “But you don’t really like forensics, do you?”

Dexter finally looks at you then. Really looks at you. And something in his expression shifts. It’s subtle—so subtle that anyone else wouldn’t have noticed. But you do.

You see it in the way his fingers tighten against the railing, the way his eyes linger on your face just a second too long, like he’s assessing something far greater than your words. Like he’s assessing you.

“What makes you say that?” he asks, voice smooth, careful.

You shrug, flicking ash off the side of the balcony. “Just a feeling.”

Dexter watches you for a long moment, then exhales. “Forensics is… useful.”

“Useful,” you repeat, amused. “That’s a weird way to describe your career.”

He shrugs. “It keeps things… in order.”

You arch a brow. “You like things in order?”

A pause. “Yes.”

Your smirk deepens. “So what happens when things don’t go according to plan?”

Dexter is quiet for a moment. His gaze flickers to your lips. Your breath catches. “I fix them,” he says simply. Your stomach tightens.

The answer is casual—too casual—but it holds weight, like there’s something behind it that you should be worried about. And yet… you’re not. You’re just more intrigued.

“You’re an interesting guy, Dexter Morgan,” you muse, tilting your head as you study him. His lips quirk, barely. “You think so?”

“I know so.”

You take one last drag from your cigarette before stubbing it out in the ashtray on the railing. The air between you is thick, charged with something unspoken. You should go inside. Call it a night. Let the moment pass. But you don’t.

Instead, you look up at him, bold and unblinking. “So… do you think about me?”

Dexter stills. His pulse—normally steady, controlled—spikes. He wasn’t expecting that. You’re watching him like you already know the answer. And that’s what makes it dangerous. Because if you knew the full truth—if you really knew what he thought about when he thought about you—you’d be running in the opposite direction.

Instead, you just look up at him, teasing, curious, your lips parted just enough to make something twist inside him. He should lie. He should deflect. He should walk away. But instead, he leans in slightly, just enough to make your breath hitch, and murmurs—

“All the time.”

The words settle between you, thick as the Miami heat, and suddenly, everything feels heavier. More dangerous. More alive.

You search his face, trying to figure out if he’s messing with you, if this is some kind of joke—if quiet, awkward Dexter Morgan actually meant what he just said. But there’s nothing playful in his expression.

His eyes are locked on you, still and intense, dark like the ocean at midnight, endless and impossible to read.

“Yeah?” Your voice is softer now, teasing but laced with curiosity. “What do you think about?”

Dexter doesn’t blink. You don’t want to know. That’s what he should say. But he can’t. Because for the first time, his mind isn’t quiet. It isn’t cold. It isn’t methodically working through his next move, his next kill, his next cover-up. It’s just you.

You—smirking at him over your cigarette.

You—lying out by the pool, stretching yourself out in the sun like you knew he was watching.

You—looking up at him right now, daring him to tell you what’s going on inside his head, daring him to slip.

What would you do if he told you the truth? If he told you that the way he feels about you is dangerously close to how he feels about his urges? That he thinks about you all the time because he doesn’t know how else to process it? That his need to have you is bordering on the same instinctual pull that usually leads him into a kill room?

You’d run. You’d be smart and you’d run. And he’d have to let you go. Wouldn’t he?

He exhales slowly, forcing his shoulders to relax, forcing the thoughts back into their cage. He can’t scare you away. Not yet. Not when you’re already this close.

Instead, he lets a ghost of a smile slip through. “I don’t think you’d believe me if I told you.”

You tilt your head, eyes flickering with curiosity. “Try me.”

He watches you for a moment longer before shifting, standing up straight, pulling back just enough to put space between you. He has to keep this controlled. Measured. Safe. For both of you.

Instead of answering, he glances at your cigarette pack. “You should quit those,” he says, voice casual.

You blink, thrown off by the shift. “What?”

Dexter nods at the pack. “They’ll kill you.”

You raise a brow, caught between amusement and disbelief. “You care about my health now?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just watches you, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly. “You want me to be honest, right?”

You narrow your eyes. “Yeah.”

“Then yeah,” he says. “I care.”

Your lips part slightly. For the first time, you don’t have a quick response. Because Dexter Morgan—distant, quiet, unreadable Dexter Morgan—just admitted he cares about you. And somehow, that’s more surprising than anything else he could’ve said. You don’t know what to do with that. So, naturally, you deflect.

You smirk, stepping in just a fraction closer, emboldened by the fact that Dexter freaking Morgan is actually playing into this.

“You know,” you say, voice low, playful. “If you wanted an excuse to kiss me, you could’ve just said so.”

Dexter’s pulse spikes. Your confidence is dangerous. You have no idea what you’re inviting in.

For a terrifying second, he wonders if he’ll be able to control himself—if the feeling clawing its way up his chest is actually affection, or if it’s something darker, something that could swallow you whole. But then, just as quick, he schools his face back into something neutral, something safe.

And then he does something you weren’t expecting. He laughs. Soft. Barely there. But real. You freeze. Because you’ve never heard Dexter laugh before. It throws you completely off course.

You step back slightly, crossing your arms, trying to regain some of the control you just lost. “What’s so funny?”

Dexter tilts his head, eyes flickering with something unreadable. “You.”

Your mouth drops open slightly. “Me?”

He nods, still smirking. “You’re determined, I’ll give you that.”

“Wait, so—” You shake your head. “Are you saying you don’t want to kiss me?”

Dexter lets the silence drag for a beat too long.

And then, slowly—dangerously—he leans in, just enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath ghost over your cheek.

“I’m saying,” he murmurs, voice dipping lower, “you should be careful what you ask for. You really want to know about my day?”

Something about the way he says it makes you hesitate.

Like there’s something beneath the words. Something hidden, something dark. You shift slightly. “Sure.”

Dexter tilts his head. And for a split second, you swear you see something flicker behind his eyes—something calculating.

“You ever wonder what it would be like to get away with something?” he asks.

The question catches you off guard. You blink. “Like what?”

Dexter watches you, unreadable. “Anything.”

You huff a small laugh. “Well, that’s vague.”

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t even blink.

You swallow. “I mean… yeah, I guess? Doesn’t everyone?”

Dexter nods slightly, like that was the answer he expected.

He leans back, stretching his arms slightly before leaning back in. His movements are slow, deliberate. Like a predator getting comfortable in its environment. You feel your heartbeat quicken. You don’t know why.

But then, just when the silence stretches too long, he asks—“What would you do?”

You stare at him. “What do you mean?”

“If you could get away with anything,” Dexter says smoothly, tilting his head, “what would you do?”

The air between you shifts. You don’t know why this question makes you feel like you’re walking into something you can’t quite see. But you answer anyway.

“I don’t know,” you admit, shrugging. “Maybe… rob a bank? Steal a car?”

Dexter hums. “Small things.”

Your lips twitch. “I don’t know. You want me to say murder?”

A silence. Too long. Too heavy. Dexter just looks at you. And for the first time, you get the distinct feeling that you are not the one in control here.

You clear your throat, shifting slightly. “What about you?”

Dexter exhales through his nose, then shrugs.

“I guess we all have something we’d like to get away with.”

Your stomach flips. But you don’t look away. Instead, you hold his gaze, letting the tension settle. And then—slowly, carefully—you lean in slightly, lowering your voice. “Guess I’ll have to figure out what yours is.”

And then—before you can respond, before you can do anything at all—Dexter steps back, straightens his shirt, and tilts his head toward your door.

“It’s late,” he says, voice back to its usual calm. “You should get some sleep.”

You blink, caught completely off guard. “You ever talk to someone about it?” you ask.

Dexter tilts his head slightly, lips twitching. “You offering?”

You smirk. “Maybe.”

He watches you. Long. Calculated. Then, after a moment, he turns away, heading back inside. Your stomach drops. “Dexter—”

“Come inside.”

You freeze. His voice is steady, quiet. A command, not a request. You swallow, heart hammering against your ribs, but your legs are already moving.

The air in his apartment is colder than you expected. It smells like him—clean, sharp, something faintly metallic underneath it all. He closes the sliding door behind you, and for the first time, you realize just how quiet it is in here. Just how alone you are with him.

Your breath catches. “You okay?” you ask, turning to face him.

Dexter stands there for a moment, watching you, his expression unreadable. Then—“I’m done waiting.”

Before you can respond, he moves. It’s not hesitant. It’s not cautious. It’s intentional. One second, you’re standing there, heart pounding, and the next, his hands are gripping your waist, pulling you into him, his mouth crashing into yours. It’s not soft. It’s not slow. It’s desperate.

Like something in him finally snapped, like he’s finally allowing himself to take what he wants. You barely have time to react before you’re kissing him back, your fingers tangling into his shirt, pulling him closer, needing him closer. Dexter groans against your lips, hands tightening on your hips. His grip is firm—possessive in a way that makes your stomach flip.

Your back hits the wall before you even register that he’s moving you. “Dex—” He presses his mouth to your neck, cutting off whatever you were about to say, and fuck.

You hadn’t expected this. Hadn’t expected him to be like this. You had spent weeks—months—playing this game, trying to get him to break. Now, you were realizing—you never stood a chance. He was always in control.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his breathing heavy, eyes dark and unreadable. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me,” he murmurs. A slow exhale leaves his lips, brushing against your ear. “You sure you want this?”

You swallow, your body buzzing from the sheer weight of his presence. “Yeah.”

Dexter hums, dragging his lips along the curve of your neck. “Then let’s play a game.”

Your stomach flips. “What kind of game?”

His grip tightens slightly—just a fraction, just enough to make you press further into him. “I show you something,” he murmurs. “And you tell me if you still want me afterward.”

A chill slides down your spine. Not from fear. From anticipation. You tilt your head slightly, just enough to catch his gaze. “Show me, then.”

For a second, he just looks at you. Then—his lips curl into something dangerously close to a smile. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

The drive is quiet. You don’t ask where you’re going. It doesn’t hit you until you pull up to the marina. Until you see the dock. Until Dexter kills the engine and turns to look at you, expression unreadable. Your pulse kicks up.

The water laps softly against the wooden pier, the Miami skyline reflecting in the distance. It’s peaceful. This is his place. The place where he disposes of things. Of people. You swallow hard, heart hammering as he finally speaks. “If you get out of this car, there’s no going back.”

You look at his eyes, they are dark, serious. He’s giving you an out. You could say no. You could walk away. But you don’t. Instead, you reach for the door handle and step out. Dexter watches you for a moment before following suit, his footsteps slow and deliberate as he leads you onto the dock.

The air is thick with salt and something else—something you can’t name. Dexter stops at the edge, looking down at the water. You stand beside him, close enough that your arm brushes his. He lets the silence stretch. Then—“I’ve lost count of how many bodies are down there.”

Your breath catches. He says it so casually. So calmly. Like he’s telling you how many cups of coffee he’s had today.

Dexter turns to look at you, waiting, studying.

