#DID I MANAGE TO ANSWER? AND IN THE SAME DAY? YES!

[wokeupinmars]

Remedy

Pairing: TASM!Peter Parker x Fem!Reader

Summary: Peter believes you stood him up for his work event, but his hurt feelings subside when he gets home and finds you sick.

Warnings: Slight angst but it’s mainly Peter being a good boyfriend and taking care of his girl :(

Word Count: 1.5K

Author's Note: Happy Spider-Man Day!!! It's been a while since I've written for TASM!Peter, so I thought I'd post something for the occasion. This was a request that I accidentally deleted (so sorry to the anon that sent the ask), but I hope I did you justice.

Please comment and/or reblog if you enjoyed this and want to see more!

TASM!Peter Parker Masterlist

To say Peter was upset was an understatement. You should have been there. He wanted you to be there.

Oscorp was hosting a black tie event in order to welcome the employees moving over from the company they recently merged with. This was also the night that Peter would be announced as one of the heads of their newest project, and he wanted nothing more than to look out into the sea of people and see you.

You were supposed to meet him here. At first, Peter assumed you were just running a little late, but after the first hour passed and his messages were left on read, the ache in his chest only grew. Were you upset with him, and this was some sort of punishment?

But as more and more time continued to pass and the chair beside him remained empty, his hurt feelings only grew. The night carried on smoothly, and despite his thoughts being clouded by you the entire time, Peter managed to keep a smile on his face.

He should feel thrilled right now; he wants to feel thrilled, but he can’t. Not when you stood him up.

With the party dying down and the attendees beginning to leave, Peter chose to slip out with them. He used the subway ride back home to really assess his feelings about the situation. He knew you saw his messages, but never responded, nor did you answer his calls. Were you giving the silent treatment? Peter did miss two date nights in a row. Maybe this was you giving him a taste of his own medicine.

It wasn’t until he unlocked the door that his hurt subsided, and worry plagued his mind instead.

Something was wrong and he could hear it. Peter was incredibly in tune with your heartbeat; it was a sound that relaxed him. He loved being able to quite literally hear your heart skip a beat when he kissed you, or the way it raced when you were under him. He loved knowing that he had the same effect on you that you had on him.

But this was different; yes, your heart was beating at a racing pace, but it wasn’t the same. He had never heard your heart race this way. Peter zeroed in on the sound as he approached the bedroom door, and the rapid thumping became almost deafening.

His hand twisted the handle and pushed it in, his heart catching in his throat at the sight of you. You were slumped against the foot of the bed. He wasted no time rushing over to you and picking you up. Your skin was on fire, your eyes barely open as hot tears rolled down your face, a muffled attempt at an apology falling from your lips.

“No, no, none of that,” he says, heading to the bathroom with you in his arms. He sets you down on the edge of the sink and cups your face, “Can you look at me, honey?” Your eyes felt too heavy to widen, but you tried your best to do so anyway.

“You’re burning up. I’m going to turn on the shower and try to cool you down. Do you think you’ll be able to stand on your own?” He asked. You move off the sink and plant your feet on the floor, but struggle to steady yourself.

Your head was spinning, and there was nothing you could do to stop it. You kept muttering apologies under your breath as Peter’s hands held you still, “There’s nothing to be sorry for.”

“Tonight was important to you,” you croak, “I’m so sorry, I tried to.”

You did try, and he could tell by the unzipped dress you were wearing. “I know you did, honey. But that’s not important to me right now, you are. Is it okay for me to take this off?”

You leaned into his chest a bit and nodded your head in response. You could feel his hands gently slip the straps off your shoulders and the dress pool at your feet.

Peter’s cheeks flushed upon seeing what you were wearing underneath, lacey red lingerie. He had you sit on the toilet seat cover while he rushed into the bedroom to retrieve your towels.

He helps you discard the rest of your clothing before shedding his own. He placed small kisses all over your body as he did so, before leading you into the shower with him.

Your head rested on Peter’s chest as the coolness of the water beat against your back. Neither of you said anything. He just held you close, rubbing his hand down your back in an attempt to relax and soothe you. The two of you stayed like that for some time before turning and reaching for your shampoo. You started to work the product through your hair, a task that Peter quickly took over, massaging your scalp for you.

Between that, the sound of his humming, and the water hitting your face, the tension in your body eased. You close your eyes and try to relax further, allowing the water to wash away your low spirits. You turn back around to face him and rinse the shampoo out of your hair.

Both of you quietly go through your typical shower routines, from conditioning your hair to washing your bodies, letting the water soak and cleanse you.

Peter turns the shower off and wraps a towel around his waist before helping you with yours. His heart ached at the sight of you trembling. “I got you, honey.”

He guides you out of the bathroom and back into the bedroom, making you sit on the edge of the bed while he goes through your drawers and finds something for you to wear. “Do you want anything in particular, or will shorts and one of my shirts be alright?”

“Yes,” you croak.

“Alright, let’s get you dressed first, and then I can make you some soup. May’s probably asleep, so we’ll have to settle for canned chicken noodle soup for now. I’ll give her a call in the morning and ask for her recipe, though.” He helps you into your underwear and shorts before tugging his worn ESU shirt over your head.

You shake your head, “I’m not hungry. Just want sleep.”

“You gotta eat something,” Peter insists, helping you get into the bed and tucking you under the covers. “What if I bring you some crackers and ginger ale instead?”

“Okay,” you agree.

Peter was persistent and you knew for certain he wouldn’t let up until you got something in your system. He walks out of the room, and you can hear him shuffling around the kitchen for a few minutes before returning with a sleeve of saltines, medicine, and a can of ginger ale in hand.

He places both by your nightstand, and he assists you in sitting up. “I got it, Pete,” you assure, pushing yourself up. He ignores your comment and reaches over you to his side of the bed, taking one of his pillows and putting it behind your back.

“I’m sorry for not showing. I thought I could tough it out, but it just got so much worse when I got home,” you explain.

“You don’t need to apologize for being sick. I just wish you had told me,” he tells you, opening the can of ginger ale with a hiss and pop, and handing it to you. “Were you feeling like this at work?”

“I was,” you admit, accepting the can from him. “I didn’t think anything, it just started with me being a little lightheaded with a headache. I didn’t think it would escalate the way it did.”

A frown forms on Peter’s face, and he presses a kiss to your forehead, “My poor baby.”

“I’m okay—“

“You fainted.”

That shuts you up and causes you to stare ahead. You knew you were fighting a losing battle; Peter was the type to let you dismiss something like this. “Can you tell me about the dinner?”

His expression softens, “After you eat some crackers.”

“It’ll make a mess.”

“I brought a plate to catch the crumbs.”

You take a deep breath and lean back until you reach the headboard. Peter rounds the bed, getting in on his side. “Just a few crackers, then we can cuddle and I’ll tell you all about the dinner.”

“Is this how you negotiate with perps?”

“Only the pretty ones,” he teases, nudging you with his shoulder, a faint smile appearing on your face as you snack on the crackers. Peter turns on the TV, letting a rerun of Living Single fill the comfortable silence as you ate.

By the end of the night, you were lying on his chest, listening to him talk about being the head of Oscorp's next project, what they served the attendees for dinner, and how his quick reflexes stopped a photographer hired from the event from slipping on someone’s spilled wine. The medicine was making you drowsy, but you fought hard against it to listen to your boyfriend. “Your heart beat is slowing down; it sounds closer to normal now,” he whispers.

“Thank you for taking care of me,” you murmur.

Peter turns his head and presses another kiss to your forehead, “Of course, honey.” He rubs your back, “Let yourself rest, it’s okay.”

You nod your head, letting your heavy eyelids close, “Love you.”

“I love you too,” he whispers, stretching his free hand to his nightstand for the remote and flicking the TV off.

[stories-i-guess]

Hell yes I am thank you for the tag mate! Normally I’d add this to the stack of fics I’m procrastinating on, but I’m gonna give it an exception!

Rumi, Mira, and Zoey all walked into the penthouse without a word. Even after months, things were still awkward between them. Zoey and Mira were never sure how much they could trust what Rumi said, and Rumi couldn’t look them in the eyes without remembering how they had raised their weapons against her. The worst part was that none of them had the heart to talk to Celine after it all.

They’d all had a pretty bad day, as their social medias were especially filled with death threats that day, and there was a stalker still on the loose. Not to mention the amount of things they had to fix that the Saja Boys had done, as they now had to keep up the lie of a massive PR stunt, including managing the entire soda brand designed after their enemies. That alone would make anyone want to go to their rooms and not talk to anyone for the night, just as the girls had all silently decided to do.

Zoey curled into her blankets, trying to drown out her own thoughts.

You’re not good enough for them. You’re too much to handle.

She sighed and pulled out her phone doomscrolling in hopes of finding something that might ease her into sleep. Eventually, she found a video about turtle facts. She considered sending it to the group chat, but something felt off about it. The only things that had been discussed in there lately had been meals and scheduling. Zoey didn’t bother sending it.

Mira, on the other hand, had chosen to listen to music to try and relax. Her radio was connected to her headphones through Bluetooth, and she was blasting the volume.

She softly sang with the lyrics, just above a whisper, “I walk the lonely road, the only road that I have ever known... Don’t know where it goes, but it’s only me and I walk alone…”

At some point, while in the middle of an add break, Mira heard a fear inducing sound.

Thump!

Mira sat up almost instantly. She popped her headphones out of her ears and went to check on Zoey, who had already opened her own door.

“Zoey?” Mira asked. “Was that you? Or was it..?”

“Rumi. Definitely Rumi!” Zoey responded in a panic.

The girls ran over to Rumi’s door and knocked on it. Hard. They swore they could hear a few sobs.

“Rumi! Are you okay?! We heard the thump! Did you fall?!” Zoey shouted through the door, begging Rumi to answer her.

There was a pause. The same pause that always happened whenever the girls asked Rumi if she was alright. The pause of someone putting a mask back on. Then Rumi spoke.

“I’m fine guys! I just slipped a little! No need to worry!”

But they did worry. Because they knew exactly What It Sounds Like when Rumi lied to them, although it did take a while for them to notice. Mira immediately tried opening the door, but it was locked. Like it always was.

But Mira didn’t care. She simply summoned her weapon, raised it up, and slashed the door handle off, making the lock’s effect null and void. The girls slammed the door open in an almost frenzy like way, revealing just exactly what Rumi wanted to hide.

What they discovered horrified them.

The soundproofing that covered the walls was covered in claw marks, some fresh, but most seemingly old. The blankets were torn up, and the mattress was worse. There was fluff from the pillow blowing around the barren, scraped up floor. The entire room was dark, with the only illumination coming from the doorway and…

Rumi.

She was glowing violently. Her patterns were a deep magenta, and her eyes fully demonic. They couldn’t see much else though, as she was too far away from the light, and hidden behind something.

Mira thrust out her hand for the light switch, fumbling to try and see what exactly had happened. When she finally turned it on, Zoey fell back in shock.

Rumi wasn’t just fully demonic in the eyes, she was fully demonic everywhere. To the point of looking animalistic. Her hair had come out, she had sprouted a tail, as well as horns, all of her skin turned purple other than her patterns, her pupils were needle thin slits, she had large fangs that protruded as she hissed at the sudden light, and her clothes were in tatters, and Derpy shielded most of Rumi’s body from sight.

“R-Rumi!” Mira shouted out, reaching her hand towards the half demon as she ran towards her.

Zoey exclaimed “Mira! Wait!” But it was too late. Rumi had gone into a defensive position, arching her back and snarling, right before Mira made it to her, causing the pink haired girl to fall back.

When Mira and her woldo clattered to the floor, however, Rumi’s pupils went more circular again as she clapped a clawed hand to her mouth and adjusted her position to a sitting one instead.

“I-I’m so sorry!” Rumi whimpered. “I-I saw your weapon, and instincts kicked in and- and I- and I just reacted! I’m so sorry!”

Rumi shrank in on herself, and Derpy continued to hide most of her body from view. She began to cry softly, but Mira and Zoey could easily see this wasn’t the first time she had done that, even in this last hour.

Zoey walked over, her feet making small padding sounds as she did. Derpy, although wary, did let her pass. Mira felt a sharp pang in her chest when she realized that she was the one Rumi was being shielded from.

Zoey gasped softly when she saw what the tiger had been hiding, but immediately bent down to talk to Rumi. “Rumi… please. Talk to me… what’s wrong? How long has this been happening? Why is it happening? Is it.. us?”

Rumi shook her head rapidly at that final question, before responding with a shaky voice “It’s nothing! I’m fine! You don’t- you don’t need to-to worry about me! Please don’t worry about me!”

Zoey dove into a hug with Rumi, whose breath hitched just a little before she melted into the embrace. “Please… don’t worry about me…”

“I will never not worry about you… I love you, Rumi.” Zoey softly spoke in Rumi’s ear. “Me and Mira both. Just as much as we love each other.”

Rumi’s eyes went wide. She had only recently learned about Zoey and Mira’s relationship status, but to say they both had the same feelings about her as they did one another was more than shocking.

Rumi’s tail faded away.

“I-I-I… it’s been happening since the idol awards… every time, it gets worse. I get worse. It just happens whenever I get in my own head and panic… I go all feral and start ripping things apart… you guys couldn’t hear the stuff before because of the soundproofing… but I guess the fall I had was big enough to vibrate through the floor…”

Zoey held out her hand to Mira, but she couldn’t get past Derpy, who was acting incredibly protective of Rumi. It was only when Rumi opened her eyes and looked to Mira, not a bit of fearfulness in her eyes, did the tiger let Mira in with her girls.

