#I accidentally stayed up to midnight doing this

[yukkiji]

i js wanted to drop in and say ur writing is some of the best here on haikyuublr right now and u have such a talent <3 loved ur iwa and atsumu fic and greatly loking forward to reading more of ur stuff after writing this. thank u for sharing ur stuff and excited for whatever else u decide to write!!! ALSO i would love to request something longer with suna if thatd be possible,, maybe something where reader's feeling insecure bc its been a while since theyve done anything? when in reality suna's js exhausted from work and accidentally neglected her T-T if u dont wanna do this i dont mind at all anything with sunarin is fine <3 love ur writing againnn

still here, still yours

after weeks of exhaustion and unintended neglect, pro volleyball player suna gently reassures his insecure partner through tender, praise-filled intimacy—reminding her she's always wanted, never forgotten, and deeply loved.

starring. suna rintaro x fem!reader

genre: fluff, romance, light angst, smut

warning: 18+ mdni., smut, nsfw, praise kink, oral (f receiving), multiple orgasms, overstimulation, squirting, dom!suna, emotional neglect, reassurance, light spanking, shower scene, soft aftercare, verbal praise, body worship, unprotected sex

wc: 11.8k

author's note: long overdue but here it is! i hope you enjoy reading this hehe

it’s subtle at first.

the distance.

not a storm, not a blowout, not even a sharp word. just… a creeping quiet. the kind you don’t notice until you’re already sitting in the dark, wondering when the lights went out.

you chalk it up to exhaustion—the kind that’s expected from a professional athlete grinding through mid-season. rintarou comes home past midnight most nights now, his footsteps dragging, his voice low. the door opens, then closes with a tired sigh. his bag hits the floor, and he exhales like the weight on his shoulders is just too much.

he always greets you. always. a soft, automatic “hey,” murmured against your hair as he walks by. sometimes a kiss on the top of your head if he remembers. sometimes, if he isn’t too far gone, he pulls you against his chest for a minute, just holding you in that quiet, liminal hour between exhaustion and sleep.

but more often lately, he heads straight to the shower. a ten-minute rinse, the door left cracked open so the steam doesn’t fog the glass. when he returns, towel slung low on his hips, he drops into bed beside you with a grunt, kisses your shoulder if he’s awake enough, and passes out before you can even finish whispering, “welcome home.”

you tell yourself it’s nothing.

because technically, nothing’s wrong.

you still laugh at the memes he sends you at 1 a.m. from his side of the bed. you still hear him humming under his breath when he makes you tea in the morning. he still saves your leftovers when he eats out with the team. he still picks up your favorite snacks at the corner store without you asking.

but something’s missing.

something deep.

and you don’t even realize what it is until the third night he doesn’t come home at all.

no warning. no messages until after midnight, just a tired update: [rintaro]: staying at the facility tonight. too tired to drive back. love you.

you believe him. of course you do. you never doubt him. suna may be many things—dry, aloof, chronically low-energy—but he has never lied to you. never once gave you a reason to question his loyalty, his commitment. he’s yours. fully.

and still—you ache.

you lie in bed in one of his old shirts, the fabric stretched soft from years of wear, and your hands wander. you trail your fingers down your ribs, over your hips, part your thighs and slip under your panties.

you try.

you really try.

but your hand doesn’t feel like his.

your fingers don’t curl with the same hunger, don’t slide with the same deliberate slowness that he always used when he wanted to wreck you slowly. they don’t press firm and steady on your clit the way he does, the way that always made your legs shake. they don’t fill you the way he does—long fingers that crook just right, mouth murmuring praise between licks as you unravel under him.

you moan, trying to conjure him. you imagine his voice, low and thick with sleep, telling you what a good girl you are. how sweet you taste. how soft you feel. you remember the way he used to breathe harder when he got close to making you come, like your pleasure turned him inside out.

but it’s not the same.

your own touch feels foreign. lonely. hollow.

and when the heat finally builds and fizzles out, you lie there unsatisfied, eyes burning, chest aching more than your thighs.

not because you’re angry. not because you don’t trust him.

but because you miss him in a way that makes your body ache.

you miss the way he used to need you.

now it feels like he needs rest more than he needs you.