You meet his gaze, pulse pounding. And then—You reach out. Your fingers brush over his, tentative, barely there. Dexter stills. Then, slowly, his hand closes around yours. Your heart slams against your ribs. And for the first time, you see it. The truth. He wants you.

You squeeze his hand slightly, lips parting. “Still want me?”

Dexter exhales sharply through his nose.

Then, his grip tightens. And when he speaks, his voice is low, full of something dark and possessive. “You have no idea what you’ve just done.”

His breath is warm against your lips, his fingers brushing against your wrist, feeling your pulse beneath them.

“Not scared?” he murmurs.

Your stomach tightens. Your breath catches. But you still manage to smirk. “Should I be?”

Dexter hums, dragging his fingers slowly up your arm, over your shoulder, up to your throat. His hand lingers there, his thumb tracing lightly along the column of your neck.

Like he’s feeling for something.

You swallow hard.

His lips twitch. “I could kill you right now,” he says—calmly, casually, like it’s just a fact.

Your pulse pounds. And his eyes darken.

He leans in, his lips grazing your ear. “You’re not running,” he whispers.

Your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt. “No.”

Dexter exhales slowly, his nose brushing against your temple. Then, he does something you don’t expect. He laughs. Low, dark, almost like a growl. And before you can process it—He kisses you. It’s not sweet. It’s claiming. Like something inside him has snapped—like this was inevitable.

His hand stays wrapped around your throat, not squeezing, just holding, grounding you in the moment. His other hand tangles into your hair, pulling you closer, swallowing the quiet gasp that slips from your lips.

You kiss him back just as hard, just as desperate, fingers digging into his shoulders, pulling him in.

Dexter groans against your mouth, his grip tightening—just a fraction, just enough to send a thrill down your spine.

You shouldn’t want this. But you do. You always have.

Dexter pulls back slightly, his forehead pressing against yours, his breath heavy. “You’re mine now,” he murmurs.

[riiwrites]

GOTCHA!

summary : dazai loves pulling the easiest tricks in the book to get you all jumpy. - but what he loves even more is the priceless look on your face!

request : “waa i really want a dazai x reader with a (female) reader who gets scared/flustered/surprised easily ! o(≧▽≦)o it would be so cute..”

genre : pure fluff all around

a/n : hi my beauties, im baaaack! (well, not entirely.) im trying to gain my confidence and motivation when it comes to writing so I hope I don’t disappoint :)

dividers belong to @/cafekitsune !

NOT PROOFREAD!!!

The dark night cast over your apartment complex as you took in the fresh air around you. A deep breath in, a deep breath out. A relaxing routine that soothes you in your days and hours.

You always adored the serene atmosphere that came with you standing outside your few inch balcony. It helped you recollect yourself, lay back, relax, and close your eyes to—

“Boo!”

A scream erupts you, one so loud that all of Yokohama could probably hear as you instantly turn around and swat at whatever’s behind you.

But, you miss miserably, no matter how many hits you threw.

A stomach filled laugh fills your ears as you finally register just who this mysterious man was.

Well, mysterious until you figured out it was your boyfriend.

Your face turns a shade of pink as you cover your face in embarrassment. One, because you let Dazai scare you once again. And two, you’re most definitely getting a noise complaint to your door from your neighbours from the other doors down.

“Ohhh Bella! You ought to know by now not to get all jumpy when you know I just love a good scare!” Dazai says as he lets the last few laughs escape him, now slowing down into light chuckles instead.

To this you groan into your hands, not knowing he’s taking fewer steps closer towards you, lessening the distance between you two.

He takes a moment to look at your hand covered face before gently taking your two cold hands into his own, smirking as he lowers them to reveal your flustered ridden face.

“Why, aren’t you just the reddest tomato of all the crops in Yokohama?” He teased, chuckling as you only turn redder as he lets go of your hands to place his own on your cheeks.

“Yeesh! You’re as warm as a sauna! I could easily use you to warm me up as a radiator!”

“Just. Stop. Talking!!” You whine as he continues his teasing.

There were many instances this similar situation has repeated. Multiple times, and when it did, Dazai ate it all up like it was the first time he had experienced it.

On a hot summers day in the streets of Yokohama, you are talking to a close friend of yours about an upcoming job you are about to start. All wrapped up in your own head as you gush about how excited you are for this new experience.

You were talkative, full of smiles and confidence all up until-

You feel two frail arms wrap around your lower waist, pulling you in from behind as a head lowers itself onto your shoulder.

“What are we talking about over here?” Dazai says, volume at a normal level but since he’s next to your ear, the words go straight to your head as your mind goes all fuzzy.

“Oh! We were just talking about Y/N’s new job coming up! She’s super excited! Right, Y/N?” Your friend turns to you with a smile, but that smile drops once she sees your complete changed expression.

From just 3 seconds, you went from this chatty, confident girl - to a stuttering, flustered pink faced mess all in the span of Dazai showing up.

“U-uh— YEAH! Super- super excited!” You muster out, your breathing shaky as you look to the floor, seeing Dazais arms around your waist.

Dazai smirks and chuckles, looking up to your friend with a teasing grin. “Doesn’t she just look so adorable all flustered?”

At this you feel like you could just curl up and die.

Soon after your friend leaves, leaving you and Dazai to your own devices. He turns to you as you walk hand in hand down the street.

“You’re always so nervous when I surprise you, you know?”

You nod, turning to him with a shy smile.

“I know.”

“It’s cute, I like it.” He chuckles as he looks up at the sky. “Maybe I’ll keep doing it.”

“If you do that I think I’ll just die..” You whine to him as he pulls you closer, gasping at your faux confession.

“Well, I may just have to join you~” He says all chirpy. Your eyes widening as you realise what he means.

“Damn it! No! I’m not feeding into your double suicide delusions again!”

One day, as you type on your computer at work you get a sudden text from Dazai.

Dazai <3 : Will be working late tonight! Don’t miss me too muchhh ( ^▽^)σ)~O~)

At this you cock your head to the side slightly and furrow your brows together. But he’s never working late?

Actually, scratch that, he’s never working.

But nonetheless, you shrug and put your phone down, getting back on with your work and not thinking much of it.

A few hours later, you are now outside your apartment door, getting your keys out and jingling it in the lock before opening the door.

As you step in, you’re confused by the complete darkness before you flick the light switch on. It’s normally rather…light, in here. How odd.

However, you decide not to question it as you then remember Dazai was to return home late.

That was until, you hear a sudden noise of shuffling coming from your bedroom.

Your eyes widen as your anxiety instantly spikes. You stare at the door before slowly making your way towards it, grabbing a pan on the kitchen counter before continuing your path.

You hear faint noises coming from the other side of the door. Someone’s here, and it sure as hell ain’t Dazai considering he’s meant to coming home late.

You let out a shaky breath, as you grab the door handle and in one swift motion, you open the door, slamming it off of the wall and stepping in with your pan.

But nobody’s there.

Confused and anxious, you turn the light on and look around frantically, eyes wide in terror as you keep your pan close.

“W-who’s there?! I got a weapon you know!!” You speak out in legitimate fear.

As you’re about to take a step closer, a loud bang interrupts your thoughts and you absolutely scream your whole heart out as you whip your head around, swiping the pan everywhere but the result of the sound.

“Gotcha!!!” Shouts Dazai from infront of you, grinning and laughing as confetti falls from the party poppers. You stand there in complete and utter shock, eyes wide and jaw dropped to a certain inch or two.

“A-are you kidding me?” You ask.

“Nope!” He says with a pop to the ‘p’.

You sigh in defeat, dropping the pan with a loud ‘clang’ and walk over to him, dropping your head to his chest.

On instinct, he wraps his arms around you in a warm hug.

“I’m sorryyyy..” He whispers out.

“No you’re not.” You bark back. “You never are.”

“Yeah you’re right about that.” He shrugs in truth, giggling to himself before pulling you back for him to take a good look at your precious face. “I have a surprise for you.”

“Haven’t you enough surprises for one day?” You groan as he lets go of you and turns to get something out of his pocket, a small velvet like box.

Interest piqued, your eyes widen in curiosity as you take the box from him, staring at it in your hands. Then, you look up at him in slight hesitation.

“This better not jump out at me when I open it.”

To this he chuckles lightly. “No no, bella. Not this time.”

You take his word for it, you always do. You open the box and you let out a small gasp at the shiny ring exposed inside.

“For our 1 year anniversary!” He exclaims.

You furrow your eyebrows in confusion as you look up at him. “But, our anniversary isn’t until-“

“Oh, no no belladonna! Not our relationship anniversary.” He chuckles, and then points a finger up to the sky.

“It’s exactly one year today that I started scaring the living day lights out of you!”

You blink a few times, before replying.

“You seriously keep track of things like that?”

“Yes~ don’t you?”

“No.” You giggle and smile. “But it’s sweet you do.”

He hums and then opens his arms out for a hug, to which you fall right into and melt in his arms, smiling with a full grin and a blushed out face.

“Your reactions are priceless, they make my day worth it.” He whispers to you.

That was his favourite day he scared you, and unbeknownst to him, it was also yours.

TAGLIST : @forgotten-blues @ruru-kiss @texas-bitch-yee @lvstyangel @is-therelife-onmars @101strawberries101 @reesesnieces @suzurans-world @inojuuy @boarcide @kissesmellow21 @aliyahgracedrawing @chuuyathehatrack2 @boredwithwrath @rainy-dazie @lone-ray @ishqani @fun-cats @wefureko-blog @hoicacti @seikkoh @underscoredaniii @monmush @night-dazai @minomikn @pinkdaises @mayaaluvvvv @probablyzombiedinosaurs @rinismahname @starrs20 @just4notherhumanbeing @little-miss-chaoss @drowningfishy @saeandscaralover

i understand its been a while since I’ve uploaded so if you don’t wish to be on my tag list anymore please do contact me to let me know <3

✿ riiwrites ; please please please don’t plagiarise or repost any of my works on any other platforms! especially without crediting!

[makeitworse]

BABY I’M YOURS

who knew that working as an idol’s stylist meant you’d be concealing an affair and the muse for his upcoming album.

⋆˙⟡ ibelongiiu part one 𓂃 c/w: fem!reader x sub!jiyong. fluff | smut. age gap. power imbalance. slowburn. yearning. sneaking around. (not-so) casual relationship. nsfw content minors dni

since the first time you met, ji-yong held a certain fondness for you. you were a fresh face in his staff, joining at the start of the year through connections with his long-term stylist gee eun.

she’d scouted your talent and personally requested you to work with her team— despite your lack of formal experience in the star-studded world of idols.

and you managed to hold your own while working alongside the stylists who’d been dressing him for decades.

it was such a drastic leap from your former position as a fashion intern; only in your early twenties, and you were getting paid to curate outfits for the king of kpop’s public appearances.

you were well aware of how volatile this industry could be. ji-yong’s december scandal was proof of it. you had tunnel vision on your career: you didn’t need attention or to climb in status. you just wanted to do your job and do it well.

which, ironically, is what caught ji-yong’s eye.

from your first day you radiated an air of confidence. you had something special to land you here and you knew it.

you were easy to talk to: never trying too hard to impress him, never pushing for attention. simple, mundane conversations with you were a comfort.

you never spoke to him like he was g-dragon, either. you laughed at his stupid jokes. you saved work-talk for later when you noticed he was nodding off. you didn’t hesitate to call him out on being a diva, either; snappy during fittings, picky with outfit options.