“Rumi… I… I’m sorry that I didn’t… I didn’t notice before…” Mira was swiftly pulled into the hug, and she relaxed into them as well. “I should’ve known… I should’ve checked in on you more often… I shouldn’t have been so stupid at the Idol Awards..!” Tears pricked her eyes as she reprimanded herself.

Rumi’s horns shrunk back.

“No… it’s not your fault… I was the one who was so closed off… I was the one who kept so many secrets..!” Rumi affirmed Mira.

“But we should’ve trusted you!” Zoey called out. “We shouldn’t have thought the worst when we saw your patterns! We should’ve known that you weren’t trying to hurt us! We should’ve- we should’ve-“

Mira finished for her. “We should’ve at least let you back into our lives…”

Rumi’s fangs and claws receded.

Zoey and Mira both lowered their gazes, afraid that if they looked up, they’d be unable to see past the damage they’d done to their best friend, and hopefully eventual third.

Rumi pressed them both close, purring just a little. “No… you reacted just as you should’ve… I don’t need you to say sorry… all I need… is this.

Rumi’s skin went to normal, and when Zoey and Mira met her eyes, they were human ones.

Derpy had slipped away, though no one knew where to. They just took a deep breath, and let themselves simply…

Be.

And as Mira and Zoey brushed and braided Rumi’s hair, her patterns turned a steady and happy opalescent.

Kpop Demon Hunters Fic Idea: Persistent Shame

What if things just… weren’t fine? What if progress wasn’t a single musical number, one and done?

After the show, that first night and many after, Huntr/x have to deal with what happened. Reconcile Rumi’s secret kept for years, how Mira and Zoey raised their weapons to Rumi. How they hurt each other, and how Celine set them up to with poor direction. Pain doesn’t fade quickly, and neither will this, but they’ll get through it. It’ll just be hard.

Scene Idea: One night, a bad day and worse night for Rumi, the others hear crying from her room. Despite her insistence that she’s fine and should be left alone, Mira refuses and Zoey follows behind past Rumi’s door. They find Rumi holding the tiger for dear life, her body more transformed to demon than they’ve ever seen as she cowers from them, terrified to show her face let alone meet their eyes

[aventoru]

i really enjoy your writing if you dont mind can i request a platonic drabble for welt yang as a mentor or a father figure to reader 🥹

welt enters your bedroom on the third knock, a brief look of concern on his features. you have just completed a particularly difficult mission and the fatigue you felt soon turned into a cold.

“hey, i’m kinda sick,” you lift a hand from your bed.

“so i’ve been told,” welt nods, closely observing the state you’re currently in. he steps closer and rests a hand on your forehead, “you’re running a slight fever too.”

“yeahhh, it hasn’t been getting any better,” you admit.

“we should get you checked up,” he suggests.

2 hours later, welt manages to get a physician on call.

“you’re (name) born on __ correct?”

you remain silent and turn to look at welt. he sighs.

“yes, that’s correct,” welt nods.

“and what are your current symptoms? how are you feeling right now?”

“you look at welt again. he stares back, holding his gaze longer this time.

“they’re having a headache, mild fever, and a cough.”

“hmm, have they also—“

you tuned out the rest of the conversation, letting welt handle the rest. you were handed a prescription and some medicine to take. that night, welt tells you a story from his homeland before he tucks you into bed.

the cold clears out a few days later.

“welt really does act like your dad, huh?” himeko comments.

“what?” you take a sip of the coffee she’s made (it’s…bad. as usual.)

“well, he was being all fussy when you were sick last week. he cooked you 3 meals a day, fed you medicine, and refused to leave your side.”

“doesn’t he care for everyone in the express?,” you ask.

“not everyone,” himeko smiles, “well, maybe except for sunday as well.”

“hm? what about me?” speak of the devil. welt enters the lounge with sunday trailing closely behind.

“oh, it nothing! coffee?” himeko offers. welt politely refuses and sunday becomes her next target. himeko nudges a cup towards sunday, who shakes his head politely.

“he can’t he’s lactose intolerant in the mornings.” how in the world does he know that???

“alright then,” himeko shrugs before offering you a knowing look.

“ah, (name), do you want to join sunday and i for dinner some time? i’ve been working on a new recipe lately.”

“of course, i’d love to!”

“you’re feeling better now, yes?” welt pats your head.

“yeah, the cold is completely gone,” you respond.

now that you’ve been offered a 3rd person perspective, you kind of see it, actually.

the last straw happens during a meeting about the express’ next expedition. as per tradition, the majority vote will confirm your next destination. the members take turn, and eventually it’s yours.

“i’ll choose whatever dad chooses,” you say without missing a beat.

“same,” sunday replies from his seat next to you.

a beat of silence passes before you realize what you’ve just said.

“did you just call welt dad?” dan heng asks, slightly amused. you glance over to see himeko stifling a laugh, her eyes filled with mirth.

“then how about we let welt vote before the kids decide?” she nudges welt who face has since sported a red tinge. you resist the urge to run away in embarrassment and glance over to see sunday’s feathers covering his face.

you’re never going to live this down.

a/n : hope u don't mind the sunday cameo since i js got reminded of the scene where sunday kept looking at welt for answers when meeting herta 😭

[the-weeping-dawn]

YAY. I WAS HOPING YOU'D REBLOG.

Dealers choice on character, 🔫 PISTOL, ⚙️ GEAR, ☁️ CLOUD

HOLD ON I'M GOING TO CRY A SEC ACTUALLY

AND GOOD IT'S DEALERS CHOICE CONSIDERING EITHER THEY'RE EARLY IN BEING FLESHED OUT OR EXIST MORE IN TTRPG SPACE OR BACKSTORY SO IT'S THIS ASSHOLE AGAIN

🔫 PISTOL - do they trust people easily? how easily will they turn their back to someone? have they been backstabbed before? will they betray someone if given an ultimatum?

There's a reason I specifically chose loyalty as his defining emotion (trait? Regardless) because it's a rare thing for him to give. He's hardly a fighter normally, having primarily survived through social machinations, manipulation, deception, and knows how easy it is to convince others to kill one another without needing to get his hands dirty. Basically he assumes everyone trusts him as little as he'd trust himself. Not in the slightest. Being backstabbed is something I'm sure has happened, probably plenty of times, as many as he's done just the same....Really just something that's a normal part of life. In Menzobaranzan, he'd only trust a single friend, Sylfiel, fully...Something he eventually comes to regret while plans to leave that had always been floated between them over the years suddenly become something much worse. (To a lesser extent he does know he should trust his older siblings but it's...complicated...When they tend to call him the Matron's Puppeteer while plotting, well says a lot for how they see him. )

In any other situation he'd hardly have ever come to trust the people he does, and vice versa. Shadowheart and Lae'zel being as close as his (older three) siblings. And Lae'zel, probably just as complicated a relationship if anything.

For most people he comes across he makes a point to try to keep any promises, not lie where he can be caught with non-Drow on the surface. It's a survival tactic he was taught from a fairly young age (he's been brought up here and there since he was around ten give or take.) that it's already unsafe, that there's legitimate reason to mistrust Drow, and you're only getting one chance at most... It's the same currency that favours can be. And a more valuable one to have, even if he'll lie to get other's trust he can only mimic returning.

...And then there are the two people he does make the very active choice to trust.

Minthara, it's because well, that mess of contradictions, feelings long since buried and learned to ignore if inconvenient in a heart he doesn't know, can't return her unwavering faith in him, in spite of having nearly killed her before saving her at Moonrise, being the whole reason she was on trial in the first place. Knowing that when they had breifly known one another in a normal situation, neither place their guard down around the other, and even if taken as a consort, likely never would, deciding to trust her is a matter of respect more than true trust. Forcing himself to put his guard down around her does at least also give him someone he's finally able to speak more openly with, having kept (most) everyone else at arms length to that point, and even then, it's likely not until he tells her that no, he doesn't think they'll be taking the brain directly and she's willing to listen to the alternative plan given he keep and open mind and consider her plans as seriously as she is that he actually fully trusts her.

Then the other person he choses to trust, even if taking his hand with a dagger in the other

There is not a single moment that he isn't aware that he was taking a risk, several, everyone's lives even. And goes so far as to be willing to no questions ask partial certimorphosis because he wasn't going to show how much it worried him in front of the others... Where Minthara was respect it was more understanding the desperation of both sharing slots on 'bottom five races one would be willing to trust if they had options'

Ilztaun cannot have an answer where he's clearly not picking the 'I'm bald' option on a poll for anything besides about his actual hair.

⚙️ GEAR - what are your ocs thoughts on science & art? which do they give more importance to? how much value do they place on each?

This fucking liar right here. This bastard, will says he's mainly a bard because of how it makes it all the easier to distract, mold thoughts and feelings, manipulate, spy, and that's certainly how he argued cutting many options he would have as a mage off in leave The Tower and studying in Waterdeep (something hidden by spreading too many contradictory rumours for any to be trusted. People just knew he was gone for a number of years ) but it's not why, in one fo the many trips to the surface with one of his siblings the idea came to him and stuck there. He saw how even a terrible troupe of mummers could have their moments of making the crowd watching feel, understand what was being portrayed, and the idea stuck with him. He was always a naturally talented musician but also to some level as much as he did close himself off emotionally some was naturally, some was cultural, and art's ability to both be understood and make sense of others, something he did struggle with once make it an easy choice, he doesn't know how he'd have survived at all in many ways without art. ..

Oh thank god an easy one after a question I don't even know I answered or not

☁️ CLOUD - a soft headcanon

He got Minthara to eat her first night at camp, or technically Last Light by pointing out that Gale was delighted by having an actual kitchen again, one he didn't have to remove the cobwebs of himself! He also was in camp that day, doesn't allow anyone else near his cooking, and would be delighted to tell her all about the meal if she's curious what's in it.

He is not above weaponizing Gale and it's much of how Gale became the first person there she would consider a friend, down to being the one to talk him out of becoming a God.

He gets along with children and animals very easily, and better than with adults.

Did in fact let Isobel know about Squire, and if she didn't take him with her (she did) he would be glad to. Did in fact have an undead cat for a period when he was a child following his Matron killing said cat and him taking it poorly. For long enough that necromancy was a legitimate option to get him to shut up.

[cvnt4him]

Think’n ab cock warming izuku

A lazy Saturday morning, he has to get up later to finish some papers but that's a problem for later izuku. You wake up earlier than him for the first time ever, you admire his beautiful features whilst hes in slumber land.

His forest green hair being portrayed in the most beautiful lighting, said lighting brightening up his face despite being asleep, he's such a bright person he doesnt even need the suns array of beautiful sunshine for that. His slightly chewed lips dry yet so plump and kissable, the freckles that popped out more due to the sun's colors beaming on his beautifully tanned skin. He was gorgeous.

You leaned down to plant a gentle kiss onto his sleeping face, cupping his cheeks as you do so. The touch on his face makes him jolt and try and scoot away, his eyes squeezing shut and annoyance being painted on his features, he groans and tries to pull away but only to stay in the same place due to you holding his face.

Izuku was annoyed and opened his slightly crusted eyes to see your face, his eyes immediately softened. Finally being able to see his gorgeous emerald green eyes, you smile in content. He hums and closes his eyes again before you pepper kisses all around his face.

“ good morning~“

You sing in his ear, making him hum once more. He didn't want to be awake, izuku wanted to lounge around all day and be lazy with his other half before he had to go and teach a bunch of noisy kids, who he did love dearly.

“ you're always awake before me! I'm surprised I managed to get up before you!“

Izuku peers his eyes open slightly to look up at you with furrowed brows in annoyance, he groans and rolls his eyes before closing them again, all you can do is giggle at your adorable husband. You scoot in closer to him and squeeze his cheeks making him huff.

Izuku then sits up and yanks you into him making you bury your face in his chest. Your eyes widened in surprise but you weren't exactly complaining. He holds you close with a tight grip ensuring you can't move even if you tried.

“ go t’sleep baby. ’know you're tired, j’s get some rest hon.“

Izuku lazily gets out, his speech slightly slurred and his voice raspy and groggy do to the morning. He was a morning person, by all means but sometimes all he wanted was to be lazy with his significant other, and you seem to be ruining it by touching him whilst he's trying to sleep.

“ ’zuku m’not tired.“

“ shut up.“

Trying with all of your might you manage to squeeze out of his arms and roll onto of him making him turn over on his back, he groans and looks up to you with angry eyes ones you never really seem to see.

“ can I cockwarm you?“

His once angry eyes were now wide and confused. You wake up and the only thing on your mind is dick? Really? He groans again with a blush to his freckled and still baby-like cheeks, a scar on his right cheek. He was hesitant, he really was fathoming it, debating, thinking about it, whatever you want to say he truly was.

Izuku was having a hard time deciding, he did want you to do that to him only because he was particularly pent up, you two hadn't had sex in about 3 weeks? Thats far too long for someone like izuku, he would never force you to do something of the sort, normally you initiate sex and he happily obliges, but you both have been very busy recently and haven't had time to do much more than hold each other when nightfall returns at the end of everyday.

Izuku finally had an answer, he gulps and looks back up at your happy and waiting eyes. You would've been okay with either answer, really. You just wanted him to be inside of you. With a blush still on his cheeks, he nods to you before looking away.

“ I want a verbal answer my love.“

He sighs at your words, eyes shutting as he clears his throat trying to get rid of the grogginess of the morning time.