you know he’s tired. you know he’s overworked. you’ve seen the stiffness in his shoulders, the way he winces when he peels off his tape, the dark circles deepening under his eyes. you know that every match, every practice, every press event chips away at the energy he has left.

but still—you miss him.

and more than that, you miss feeling wanted.

not just loved. not just adored in the passive, every-day kind of way. but craved. desired. claimed.

you can’t even remember the last time he touched you like that. not out of obligation. not for routine.

but because he couldn’t not.

because his body had to be on yours, had to taste you, had to feel you wrapped around him.

you pull your hand back and curl into yourself, frustrated tears pricking the corners of your eyes. you’re not mad. you’re not suspicious. just…

lonely.

quietly, devastatingly lonely.

and you don’t know how to bring it up without sounding like you’re asking for too much.

without sounding like one more thing he doesn’t have the energy for.

but this quiet?

it’s starting to feel like a slow kind of heartbreak.

like watching the tide pull away, further and further, and wondering if it’s ever going to come back to shore.

it’s starting to feel like a slow kind of heartbreak.

like watching the tide pull away, further and further, and wondering if it’s ever going to come back to shore.

you wipe your hand on the hem of your shirt and breathe in deep—once, then again—trying to convince your body that the tears pooling in your eyes are just from frustration. not sadness. not rejection. just a fleeting ache. something that sleep will solve.

except, sleep doesn’t come easily anymore.

not when the bed feels too cold on one side. not when the sheets still smell like him, and your fingers ache from trying to replace a warmth that only he can give.

so you sit up.

pad into the kitchen. open the fridge. close it. not hungry.

you scroll your phone, rereading old messages from months ago—selfies he used to send from the gym, photos of his legs iced up and flexed after a match, paired with a lazy “you like this, don’t lie” and a smirking emoji. voice memos of him mumbling how much he missed you after a long away game. a grainy video of him shirtless in the locker room, whispering a low “wish you were here” against a backdrop of noisy teammates.

that version of him feels so far away now.

not gone. but buried. like a season passed, and no one told you it wouldn’t come back the same.

you curl into the couch with a blanket over your lap, eyes on the clock.

12:46 a.m.

then 1:22.

then 1:37.

no update.

he’s not home.

again.

you check your phone just to be sure, even though there’s no buzz, no badge.

nothing.

you think about calling. about asking if he’s okay. about whether he ate dinner, or if he remembered to put on the muscle rub that helps with his back. but then you imagine him in the locker room, tired eyes barely open, chin tucked to his chest as he tries to survive the day, and guilt gnaws at your resolve.

you don’t want to be a burden.

but when the door finally creaks open at 2:04 a.m., your body jolts upright before you even realize you’ve moved.

he looks… drained.

dark circles. damp hair. eyes dull like a storm cloud that never opens up. he kicks off his shoes without looking up, his bag thudding against the door.

“hey,” he mumbles, like always.

suna walks toward the couch, still shrugging off the weight of the day, and bends just enough to press a soft kiss to your temple. the press of his lips is warm—familiar—but distant, like a habit rather than a want.

"why are you still awake, baby?" he murmurs, voice low and raspy, like gravel smoothed by exhaustion.

you stare at the muted tv for a beat too long before answering.

“i couldn’t sleep.”

he hums absently, his hand brushing the top of your head in that same distracted way he always does lately. like he means to be comforting but doesn’t linger long enough to make it count. then he turns, already peeling off his hoodie as he makes his way down the hall.

"don’t wait up for me,” he says, voice fading as he walks, “i’ll head to our bedroom after i shower, okay?”

you don’t answer.

because if you do, you’re scared it’ll come out as a sob.

so you just nod, even though he can’t see it, curling in tighter on the couch as you listen to the bathroom door click shut. the sound of running water soon follows—soft at first, then rushing.

you stay where you are.

wrapped in silence. in soft cotton and worn-out longing. your body curled like muscle memory, trying to make yourself small. the blanket's gone cold now, and the cushions beneath you are sunken with the weight of waiting.

you think about getting up. think about brushing your teeth and sliding under the sheets like nothing hurts. think about pretending you didn’t cry earlier, about slipping into bed beside him and offering your back like a silent invitation he probably won’t take.