(which, admittedly, was often.. but he respects someone who doesn’t shy at telling him off.)

he liked hearing you laugh too. it wasn’t like the polished, practiced laughter he was used to hearing from idols and other public figures— the kind that could come with ulterior motives.

yours was real. unpretentious. your smile was infectious. and yeah, there was the fact that he found you gorgeous.

it wasn’t exactly a revelation; who wouldn’t think the same? that’s all it was, just passing admiration.

at least he told himself so.

until one night, you were invited as part of a handful of staff to accompany ji-yong at a formal dinner.

ji-yong gravitated to the seat next to the one you’d already claimed in the car. and during the trip there, there wasn’t a singular second of a silence.

talking to you felt so natural. your humour bounced off each other’s, topics and stories flowed from one to the other. he almost wished the car wouldn’t reach its destination if it meant he could learn everything there is to know about you.

but inevitably it did. he turned to you as he adjusted his blazer, asking in a playful tone if he looked good enough for the cameras.

you beamed that smile at him; hand reaching out to straighten his tie, smoothen the lapel. but then your face drops with a frown.

ji-yong’s breath catches in his throat before he can ask what was wrong— as you reach up and lightly thread your fingers through the front of his hair, fixing a stray strand that had fallen over his forehead.

you tucked it back into place while absentmindedly biting your lip in concentration, completely unfazed by the fact you were touching him so casually, so intimately.

and then you were gone.

the door opened on your side, and you moved on like it was nothing. you’d taken his breath with him. ji-yong sat there for a second too long, the crowd outside hollering for him to step outside.

what the hell just happened?

it’s not like he hasn’t been touched before. he’s got people fussing over him every day— hands all over his body from stylist’s fixing up his clothes and hair, dabbing make-up at his face. it was routine.

but that? that was all you. you didn’t do it because it was part of your job. sure, this was a work-related event, but this car ride had been a conversation purely between you and him. and you’d touched him so softly, without hesitation, like it was second nature to be that close.

and god, he was thinking about it too much.

ji-yong caught himself staring at you from across the sidewalk, watching you laugh at something gee eun said; wondering to himself why you suddenly have his full attention.

from then on, it was excuses in order to be around you— requesting you specifically for fittings, revolving around you during breaks, asking you questions he could easily ask the other stylists.

the rest of the team joke that he has an obvious favourite. and instead of denying it, he laughs it off. no one’s taking it too seriously of course; he’s been in the public eye long enough to learn that dating a girl means putting a spotlight on her.

but it lingers in his mind.

he’s old enough to know better. he should know better. you work under him, and you’re young— what was it, over a decade apart from him?

there’s power dynamics, a scandal waiting to happen, his career to consider. and you of course; whether he was reading too far into your affections. you had a smart head on your shoulders, you wouldn’t cross that line with your boss. he had to stop waiting for that day to come.

you had him slipping back into the mindset of his twenties, convinced his image could win over any woman— which was really a front for how deep he’d fall himself. he’s always been a hopeless romantic. he’s cultivated a career by writing songs about it.

ji-yong thought distance would help.

he told himself it was better this way— extinguish his budding feelings before it turned dangerous. before someone really noticed.

before he acted on them.

at first, you didn’t notice the shift. he’s still himself; still smooth, still teasing, still carrying that effortless charm that people gravitate toward.

it starts small. he no longer snapped his head when he’d hear your voice. he no longer looked for your reaction first when he said a joke. he longer watched your reflection in the mirror, averting his gaze as you glance up, thinking you didn’t catch him.

you caught the way his jaw hardened as you adjusted his collar, and as your hands moved to his torso, his arms stayed rigid as his sides.

he doesn’t make it obvious. but he can tell you picked up on it. where there’d usually be playful teasing and light touches, was just an air of suffocating silence as you fixed up his shirt.

and now you’re looking at him differently. he hadn’t realised how much he missed the way you used to. there’s the faintest uncertainty in your movements, like you’re wondering if you’ve done something wrong. it makes his chest tighten.

you almost asked, why do you look at me like that?

for a week, he’d been dodging eye contact, keeping sentences curt and around you only when necessary. the easy rhythm you’d fallen into was gone, replaced by something unfamiliar that stung.

whatever was happening before, if it was anything, could still be found in his eyes. traces of his affections in the way that he looked at you; which he made an effort to keep to a minimum.

you had no reason to ask, though. he’s your boss. he’s an idol. you’ve no right to expectations for him.

so you swallow down the lump in your throat. the questions burning on your tongue— because what would it matter if he fancied you anyways? it’s not like you’d actually be together. you felt like a schoolgirl.

it’s been a long day, longer than most. he’s exhausted, drained from a packed schedule, and the weight of his own shame hanging over his shoulders.

he’s been irritable all day. snappy with the staff. you barely even glance in his direction anymore. his manager has to pull him to the side to check on him.

then something happens.

a tug at his waist— a sharp snap— and suddenly, his belt is loose, his pants hanging off his hips. the staff near him scramble for a fix; but then you’re there. rushing over, pulling your sleeves up to your elbows.

“i’ve got it,” you murmur. all focus.

you’re close. closer than you’ve been in weeks. your hands are on him without hesitation. the warmth of your touch, the scent of your perfume— it all floods back at once.

ji-yong swallows as you grab the hem of his pants, his jaw tight. he should look away, but he doesn’t. can’t. instead, he’s watching you thread the belt back through the loops; your furrowed brows, your lips softly between your teeth, completely oblivious to what you’re stirring in him.

once you buckle the belt back into place, you check it with a tug, and glance up at ji-yong. your eyes meet.

it was only an instant before you were gone again, but it’s enough. because he realises how much he missed you— in the wedge that he forced between you.

and above all, how wrong it was to treat you like just another member of the staff when you were anything but.

he wanted you. and he was done pretending otherwise.

the day had finally wrapped up, and ji-yong bee-lined to the dressing room, finding you humming to yourself by the clothing racks. he hesitates in the doorway before he steps inside.

“oh,” you glanced up. “did you forget something?”

for a second, he doesn’t answer. because yes, he had forgotten something. the warmth of your voice directed at him without uncertainty. how it felt like to talk to you once.

he scrunches his face in thought before shaking his head, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

“nope, just need a breather.”

he ruffles his hair. he’s fidgety, nervous. it’s not lost on you.

you hum in response, turning your attention back to the clothes as you sift through them.

conversation over. he had no reason to linger. but he asks anyway, “you staying late again?”

you shrug. “gee eun’s asked me to organise a few things before tomorrow. you know how she gets.”

he smirks. “they’ll have to start charging you rent soon.”

that earns him a quiet chuckle. it’s familiar.

you continue talking, reflecting on the busy day, and he isn’t listening to the words. not really.

he’s lost in the sight of you. hair falling around your pretty face, all messy from the long day. your hands; delicate, always warm when you’d fix his collar.

how easy it would be to close the distance, to reach for you in the way he’s wanted to.

ji-yongs fingers twitch at his sides. it’s an effort to keep his feet planted there, to nod along.

“—are you even listening?”

“hrm?”

you scoff, your arms crossing.

“what did i just say?”

you watch his feet shuffle, his hand planting in his hair again. the weight of your gaze on him is heavy.

“ah, i haven’t seen that one before.”

ji-yong points at an outfit hanging on the rack to divert the topic. he steps forward, inspecting it when he knows damn well he’s already seen it. but now he’s moving, closing the space between you, and you don’t budge.

you raise a brow. “we used it for an interview earlier this year.”

“really? has it been tailored since?” he reaches out to touch the fabric, like he could give a damn about it. he barely even looks at it. but you are.

“like it needs that.” you adjust the sleeve, replying absently: “you looked great.”

he huffs a laugh. it’s shy, uncertain. he gets nothing but praise all the time, yet he still doesn’t know how to receive it.

he should probably say something else. but instead, he turns to you, and you glance up at him.

you’re close. you eye him curiously, before it shifts into understanding. he’s giving you that look again. like you’ve got something he wants. and he’s letting you recognise it.

he spots the faintest smudge of make-up on your cheek from working all day. and before he can stop himself, ji-yong reaches up to wipe it with his thumb.

your breath catches. his hand stills, hovering beside your cheek. neither of you move, feeling the air shift. it’s charged with something unspoken, but undeniable.

ji-yong’s heart drums against his chest like it’s about to give out. he swallows, watching your eyes dart all over his face.

you’re searching for reluctance, regret; but he holds your gaze while looking at you like there’s a million more things he would do.

you let go of the clothing and bring your hand to his one at your cheek. you close your fingers around the back of his hand, holding it.

“that’s a bad idea.”

he felt like his fingertips were charged with electricity. his body was buzzing with heat. slowly, gauging your reaction, he moves his palm to your face.

you don’t oppose— instead, you lean into his touch as he cradles your cheek.

“i know.” he mutters.

ji-yong’s thumb softly wipes over your skin, and you sigh. that noise stirs something in him.

”you should probably go.”

your hand trails down his wrist and over his arm. he watches with bated breath as your fingertips drag over his chest, stopping to feather over his throat.

“you might do something you’ll regret.”

you felt his adam’s apple bob as he swallowed. breathlessly he says, “i wouldn’t.”

you dare to raise your hand to his face, ghosting your touch near his mouth. ji-yong responds by shifting his thumb to your chin, gently tilting your head for him.

for a beat, you let your breaths mingle as you stare at one another. you’re both asking: are we really doing this?

his gaze flickers to your lips and he sighs. you decide then that yes: we’re really doing this.

uncertainty gone, you lean forward to press your lips on his. they’re soft. you hear him suck in a breath through his nose, before he deepens the kiss by parting your mouth open with his own.

both his hands cradle your face, holding you like you’re precious. you pull him closer by his jacket, his body pressing into yours. you’re leaning into him, even letting little noises slip between the open-mouthed kisses.

it gets him hot. his tongue swipes over your bottom lip, asking for permission; when you hum in response, the warmth of his tongue slides into your mouth.

his hands come to rest on your waist, pulling your body further into his, feeling the curves of your chest press into him.

in turn, you felt his excitement digging into your hip. your head was whirling. this was a fucking celebrity, and you’re turning him on?

for a moment you’re both standing there, trading hot tongue kisses, letting your hands roam wild over each other.

ji-yong steps forward, guiding you to walk with him. he backs you into a nearby table.

you pull away, committing the sight before you to memory: ji-yong’s hair tousled, panting with his cheeks tinged red. his gaze charged with everything he’d do to you.

just as his hands come to your hamstrings to raise you onto the table, a distant voice from outside the door has you scrambling away from each other.

you position yourself back at the racks, with ji-yong pulling out his phone. someone walks past the room, glancing in to shoot you both a smile.

disaster averted.

but it was too close of a call. you shake your head at yourself, resting your palm on your forehead. what were you thinking, doing that with the door open?

you glance at ji-yong, pursing your lips. he gets the idea.

he nods, bowing his head as he turns to leave.