“ yes, you can c... cock.. warm me...“

Izuku manages to get the confirmation out as you giggle and lay down beside him, confused he follows you insuit, you scoot back into him and pull down his sleeping shorts just enough to get his flaccid cock out. You stroke him a little trying to get him to harden up, gentle tugs at his fat and heavy cock in your hand, the weight of it is always nice but the stretch is always better. The thought alone brung a smile to your face.

Izuku watched your movements closely, admiring the way you were so sweet and gentle with his member, so careful with such soft movements it made him twitch in your hand. With that, you knew he was ready. He gulped as you turned around and pulled your underwear to the side scooting back onto him and pushing his cock inside of you.

You both wince and groan and make some kind of noise as he tries to push his way inside, you were tight and he felt just how much so, going straight to his head as he gulped down hardly. His brain was getting fuzzy from the intense squeeze to his cock, you really should've prepped yourself first. with a couple of minutes waiting you finally manage to get him inside, he bottoms out almost immediately he's always so needy and impatient when it comes to things like this he ended up thrusting into you making you fall forward and moan.

“ zu what are you.. doing?“

You ask slightly out of breath, he was choking on his breath trying his hardest not to absolutely ram his cock in and out of you like he knows he needs. God izuku was so horny he just wanted to fuck you so badly.

“ s- sorry.. hon I- ngh~...“

He sentence was ended by a muffled groan, you really were squeezing his cock so tight. You take breather and scoot back into him, his cock still being buried deep inside. It makes him moan softly into your ear as you get closer, a beautiful noose that you always welcome and are always pleased to hear. He hums in a whiney tone on accident, getting extremely red when you laugh at the desperate sound escaping your poor husband.

You sigh happily as you can feel his heavy cock stuffing you full, twitching occasionally when you pulse around him. Izuku held you close wrapping his hands around your stomach, he buried his face in your neck trying to lull himself back to sleep, you intoxicating smell so sweet and driving him absolutely feral. He tried so hard to go back to sleep but he was having a hard time, his cock was so deep inside of you and only getting deeper as time passed yet he wasn't fucking you. Not like he wanted to.

Izuku sighed desperately and defeatedly as he looked down at you only to see you asleep with a smile on your face. For fucks sake. There was no way he was getting back to sleep, and absolutely no way hes not blowing his load deep inside of you.. if he even gets to cum.

[kominigiru]

he wishes for the cloths of heaven.

summary: You’ve lived through his descent into obsession countless times, through fire and ash, through the birth of the man you fear he will become. And in every cycle, Phainon doesn’t remember. Until he does.

contains: 3.2k wc, gender-neutral reader, yandere phainon, time loop, regression

fic masterlist

[01]: ENTRY HOUR

It always begins the same way.

You’re in the market, standing at the heart of the square as if summoned there. A crowd surrounds you, murmuring with low excitement, their eyes bright with awe and ignorance. They speak in half-whispers; about the man on the ground groaning in pain, and about the hero standing over him like judgment given form.

You look down. The stranger clutches his ribs, coughing between gasps after having been punched to the gut. You remember this part. He’d brushed past you earlier, jostling your bag, maybe trying to take a coin or two. But he never got the chance. He always never will.

You already know how this goes.

Phainon stands before you. He’s beautiful in that tragic, unbearable way. Familiar. Haunting. Comforting only because once, a long time ago—or maybe in a dream you keep reliving—you know him.

Or thought you did.

Or still do, in that aching, slow-poison kind of way.

He sees you. He always sees you.

There’s no trace of blood on him. No soot or scorched scent—as if violence has never dared to touch him. He turns to you, holding up the small cloth bag you dropped. The fruits you’d bought earlier, still nestled inside.

You don’t move. You’ve done this too many times.

His head tilts just so, the smile staying carefully in place—but his eyes flicker, uncertain. There’s always a moment where something falters in him. Like he’s waiting for this loop to be different. Like he knows.

“Hey…” he says. And then, with such sincere concern that it used to tear at you: “Are you alright?”

You answer the same as you always do, voice too smooth from repetition. “Yes, thank you.” A pause. “Sorry.”

(What are you apologizing for? Dropping the bag? Running too late into the day? For what will come?)

You’ve tried changing the script before. You’ve snatched the bag and bolted. You’ve ignored him entirely. Once, you told him to leave you alone.

You always wake up the next loop with ash in your lungs.

Delaying it is the best you can do now. Stalling him with politeness. It’s the only thing that buys you time.

Phainon’s smile stretches, and the gleam in his eyes sharpens. You see pride there. Relief. Devotion—so bright that it burns. As though your words were something sacred, and he, the ever-faithful priest, has been waiting all day just to receive them.

Your stomach coils. Your heart flutters in your chest, treacherous and weak. There’s a warmth that spreads inside you—slow, crawling, and wrong.

(It disgusts you.)

You take the bag. His fingers brush yours. The touch is light, but you feel it like an ember pressed to skin.

“I was worried for a moment,” he says. “You looked pale.”

“I’m fine,” you lie.

Phainon eyes you like he wants to believe that.

The crowd behind you is dispersing, now that the performance is over. The groaning man has been dragged away by guards. Another faceless thief punished. Another small disturbance silenced.

He walks beside you now. You don’t remember starting to walk, but somehow you’re moving down the cobbled path, and Phainon is there, matching your pace.

“You always carry too much on your own,” he says, gesturing at your bag, tone light, teasing.

You manage a polite hum, clutching the bag tighter.

And then, soft as ever, he says, “I’ve missed seeing you.”

The words knock the breath out of you. Not because they’re unexpected—he always says them—but because they never lose their weight. They fall on you like stones, each one heavier than the last.

He doesn’t know—doesn’t remember—that you’ve lived this moment a hundred times before. But you do.

And every time he says that, he means it. Like he’s aching for you. Like he’d burn the world down just to see you smile again.

(And one day—soon—he will.)

“I’ve been busy,” is what you always say.

You don’t remember when you started giving that answer—only that the truth became harder and harder to find each time you looped. Once, maybe, you gave him a different response. Something honest. But that was in your first life, a hazy memory blurred by ash and time. You were a different person then—softer. Naive.

You barely remember that version of yourself now. That first life feels like a dream slipping between your fingers, too distant to hold onto.

Phainon’s expression doesn’t shift. He wears the same understanding look he always does when you say those three words. The same gentle smile, the one that once felt like sunlight and now presses like a knife around your throat.

You used to love that smile. Now it just terrifies you.

Because you’ve seen what lies beneath it. What it becomes when devotion rots into obsession. When love sharpens into something that cuts.

“Teaching the children, right?” he says.

You nod, too stiff.

The script continues.

You can almost recite his lines along with him. Sometimes he teases you—“I’m starting to think they’re stealing you from me,”—and sometimes he drifts into memory, speaking of those student days beneath Professor Anaxa’s guidance, when everything was simpler and he didn’t look at you like the world ended and began in your eyes.

This time, he doesn’t say either of those things.

And that should’ve been your first warning.

He’s quiet a moment too long. You feel the weight of his gaze, heavy and unfamiliar in its stillness.

Then…

“Do you not get tired?”

Your body locks up.

Your breath stills.

Your heart thunders.

He has never said that before.

Everything else has looped like clockwork, minor variations aside. But this line—it’s foreign. It doesn’t belong. It’s like hearing a wrong note in a melody you’ve memorized, jarring and wrong in a way that sends ice through your veins.

You turn to look at him, eyes wide. “What do you mean…?”

Phainon meets your gaze, and something in his expression has changed. There’s no confusion. No soft amusement. Just a quiet, unreadable calm that makes your fingers tighten around the bag you’re carrying.

The street around you fades into background noise—the shuffling feet, the clatter of carts, the merchants haggling. It all feels far away now. Too far.

“You work so hard,” he says gently. “You wake up before the Lucid Hour. You teach all day. You give and give and give. Do you ever think of stopping?”

Stopping?

You can’t speak. There’s something stuck in your throat. You feel as though you’re standing at the edge of a cliff, and he’s just taken a step toward you.

Your fingers tremble.

“You don’t have to carry it all alone, you know,” Phainon murmurs, leaning in slightly. “You have me. I’d take all of it from you, if you let me. The work. The weight. The burden.”

The choice, you think, but don’t say.

Because he doesn’t mean help. He never has.

You’ve heard this voice before—not here, not now, but after. After he becomes the man that you will fear. After the city burns. After you beg him to let someone live and he smiles and says, “Why does it matter? You’re safe. That’s all that ever mattered.”

Your throat is dry. You force a smile. “I… I don’t mind. I like the work.”

“But does it make you happy?” he asks.

You don’t have an answer. And somehow, you know he’s not expecting one.

He steps closer. Close enough that you can smell the warmth of the sun on him, and beneath it, faintly—smoke.

“I think,” he says slowly, like tasting the thought for the first time, “you’d be happier if you didn’t have to pretend.”

Your stomach sinks.

Something’s wrong.

Something’s wrong.

Something’s wrong.

Something’s wrong.

Something’s wrong.

He’s never spoken like this before. Not in this part of the loop. Not with this kind of clarity.

You step back without meaning to. He notices.

A beat passes.

Then Phainon smiles again, gentle and knowing.

“You’re scared,” he says. Not accusing. Not angry. Just… sad. As if your fear is the only thing in the world that could ever wound him.

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Maybe not you, but everyone else—he has. He will.

You’ve seen it.

A thousand endings where fire blooms across cities. Where blood coats his hands and your name spills from his lips like a prayer.

You swallow. “I need to go.”

“Okay,” he says softly, stepping aside.

You walk away. You don’t run. But your mind screams at you with every step.

Something changed.

You don’t know how many more loops you’ll endure.

The Curtain-Fall Hour slips quietly into the Entry Hour, and like every time before, you wake with the same bitter awareness tucked beneath your skin:

You will live this day again.

And again.

And again.

You rinse in silence. Your eyes are hollow in the basin’s reflection, like you’re watching someone else go through the motions. But the moment water touches your face, you’re brought back.

Children. Teaching. Routine.

That is your anchor. That is what keeps the world from spinning out of control.

You towel off and set to work, peeling and slicing the fruit Phainon had retrieved for you yesterday—the fruit that should have been stolen, had he not intervened.

You grimace.

His name alone sends a tight ripple down your spine. You hate how even thinking about him can still stir emotion. And worse—familiarity. You hate the way your fingers still remember the shape of his hand brushing yours. How your chest still reacts like it did the first time, when his love felt like sunlight and not fire.

You refocus.

Small slices. Bite-sized. Easy to chew. You’ve done this hundreds of times—maybe more. You know the measurements by heart. The right sweetness that will make the children smile.

By the time Lucid Hour glows through the windows, you’ve baked enough fruit cookies to feed a full class. You tuck them into a woven basket, along with a book or two.

You step out, prepared for normalcy—needing normalcy.

But normalcy is a luxury that has long abandoned you.

You always meet them near the Court of Seasons. And when you arrive, the children are already there.

And so is he.

You freeze the moment you see him.

Phainon stands with the children, cloaked in soft laughter. His snowy hair gleams in the sunlight, his posture relaxed and regal, yet casual. The children giggle around him, tugging at his sleeves.

It should be picturesque. It would be, if not for the twist in your gut.

He’s not supposed to be here. He’s never here during this time. This hour is always yours—yours and the children’s. He should be at the palace or riding across Amphoreus on duty. In every loop before, he’s absent until midday at the earliest.

Another deviation.

Your throat tightens.

When you step closer, the children notice you immediately, and the quiet thrill in their voices momentarily cuts through your dread.

“You’re here!”

“Good day!”

“What are we reading about today?”

You manage a small smile for them. “Good morning,” you say gently. “I brought something sweet today, since you’ve all been doing so well.”

Their excitement renews, loud and bright.

And then—Phainon turns.

He’s already smiling, but when he sees you, it deepens—bright and full, like the kind of smile carved into marble. You’ve seen that smile before, so many times.

“It’s good to see you again,” he says, as if it’s been longer than a day. “I was waiting with the children for you. They’re really good kids.”

“They are,” you say cautiously, casting a glance toward him.

The children chime in again, voices overlapping.

“Of course!”

“Our teacher taught us to be well-behaved!”

Phainon laughs—and you hate how natural it looks. How convincing. His upper body shakes slightly with the motion, and you catch the way he glances at you mid-laugh, as though gauging your reaction.

You don’t smile.

“You’re not busy today?” you ask, voice careful. Your grip tightens around the basket.

His answer comes too fast.

“No,” he says, all ease and affection. “I made sure I had free time today so I can spend it with you.”

Your lips part slightly, but nothing comes out at first. You force something neutral.

“You didn’t have to… trouble yourself.”

“It’s no trouble,” Phainon replies. His gaze lingers too long. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

Your stomach twists.

Wrong. This is wrong. This is too early.

He shouldn’t be this close again yet. Not until the week’s end. Not until the dream burns out and resets again. But here he is, planting himself into your quietest hours.

You glance at the children. They’re already picking out books from your basket. One tugs at your sleeve.

“Can we read the one about the lion that swallowed the sun?”

You kneel and nod. “Of course. That one’s a favorite, isn’t it?”

Phainon lowers himself slowly beside you, uninvited. He doesn’t speak. He just watches you, head slightly tilted.

You hand the child a cookie and feel your skin prickle as Phainon’s hand brushes near yours again. Not touching. Almost.

His hand stops just short of yours.

You stare at his open palm, hesitant and confused. There’s no trace of malice there, not in the way his fingers hover so gently, or in the slight curl of his wrist like he’s trying not to reach too far.

“Can you give me some, too?” His voice is soft, almost pleading. There’s a tightness in it. Something like longing. Something like loss.