“ji-yong?”

he stops to look at you, and you beam a soft smile at him. an acknowledgment of what you two did: that it was real.

he smiles in kind, before you trade bows and he leaves you to get back to your work.

it’s not going to be the last time anyway.

ji-yong was being unbearable.

not outright, of course. just in the way that only you would pick up on.

he found you when the day started, approaching you in front of the styling team with a sly grin plastered on his face. he walked past you, brushing closer than was necessary— and he sneaked a hand out to pinch your waist.

you jumped, eyes darting up around the room. thankfully everyone’s too busy with their own tasks to take notice. you glanced back at ji-yong as he leaves, and he’s barely containing a giggle. asshole.

as the hours stretched on, he’d dare to steal fleeting touches: placing his palm on your back, brushing his fingers over your arm. ji-yong was too impatient for the day’s work to end. you still had to pick up from where your previous encounter left off.

once there were calls for a lunch break— you had locked eyes from across the room. you caught his lip twitch into a smirk briefly. while the other staff began to disperse, you continued your task of stitching up an accessory, biding for ji-yong to make his way over.

a gentle hand on your shoulder made your head turn, met with ji-yong’s face low at your ear.

“come with me?”

you exhale, turning your attention back to the needle. “what about my lunch?”

“i can arrange something for you after.”

you glance at ji-yong with a brow raised. he returns a boyish grin. his finger reaches up, twirling a stray strand of your hair.

you almost reply dryly again, but your words catch as ji-yong leans in, his breath fanning your lips. he extended his arm out, sliding the accessory from your hand and closing his own around your palm.

you suppress the urge to roll your eyes. you did still work under him, despite the tonsil hockey and all. he was just being so damn needy.

“alright.” you stood from your workbench, letting ji-yong pull your chair out and guide you by the hand. he had to drop it before you left the room together, but not before placing a kiss on your hand.

you followed ji-yong through the hallways. everyone was off on break elsewhere, but your heart was still beating in your throat. you were conjuring up excuses in the event that someone catches you— then ji-yong flashes you a soft smile.

he opens the door to an empty dressing room, offering you his palm to guide you in before him.

you take notice of a table against the wall, just before you hear the click of the door locking behind ji-yong.

now that you were actually here, you felt almost faint. it was so surreal. you worked here, and you were sneaking around. with the boss. a fucking idol.

and he led you here. because he wants you.

ji-yong’s hand finds your hip from behind. goosebumps bloom across your skin as he inhales at your hair behind your ear, breathing in your scent. his head leans forward, pressing a kiss to your temple.

his mouth trails down to your neck, hand softly roaming over your tummy, careful to not move further.

his name slips from you breathlessly, and he hums in response.

“we shouldn’t be long.”

you crane your head to him, and his palm comes to rest on your jaw. his gaze is unflinching from your lips.

“then i’ll make the most of it.”

there’s no hesitation this time as you both move to kiss each other. ji-yong gently spins you so you’re facing him, then pulling you in by the waist.

you’re both quick to part each other’s lips, your tongues pressing together as you tasted your shared breath. ji-yong was panting into the kisses, his fingers twitching to move from your back.

you bring your hands to cradle his face, briefly pulling away from the kiss to utter: “touch me.”

and he obeyed: sliding his hands with a newfound confidence till they reached the underside of your thighs, grabbing at the flesh.

your own hands tangled in his bright hair, pressing your hips into him— eliciting a hiss from ji-yong as his dick dug into your heat.

greed was rising in you. he’d been working you up all day, daring to show everyone just how close you two had gotten. you decide you’ll give him just what he’s been provoking.

ji-yong’s mouth breaks from yours in a groan as you slide your hand between your bodies to close your palm around his erection. he was hot in your hand, and a sight to behold: eyes screwed shut and his lips parted with a pant.

your hand inched upwards to rub at him, and his mouth came crashing onto yours again. you gasped as he squeezed your ass, nearly lifting you up as he guided you to walk back.

you get the idea— he wants to continue what he didn’t get to do yesterday.

you find your footing, kissing him fervently till you come in contact with the table’s edge. you hoist yourself up to sit on it, and ji-yong’s between your legs in an instant.

you pull him impossibly closer by his collar, and his groan rumbles in your throat as you roll your hips against him.

ji-yong’s mouth found purchase on your neck, and you hummed when he sucked on the skin.

time was ticking. you fumbled for his waistband, eager to unbuckle his belt, but he stopped you by the wrist.

you could’ve cussed him out— but he shot you a dark-eyed glance, his lip curled at the corner.

your mouth fell open as ji-yong dropped to his knees.

conveniently for him, you’d decided to wear a dress today. he pushed the skirt up your thighs, his lips parting in a pant when he noticed the damp spot in your panties.

he pulled them to the side, and you shuddered when he pressed a kiss to your bare cunt.

you steadied yourself with a hand in his hair as his head bobbed with kitten licks to your clit. he kept a palm on your thigh to keep your legs open, with the fingers of his other hand prodding at your core.

ji-yong ate you out like he was fucking starving. the noise of his own groans as he lapped at you vibrated against your clit. and when he finally slid his fingers in to curl up into you, you saw fucking stars.

it was only a few minutes before you came on his fingers, thighs threatening to clamp around his head. he kept his mouth latched onto you, sucking your clit through your orgasm.

he teased you with a swipe of his tongue over you, freshly sensitive. you swatted his head and he chuckled.

ji-yong was already lifting you off the table and ushering you out of the room just as you were asking to return the favour.

he replied that there wasn’t enough time, he still needed to organise lunch for you.

he let you leave the room first to find a bathroom, and you giggled as you flashed one last look at him: standing there with a (what would’ve been painfully hard) tent in his pants. his head dipped with a shy smile as the door shut.

after that, between you was an arrangement without a name. an affair that hadn’t yet been spoken into existence.

carefully coordinated encounters, stolen moments in the quiet corners of studios, which quickly progressed to meetings in parking lots and nights spent in hotel beds.

you’ve perfected the art of slipping away without raising suspicion, and he’s able to keep a straight face when someone asks where he’s been lately.

the team still believe it’s just a fleeting crush. it’s impossible to suppress his instinct to gravitate towards you, to gaze at you for far too long. it’s just something the stylists laugh at between themselves— they don’t he’d actually cross that line.

but he was far past that point. and he was down bad.

it’s in the way he can’t stop thinking of you when you’re not around. the way he’s memorised your little quirks when you’re working, how you bite your lip in concentration and hum absently.

the way he shifts his schedule around to better align with yours, just for the chance of more encounters in the shadows. the way he spent money on you like it meant nothing; treating you to meals and adorning you with jewellery, as much as you’d refuse.

but worst of all, it was in the music.

late at night, when he’s drafting songs for the album, the pen spills out lyrics that with your name written all over them.

his infatuation, his reluctance; his complete and utter devotion. him practically begging you to want to be with him.

the album was almost dangerously raw. when anyone close to him listens, they’ll start to wonder. because it’s not just a crush. ji-yong’s heart was yours.

truth was, he was falling in love. and he couldn’t tell a soul who you were.

you accompanied ji-yong to a photoshoot with elle magazine. the hours you’d been here have had no end of ji-yong attempting to whisk you away, sneak a kiss or two behind a corner.

you knew how he gets. ji-yong gets too excited for his own good; he couldn’t afford to get a boner when he has to pose up for the camera, or god forbid leak pre-cum into the trousers.

but it’d been a while since his schedule had an opening to spend time alone with you. he was restless today: groping you in the dressing room, stealing pecks on your face. you caught him staring at your chest in front of the other stylists, head dipped and all— and you nearly slapped him until you remembered he’s still g-dragon.

he’d catch your eye an alarming amount when he’d get into position for the pictures, almost as if he’s checking for your approval. it got to the point that you forced yourself to get busy with something else, in case someone starts to wonder why he keeps glancing in your direction.

the day was nearing its end. ji-yong was dressed in the last outfit prepared for him. you were skimming over any creases, straightening up his collar like you’d always do.

you spared him a smile and complimented him under your breath, low enough that the other stylists didn’t pay any mind.

but it only egged ji-yong on. temptation gets the better of him, and he leans forward on his toes like he’s about to kiss you— right there in front of everyone.

you freeze up as his nose nudges yours. it’s enough to have your heart drumming. it takes everything in you to calmly step away, not check to see if anyone saw.

and then someone’s calling his name for the next round of photos. he spares you a wink before he jogs off. you make a mental note to have no mercy the next time you fuck.

tonight was at long last a rare chance for ji-yong to spend the night with you. there’d been a cancellation in his plans, and he didn’t waste another moment in shooting you a message. all of your errands then became futile.

you had a singular foot in the door of his apartment before he launched himself at you. you felt zoa brush against your leg; he’s been telling you how much she’s missed you.

if only you could pet her, since ji-yong’s already practically ripping your clothes off.

you hadn’t forgotten his stunt at the elle photoshoot. you had straddled ji-yong on the couch, riding him till he was a whining mess. you only stopped after your second orgasm, and he was a shell of a man by the end of it. careful what you wish for.

freshly showered, you were both curled up in his sheets, your head resting on his chest. you listened to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, the rise and fall of his body with each breath. ji-yong was drawing lazy circles on your arm, his eyes glossed over while his mind was in a distant place.

you could spend forever looking at that face without getting bored. there’s a reason he’s as famous as he is. he’s stunning, and he was all yours.

“what’re you thinking?” you murmured.

ji-yong’s quiet for a beat. then, his finger stills against your skin. “how much i hate hiding this.”

your heart skips a beat. there it was.

you shift, tilting your head to look at him. he tries to keep his face composed, but his eyes— warm, searching— give him away.

“you know why we have to.” you say carefully.

“i know,” he sighs, tightening his hold around you. “but that doesn’t mean i like it.”

his words settle between you two for a moment.

you knew this was coming. you’d been prolonging the day, dodging his attempts to ask what you both were, if you’d told anyone about him.

the thought’s lingered in your mind too of course. he’d charmed you; you adored him. maybe in another setting, where you were both on equal footing, it’d feel okay. but outside of these walls, you were just a stylist for g-dragon. and anything more than that being made public would blow up in your faces.

you could tell how much secrecy weighed him down. he wanted to show you off, to brag about you. be proud about his girl.

and you’re not sure you could give him that.

but tonight, you don’t say that.

instead, you bury your head in the crook of his neck and softly kiss his jaw.

“i’m here.” you whisper.

for now it’s enough.

but the way ji-yong presses a kiss to your hair, exhaling deeply: you can tell that this conversation wasn’t over. not tonight anyways.

a/n: thank you for reading! i’ve had so much inspiration for gd, i decided to just compile all my ideas into a series. this part serves as the calm before the shitstorm. i already have the next parts planned out, but i’m taking my time with writing to ensure a cohesive story. i hope to see you there in the next one! ♡

taglist ⟢ @breakmeoff @emmiesoverthemoon @lightinbug @sherrayyyyy @ferrarifinnick @jennierubyjem @namsgyu

@aokism @kandixcx @famouskoalastudent @ctrldivinev @myn4mgyu @aizshallnotbefound @astralruem @siideros @myst3rionn @aanaritt @lowkeyylaura @emmyf1 @comitzsiren @puddingknows @btwimmel @hrtswon @ufoev3 @drwholuvr @bambambwi @bloody-kissez @amoondragon @bfiechso @renjunniehavenn @1tsnotgab1 @cannotdriveinastraightline @numeroun01 @nirvanainmypants @zcmda @siriusly-rem-writes @jajabro @leagueofvillainsenthusiest @enhypj @eclips-moon @multiple-fandom @kjydrgnnnn @gdgirl21 @inhogf @namelesswoah fucking hell there’s alot of you

[queenofwands89]

The Storm Within (Part Two)  Tyler Owens x fem!reader

Part 1

Summary: Following the events of the first part, a severely injured Y/N lies in a coma while a heartbroken Tyler waits by her side, wondering if she will ever wake up.

Warnings: Hospital, Reader is in a coma, Fluff, Sad Tyler, Slightly angsty.                                              

Notes: I didn't expect so many people to read the first part, let alone want a second, so thank you—it means a lot. I rushed to write this to avoid making you wait any longer, lol. I'm currently accepting writing prompts for Jake Seresin, Tyler Owens, and Glen Powell.

Enjoy byeeee!

Two weeks have slipped by in a blur of sterile hospital corridors and the endless hum of medical machines. Each passing day is a battle against time, unrelenting in its indifference, and Tyler's world has shrunk to the confines of your hospital room.

Tyler sits by your side, his eyes heavy with exhaustion but refusing to close. He's lost count of the hours he's spent watching the rise and fall of your chest, willing you to wake up. The constant beeping of the heart monitor and the rhythmic hiss of the ventilator are his only companions.

The rest of the storm-chasing team visits regularly, each holding onto hope in their own way. Boone leaves a fresh bouquet of wildflowers on the bedside table every other day, their vibrant colors a stark contrast to the clinical white of the room. Dani brings her laptop, working quietly in the corner, refusing to leave until Tyler is forced to rest. Dexter makes sure Tyler eats, even if it means feeding him himself. And Lilly, with her unwavering optimism, often slips into the chair opposite Tyler, regaling him with stories and laughs to keep the darkness at bay.

One evening, as the crimson hues of the setting sun penetrate the blinds, Tyler is gently persuaded by Lilly to step outside the room, if only for a few minutes. The fresh air at the hospital's small garden is a reprieve he didn’t know he needed. He takes deep breaths, trying to shake off the weight that's settled on his shoulders.

As he walks back towards your room, he overhears a hushed conversation between two nurses. "It's been two weeks, and she's still fighting. It's remarkable," he hears one of them say. A glimmer of hope ignites in his chest. You're a fighter; you always have been.

Pushing open the door to your room, Tyler's heart skips a beat. One of the doctors, Dr. Emerson, is standing by your bed, reviewing the latest results. Tyler rushes in, anxiety and hope warring on his face.

"Any changes, Doc?" Tyler asks, his voice barely a whisper.

Dr. Emerson turns to him, a small, comforting smile on her face. "Her vitals are steadily improving. The brain activity shows promising signs. She's still in a coma, but these are good indicators. It’s just a matter of time."

With those reassuring words, Dr. Emerson gives Tyler a gentle nod before turning to leave the room, the other doctor following closely behind. The soft click of the closing door lingers in the air, marking the transition from clinical observation to personal vigil.

Tyler takes his seat beside you, gently holding your hand. "Hey, beautiful," he begins, his voice soft but steady. "I know you can hear me. I thought I'd share some stories, like old times."

He pauses for a moment, collecting his thoughts. "Remember the first storm we chased together? God, we were terrified but so exhilarated," he chuckles. "The sky was this angry shade of gray, and the wind was howling like it was possessed. We had no idea what we were doing, but we felt invincible."

Tyler's eyes glisten with unshed tears as he continues. "You kept yelling at me to keep the camera steady while you took notes. I think I was too busy being amazed by how fearless you were. The tornado touched down so close, and we got caught in the downdraft. But you... you never lost your cool. You guided us out of there like it was just another day at the office."

He squeezes your hand gently, hoping for any sign of acknowledgment. "Then there was that time in Kansas. Do you remember? We were staying at that run-down motel, and the power went out during the middle of the night. We ended up sitting in the car, wrapped in blankets, watching the lightning storm. You said it was the most beautiful thing you'd ever seen. I couldn't take my eyes off you."

The corners of Tyler's lips lift into a sad smile as he recounts more memories. "You were always the brave one, Y/N. Like that time we drove into the eye of the storm. Literally. Everyone told us it was too dangerous, but you convinced us, and we did it. And I'll never forget the look on your face when we made it out in one piece."

A silence hangs in the air for a moment, the only sounds coming from the steady beeps and hums of the medical equipment.

"I'm not gonna lie, Y/N. These past two weeks have been the hardest of my life. Seeing you like this... it's killing me. But I know you're fighting. You always do," Tyler says, voice cracking with emotion.

Tyler leans closer, his head resting on the side of your bed. He speaks softly, almost to himself. "You know, Dani was telling me about how you kept her sane during her first storm chase. She said she wouldn't have made it if it weren't for you. And Boone, he's a mess without you bossing him around. Dexter too. None of us are the same without you."

He looks at your serene face, a fresh wave of determination washing over him. "But we all believe in you. We know you're coming back to us. And when you do, we'll be ready with stories and laughs and everything that's been missing."

As the sun sets outside, casting a warm glow over the room, Tyler continues to talk. He recounts every little detail of your adventures together, from the funniest moments to the most heart-stopping ones, painting a vivid picture with his words.

The world is a foggy blur as consciousness slowly begins to seep back into your mind. The silence in the room is broken only by the rhythmic beeping of the medical machines. Your eyelids feel heavy as you struggle to open them, a sense of disorientation clouding your thoughts.

As your eyes finally flutter open, the dim light of the room gradually sharpens into focus. The first thing you see is Tyler, slumped in the chair beside your hospital bed. His hand grips yours tightly, as if even in sleep, he cannot let go. His face is etched with lines of stress and fatigue, evidence of the nights he has spent by your side.

For a few moments, you simply watch him. Even in his exhausted state, there’s an undeniable tenderness in the way he holds your hand. You notice the dark circles under his eyes, the stubble that has grown from days of neglecting himself. Deep down, an overwhelming sense of gratitude and love wells up within you. You realize now more than ever just how much he means to you.

Gradually, you muster the strength to give his hand a weak squeeze, something to pull him from the depths of his weariness. His eyes flutter open slowly, confusion briefly crossing his features before they lock onto yours. Instantly, his face transforms—a mix of shock, awe, and profound relief.

"Y/N..." he breathes, his voice shaky and filled with emotion. Tears pool in his eyes, and you can see him fighting to hold them back, but it’s a losing battle. As the realization washes over him, that you’re finally awake, his tears begin to fall freely. "You’re... you’re awake. Thank God, you’re awake."

A lump forms in your throat, making it hard to speak, but you manage a small smile. "Tyler," you rasp, the single word carrying all the emotions you can't yet express.

He lifts your hand to his lips, pressing fervent kisses to your knuckles. "I love you, Y/N. I love you so much," he chokes out, his voice breaking with raw emotion. "I thought... I thought I’d lost you. I’m so sorry, Y/N. For everything. For the things I said. I was scared and I handled it all wrong."

You can feel the wetness of his tears on your hand, and it breaks your heart to see him in such pain. Gathering what strength you can, you shake your head slightly. "No, Tyler. We both did things we regret. I pushed you away when I should have let you in. But we can’t change the past. We can only move forward."

He nods, his teary eyes never leaving yours. "We’ll fix this. Together," he vows, his voice filled with a newfound determination.

Your smile grows a bit stronger, as you grip his hand with a bit more strength. "Together," you echo, the word binding the two of you in a promise of unity and hope.

"I love you, I love you, I love you," Tyler repeats fervently, his tears now mingling with a relieved laugh.

You can't help but let out a light giggle, the sound so sweet to Tyler’s ears. "I love you, I love you, I love you," you reply, your heart feeling lighter for the first time in a long while.

Tyler chuckles softly, his expression softening as he looks at you. "I think the doctors are going to start charging me rent for how long I've been here."

You laugh weakly, the sound like music to his ears. "Well, as long as you don't start claiming squatter's rights. We might have to evict you."

His laughter mingles with yours, the room now filled with a warmth and happiness that seemed impossible just moments ago. "Deal. I'll leave when you do," he declares, his voice brimming with love and commitment.

The path to recovery will undoubtedly be long and arduous, but for now, the hardest part is over. The heavy cloud of uncertainty has lifted, replaced by a glimmering beacon of hope. The room, once cold and sterile, now feels warm, filled with the palpable power of your mutual love and commitment.

As the rhythmic beeping of the machines continues to fill the background, you and Tyler share a moment of silent understanding, knowing that whatever challenges lie ahead, you’ll face them hand in hand. "I love you," he whispers once more, the promise of these words a soothing balm to your soul.

"I love you," you whisper back, sealing the bond that will carry you through the days to come.

[noorpersona]

Rivalry: Atsumu Pt. 3

The morning sunlight streamed through the cracked window, golden rays spilling over the tangled mess of sheets and the scattered remnants of the night before. Outside, birds chirped in the early quiet, their songs a stark contrast to the utter wreckage inside the room.

You groaned as consciousness pulled you from the depths of exhaustion, a dull, persistent ache spreading through your body. Every muscle protested as you attempted to move, soreness radiating from the very core of you. Fucking hell.

Shifting slightly, you became aware of the steady rise and fall of someone else's breathing beside you. Your gaze flickered to your left, and sure enough—Atsumu Miya, sprawled out, snoring like a chainsaw, one arm flung over his head, the other lazily draped across your waist.

That smug bastard.

You blinked, your brain still foggy, your limbs still heavy with exhaustion, and then—

Oh. Right.

Your eyes darted around your bedroom, the aftermath of last night coming into focus. Condom wrappers littered the floor, some torn open in haste, others carelessly discarded. Tied-off condoms rested in evidence of just how many times you had let him ruin you. The air was thick with the lingering scent of sweat, sex, and something undeniably Atsumu.

You clenched your jaw. You let this happen. Multiple times.

Your body throbbed in agreement. Yeah. No shit.