You blink at him, incredulous. “These are for the children,” you say, tone flat.

He tilts his head, a lopsided smile tugging at his lips. “Well, can’t you spare a few for a friend?”

Friend.

He says it so gently. So deliberately. Like he’s testing it. Like he’s waiting to see if it feels wrong to his own ears.

You stare at him for a few moments, gaze unblinking. There’s something pathetic in the way he’s crouched beside you, palm outstretched, expectant. Something childlike and pitiful. It’s almost surreal—he, the one who would one day set the world on fire for your sake, looking at you as though this is what he truly wants. A sweet from your hand.

You sigh.

You reach into the basket and pick out two biscuits. You press them into his open palm.

“I will only give you this much and no more,” you tell him, eyes hard. “You understand?”

With his other hand, he lifts two fingers in a mock salute. “Yes, teacher!”

There’s laughter from the children around you, who seem to think he’s being silly. They don’t notice how tightly he holds the cookies—how he almost crushes them with his hand. They don’t see how his smile flickers for a fraction of a second, like he’s about to say something else—something not meant for this moment.

You don’t give him the chance.

You turn to the children, your voice warmer now—on purpose. “Who else wants cookies?”

Their hands shoot up with cheers and excited chatter, and the next few minutes are spent in a whirl of handing out treats and books, settling them down on the blanket. You read aloud, letting the familiar rhythm of the story wrap around you like armor.

And Phainon?

He sits beside you the entire time. Silent. Patient. Watching.

He doesn’t eat the biscuits.

He holds them in his lap, fingers curled protectively around them as though they’ll vanish if he lets go.

And for just a second, you risk a glance his way.

His eyes are on you.

You quickly return to the text, trying not to let it show—the thrum in your veins, the fear that’s blooming slow and heavy in your chest.

The script is slipping.

The lesson ends as it always does—with the children full of laughter and crumbs, chasing each other, their minds still buzzing from stories and sweets.

You pack the blanket in silence. The books are neatly stacked. The empty basket rests in your arms like a final weight. And then—

“I’ll walk you home.”

You freeze.

Phainon stands beside you with that easygoing smile.

“…You don’t need to,” you say, your voice careful, light. “It’s a short walk.”

He only tilts his head. “I know.”

You blink. “Then—”

“But I want to,” he interrupts, taking a step closer. “It’s not like I don’t know the way.”

You grip the handles of the basket tightly.

No. He shouldn’t know the way.

“Phainon,” you start, tone low. “You have duties, don’t you?”

He shrugs. “It can wait a little longer.”

You swallow thickly. “You’ve never said that before,” you murmur, as if testing the words.

He stops. Blinks once. Then smiles wider. “Haven’t I?” It’s innocent. A tease. But it isn’t.

Because his voice dips—just slightly—into something heavier. As if he’s catching up to himself. As if a thread has pulled taut somewhere behind his eyes, tugging at buried things.

You don’t reply. You just start walking. And, of course, he falls into step beside you.

The path is quiet. Too quiet. You can hear the hush of wind through the trees, the soft clicking of your shoes on the stone path, the creak of your basket as you hold it tighter and tighter.

Phainon walks with his hands behind his back. He hums a little, like he’s trying to pretend this is all normal. Maybe for him, it is.

“You used to hum that,” he says suddenly, voice gentle. “When you cooked.”

Your steps falter.

You never hummed that song in this life. Not even once. You haven’t sung it since—since before—

“…That’s not possible,” you whisper.

Phainon turns to you. “What’s not?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. You focus on walking, faster now, hoping to outpace the dread growing inside you.

“I missed this,” he speaks, unprompted, again. “Walking with you. Watching your shoulders relax a little, when you think no one’s looking.”

You stop. You stop walking entirely.

Slowly, you turn to face him.

His eyes are shining. Soft. Full of something—longing, ache, a grief he doesn’t yet fully understand.

“Phainon,” you say, and your voice comes out hollow. “What is wrong with you?”

He doesn’t answer right away, but his smile falters.

Then he leans closer, head tilted, like he’s peering through you instead of at you. And in a voice so quiet it could be mistaken for prayer, he murmurs, “I keep seeing you die.”

Your blood runs cold.

He tilts his head the other way, searching your face, eyes glassy now. “I don’t know when. Or how. Sometimes it’s fire. Sometimes it’s… worse. But you’re always gone. And I’m always too late.”

You can’t breathe.

“And every time I see you again,” he adds, his voice breaking into something raw, “it’s like I’ve finally come home—until I remember you leave me.”

You stagger back.

He doesn’t follow.

He just looks at you, eyes wide, voice trembling. “Why does that keep happening? Why do I keep waking up without you? Why does it feel so real?”

This time, you run.

[02]: LUCID HOUR

© 2025 kominigiru.

crossposted on ao3!

[mainblogonly]

timeskip!sakusa x f!reader, fluff, slightly suggestive (morning after) but nothing specific/explicit at all

sakusa kiyoomi, msby's #15 and now olympian, cannot believe his fall from grace. the olympics ended just a few days ago, they threw a huge celebration last night (which he honestly really enjoyed), and by some twist of fate—he's here.

he paces around the living room of his hotel suite for half an hour before finally deciding what he needs to do. he never thought he would resort to this, but he figures that desperate times call for desperate measures.

to his surprise, miya atsumu answers the facetime call after just a few rings.

"omiomi!" atsumu greets, "you seemed to have a lot of fun last—"

"i'm about to ask for your advice and if you speak a word of this to anyone, i will end you." kiyoomi says sternly.

"woah, woah, relax man," atsumu says, putting his free hand up in surrender, "what's up?"

no backing out now, kiyoomi thinks.

"so... the party last night..."

"the party, indeed," atsumu smirks, "is this about a certain someone i saw you leave with last night?"

"yes, we slept together." kiyoomi says as calmly as possible, hoping to manage his friend's reaction (even though kiyoomi himself is freaking out internally).

"let's go!" atsumu fist pumps, "hell yeah, man, congratulations! it's about time! you've been crushing on her for forever; i was so close to just locking you two in a room myself—"

"that's not the point," kiyoomi groans.

don't get him wrong, it was definitely the best night of his life, but how does he explain to atsumu that he didn't want things to go like this? he had a whole timeline in his head—take you out on a few dates, kiss you in front of your apartment door, get you flowers and treats from your favorite bakery, go on a couple more dates, and then get into bed together (maybe on the same day that he properly asks you to be his girlfriend). he didn't want things to start with a drunken hookup.

"kiyoomi, hey, you still there?" atsumu says a lot gentler this time, seeing the worry on his friend's usually stoic face.

"i don't want a one-night stand, but i have no idea what she wants. and i'm... scared that that's what she wants."

atsumu has never heard kiyoomi admit his worries like this, not even when they were first recruited for the olympics and the excitement started transforming into nervousness. he knew that you mattered a lot to kiyoomi, and this just solidifies that.

"i mean, it doesn't have to be a one-night stand. you can just talk when she wakes up."

"that's true, but i—" kiyoomi hesitates. going to atsumu for advice was embarrassing enough, but admitting this next part is even worse. he's finally got the blonde to a more serious spot, and he knows his next admission will just bring back the teasing.

"hey, you're kind of starting to scare me," atsumu sighs, "please just spit it out."

kiyoomi says nothing. instead, he braces himself for what's to come.

kiyoomi turns the phone camera and atsumu sees to the hotel's dining room table overflowing with every single breakfast item on the room service menu. in addition to all that, there are even desserts and several cups of juice and coffee.

there's a beat of silence.

and then suddenly, atsumu is practically dying of laughter, "what the fuck, omiomi? what did you do?"

kiyoomi faces the phone back to him, his face a lot redder than a few minutes ago, "i panicked, okay? i figured—you don't have breakfast with your hookups, right?"

"this is breakfast for at least 10 people!"

"i wanted to make sure i got something she liked!"

"don't you already know what she likes?"

"well, i was worried she might be in the mood for something else!" he groans, rubbing his hand across his face. he moves the phone a bit so atsumu can't see how much he's stressing about this.

"she's going to think it's stupid. i just like her so much and i panicked and i just hope she had a good time last night and i feel like she won't take me seriously with this fucking spread but it's not like i can get rid of it and i have no idea if she'll even want to go out with me now and i—"

"just ask her," atsumu says.

"miya, she's asleep and—"

"did you have a good time last night?" atsumu practically shouts, somehow looking past kiyoomi through the phone screen.

"what—"

"a great time, actually," you say.

kiyoomi turns, seeing you leaning against the bedroom door behind him.

"but, i don't kiss and tell, so you should go back to bed," you make your way to kiyoomi, gently placing a hand on his arm, "'cause it looks like this guy and i have a lot to talk about."

atsumu gives a quick goodbye, winking at kiyoomi before hanging up. kiyoomi sets his phone down and turns to completely face you. your hair's still a little messy, you're wearing his shirt—oh wow, you look good in his shirt—and kiyoomi nearly forgets the situation he's in. before he can begin explaining himself, you speak up.

"yes, i've been up for a while. yes, i heard most of that conversation—i think atsumu forgets how loud he is—and," you move closer, wrapping your arms around his neck while his hands find your waist, "yes, i would love to go out with you."

when your words finally register, he feels a stupid grin spread across his face.

"yeah?"

"yeah," you smile up at him, "it's not every day that i get to wake up to a breakfast buffet."

you laugh at the way his cheeks turn pink before he buries his face in the crook of your neck, "did i at least get something you like?"

"well, i like you."

"not what i meant... but i like you, too." he says softly.

"so i've heard," you gently nudge him back so you can look at his face properly, "i believe you like me so much?" you grin.

he groans, "you're never going to let me forget this, huh?"

[willyoubemycherryy]

Counting Licks (Bo Chow x Reader)

Summary: He does bite- never too hard though…

Contains: smut, giving a bitch sum head or sum, minimal plot, no I genuinely mean it, oral (f. receiving), kissing, dirty talk, refers to the 🐱 as ‘her’, he’s feral for the cookie, pussydrunk Bo, biting, petnames, “I ain’t never date no man who ain’t suck me off the bone”, BITINGGGG, public, but u guys are alone, I saw sinners again last night and this is the product so good luck

A/N- if you see a mind running around that looks lost, it’s mine. Leave it be.

+ with @bochowswife and @taylormarieee in mind🥰🎀

*Takes place in the ‘fix it’ universe

.♡

The club had been open for weeks and had been a bigger success than originally planned.

It was kind of an unspoken rule that anyone in attendance didn’t mention the incident from that night, it being “bad mojo” and all that and people were only too happy to put it behind them.

Another thing that happened by the end of the first week was the switch from plantation credits to actual money or change. Quarters, dimes, nickels, were all welcome as long as it could spend. They changed it in a way that business wasn’t affected but worked for the locals. Now, prices were different depending on what they was drinking and that did wonders for money flow. So much in fact, that they needed help managing it all.

That’s where you and Bo come in.

Managing his own store and such, Bo was good with numbers- quick too- a trusted friend of the twins, and he’d been there to help them set up since day 1. So when the twins asked him to do the till counts during near end of the first half of the night, it was an easy yes. Surprisingly enough, Smoke and Stack were on the same page with not minding Bo bringing you into the office with him while he worked; claiming you kept him focused and that was that but….

Bo was supposed to be counting the tills and you were supposed to keep him focused.

“Mmmm, she’s so sweet baby”,

Bo purrs in that heady southern drawl before he laps another firm drag up your slit. “Nice n’ wet f’me..”.

A debauched moan bubbles deep from your chest as Bo slurps your clit into his mouth with a drunken hum. The vibrations make your head spin, lower stomach tensing up as you try to ground yourself before you lose your mind but Bo doesn’t let up- can’t bring himself to. Not when you coat his mouth with your taste looking like the answer to every prayer he’s ever prayed with full lips and wide eyes that constantly looked at him like you didn’t just want him but needed him.

He groans, pulling away with a string of saliva connecting you, smacking his lips hungrily as his hands help themselves to your curves and god- you melt. Much like ice would under the heat of the devil’s tongue only faster this time because pleasure is always better when business is meant to be the goal. Tingling nips to your thighs trail back up slowly to your wetness and you suck in a deep breath through your teeth, heavy arousal licking flames across your skin making you sweat. The music outside was loud enough to drown out your activities which was great because Bo was aiming to suck you off the bone.

Gripping the fat of your hip, he pulls you closer against his open mouth- tongue wet, hot, and insistent as he hungrily licks inside you. The pleasure is crushing and your hands find his hair, petting and messing at it weakly while you gasp and whine in bliss. Bo takes your throbbing bud in his mouth again, lapping stroke after stroke against the underside of your clit before rolling it between his teeth and you jolt as he bites down with just enough pressure for the pain to warm before he soothes it with a heavy lave of his tongue and you cry out so hard it feels like your chest is caving in.

“B-Bo! We-, the t-ti- fuuuck!” You can’t even string a sentence together with the way he’s taking you apart, sucking your clit like a piece of candy before rolling the sensitive swollen nub back between his teeth and you’re shaking. Eyes fluttering back as the most pitiful choked out sobs you’ve ever heard from yourself fall from your lips as you grind up into his handsome face.

It’s as if you’re floating. His hands are so big and rough- strong and everywhere. You might be crying for real now. Bo’s so hard that the blood rush makes his ears ring but he couldn’t be bothered to pay that any mind.

Not when you’re so close.

“Thaaat’s it sweet thing..”