Gritting your teeth, you slowly pushed his arm off of you and began the excruciating process of getting up. The second you sat up, white-hot soreness shot through your thighs, your stomach tightening from the sheer ache of overuse. A hiss escaped you as you gingerly swung your legs over the bed, muscles screaming in protest.

"Goddamn it, Miya," you muttered under your breath, wincing as you stood. Your legs wobbled dangerously, knees threatening to buckle before you caught yourself on the edge of your desk.

That cocky asshole fucked you stupid.

You cursed him again, more viciously this time, before dragging yourself toward the bathroom, muttering a string of colorful profanities as you went. A hot shower was the only thing that might save you now.

The sight in the bathroom mirror was humiliating.

Your hair was a tangled disaster, barely clinging to the remnants of the ponytail you had thrown it into at some point last night, stray strands sticking to your forehead and neck. Tugging the elastic free, you ran your fingers through the knots, hissing slightly as you tried to tame the mess. And then your gaze caught the deep, bruise-like hickey from your very first encounter, still staining the side of your neck, dark and undeniable.

Fucking fantastic.

Rolling your eyes, you reached for the shower handle, twisting it until steam began to rise. The second the warm water hit your skin, your muscles sighed in relief. You let out a breath, resting your forehead against the cool tile as last night replayed in your head.

How the hell had this happened?

More importantly—why the fuck had it been so good? It had been so long since you’d had genuinely good sex, since someone had touched you like that, made you come apart so completely. And it just had to be him. Of all the people in the world, it had to be Atsumu Miya.

Your lips pressed into a thin line. He had been too good—an irritatingly smug bastard with a filthy mouth and a body that knew exactly how to work yours. He had torn you apart, left you in shambles, ruined you, and the worst part? You wanted more.

Shaking your head, you rinsed the suds from your hair, trying to push the thought away as you finished up. When you stepped out, fresh and clean, you felt marginally better—until you walked back into your room.

He was still there. Still sprawled out, still snoring, dead to the world like he had no intention of moving anytime soon.

You scowled.

The audacity of this man.

Rolling your eyes, you stepped up to his side, glaring down at him. With a sharp flick to his forehead, you muttered, "Hey, this isn’t a bed and breakfast. Go home."

Atsumu groaned, shifting slightly but refusing to open his eyes. His golden hair was an absolute mess, strands sticking up in chaotic tufts, evidence of how thoroughly you had pulled at it throughout the night. His broad shoulders flexed lazily as he rolled onto his stomach, the curve of his back leading down to the sheets pooling dangerously low at his waist. The way his muscles shifted with the movement sent an unwanted spark of heat through you—fucking unfair.

His voice, thick with sleep and laced with satisfaction, rumbled through the room. "God, for how well I fucked you, you’d think you’d be less of a bitch," he mumbled, barely lifting his head before burying his face into your pillow, exhaling deeply like he had all the time in the world.

Your nostrils flared. Oh, hell no.

With zero hesitation, you ripped the blanket off of him, exposing his very naked form to the cool morning air. He let out a disgruntled noise, blindly reaching for the covers, but you had already thrown his underwear at his face.

"Get dressed and get out before your brother starts wondering where the hell you’ve been."

Atsumu groaned into the mattress, arms tucked under his head like he didn’t have a single care in the world. "S’too early for this," he grumbled.

Your glare intensified. "Miya. Get. Up."

He peeked at you from beneath his lashes, that lazy smirk creeping onto his face like he knew exactly what he was doing. "Y’know, sweetheart, ya didn’t seem too eager for me to leave last night. If I remember correctly, ya were beggin’ me to stay inside ya."

You saw red.

Lunging forward, you smacked him upside the head with a pillow, sending him coughing into the sheets. "Shut the fuck up and put your pants on!"

Atsumu wheezed out a laugh, rubbing his head as he sat up, his toned body stretching with a satisfied groan. "Aight, aight, I’m goin’—no need to get violent."

You rolled your eyes as he slid into his clothes, his stupid smirk never leaving his face. As soon as his shirt was on, he strolled up to you, eyes raking over you in nothing but your towel.

"Y’know," he mused, cocking his head, "I could just stay. Help ya recover."

Your eye twitched. This man had no shame.

Grabbing his hoodie from the floor, you shoved it into his chest. "Out."

He chuckled, stepping through the doorway before pausing, glancing over his shoulder.

"See ya at practice, sweetheart. Try not to miss me too much."

You crossed your arms. "Oh, suck my dick."

Atsumu’s smirk widened instantly. "I’ll do that next time."

Your face flamed as his words registered, but before you could react, he was already laughing, dodging your attempt to shove him as he disappeared down the hall, leaving you standing there, breathless, flustered, and ready to launch something at his retreating figure. That bastard.

~~

The morning sun had risen higher by the time Atsumu finally dragged himself out of your house, stuffing his hands into his hoodie pocket as he walked back home. The crisp morning air did little to clear his head. His body ached—not in a bad way, but in that thoroughly-used, completely-spent kind of way, muscles sore from hours of exertion. Every step sent a reminder of exactly what he had been doing all night, and with whom.

And his mind?

It was a fucking mess.

He wasn’t dumb. He knew exactly what this was. You hated his guts, and he gave you just as much shit in return. That wasn’t changing anytime soon. You were bossy, relentless, always looking for a way to put him in his place—and goddammit, it infuriated him.

But last night?

He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face as flashes of you—your legs tangled with his, the way your breath had hitched every time he pushed deeper, how you had fought him for control—flooded his mind.

Fuck.

He could still feel you, phantom traces of your nails scraping down his back, the warmth of your body, the way your thighs had locked around him like you were daring him to stop. And that look on your face when you finally gave in? Yeah, that shit was burned into his memory.

And damn it all, it was the best sex he’d ever had.

Atsumu wasn’t naive—he’d been with girls before, and sure, he liked to think he was good in bed. No one had ever complained. But with you?

It was different.

Not just the sex—though, fuck, it was phenomenal—but the build-up. The tension, the aggression, the way you had fought him every step of the way, and still melted under him just the same. It made his blood run hotter, his instincts sharper, like every second with you was some kind of battle he was dying to win.

And now? Now he had fucked you senseless, and instead of feeling satisfied like he normally would, his body was already itching to do it again.

He exhaled slowly, rubbing the back of his neck as his house came into view. His entire body felt heavy, spent, and the only thing on his mind now was crashing into his bed and sleeping for the next eight hours. Maybe then he could stop thinking about the way your breathy moans had completely wrecked him.

"Shit."

The front door creaked open as he stepped inside, toeing off his shoes. The kitchen was quiet, but a note caught his attention, stuck to the fridge with a volleyball magnet.

Went to grab groceries. Be back later. Try not to destroy the house.

Atsumu huffed a small, tired laugh and crumpled the note in his fist before heading down the hall, desperate for the sleep he hadn’t gotten. His bed was calling him, and he could already feel the exhaustion creeping up his limbs, finally ready to crash.

But the second he stepped into his bedroom, a familiar voice made him pause.

"I covered for you last night, you know."

Atsumu barely spared his twin a glance, too tired to argue. "Uh huh. Thanks."

Osamu was sitting up on his own bed, arms crossed, eyebrows raised. "So, you’re just not gonna tell me where you were last night?"

Atsumu groaned, running a hand through his already-messy hair before flopping face-first onto his mattress. "Samu, I swear to god, I’m too tired for this."

Osamu, unimpressed, leaned back against the headboard, watching his twin like he could see through his bullshit already. "That so? ‘Cause ya look like ya got hit by a truck."

Atsumu grunted into his pillow. Yeah. A truck named you.

Osamu let the silence stretch between them before sighing. "Was it a girl?"

Atsumu tensed for half a second before he forced his body to relax, rolling onto his side, throwing an arm over his eyes. "Does it matter?"

"It does when yer actin’ all weird about it." Osamu's tone was far too knowing for Atsumu's liking. His twin wasn’t one to pry, but he was also damn observant, and Atsumu had no doubt that if he wasn’t careful, Osamu would piece everything together before the day was over.

Atsumu exhaled heavily. "Can ya just let me sleep?"

Osamu narrowed his eyes, something clicking into place behind them. "Wait a second... You were actin’ weird as hell yesterday, and the manager didn’t even show up to practice in the afternoon..."

Atsumu forced his expression to stay neutral, shoving down the immediate impulse to react. "What? You think I was with her?" He scoffed, shaking his head as he rolled onto his back, throwing an arm over his eyes. "Relax, Samu. It was just some girl from class—Airi Sakamoto."

Osamu didn’t say anything for a second, but Atsumu felt him still watching. Weighing his words. Judging his reaction.

"Huh." Osamu finally leaned back against the headboard. "Didn’t think ya liked Airi."

Atsumu shrugged, doing his best to sound unaffected. "Nothin’ serious. Just some fun."

"Uh-huh. Sure."

The way Osamu said it made Atsumu’s skin itch. Like he wasn’t entirely convinced, but he also wasn’t going to push—yet. His twin was perceptive as hell, but thankfully, he wasn’t nosy unless something really bugged him.

Atsumu exhaled slowly, trying to let his body relax. Good. This’ll blow over.

Osamu didn’t push any further, but Atsumu knew better than to assume this was over. His twin had that look, the one that said he wasn’t entirely buying it but was willing to let it sit for now. Atsumu could only hope that was enough to keep him from digging further.

But as he finally closed his eyes, exhaustion pulling at his limbs, the image of you still wouldn’t leave his head.

This was gonna be a problem.

~~

Monday morning arrived far too quickly, the weight of the weekend still lingering in your muscles, your thoughts, your everything. The cold air bit at your skin as you made your way toward the gym, your feet dragging slightly despite your best efforts to act normal. You had spent the entire weekend trying—desperately trying—to push everything that had happened with Atsumu to the back of your mind. But now, with practice looming ahead, it felt like all of it was crawling right back up your throat.

How the hell were you supposed to pretend like nothing had happened?

It had been two days. Forty-eight hours since you had let Atsumu ruin you, and now you had to walk into practice and act like you hadn’t spent half the weekend moaning his name. Like he hadn’t touched you in ways you could still feel.

Fucking fantastic.

Your hands clenched into fists at your sides as you took a deep breath. It was fine. You just had to do what you always did—be civil enough to get through practice without anyone suspecting a damn thing. You could ignore him. You could pretend that nothing was different.

You had to.

But it wasn’t just about ignoring him. No, that would have been too easy. Because the thing with Atsumu was that he wasn’t the type to just let things go. He was an asshole, a relentless one at that, and you had no doubt that the second he saw you, he was going to say something. He was going to look at you with that stupid fucking smirk, that self-satisfied, cocky-ass grin, and you were going to have to find a way not to strangle him in front of everyone.

Up ahead, you spotted Kita unlocking the gym doors, his usual composed demeanor unchanged. He glanced up as you approached, his sharp eyes immediately settling on you as he gave a small nod in greeting.

"Mornin'. Feelin' better?" he asked casually.

You froze mid-step. What?

Your brain went completely blank for a solid second before the realization slammed into you.

Oh. Right.

You had told Kita you were sick to get out of afternoon practice on Friday. Shit.

You forced your face into neutrality, schooling your features as quickly as you could. "Uh—" you blinked, then cleared your throat. "Yeah. Head cold."

Kita gave a small, approving nod, his expression unreadable. "Good. Glad you’re back."

You exhaled, relieved that he didn’t press further, though the reminder of your flimsy excuse only added to the pile of things to stress about today.

The real problem wasn’t Kita.

It was stepping into that gym and seeing Atsumu again.

You could already feel it, the weight of his presence, the way the air would shift the second you walked in. You knew him too well. You had been fighting with him for years. And now? Now you had to pretend like his hands hadn’t been all over you, like you hadn’t spent the weekend letting him fuck you in every way imaginable.

And the worst part? You had no idea how to handle it.

With one last deep breath, you squared your shoulders, plastering the most neutral expression you could manage onto your face, and followed Kita inside.

The gym was empty, still wrapped in the early morning quiet, save for the distant hum of the overhead lights flickering to life as Kita stepped ahead, checking the locks and switches with his usual efficiency. You made a beeline for the storage room, the familiar echo of your footsteps bouncing off the polished floors, each step grounding you in the routine—a routine you needed now more than ever.

Pulling out the cart of volleyballs, you set about your usual tasks, rolling out the net, setting up the poles, unfolding the mats in the corner of the gym—all movements embedded in your muscle memory, allowing your mind to drift even as your body worked.

But your thoughts weren’t cooperating.

Each small motion felt heavier today, like every act of normalcy was forcing your mind to ignore the very obvious elephant in the room: Atsumu fucking Miya.

The past weekend had unraveled something you weren’t ready to confront. The sharp, burning pull of hatred, desire, competition, frustration—it was still there, coiling beneath your skin like a live wire. How were you supposed to erase the feeling of his body against yours? The way he had looked at you in the dim light of your bedroom, golden eyes dark with something you refused to name? The way he had made you come undone over and over until you had lost track of time?

Your fingers curled around the net, gripping it too tightly.

You had to get a grip.

You gave your head a sharp shake, forcing the thoughts down, deep, deep down where they wouldn’t interfere with practice. Because that was all it was—practice. A normal morning, a normal routine. You just had to act normal.

And more importantly, you had to act like Atsumu didn’t still linger in the ache between your thighs, in the phantom press of his fingers along your waist, in the way your pulse picked up just thinking about him.

You scowled at yourself. Pathetic.

Straightening, you grabbed a volleyball from the cart, tossing it idly from one hand to the other, trying to reset your mind. The doors would open soon. The team would pile in. Atsumu would walk through that door.

And you needed to be ready.

It wasn’t long before the distant echo of voices signaled the arrival of the team, the usual mix of early morning grumbles and lighthearted banter filling the space as the gym doors swung open. You kept your focus on the net, adjusting its tension with a practiced ease, but it was impossible to ignore the way their presence shifted the atmosphere—the way his presence shifted the atmosphere.

A few of the guys greeted you as they passed, their voices casual, unaware of the storm inside your head.

"Hey, you feeling better?" one of them asked, pausing briefly near the cart of volleyballs.

You nodded, forcing a polite smile. "Yeah. Just a head cold."

"Glad you're back. Kita was worried."

That surprised you. Kita worried? You glanced toward the captain, who was already overseeing warm-ups with his usual composed expression. He must have noticed your hesitation because he gave a small nod of acknowledgment, as if to confirm the statement. Huh.

But then, you made a mistake.

Your gaze drifted across the gym, landing on him.

Atsumu had just stepped inside, his duffel slung lazily over one shoulder, his hair slightly disheveled as if he hadn’t bothered fixing it properly before rolling out of bed. The second your eyes met, he smirked.

Not just any smirk.

That smirk. The one that sent heat rushing up your neck, pooling low in your stomach, the one that made you clench your fists just to stop yourself from reacting. It was lazy, self-satisfied, and undeniably knowing—like he could still feel you on him, like he could still hear the way you moaned his name in the quiet of your room.

Your body betrayed you instantly.

A rush of heat, a sudden tightening in your core, a traitorous pulse between your legs that sent panic flaring through your mind. No. No, no, no.

You locked up, fingers tightening around the net’s frame, every ounce of rational thought crumbling beneath the weight of that goddamn smirk.

"Uh—earth to manager?"

You jolted slightly, blinking rapidly as Suna waved a hand in front of your face, his sharp eyes flickering with mild amusement. Shit.

"You good? You look like you just saw a ghost."

"I—" You cleared your throat, willing yourself to snap back to reality. "Yeah. Just—distracted."

Suna’s gaze lingered for a second too long before he shrugged, rolling his shoulders. "If you say so."

You exhaled sharply, heart still hammering against your ribs as you forced yourself to focus.

Practice was starting. You needed to get it together.

The drills started off as routine as ever, the rhythmic sound of sneakers squeaking against the polished floor, volleyballs slamming against the net, and voices calling out sets filling the gym. You went about your usual duties, keeping water bottles filled, retrieving stray balls, observing. Everything was exactly as it should be. Almost.

Because you were noticing things you had never noticed before.

Atsumu had always been an impressive player. You knew that. His skill was the reason he was the starting setter of Inarizaki, the reason scouts were always eyeing him for future prospects. But you had never let yourself notice him like this before.

The way his muscles flexed every time he set the ball, the way his strong arms held complete control over the game, the sheer power behind every calculated move—it all felt too familiar. His body was built for this sport, lean but strong, his movements fluid and commanding, just like that night.

You swallowed hard, forcing your gaze to shift anywhere else. No. Absolutely not.

And yet, your thoughts kept circling back to him, back to the way he had moved over you, with the same precision, the same power. Your thighs clenched involuntarily, and you had to bite the inside of your cheek to snap yourself out of it. This was insane. This was Atsumu. The same Atsumu who had spent years annoying the shit out of you, pushing your buttons, picking fights just to rile you up.

You needed to leave. Now.

The second practice ended, you grabbed your things and bolted, moving toward the exit before anyone could stop you. The last thing you needed was more time around him. You just had to make it to class, shake off whatever the hell was happening in your head, and forget—

A hand grabbed your wrist, pulling you back into the shadow of the gym just as the rest of the team filtered out. Warm, calloused fingers wrapped around your skin, familiar and firm.

Atsumu.

You barely had time to register his presence before he was speaking, voice low enough that no one else could hear.

"My place'll be empty tonight," he said, his tone so damn casual you could have punched him. "Samu's got a project."

You scowled, immediately tugging your wrist from his grasp. "And why should I care?"

Atsumu didn’t answer right away, just raised a brow like he knew something you didn’t. Like he knew exactly what was going on in your head. And then, with that insufferable smirk, he said, "Come over after practice."

And then he walked away, leaving you pissed—because you knew in your heart that you were going.

[nujeskz]

Kismet — 황현진

Pairing: boxer!hyunjin x fem!reader

Genre: strangers to lovers, mutual pining, slow burn, instant connection, damsel in distress, angst if you squint

Synopsis: Hyunjin encounters a lost girl outside a club and steps in to help her when she's harassed. They end up stranded together, sharing a memorable night. Despite losing contact, fate intervenes, bringing them back together and sparking a powerful connection between them.

Warnings: not proof read! mention of alcohol and cigarette use, injuries/blood, harassment/assault, anxiety, fear, physical fights, and underground boxing. Let me know if I should add anything else!

Word Count: 2.9k

Authors Note: Hi! this is my first time posting something I've written, I had this idea in mind for a while it might not be perfect since I'm not really that good a writing and English is not my first language but I really tried my best to express everything I wanted to, I wrote everything in Spanish first and translated it myself to English (I had to look up words to portrait it better) so I hope you all like this! Please let me know if anything needs to be a warning. Feel free to leave a comment with any suggestions or with your thoughts on this!

Hyunjin didn’t intend to meet her that night.

The night air was heavy, laden with the scent of tobacco and alcohol seeping out from the club, with the cold biting at his skin. Hyunjin stepped out through the back door, the sharp smell of cigarette smoke curling around him as he lit one, his knuckles still swollen from the fight earlier that night. He leaned against the brick wall with a silent sigh. The dim glow of the streetlights highlighted his buzzed head, the subtle sheen of sweat from his last fight still clinging to his skin. He shouldn’t have been there — not really. He should have gone home, iced his knuckles, and rested for his next match. But adrenaline still burned in his veins, and the chaos of the crowd inside the club only made it worse.

He didn’t expect to find her there.

She appeared like a whisper, slipping through the club’s door as if the night itself had pushed her outside. Her chest rose and fell, fingers gripping her phone as she paced back and forth. Her breath was ragged, not from dancing but from the anxiety of losing her friends in the middle of the crowd. She stared at the dead screen of her phone, cursing the drained battery, trying to calm herself with the fresh air. Against the darkness, she seemed fragile, her silhouette delicate under the neon glow.

Hyunjin watched her from the corner of his eye, saying nothing, leaning against the wall with his gaze fixed on the street. It wasn’t his problem. It didn’t have to be.

They wouldn’t have spoken to each other if it wasn't for the group of guys who stumbled out a few minutes later, laughing too loudly, their sharp gazes locking onto her like she was a trophy. They approached her without any attempt to hide it.

“Hey, gorgeous, you lost?” one of them asked, stepping too close.

She took a step back, uncomfortable but trying to be polite.

“No, I’m fine. I’m waiting for someone,” she said.

“We can keep you company until they show up,” another one sneered, closing the distance.

Hyunjin tried to ignore them at first, flicking the ash off his cigarette with a clenched jaw. He didn’t want trouble, but the way they cornered her made his stomach turn. When one of them grabbed her wrist, and she flinched, he moved without thinking.

“Let her go,” he said, his voice low, each word laced with warning.

The guys turned, sizing Hyunjin up. They laughed. They always laughed at first.

“And who are you? Her boyfriend?” one of them sneered, stepping closer.

Hyunjin’s fingers twitched, curling into a fist at his side.

“No,” he said, glancing at her. Her expression was fearful, her chest rising and falling with silent pleas — “But I can break your face if you don’t back off and leave her alone.”

Her eyes widened in surprise, and the guys stiffened. One shoved Hyunjin, but he didn’t budge. It wasn’t until they tried to touch her again that Hyunjin snapped. His fist connected with the guy’s jaw with a sharp crack, sending him sprawling to the ground. The others lunged at him immediately.

“Come with me!” Hyunjin barely had time to grab her hand before they started running, their feet pounding against the pavement, shouts echoing behind them. They didn’t stop until their lungs burned, until all that remained were their ragged breaths, the nervous laughter escaping in gasps, until the city swallowed them whole and the night fell silent around them.

As they slowed down, their surroundings suddenly felt… off. The streets weren’t as familiar as they had seemed in the chaotic confusion of their escape. They had run farther than she’d realized, deeper into a part of the city that felt more like a maze than anything else.