And you’re crying and stuttering in that sweet, pretty, way you did whenever you got real close-your hips bucking up into his greedy maw and he can feel the way your leaking hole twitches under his tongue and he growls. A hand leaves your hips in favor of stuffing three of his fingers knuckle deep inside your spasming cunny as he catches your clit and bites- flattening his tongue to soothe the pain sweetly and he’s so sloppy with it as his fingers lazily stretch you open that you can’t take it anymore. It’s too good- too much.

The slutty arch of your back doesn’t make your orgasm any easier to bear as it tears clean through you, coming so hard you hear sight. Heart beating through your chest as you scream, spraying his thick fingers and sinful mouth with a hot burst of your slick. It gives Bo goosebumps as he moans into your flushed skin, mouth working even harder as he laps up your release. Even sucking you off his fingers before rushedly undoing his pants and jerking his fat throbbing shaft off with that same hand. Burying his head back to finish cleaning you up, the sweet taste and smell is so fucking good- so heady- that he’s coming minutes later into the hand that’s soaked with you, resting his head against your thigh while you catch your breath and wait for your senses to realign so you can convince him to take you home.

Till counting long forgotten.

[satellite-evans]

his person

Pairing: Lando Norris x reader

Summary: you are lando’s person <3

Word count: 2.3k+

Warnings: fluff

A/N:

English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.

Happy reading xxx

I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.

If you asked anyone — anyone who’d known Lando even half as well as the world thought it did — who his best friend was, the answer came easy, automatic, like muscle memory.

Max Fewtrell.

It was almost too obvious. They’d been inseparable since their karting days — the kind of friendship that was stitched together with inside jokes, shared playlists, matching scars from dumb teenage stunts, and years of standing side by side through wins and wipeouts. They were co-founders of Quadrant, partners in crime both on and off the track, the human embodiment of controlled chaos whenever a Twitch stream went live or an Instagram story popped up. If you ever bet on who knew Lando best — who could read him like a page out of his own life — your money was safe on Max.

But if you asked Lando — really asked him — his answer wouldn’t even take a breath.

“It’s her,” he’d say, soft but steady. Certain.

“It’s always her.”

You.

The girl who had known him before the podiums, before the fame, before the world chanted his name like a stadium-wide heartbeat. The one who saw through the swagger and the quick wit, the one who called him out when his ego got a little too comfortable, and who held him up when the weight of expectation became too much for one pair of shoulders to carry alone. His girlfriend, yes. But more than that. His person. His safe place. His best friend in every sense of the word.

And God, Lando could never seem to shut up about you.

It was an unspoken rule among his circle — one that started as eye-rolls and playful jabs but eventually softened into quiet acceptance. Your name had a habit of slipping into conversations without warning, as if his mind couldn't help but orbit around you even when you weren’t there. His engineers learned to expect it, Max would mock him with exaggerated groans, but none of it ever stopped him.

“Mate, we asked about tire strategy, not your girlfriend,” his race engineer would tease over the radio mid-practice, when his focus momentarily drifted.

And Lando, without missing a beat, would just laugh — the kind of laugh that sounded like pure ease, like home.

“Same thing, really,” he’d reply, grinning under the helmet. “She keeps me grounded. Technically part of the setup.”

On race weekends, it didn’t matter how chaotic the paddock got, how many fans called his name, or how tightly his schedule was packed. His eyes would always search the crowd — cutting through the noise, the flashing cameras, the blur of faces — until they landed on you. Like some unspoken radar tuned to a single frequency.

“There you are,” he’d mumble every single time, pulling you into his arms, cameras be damned. “Took me forever to find you.”

“You walked straight toward me, Lando,” you’d laugh against his chest, your voice the one sound that always, always managed to quiet his racing thoughts.

“Still felt too long,” he’d whisper, pressing his lips to your hair like that simple touch could steady the adrenaline still roaring through his veins.

You weren’t just the girl he loved. You were his favorite adventure. His co-op player. His partner in every messy, beautiful, unfiltered part of his life. Nights were spent tangled together on the couch, feet tucked under each other, controllers in hand, or phones abandoned on the table as you scrolled through old memes, trading soft jokes and lazy kisses. But the best part was always the silence. The ease of it. The kind of quiet that didn’t need filling, because being with you — just being — felt like the world had finally clicked into place.

And when the world outside got too loud — when the weight of expectation grew heavier than a leaden race suit, and headlines tried to script his story before he even had a chance to live it — it was always you he turned to.

“Do you think I’m doing enough?” he asked one night, voice quieter than the hum of the television, exhaustion settling deep into his bones after another long, hard-fought weekend. His head rested on your lap, and your fingers moved through his curls with slow, absent strokes — the kind that said I’m here, without needing the words.

“You’ve always been enough,” you answered, not even hesitating. “Wins don’t make you, Lando. You do.”

And something in his chest softened — like your words had reached places even his own self-belief couldn’t always touch. He looked up at you then, eyes warm, like he was trying to memorize the exact way you said it, the exact way it felt to be loved by you.

“See, this is why you’re my best friend.”

You smirked, playful but sincere. “Oh, I thought it was because I make better toast than Max.”

“That too,” he grinned, and it was the kind of grin that reached his eyes — the real one, the one that didn’t need cameras or podiums. “But mostly because you’re the only person who makes this whole crazy life make sense.”

And you always would.

Because even on the days when the world felt like it was spinning too fast, when the pressure of living under a microscope crept too close, you were there. Not with solutions or speeches — just you. Existing. Holding space for him the way only you could.

You brushed a strand of hair from his forehead, your fingers slow and familiar. “You know,” you murmured, “I don’t think anyone will ever understand you the way I do.”

“I don’t want anyone else to,” Lando replied, quiet but sure. “They’d get it all wrong.”

There was a pause, but the comfortable kind — the kind that wrapped around you both like a blanket, no need for more words. His hand found yours, thumb absentmindedly tracing circles against your skin, the rhythm steady, grounding.

“You’re stuck with me, you know,” you teased, squeezing his fingers gently. “For life.”

His lips quirked, soft and lopsided. “Good,” he whispered. “That’s exactly the plan.”

Race weekends always had a way of making that feeling even stronger — like the noise and the speed and the stakes only sharpened the way Lando looked at you, like the world could be spinning at 300 kilometers an hour and still, his attention would only ever settle on you.

You stood by the garage, tucked slightly out of the way, half-hidden behind a stack of equipment cases as the paddock moved around you in its usual, barely controlled frenzy. Journalists darted between interviews, chasing headlines with mics stretched out like fishing rods. Cameras tracked every flicker of expression on every driver’s face, lenses hungry for a story in a single glance. Engineers, crew members, mechanics — they weaved through the maze of people like clockwork, hands full of telemetry sheets and radios, their minds a million miles away, deep in calculations and split-second decisions.

And then, there was Lando.

The second his eyes found you through the blur of it all — the sponsors, the fans, the pre-race nerves knotted beneath his skin — everything else seemed to fall away. His entire posture shifted, tension melting from his shoulders as that unmistakable, boyish grin pulled at the corners of his mouth. The smile that wasn’t for the cameras, or the sponsors, or the sea of people waiting for autographs — the one that was just for you.

Like clockwork, he jogged toward you, cutting through the paddock like gravity had decided to rewrite the rules, yanking him toward the only place he ever really wanted to be.

“There’s my good luck charm,” he greeted, voice bright but edged with exhaustion and adrenaline — the kind that no amount of coffee or sleep could fully shake before a race. He leaned in, pressing a kiss to your cheek, the contact lingering longer than it probably should have given the dozens of eyes watching, but Lando had never cared much about timing when it came to you.

“You should probably be focusing on the race,” you teased, fingers finding the zipper of his suit, giving it the lightest of tugs, grounding him even as the rest of the world tried to pull him in a hundred different directions.

“I am,” he replied, tilting his head slightly, those warm eyes locking onto yours like they always did. “You’re the best part of it.”

And the way he said it — soft, steady, without even a hint of his usual playful sarcasm — left no room for superstition or charm. Just the truth, plain and simple.

You reached up, brushing your fingers along the edge of his balaclava, adjusting it slightly before your thumb traced the sharp line of his jaw, a familiar and quiet ritual between the two of you — like you were handing him the last piece of calm before the chaos.

“Go win,” you murmured, your voice low but sure. “I’ll be right here.”

“You better be,” he said, stepping backward, reluctant but smiling, his eyes still drinking you in like he could store the moment away for later. His race engineer’s voice crackled over the comms, pulling him back to reality, but even as he turned to go, he glanced back — once, twice — like the distance between you was the only thing that ever felt wrong.

And when he finally climbed into the car, helmet on, gloves tightened, visor down — the world might have narrowed to tire temperatures and corner speeds, but you were still there. A fixed point. The face he’d always find, whether he crossed the finish line first or not.

Later that night, long after the champagne had dried on his race suit and the headlines had already written their version of the day, you and Lando found yourselves right where you always seemed to end up — curled up on the hotel balcony, wrapped up in a blanket you’d stolen from the foot of the bed, legs tangled together like the world didn’t exist beyond that little pocket of quiet.

The city stretched out below you, lights blinking lazily in the distance, but neither of you paid them much attention. His hand rested on your knee, your feet propped comfortably in his lap, his fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns along your ankle — like his body hadn’t quite figured out how to sit still, even if his mind finally had.

For a while, you both just sat there, letting the silence settle. It wasn’t awkward or heavy — just easy. The kind of quiet that only ever existed between two people who didn’t need words to fill the gaps.

But of course, Lando couldn’t resist breaking it.

“You know,” he said eventually, voice light but thoughtful, “it’s kinda ridiculous, isn’t it?”

You turned your head slightly, raising an eyebrow. “What is?”

He let out a soft, amused huff, like the thought had been bouncing around his head for hours. “I spend all day surrounded by thousands of people — cameras, fans, the whole circus — but the second I step out of the car, the only face I ever want to find is yours. Like some lovesick golden retriever.”

You snorted, nudging him with your elbow. “You? A golden retriever? Please. More like a raccoon hyped up on energy drinks.”

He laughed, head tipping back slightly, the sound warm and genuine. “Fair, but still. You’re basically my human GPS at this point. Doesn’t matter how big the crowd is, somehow I always spot you first.”

You tilted your head, playful but sincere. “Maybe I’ve just trained you well.”

“Oh, definitely. Pavlov would be proud.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Guess that makes two of us, though. I could be anywhere — grandstands, the grid, the middle of a fan mob — and my brain’s only ever tuned into you.”

He grinned at that, the kind of grin that was all soft cheeks and crinkled eyes, and for a second the teasing dropped away, leaving only something honest and quiet between you.

“God, look at us,” he said, nudging your shoulder with his. “Disgustingly sappy.”

“Max would be physically ill if he heard this conversation.”

“Max would disown me,” Lando agreed, lips quirking. “But he already knows I’m screwed when it comes to you. No point in pretending.”

You stretched your legs out, nudging his thigh with your foot. “You’ve been screwed since the moment I stole your fries that one time, haven’t you?”

He chuckled, shaking his head like the memory was still fresh. “That was the moment. I knew I was done for. Anyone who can steal the last fry and not feel guilty? Dangerous.”

You grinned, leaning your head back against his shoulder, your voice soft but full of playful affection. “And you let me do it anyway.”

“Let you?” he scoffed. “I offered. You just didn’t hear me over the sound of your victory.”

You both sat there for a second, wrapped up in that perfect kind of comfort that came from knowing — truly knowing — you belonged exactly where you were.

Then, without looking away from the view, you murmured, “You’re my person, you know.”

He glanced down at you, his hand finding yours under the blanket, fingers lacing through yours with a quiet certainty. “You’re mine too. Always have been.”

You turned your head, catching the soft, lopsided smile on his face — the one that always gave him away no matter how hard he tried to act cool. “I hope you know I’m keeping that in writing. You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

“Good,” he said, pressing a kiss to your temple, his voice lower, softer now. “Because I wouldn’t know how to be me without you.”

You leaned into him, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat under your ear, and let the moment stretch. No flashbulbs. No roaring engines. Just the two of you.

And it hit you all over again, the same simple truth that always seemed to sit quietly at the center of everything: You weren’t just his girlfriend. And he wasn’t just your boyfriend.

You were each other’s person. The constant in the chaos. The soft place to land. And the best part of every single day.

Always.

[catmaraudersfan]

Fun idea I got while thinking of a few prompts on here:

Danny winds up in the DC universe. This universe speaks a different language than his and even All Speak isn't helping. Not to mention it's been a long time since he fully died and he hasn't been around the living much.

He manages to get across that, while yes, he's not human, he means no harm. Luckily the other group portrays the same intent. One of them (John Constantine) seems to be lecturing some of the members (JL) about something. (Be polite because he may LOOK like a kid {he returned to looking the age he half-died at after he fully died} but John can sense, backed up by other JLD members, that he's MUCH older than he looks. Not to mention the Ghost King thing.)

Over time, Danny begins to learn this universe's language.

One day, Danny is ranting about the Observants and how they keep screwing with Clockwork.

Cyborg speaks up and asks who Clockwork is and that Danny slipped into Ghost Speak halfway through his rant. Danny takes a moment to translate the name and gives the name Kronos.

Poor Danny is confused at the sudden silence and tense atmosphere.

Wonder Woman frantically asks what Kronos did now and how he got free.

A confused Danny says he's NOT free and that THIS is the problem.

Everyone else goes from relief to learn he's still trapped to shocked, confused, and more than a little horrified to learn their friend wants to FREE Kronos?!

Seeing the horrified and bordering on betrayed looks, Danny starts explaining about the Observants and how they've been acting up.

What everyone else HEARS?

'THERE'S ONES *WORSE* THAN FUCKING *KRONOS*?!'

'What have these psychos done to make KRONOS look SANE to this guy?!'

They get their answer when seeing he hasn't quit sold them on freeing Clockwork, more like he seems to have driven them against the Observants, which, he's not complaining, but that's not the PROBLEM.

Danny then tells them about Dan and how the Observants wanted to kill him to prevent it and how Clockwork not ONLY saved him, but found a safer, non-bloody, way to stop that timeline from happening. He DOES assure them that Dan has long since healed emotionally and mentally.

The group is shocked at Kronos' KINDNESS, wonders if death calmed him, and if his madness somehow slipped into these Observant psychos.

[vrystalius]

Hashira men reaction to Reader slapping their ass

Hashira’s reaction to you slapping their ass.

Self-explanatory, isn’t it?

Pairing: Sanemi, Kyojuro, Tengen, Giyuu x gn!reader

Genre: Crack, fluff?

Length: short and sweet

Notes: Yes. I needed this lmao.

Sanemi Shinazugawa // Wind Hashira

He is angry, embarrassed, confused all at the same time while also yelling at you, because HOW dare YOU?

Sanemi is more upset at the fact that you managed to sneak up on him and how he trusted you to the point he was able to turn his back on you and expect nothing, and yet you broke that trust by slapping his ass, just like that.

His second reaction is embarrassment. Doing this in private is one thing, but in public? You better turn around and bend over because Sanemi has a foot to shove up a certain someone’s bottom.

And lastly, confusion. Why? Why him? Why here? Doesn’t this usually work the other way around? Isn’t Sanemi supposed to be do ing that to you? He wouldn’t do that in public though. Unlike somebody.

You and him will be having a serious conversation when you two get home.

—

Kyojuro Rengoku // Flame Hashira

His first instinct is to let out a small laugh before snapping his neck like an owl to look at who had done that. Once Kyojuro sees that it’s you, he chuckles a little more, but now more in confusion rather than in delight.

First, he thought you might be joking or playing around, trying to tease a reaction out of him, because what other reason could be there for you doing so intimate both so openly and randomly?

Kyojuro also thought about how you maybe want attention and have asked for it in a very up-front way. Perhaps you want to make love to him right now, right here…?

He ended up never asking why exactly you did it, instead blurting out some stutters of sentences while his face heats up. You could’ve sworn that his sweat turned into steam and were able to watch it rise into the sky.

Kyojuro ended up slapping your ass a week later out of nowhere, trying to get the message across that he is in the mood for some alone-adult-time. You ended up slapping him across his face.

—

Tengen Uzui // Sound Hashira

It’s not a rare back and forth between you two. Sometimes it’s Tengen’s turn to slap you on the ass, sometimes it’s your turn. It’s almost always a joke or a tease.

Emphasis on almost. Tengen’s slaps sometimes are a little more harsh than usual, making you yelp and slap him on the arm in return. He lives to annoy snd get a rise out of his partners, so slapping you twice as hard seems like the easiest way to do it.

After one too many slaps, you decided to retaliate and slap him back, but he barely flinches, that bastard.

Tengen, thanks to his training and excellent hearing, can anticipate your attack on his ass and clench the muscles at the right time, resulting your assault barely having any effect.

You, Suma, Makio and Hinatsuru ended up tackling and holding Tengen down while everyone got their fair turn to kick his cheeks for revenge.

—

Giyuu Tomioka // Water Hashira

Shocked, flabbergasted, embarrassed, baffled. Giyuu’s face ran blank and colour drained from his face the second your hand met his bottom. You watched him literally turn into stone, not even confronting you for your action.

What is the appropriate response to getting their ass slapped out of nowhere? Giyuu is torn between asking what is wrong with you and crying about it. Instead, he turned to you and simply stared at you. Nothing came out of his mouth.

Confused about the lack of reaction, you decide to ask him if he’s okay, but he doesn’t respond to that either, instead eyeing you up and down judgementally before walking off silently.

You learned to never do that again to him. You’re still not sure up to this day if Giyuu cried afterwards.

💠

Author’s Note. Thank you for reading!

This was pretty much just for fun and shouldn’t really be taken seriously— but I hope you enjoyed this anyway! Btw sorry for taking such a long time to answer to this 😭

Anyways, make sure to EAT, SLEEP and DRINK enough!!

Take care of yourselves <33

[sylusgworl]

FALLING (IN LOVE) IS NOT A CHOICE ft. sylus

content: domestic fluff, gn!reader, established relationship, sylus becomes a sweetheart in your presence

a/n: i love him, that's it. wc: 1k . rbs are very appreciated <3

m.list

Never did you ever think you'd come to love the lonely scarlet eyed crow that towers over the N109 zone with power equal to none.

But fate told you otherwise.

Sylus had become such an essential part of your daily life, you couldn't even remember what your days used to be like before meeting him.

You'd grown familiar to seeing his drowsy face in the morning, his groggy 'good morning' with eyes still clad in sleep and ruffled silver locks brushing against his forehead.

You'd gotten used to his big arms cradling you against his body, whether you were sad or happy, lonely or in good company.

You'd gotten used to the way he'd welcome you whenever you'd drop by, putting you first before anything and anyone else.

Falling for Sylus wasn't in the plan, it wasn't premeditated. It wasn't supposed to happen at all.

But whose heart actually follows reason?

As you sit on the sofa, a warm blanket covering your bare legs and a book laying on top of them, you slowly peek up from the bland novel you were reading, trying to find him.

He is in the kitchen, a black apron hugging his waist so prefectly while he dextrously and with no difficulty flips the pan.

His eyes, those very same red eyes you loved getting lost into, slowly meet yours, as if he knew long before you'd been staring at him.

He smiles. his face, previously hardened by concentration, now melted, softened, the boss-man of Onychinus tamed by none other than you.

“It's almost ready, sweetie,” he says, his tone soft, the tone reserved only for you. You almost melt at the name he calls you by, even if you weren't new to the relationship, even if he had called you that plenty of times.

“Okay,” your answer is low pitched, almost a whisper, as you shift your body on the sofa, searching for a comfortable position, your eyes never leaving him once, even after he goes back to work, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows, the forearms glistening under the yellowish kitchen glow.

After you set the table and Sylus lays the plate in front of you, you're pleasantly surprised by what you see. He'd managed to make your favourite dish.

You look up, surprise flickering in your eyes and meet Sylus's gaze, amusement teasing his lip upwards, as he raises an eyebrow expectantly.

“So? Aren't you gonna eat?” his voice hides a tone of teasing, so you nod before diving in.

The dinner goes by quietly, air filled with your laughter at Sylus's hopeless attempt at singing, and numerous impersonations (of Sylus) Mephisto managed to land.

Dinner and dishes done, you ready yourself for bed. You find Sylus already waiting for you, burgundy sleepwear echoes the wine swirling in the cup as he studies a paper in his hand—probably a report.

“You're here,” he says, discarding the paper on the nightstand as soon as he looks up and finds you standing at the door.

You smile and dash to the bed, the mattress diving under your weight as you lunge yourself forward and land on his lap.

Sylus doesn't let you take him by surpise, ever. His arms are already there, expecting your whimsy act already.

“Oh?” he feignes surprise, locking you in his hold while hugging you, his warmth enveloping you into a calm and tranquility you can only ever find by his side.

You slap his shoulder, “don't pretend. You already knew about my surpise-attack,” you say in a disappointed tone, resting your head against his torso while feeling his breath against your forehead as a chuckle leaves his lips.

“I can never manage to lie to you, kitten,” he kisses your forehead, gently, the touch of his lips so soft and imperceptible you think you might've imagined it.

“Now, you need to sleep,” he sets your head on the pillow and slides the duvet over your bodies.

You close your eyes.

Yes, you truly loved this scarlet eyed lonely crow. Except, now that you were there, you hoped he wouldn't be lonely anymore.

© sylusgworl - 2025, all rights reserved / i don't allow anyone to copy, repost on other platforms or sell my works.

[suguann]

✎. he tells you they’re the problem and leaves it at that before sliding a plate of eggs and toast in front of you.

tags. fem!reader, mild dubcon, possessive and obsessive behavior, but he's also kinda sweet?? [18+ only]

You like your new roommate.

Simon’s surprisingly better to have around than the last person who lived with you—a girl you knew from college who had an affinity for stealing your clothes and conveniently never had money for rent. He’s the type to make you soup when you’re sick, acknowledge you if you’re in the same room, water your flowers while he rolls his cigarettes on the fire escape, and carry your groceries up the four flights of stairs to your floor. 

He’s attractive, too, in the not-so-conventional sense, but in a disarming way, all small smiles and knowing looks and soft hair you know he doesn’t put much effort into—that sometimes curls around his ears when he lets it get too long—yet it still manages to look better than yours on the best days. 

He never tells you what he does for work, and you’re too polite to ask. But you have a feeling he makes enough to afford a place on the less crime-infested side of town—somewhere nicer than your cramped apartment with its outdated appliances, leaky faucets, and the bright neon sign atop the building across the street that shines through your windows all times of the day—but he says he’s not ready to live alone.

Something tells you there’s more to it than him being a lonely bachelor, but again, you don’t pry.

“Does this place have wi-fi?” is all he’d said the first time you meet, in a voice so smooth and only slightly broken up by his accent, clad in a shirt that looked two sizes too small around his arms and clutching a duffle bag in one big hand. 

Your brain was this shaken-up box of words and syllables that when you answered him, it came out in a nervous stutter. “Y-yeah, I’ll, er…I’ll give it to you—the password, I mean—once you've moved in. If that’s okay.”

He’d dropped his duffle bag in front of the room that would be his. “Consider me moved in.”

The smile he gave you, crinkling eyes and chuckling lightly, only made the stutter worse. 

You let his charm roll off you; you always figured it came naturally to him, a characteristic that comes with being attractive and good.

A handful of months later—of finding a routine around each other and lazy smiles in the morning—something changes the night you go out with a guy Mary from work eagerly sets you up with. 

His name’s Robb, he’s a doctor, and you both love cats; he has a house in Spain. Did I mention he's my cousin?

(A dull no way concealed behind your teeth.

If you hadn’t said yes, you feared your entire lunch break would consist of her waxing poetic over a man you're unsure about meeting.)

For a flicker of a moment, there’s an unreadable expression on Simon’s face as he watches you touch up your makeup in the hallway mirror and slip your hand into the crook of your date’s elbow at the door. There’s a slight glint of something uncharacteristically cold behind the mask of indifference before a small smile replaces it.

“Have a nice night,” you throw over your shoulder, except you don’t notice that he never says it back.

You mope around the apartment when Robb—who surprisingly exceeded your expectations of mediocre dates, not that you ever plan on admitting that to Mary—doesn’t reach out to you for three days. Then a week. You’re at that age to understand when people get busy, and a nice night doesn’t always mean it’s mutually reciprocated. But you liked him, and it felt promising after he’d kissed you goodnight against your front door. 

It had to have been the kiss that turned him off. Maybe he realized it was too much too soon.

When Simon finds you curled up in a ball under your comforter, one thumb gently wiping away your tears, he doesn’t even bring up your date. Instead, he orders your favorite take-out and puts on a sitcom you’d mentioned to him once—somewhat surprised that he remembers—the dreamy doctor who’d ghosted you blissfully forgotten with greasy food and a warm, comforting chest to rest your head on.

Simon’s there again—sweets in hand and a soft voice to soothe you—when another date (Rin from finance on your floor) a month later is a no-show, and a few weeks after that when Rin tells you without context that he can’t see you anymore. 

The third time of let downs feels worse. It’s worse because maybe there’s something wrong with you, and when you ask Simon, he’s too nice to rub salt in your wounds. He tells you they’re the problem and leaves it at that before sliding a plate of eggs and toast in front of you.

You've been Simon's roommate for a year, and he doesn't take it well when you tell him you're looking for a new place.

It’s after he comes home from a three-month work trip. The shadow that crosses over his face should’ve been your first hint that something is wrong.

Had you noticed the signs sooner, you wonder if you’d be less like prey caught by the softness of your underbelly, kept in place by the scruff, and sharp teeth at your neck.

"Beg me. Beg me not to cum in you."

"S-Simon," you whimper wetly, "don't cum in—ah—me."

His fingers hold your chin with an unyielding grip, ensuring your gaze doesn’t stray from his in the cracked mirror. You’re embarrassed by what you see, how spread open you are to his dark, inkwell eyes hungrily watching as you twitch when his other hand slides between your thighs.

"Don’t stop begging, love,” he growls, squeezing you tighter, “or I might forget."

There’s that dark look again, the one that sends a shivery feeling up your spine, possessive almost with how he traces every inch of you as if burning the image of you into his memory, the softness washed away by something more sinister. 

A little voice in the back of your head tells you to flee, but another knows he'd find joy in catching you. 

No one would ever think your sweet, attractive roommate would be the same man staring at you now—everything you thought you knew about him stripped away to reveal a new canvas, bare for splashes of paint to fill in the cracks—teeth marks imprinted along the curve of your jaw, on the inside of your thighs.

He hides it well. His humble personality doing the trick of being the impenetrable mask for what he’s concealing underneath: a raw obsession, an addict finally getting his hands on his favorite drug, someone who can’t recognize defeat and knows how to take.

“What do they have that I don’t? Hm? Must be a desperate little thing. My pretty slut,” Simon’s voice rumbles low against your ear, shy of unhinged. “They won’t treat you as good as I do. Don’t I treat you good?”