“Are you okay?” Hyunjin asked, breathing heavily, trying to catch his breath.

“I’m fine. That was crazy, but thank you,” you said, trying to steady yourself as you stood in the middle of the street. You looked around, searching for some kind of landmark, but nothing looked familiar.

“No problem. I just thought you could use a hand,” Hyunjin said with a lopsided smile as he stopped and surveyed the area. You were surprised to find yourself looking at him for the first time. The adrenaline still surged through your veins, but now it felt different — lighter, less frantic. In the dim glow of the streetlight, his features stood out with striking intensity, his jaw was sharp, his eyes dark and steady, carrying the same determination you’d noticed when he stepped in to help yoy. But there was something else, something softer beneath that surface— a quiet attentiveness as he made sure you were okay.

She felt the electric pull between them before she could even fully process it. His presence was powerful—like a contained storm, and for a brief moment, she felt as if she were standing in the eye of a storm, drawn to him in a way that caught her off guard.

“Do you know where we are?” you asked, clearing your throat, trying to hide your flushed face.

Hyunjin turned to look at you, a sheepish smile on his face as he ran a hand through his buzzcut. “Honestly? I have no idea where we're standing right now.”

“Oh... I thought you knew where we were going — well, never mind. We can split the fare for a cab and head back to the club. I was with some friends, but I lost them and my phone died. Do you think we could use yours?” you asked, speaking quickly, trying not to panic.

Hyunjin patted his jeans pockets, searching frantically.

“Yeah, of course... except my phone’s dead too,” he muttered, the last part barely audible. He ran a hand through his hair again, this time with frustration.

“Oh, great,” you said, sarcasm lacing your words as frustration and fear crept in.

“Hey, it’s okay...” Hyunjin stepped closer, his hands raised as if to calm you, waiting for you to say your name — something he’d only just realized he hadn’t asked.

“I’m Y/N, and you?” you said, meeting his gaze, making Hyunjin feel something he couldn’t quite describe.

“Hyunjin. Nice to meet you, I guess... Anyway, look, Y/N, if you want, we can look for somewhere to stay or see if we find a taxi. Given the time, I assume nothing’s open. Either way, I'll pay, so don't worry about that.” Hyunjin said, visibly frustrated, trying to find some kind of solution.

She noticed his broad shoulders then, the way his hands, bruised and rough, had clearly known more than one fight. But there was a softness in his eyes, like he was waiting for her to decide what came next. It was crazy — she barely knew this guy. And yet, the attraction was undeniable. The night had shifted, and now, lost in an unfamiliar part of the city with just the two of them, she couldn’t ignore the magnetic force drawing her closer to him.

And in that moment, in the stillness of the situation, when he looked at her, she realized that she no longer felt afraid. Instead, something else began to emerge. Something much more dangerous.

“You’re right... And don’t worry about paying. We can split it,” you said, and Hyunjin sighed, somehow relieved.

They were lost. Their phones were dead. But it didn’t matter. They walked for hours, talking about everything and nothing, sharing stories under the flickering city lights. By the time they finally found a small motel, rain had begun to fall, making them sprint to the entrance, laughing as they tried not to get drenched.

The rain gently tapped against the roof of the small motel in the middle of nowhere. Droplets slid down the window, reflecting the flickering lights of the sign that advertised available rooms… although, in reality, there was only one left.

“Just one room?” you asked, your voice tired but trying not to sound desperate.

The receptionist nodded indifferently, sliding the key across the counter. Hyunjin took the key and gave her a soft smile.

“We can look for another place if you want,” he suggested, scratching the back of his neck. “I don’t mind walking a bit more.”

You looked out the window. The storm was still intensifying, and you’d already spent hours wandering with your phones dead and no idea where you were. You sighed and shook your head.

“It doesn’t make sense to keep looking in this weather,” you said, crossing your arms. “We can share the room.”

Hyunjin nodded, a faint blush coloring his cheeks. They climbed the stairs in silence, their shoes squeaking against the wet floor. When they opened the door, they found a modest room: one bed, a small table, and an old television hanging on the wall.

Hyunjin dropped his jacket on the chair and ran a hand through his damp hair.

“You can take the bed,” he said, gesturing toward the mattress. “I’ll sleep on the floor.”

You frowned, shaking your head.

“Don’t be silly. The bed is big enough for both of us. Besides, I doubt we can sleep after everything that happened.” you laughed, sitting on the edge of the mattress. “Why don’t we just stay up and talk?”

Hyunjin hesitated for a moment but eventually sat beside you, leaning his back against the headboard, legs crossed, hands resting on his knees.

“What do you want to talk about?” he asked, looking at you with curiosity.

“I don’t know... Why don’t you start by telling me something about yourself?”

Hyunjin stared at the ceiling as if searching for the right words.

“I’m a boxer. Well... an underground boxer.”

Your eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Really? How long have you been doing that?”

“A year,” he shrugged. “I started because I liked training, and a friend convinced me to try underground fights. I guess I got hooked on the adrenaline.”

You smiled, resting your head against the headboard.

“That sounds intense. I’m a photographer. I have a small studio in the city.”

Hyunjin turned to you, genuinely interested.

“Really? That’s amazing. What kind of photos do you take?”

“Mostly portraits. I love capturing moments, people’s expressions... it's like every picture tells a story.”

The conversation flowed naturally, as if they had known each other forever. They talked about dreams, fears, silly anecdotes, and things they had never shared with anyone else. Without realizing it, their eyelids grew heavy, and at some point, they both drifted off to sleep. Their hands rested almost touching on top of the blanket, bodies finally relaxed after the night’s storm.

At dawn, the first rays of sunlight slipped through the window. Hyunjin opened his eyes first, blinking slowly as his brain processed the scene: they were in the same bed, only inches apart.

You woke up shortly after, realizing the same thing. You looked at each other, faces burning with embarrassment, but soon burst out laughing to ease the awkwardness.

“Well... at least we survived the night,” you joked, stretching your arms.

“Yeah... and without you kicking me in your sleep,” Hyunjin teased, grinning as he stood up.

You left the motel with wrinkled clothes and still-damp shoes, but with a strange lightness in your chests. You shared a taxi, and Hyunjin insisted on taking you home first.

When you arrived, you stepped out and smiled at him from the sidewalk.

“Thank you for everything, Hyunjin.”

He nodded, resting his arm on the window frame. “See you soon, okay?”

He watched her disappear into her building, feeling an unfamiliar ache in his chest as the door closed behind her. The taxi pulled away, leaving them both with the same sensation in their hearts, something had changed that night, and somehow, they knew this wouldn’t be their last encounter.

It was only when Hyunjin got to his apartment that he realized the mistake: they never exchanged numbers.

⭑.ᐟ

Days went by, but you couldn’t get him out of your head. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw his crooked smile, the way his eyes lit up when he talked about boxing, the way he had protected you without hesitation. You remembered his hands, the same ones that had held yours as you ran through the streets, and the softness in his voice when you talked in that tiny motel room. But you never exchanged numbers.

You kept checking your phone as if somehow he might have magically found a way to text you. But nothing came. Just the echo of a night that felt farther away with each passing day.

“Come on, it’ll be fun,” Minho insisted, sprawled out on your studio couch while you edited some photos.

“I already told you no,” you sighed, not taking your eyes off the screen. “I’m not interested in watching a bunch of guys beat each other up until they end up all covered in blood.”

Minho scoffed, rolling his eyes. “First of all, it’s not just a bunch of guys— It’s Hyunjin. And second, you need to get out. You’ve been acting weird lately.”

Your heart skipped a beat.

“Hyunjin?” you echoed, as if the name had escaped from a dream.

“Yeah, a friend of mine,” Minho shrugged. “He fights underground. He’s good — you should see him.”

The universe had to be playing some kind of cruel joke on her.

At first, you refused, but Minho knew exactly how to convince you. And so, a few hours later, you were in a dimly lit basement, the air thick with the smell of sweat and nicotine. The crowd roared around the ring, and you felt put of place, your heart pounding far too hard against your ribs.

When the announcer called the next fight, the room erupted with excitement. And then, you saw him.

Hyunjin stepped into the ring, chest rising and falling with heavy breaths, knuckles wrapped tight in white bandages, that same intense gaze making him impossible to ignore. But the second his eyes met yours, all the noise faded away.

He froze for a moment, shock written all over his face — and then he smiled. A wide, genuine smile, like he’d finally found something he’d been desperately searching for.

You couldn’t move. You could barely breathe.

The fight was a blur. You didn’t know if he won or lost, because the only thing you could feel was your fingers clutching the hem of your jacket, trembling with anticipation. The second the fight ended, Hyunjin jumped out of the ring, ignoring the sweat dripping down his face, weaving through the crowd straight to you without a second thought.

“I found you,” he panted, voice rough but radiant.

You laughed, unable to contain the rush of emotion.

“I found you,” you echoed, as if you needed to say it out loud to believe it was real.

They exchanged numbers immediately, laughing at how ridiculous it was they'd forgotten to do so before.

From the moment he saw you at that underground match, eyes wide with surprise as you recognized him in the ring, Hyunjin knew he was doomed. You kept running into each other, as if fate refused to drift you apart, and from then on, you never stopped talking. Endless texts, shared laughter, dates that lasted until dawn because neither of you wanted to say goodbye.

Hyunjin had never been afraid of fighting. He was used to the blows, the adrenaline burning through his chest, the blood sliding down his skin as if it were part of him. But what he felt for you… that terrified him.

He'd never felt so vulnerable. Every smile, every touch from you made him feel like he was lowering his guard, leaving his heart exposed to the possibility that everything could shatter at any moment. So he did what he knew best — run away.

It started with short replies, then excuses to cancel plans, until he stopped responding altogether. Three days. It had only been three days, but every hour without talking to you felt like an open wound. He couldn't sleep, couldn't fight properly, couldn't even pretend he was okay.

That night, without thinking, he ran to your apartment in the pouring rain, not caring about anything else. His breathing was erratic, hands shaking as he pounded on your door. The rain soaked through his clothes, but he didn't care. His heart was beating so hard it hurt, and when you opened the door, brows furrowed and eyes heavy with sadness, Hyunjin felt something inside him break. 

“I'm sorry,” he blurted out, voice raw and broken. “I've been an idiot. I thought pushing you away was the right thing to do, but… I can't. I can't be without you”

And without waiting for a response, he kissed you.

He kissed you with all the fear, desperation, and love he'd bottled up over those days. His lips sought yours with frantic need, as if he were terrified you might disappear. You froze for just a second, then started laughing against his mouth before kissing him back, holding onto him like you never wanted to let go.

That night you talked for hours, until you fell asleep tangled in each other's arms, as if letting go wasn't an option.

The next day, you officially started dating. It wasn't perfect — there were insecurities, silly fights, and moments of doubts. But you always chose each other. You always found your way back.

Because Hyunjin finally understood that loving you didn't make him weak.

He loved you because, for the first time, he'd found something truly worth protecting.

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