You whimper when his grip grows tighter, but he doesn’t seem to notice—like he’s not fully here with you. No trace of the soft, gentle man who keeps the freezer full of your favorite ice cream, who runs to the store when you run out of tampons and comes back with chocolate and a new pair of fuzzy socks. A few words have turned him into someone you don’t know. Perhaps you never did.

“Answer me.”

An indiscernible  squeak is the only sound you make. 

He chuckles darkly, his head dipping down to rest his lips against the fluttering pulse in your neck, a finger slipping through the alarming amount of wetness between your thighs where his cock rends you down the middle, and begins rubbing firm, tight circles over your clit, pulling a moan from your throat. 

“It’s okay, love,” he mumbles, words barely audible above your heartbeat swimming in your ears. “I’ll be everything for you. Everything you need. I’ll show you why I’m better.”

[luvbabydoll]

soft target — john price

a/n: here is part one

the school’s quiet now.

the sun’s low, painting everything gold, and you’re locking your classroom door with tired hands and a cardigan pulled tight around your shoulders. the same sundress underneath, just a little more wrinkled now. your flats scuff softly on the pavement as you head toward the bus stop, bag slipping from your shoulder.

and then—

“bit late for the bus, isn’t it, love?”

you freeze.

he’s leaned against a dark car at the curb, sleeves still rolled, cap tilted back slightly. cigar in one hand, half-burned and glowing faint. he looks like he’s been there for a while. watching.

waiting.

you clear your throat. “i’m fine. it’s only a few minutes.”

he hums. takes a drag.

“not safe out here. bus stop’s full of pissheads after five.”

you blink. “i take it every day.”

he exhales smoke slowly, like the words amuse him.

“not dressed like that, you don’t.”

your fingers tighten on your cardigan.

“what’s that mean?”

he flicks the ash off the tip of the cigar, then gives you that slow, maddening once-over.

“floaty little thing like you? sweet voice, soft shoes, not a clue how many blokes’d follow you just to see where you get off.”

you shift on your feet.

“i manage just fine.”

“‘course you do, sweetheart,” he drawls, tone all condescension and heat. “still doesn’t mean you should be out here on your own.”

he nods at the car behind him.

“come on. i’ll drive you.”

you shake your head. “i don’t need—”

“wasn’t askin’.”

the words are quiet. firm. but not unkind. not really.

more like... decided.

you hesitate. bite your lip. you shouldn’t. god, you know you shouldn’t.

but then he opens the door for you, like he already knows you’ll say yes.

“it’s not charity, love,” he adds, almost mockingly. “just not lettin’ a pretty thing like you end up on the evening news.”

your heart hammers.

you get in.

the leather’s cool. smells faintly like him. like cigar smoke and expensive soap.

he walks around the front, slow and unbothered, flicks the cigar into the street with a practiced hand, then slides in beside you and starts the engine.

no music. no small talk at first. just the low purr of the car and the weight of his gaze at red lights.

until finally, he says it.

“didn’t peg you for the bus type.”

you glance at him. “i’m a teacher. not exactly glamorous.”

he scoffs. “could’ve fooled me.”

you blink.

“look like you belong in one of those soft little perfume ads,” he mutters. “all lips and lashes. s’no wonder your class won’t shut up.”

you don’t answer.

his fingers tap the wheel lazily. “bet they’ve all got crushes. boys like that—doesn’t take much. just a smile and a dress.”

“i don’t flirt with my students.”

he smirks.

“never said you did. just said you don’t have to.”

you look out the window. cheeks hot.

“you always talk to teachers like this?” you murmur.

he doesn’t hesitate.

“only the pretty ones.”

the drive is quiet again. only this time there’s music.

not loud—just a low hum from the speakers, something gritty and slow and old. a man’s voice, raspy, drawling about whiskey and war. you don’t recognise it, but you don’t ask either. you figure he already knows that.

he doesn’t look at you while it plays. just taps the wheel in time, lip twitching like he’s in on a joke you’re too young to get.

“not your kind of music, is it?” he says finally, eyes still on the road.

“no,” you admit softly.

he chuckles.

“didn’t think so. you’re more of a... sugar-pop sort, yeah? all pink headphones and love songs?”

you bristle, but only a little. “i listen to plenty of things.”

“mm,” he says, unconvinced. “you ever even heard of tom waits?”

“well… no.”

“figured,” he smirks.

by the time he pulls up outside your apartment, the sun’s almost gone. your building looks worse in this light—weathered and crooked, like it’s sighing from holding itself up.

he looks at it, then at your shoes.

“you live here?”

“...yeah.”

he lets out a breath through his nose. not rude—just surprised.

“jesus, sweetheart. i knew teachers weren’t paid well, but jesus lovie.”

you slide your bag onto your shoulder, already reaching for the handle.

“thanks for the ride.”

but he’s already out of the car.

before you can step out, he’s opening your door for you again—holding out a hand like you’re stepping onto a yacht and not cracked pavement.

you blink up at him.

“i can walk.”

“not in those dainty little things,” he mutters. “look at the state of this lot.”

and then—god—he lifts you.

just like that. arms around your thighs and back, bridal-style, all warm and solid and smug.

“john!” you squeak, clutching his shoulders.

“don’t fuss,” he says, carrying you like you weigh nothing. “not lettin’ you ruin those shoes on my watch.”

you want to argue. you really do.

but then you’re at your door and he doesn’t put you down. not right away.

“keys?” he asks, eyes flicking toward your purse.

you fumble, unlock it with shaking hands.

and instead of handing you over the threshold, like a normal person—

he steps inside.

like he’s invited.

like this is his now.

you’re still in his arms when he glances around.

“cozy,” he says again, same tone as in your classroom.

his voice is quieter here. thicker.

you try to wiggle down. he finally lets you go, setting you gently on the floor like a toy being placed back on the shelf.

you smooth your dress. try to fix your face.

“you didn’t have to come in.”

“wasn’t gonna leave you out there in the dark,” he shrugs, looking at your tiny kitchenette, the stack of books near the couch. “besides, didn’t get my proper tour earlier.”

you give him a look. “this isn’t a tour.”

“sure it is,” he says, moving to lean against your counter like he’s done it a hundred times. “i’ve seen your classroom. now i’m seein’ where you keep your soft little cardigans.”

you cross your arms.

“you’re very confident.”

he grins.

“and you’re very polite for someone lettin’ a stranger into her flat.”

you hesitate. “you’re not a stranger.”

“aren’t i?”

he steps a little closer. your back almost hits the wall.

you don’t answer.

he smiles, slow.

“you should eat somethin’, sweetheart,” he murmurs.

you blink.

“you don’t have to—”

“i know i don’t,” he cuts in gently, brushing a bit of lint from your sleeve like he’s done it before. “but i want to.”

“why?”

“dunno,” he shrugs. “maybe i like takin’ care of soft little things.”

[dami-anne-damn]

CookieSized!Beast Cookies x HumanSized!Reader

Cuddling Head-cannons!

Shadow Milk Cookie:

He’s super into cuddling, but only when he wants too. Like, man is clingy in the same way a cat is.

He would totally want to crawl up the inside of your sleeve like a gremlin and curl up on your chest.

Speaking of chest, that’s his favorite place to snuggle up too, either that or your face. Specifically your cheek since he’s tiny. (He likes to be a presence you can’t ignore.)

If you love cuddles prepare to be absolutely smothered in them. He wants to be all you can focus on in this world, and allowing him to cling to you is an opportunity he just can’t pass up.

If you don’t like cuddles then you are fresh outta luck because he does not care. It doesn’t matter to him how large you are, or how intimidating you can be. He’s snuggled up to you and he’s comfortable. Plus… since when were you in charge?

Like, if you’re resting he’s all up in your business, IMMEDIATELY. If you try to push him away enough times, he’ll walk off in a fake huff talking about ‘diva(s)’. But once you finally fall asleep he’s right back where he wants to be.

Ironically enough if you try to cuddle up to him without his prompting, he’ll play hard to get. Might even bat your hand away too- (well, as much as a itty-bitty cookie his size can to a human).

When he’s cuddled up on your chest, sometimes he’ll worm his way up to your ear. He’ll begin to whisper things, things he couldn’t possibly know. Tidbits about your day you never told him, stuff that has yet to happen, knowledge on how to help you succeed in future endeavors. You are normally asleep by the time this advice comes, so why does he do this?

Is it the joy he feels knowing that he has all the answers you need and all the control to tell you only when you’re not listening? Or is it something else? Only he has the answer to that.

——————————————————

Mystic Flour Cookie:

She’s definitely not clingy, but she doesn’t mind it when you two cuddle.

I imagine since she’s the Beast of Apathy she is quite neutral about where she lays in accordance to you in bed. You could have her in your arms, your hands, heck probably even on the top of your head and she’d be ok with it.

She won’t admit this, but her favorite way to cuddle is with your head in her lap and her hand in your hair. Yes, you are still human sized. Also yes, she is still cookie sized. (You guys make it work though.)

Love cuddles or hate cuddles, she couldn’t care either way. Calm and composed, she decides when and when not to allow you to breach her personal space.

Although, if you do catch her off guard with a pick up and cuddle attack from behind. Even if she may not show it immediately, she doesn’t like when people just take what they want from her. Expect the cold shoulder.

On rare occasions, Mystic Flour can and will ask to be held. There’s something unusual about her tone, something more..alive.

When you have long since fallen asleep, she finds her hand stroking your hair absentmindedly. She then slowly lowers her body to lay against your head, all of HER own volition. For cuddling you was her choice, not your will. Hers.

——————————————————

Burning Spice Cookie:

Normally, I would never think that Burning Spice would go for cuddles. Too boring and stagnant for his tastes.

But if you did manage to get him to cuddle, you bet you had to earn that. And it wasn’t easy. So if you like fighting tooth and nail for the right to cuddle, then Burning Spice is your man!

Battle against him, he doesn’t care how large and fleshy you are. He wants a fight, he needs a fight. If you want to cuddle The Great Destroyer, then show him you can handle it! (This is an every night before bed thing too).

Finally you win—(because let’s be honest..he’s like what, 3 inches tall?) —and now you’ve earned the right to cuddle. Burning Spice’s favorite place to cuddle is right against your stomach or heart, things he can hear.

Sometimes during these sessions, you can catch a glimpse of Burning Spice’s face, it looks empty as he listens to your body work and breathe. You wonder whats going though his head.

But as soon as it’s there, it’s gone and is replaced with his usual scowl as he loudly exclaims how ‘bored’ he is with the current situation.

As I’ve already explained, if you want cuddles Burning Spice is definitely going to play hard to get. Much like Shadow Milk in that sense. But on another note, much like Mystic Flour he doesn’t care if he gets cuddles or not. (If anything he seems to project more no than yes. But if that’s really true, why does he still offer to fight you each night?)

——————————————————

Eternal Sugar Cookie:

Are you a couch potato with big emotions?! Do you like to cuddle?! Then maybe you should consider getting yourself an Eternal Sugar Cookie to keep you company!

They are a MASSIVE cuddle monster, (they might even be clinger than Shadow Milk in this sense) you’re like a big warm pillow! They are perched or nestled somewhere on you from 24/7 to eternity.

Their favorite place to cuddle is curled up on your neck. Wings draped over the sides of your shoulders in a sort of possessive hug. Feeling your pulse.

If you like cuddles Eternal Sugar is definitely a provider, and is pretty good at making you feel right at ease. I could imagine them curled up, tangled in your hair and lazily strumming at their lyre with droopy eyes.

Being the Beast of Sloth, I could see them using their power to perhaps make you feel a bit more lethargic than usual.

After a while with Eternal Sugar you might start missing your morning alarm, sleeping in, missing breakfast, lunch, maybe even dinner too…a couple days go by…wait, how long have you been sleeping for again?

——————————————————

Silent Salt Cookie:

Tbh, I see this cookie as very hit or miss when it comes to cuddle time. Either they’re all in on some nice quiet quality time or they want absolutely nothing to do with it.

If they are into it I could see them liking sleeping tangled up in your legs (keeps you from moving too much) or I could see them resting in your hands, especially if you sleep with them curled up to your face.

Don’t expect any kind of talk though, if you start yapping while you two are snuggled up close they’ll just end up getting up and walking away. It’s silence or nothing. (And if you talk in your sleep, just forget about it.)

If they are not in the mood for cuddles, don’t try and convince them. Begging and pleading will only serve to annoy this beast. You gotta let them come to you, like a stray cat you gotta earn the trust of before they come inside your home.

On the days you guys cuddle, if you stay really quiet and still, you can feel Silent Salt press into you almost longingly. Is it despair? Is it loneliness? Want, need? It’s impossible to tell which emotion the beast is feeling with that helmet on. All you can guess is that they are comfortable in the palms of your hands. That’s all that matters…right?

——————————————————

Fin and thank you for reading!

[woozisprincess]

Melting

Merciless CEO, Choi Seungcheol melts for his new employee

This was supposed to just be headcanons but I got carried away. Maybe, perhaps one day, I'll completely flesh this out into like a 10k fic

Scoups x readers, fem reader, mostly adorable fluff, some angst, 3k words, short & sweet like Sabrina Carpenter,

--------------------------⊙⁠.⁠☉----------------------------

CEO Choi Seungcheol with the absolute worst mean streak known to man. Feared by all of his employees. Known to fire people over even the smallest mistakes. Every employee's worst fear is the CEO paying their floor a visit. It was never good news, someone always lost their job.

CEO Choi Seungcheol, whose brow ticks when you, a new hire, step into the same elevator as him without a care in the world. You mumble something about the weather being shit and slowing down traffic. So peculiar. Did you know who you were talking to? You seemed to lack the heart-palpating fear that he inflicted upon his employees. Then you looked at him with big eyes, face damp from the rain, and asked him how his morning was going.

CEO Choi Seungcheol whose personality did a complete 180 when you locked eyes with him. He answered you enthusiastically. Told you it could be better but also it could be worse. You listened to him intently and agreed. Yes, it could always be worse.

CEO Choi Seungcheol who was surprised when he continued to run into you. Normally he would never see someone with your job so often. Or even at all. But there you were, at every turn, around every corner. And each time you gave him the exact same smile. There was no way that you didn't know. You've been working here for weeks, there was no way you still had no clue. But then one day, you asked him his name, and Seungcheol nearly had a heart attack at the thought of telling you the truth. Luckily he was called away to do something urgent.

CEO Choi Seungcheol who became increasingly more irritated at his friend as he teased relentlessly, claiming he's 'gotten soft.'

"Don't you have work to do, Jeonghan?" Seungcheol questioned his C.O.O with a raised brow.

"Well that's why I'm here, we're having a meeting." The younger deadpanned. "But gossip first." The delicate man beamed.

Seungcheol could only sigh. He had half a mind to fire him.

CEO Choi Seungcheol whose heart shattered into a million pieces as your face contorted in horror upon hearing that he, in fact, is the CEO. Some horrid woman basically screamed it at you when she heard the two of you bickering about trivial things, like hot dogs being sandwiches- they're not.

The color drained from your face at the realization. But then you collected yourself. Despite your very obvious distress, you looked at him and joked that it was insane that you had to learn his name from some hysterical woman.

Seungcheol melted when he realized you were trying. Trying to look past his title and see the friend you met several weeks ago. Seungcheol chuckled nervously. "I'm a busy man. It slipped my mind."

You managed to huff out a laugh of your own. You rolled your eyes, mumbled something about him being 'such a Leo,' and went about your day.

The moment you were out of earshot, he berated and fired the woman who dared to try to correct you. Such arrogance can't be tolerated.

Seungcheol was extremely relieved when you continued to speak to him like normal. You told him about your day and office drama all the same. Made a few jokes telling him not to fire anyone in your stories.

Choi Seungcheol who couldn't hide his delight when the rumors of his office princess started to spread. The whispers of his blatant favoritism towards you. The speculation that the two of you might be dating. Oh, how he beamed when you told him that your manager was giving you better tasks to take care of, and that you suspected it was because of him.

The two of you discussed the matter while having lunch in his office. A routine you've grown used to. Seungcheol never ate lunch before, but he realized it was a great opportunity to see you, and in a more personal setting at that. Seungcheol still doesn't really eat anything, he just does paperwork while you do. But you started bringing him pastries from the cafe that you got your sandwiches from. It'd be rude if he didn't eat them.

Seungcheol's brows furrowed when you laughed at the notion of the two of you dating.

"As if." You chuckled.

As if?

He leaned across his desk and asked, "Why do you think it's so ridiculous?"

Your face went hot as you muttered something about him being the CEO. What the fuck would he be doing with someone like you.

Seungcheol frowned. What the fuck would he be doing with such a beautiful woman? A lot actually. You sputtered, damn near choking on your sandwich. You called him stupid as you took a sip of your coffee. Told him that he shouldn't say those things.

He asked why. Tripping over your words, you made a joke about HR finding out.

Choi Seungcheol who stared at the scene before with a rage that of which he had never felt before. Seungcheol found you hiding in a far off hallway that was hardly used for much of anything. And you were crying. Crying? His first thought was who did this? Who hurt you? But as angry as he was, it was quickly replaced with overwhelming concern. He called for you softly as he approached. You seemed startled as you quickly wiped away your tears.

You greeted Seungcheol with as much cheer as you could muster, but the damage was already done. Seungcheol asked you what happened, you tried to deflect but eventually you admitted that for the past few weeks your coworkers had been tormenting you. It stemmed from jealousy. Giving you shit for being close to the CEO. At first, it started with comments that you could easily shrug off, but at this point, it's become full-blown harassment, and it's making showing up to work incredibly difficult.

Seungcheol pulls you close without much thought, rubbing down your arms to try and comfort you. He had noticed you seemed upset, but when he asked about it you just said that you were tired. He didn't believe it, but he didn't want to pry. Seungcheol asked you several times who the offenders were, but you refused to say. You feared his involvement would only make things worse. You beg him not to do anything crazy. Seungcheol agrees. At least that's what he tells you. But he had something else in mind.

Did he feel bad for lying to you? A little. But there was a lot wrong with what was happening. First and foremost they were harassing you. The crime itself was horrid enough. But his princess? Yeah maybe in a universe where bitch ran this company. Then, of course, these were grown ass adults bullying people like children. This behavior could not be tolerated in any regard.

CEO Choi Seungcheol, who, the very next morning, rained down hellfire upon your coworkers. He intentionally did it before you arrived to spare you the horror; luckily, everyone responsible was already there. It wasn't hard to figure out who the perpetrators were. Just a quick visit to the security room and bam! He's got a list of every single person who's ever wronged you.

Seungcheol relished in the tears that erupted from every man and woman with the audacity to try and push you around. They begged for mercy, to keep their jobs. But Seungcheol has never tolerated such behavior, so why on earth would he start now?

When Seungcheol finished with his berating, he turned on his heels only to find you standing behind him.

Choi Seungcheol who could've shrunk in on himself at the sight of you. You looked pissed. You approached him and asked what you made him promise just the day before. It took everything in the man not to fall to his knees and beg you to understand. Instead, Seungcheol tried to reason with you. He told you it was his job, he couldn't just let behavior like this go unchecked. He's running a business, not a middle school.

"But think about me." You asked quietly. You said he was only making things worse.

Seungcheol stepped closer to you, leaning in to ensure that only you hear him. "All I ever do is think of you, _____. Every minute, of every hour, of every day." He took a deep breath and took a step back. "Besides, ignoring this wouldn't have solved anything."

His eyes pierced into your soul, his words drowned your senses. You blinked. This was all too much. "You're right." You nodded. "Perhaps if you left me alone I could finally find some peace."

Choi Seungcheol who thinks he's just died and gone to hell. His merciless behavior finally caught up to him. That had to be what's happened. You did not just rip his heart in two.

"I think you should go back to your office, Sir."

You did.

Seungcheol couldn't lose his shit here. Not in front of everyone. Not in front of you. So he nodded and agreed. "Have a wonderful day, Miss _____." Then he left.

CEO Choi Seungcheol, who had seemingly mellowed out, if even just slightly, returned to a full-blown tyrant overnight. Everyone had thought that maybe the presence of Choi Seungcheol's sweet princess had been the chill pill he needed, but apparently not. Every newbie and intern who was spared despite their mistakes within the past few weeks were now dropping like flies for the smallest things.

Jeonghan, Seungcheol's dear friend, tried his best to find the reason behind such a sudden shift. But Seungcheol was like a safe forged from titanium, no getting through. That was, until one day Jeonghan barged into the elder's office during the usual time of your lunch dates so that maybe he could wring the answer out of you, but you were nowhere to be found. Oh. Oh okay. That explains a lot. So Jeonghan approached his friend and sighed as he patted him on the shoulder. Seungcheol could only frown.

-

You... Had regrets. You had been harsh, selfish, and unfair. Seungcheol was literally just doing his job, and you ripped his heart out. That was a bitch move. Rumors about you two splitting have already begun to spread. The princess of Choi Enterprise is actually a heartbreaker. That's what they said. Some people were appalled that you were still employed, others weren't all that surprised seeing as the man was clearly in love with you. The mess of gossip was truly unbearable. But what was worse, was not being able to see him. Oh how royally you've fucked up.

You spent a lot of time thinking about how to fix this, if you even can, but in the end, nothing seemed good enough. So imagine your surprise when a statuesque man approached you claiming to be the C.O.O.

"Your Yoon Jeonghan?" You questioned.

"You really just don't have a clue about who any of the people you work for are, do you?" The man's brows furrowed.

That's embarrassing. "I-"

"Never mind." Jeonghan cut you off. "You and my friend had a little breakup. Correct?"

He didn't wait for you to respond. "I just wanted to know the reason. He refuses to tell me anything."

The delicate man looked awful exasperated while recalling his many attempts to pry the truth from his colleague.

You contemplated just telling him to fuck off and mind his own business, but ultimately, you spilled. You took Jeonghan through your side of events, the gossip, the harassment, how it made you want to quit. He seemed sympathetic to your situation. And then you told him about Seungcheol's handling of the situation and how you unfairly lashed out at him due to your stress and anxiety. You confided that you regretted your actions deeply, but did not know how to make amends.

Jeonghan's eyes lit up when you were done. You wanted to make amends. Perfect. Absolutely perfect. "Are you ready to return to your throne, princess?"

You cocked your head to the side in confusion.

Oh?

-

"Are you sure this is okay, Jeonghan?" You inquired of him for the thousandth time.

"Oh my god, yes!" Jeonghan was dedicated to this mission, but your nervous tick of never shutting the fuck up was starting to make him regret his decision.

The two of you were in Seungcheol's office waiting for him. You both arrived extremely early so that you could get there before him. There wasn't much of a plan other than sneaking you up here so that you could apologize for your wrong doings, so it was safe to say that you were freaking out.

"But-"

"How about you go back to rehearsing what you wanna say. Okay, Sweetheart?" As nervous as you were, you could still take a hint.

So you waited as silently as you could, murmurs of your speech slipping out every now and then. Then you heard the large doors click open. You feel the hairs on your neck stand up straight.

The door creaked open revealing the one and only, Choi Seungcheol. Your breath hitches in your throat as the two of you lock eyes. Jeonghan pats Seungcheol on the shoulder and makes his swift escape. It was silent for a moment, but it felt like an eternity. You finally spoke up.

"Hi, Seungcheol." You tried your best to smile.

This was it, no going back now.

Seungcheol crossed his arms. The look on his face was unreadable, it reminded you of the day you first met. Cold eyes, greetings met with an unbearable silence. You were speaking to the CEO, not Seungcheol who encouraged you to meet in his office every day for lunch, not the man who damn near started crying when noticed that his favorite pastry was melon bread and continued to bring him more of it. No, this was your boss, and that thought terrified you.

"Can I help you, Miss _____?" Ouch. You deserved that.

"Well, I-" You stood from your chair. "-I came to apologize."

You took a step forward. Deep breaths. "I was wrong to lash out at you. Nothing was your fault." You fiddled with your hands as you did your best to maintain eye contact. You took another step forward. "I was stressed and upset and it was completely unfair of me to get mad at you for doing your job." Another one. "I'm sorry, Seungcheol."

You were standing just a few feet from the man now. This was it, the moment of truth.

"Is that all?"

Oh God. It's over. You've failed. You felt as if you could cry while you looked at your CEO. Choi Seungcheol was forever lost to you.

Seungcheol had a hard time keeping an even head as you spoke to him. It took every fiber of his being not to melt the moment he saw you. He had forgiven you immediately. Of course he did. Truthfully, he was never even mad at you. He completely understood why you reacted the way you did, he was just trying to respect your wishes. Being buddy-buddy with the CEO was bound to be difficult for someone in your position, so if you didn't wish to deal with it, that was your right.

However, with confirmation that you're fully willing to come back to him, there's just one more thing he needs to know.

You stared at your boss kind of dumb founded. You really thought that this would work. Jeonghan swore it would. Went on and on about how depressed the man was, and how much he clearly missed you. But here you are, being rejected. Perhaps Jeonghan got it all wrong.

"Is that all?" You quietly repeated to yourself. You glanced over the man in front of you, unsure of what to say. You noticed something. He relaxed, like a lot. His eyes were a lot more familiar to you, and his hands now rested on his waist. Oh? Your eyes locked onto the floor as you thought. Maybe he wasn't dismissing you, maybe he was literally asking if you had more to say. But why would he phrase it like that?

You looked back up at him. That look. So specific. What about it is so familiar?

All I ever do is think of you, _____. Every minute, of every hour, of every day.

OH! Shit, okay.

Your face grew hot at the realization. You nearly forgot that you essentially shot down the poor man's confession. If that's what he wanted to know, then you knew the answer.

So you took a deep breath and told him the truth.

"Seungcheol, I..." You moved closer. "I think of you every minute..." A little closer. "Of every hour..." Maybe just a bit closer. "Of every day."

Seungcheol's eyes widened like saucers. You stood just an inch or two away from him, but the distance was still much too far for his liking. He gently reached for you, placing his hands on your arms just to pull you a little bit closer. His smile was untamable.

"I am ecstatic that you feel the same." His word choice made you laugh. The business talk is engraved in his soul you think. Oh, this was gonna be fun.

Choi Seungcheol who is so completely obvious that the two of you are together. There's not a soul at the company who doesn't know. Especially when he's so big on pda. Holding hands, carrying your things. The only reason he doesn't kiss you silly in front of everyone is because it would be an HR violation.

Choi Seungcheol who almost cried when you told him you were resigning. Something about it being weird working for your boyfriend. He huffed and pouted the entire day but he understood. He was just gonna miss seeing you so dearly. You reminded him that you saw each other outside of work often. He still pouted a little bit longer.

Choi Seungcheol, who no one would ever guess was the same man who ran Choi Enterprise, if they saw how differently he behaved around you. All heart eyes and soft whispers. In stark contrast to the iron fist he ruled with.

Choi Seungcheol who was no longer just a frightening CEO, but also your cutie patootie boyfriend.

(⁠*⁠＾⁠3⁠＾⁠)⁠/⁠～⁠♡