but you can’t move.

not yet.

because even now—after he’s home, after he kissed your temple, after he said he’d meet you in bed—there’s still a hollow ache in your chest that hasn’t quieted.

you hear the water shut off.

moments later, the door opens. his familiar steps thump softly against the hallway floor.

you expect him to go straight to the bedroom like always.

but instead—

“…babe?”

his voice comes from behind you, confused. not panicked. but uncertain.

you blink slowly, still curled up on the couch, and turn your head just enough to see him standing there, fresh from the shower.

hair damp, sticking in dark strands across his forehead. a towel slung loosely around his hips, clinging low on his hips. water still glistening down his chest—broad, lean, the kind of frame built from quiet discipline and relentless training. his hand clutches a shirt he probably meant to put on in the bedroom.

but he never made it that far.

because you’re still not there.

and he notices.

“…why’re you still out here?” he asks quietly, his brows drawing together.

you don’t answer at first.

you just look up at him.

and that’s when he really sees you.

the tired set of your shoulders. the way your lips are pressed together like they’re holding back a flood. the way your eyes glint—not from the tv light, but from the tears you refuse to shed a second time tonight.

his expression falters.

he drops the shirt in his hand, chest still rising and falling slowly from the heat of the shower—and maybe now, from something else.

he crosses to you without a word, crouches beside the couch, and touches your knee with gentle fingers.

“talk to me,” he says, softly. genuinely. “please.”

and that’s when your voice cracks.

“did i do something wrong?”

you don’t mean for it to come out like that.

small. fragile. broken around the edges.

but there it is—bare and trembling in the air between you.

“did i do something wrong?”

suna’s breath stutters, his hand tightening just slightly on your knee. not out of anger. out of heartbreak. it’s written all over his face now—the pieces finally clicking into place, sharp and clear and cutting.

“no,” he breathes. “no, baby, you didn’t.”

you look away, ashamed, eyes blinking hard as your throat constricts. but he doesn’t let you pull away—not even in silence. he gently climbs onto the couch beside you, still shirtless, still warm from the shower, and wraps an arm around your shoulders like he’s trying to shield you from the weight you’ve been carrying alone.

“i just…” your voice trembles. “you haven’t touched me in weeks. you don’t look at me the way you used to. you barely come home anymore. i thought maybe—maybe i wasn’t enough for you anymore.”

“hey—hey.” he pulls back just enough to cup your cheeks, to make you look at him. “don’t say that. don’t even think that.”

you try to hold it together, but your bottom lip quivers.

“i trust you, rin. i do. i never thought you were cheating, or that there was someone else, i just… i miss how it used to be. i miss how you used to be with me. i miss you.”

he lets out a quiet sound, like it physically hurts to hear.

and then his forehead is pressed against yours, his hands cradling your face with aching care.

“i’m so sorry,” he whispers. “you didn’t do anything wrong. you’re still everything i want. everything i need. you always have been.”

“then why…?” your eyes flicker shut, voice barely a breath. “why did it start to feel like i wasn’t?”

“i got caught up,” he admits, voice hoarse. “with the team, and travel, and press—and i kept telling myself i’d make it up to you after the season, or the week after, or the next time i had energy. but all that time, i didn’t notice i was slowly… fading out of us. and i didn’t realize how far i’d drifted until i looked up tonight and you weren’t in bed. you were still out here, waiting.”

“i wasn’t waiting,” you say, barely.

he nods. “i know. i mean—i know you were done waiting. i should’ve come home to you weeks ago. i should’ve noticed that i was holding you at arm’s length when i should’ve been holding you close.”

he pauses, then says quietly:

“you never stopped being enough. i just stopped showing you that i saw it. that i saw you. and that’s on me.”

you blink again, this time letting the tears fall.

“rin…”

he wipes them with his thumbs, leaning in to kiss your cheeks—once, twice—then your nose, then your forehead.

“i love you,” he murmurs. “i love you so fucking much. and i’m sorry for making you feel anything less than wanted. i hate that you thought you had to question how much i still want you.”

your voice comes out cracked. “it’s been hard.”

“i know.” he kisses the corner of your mouth, soft and slow. “let me make it easier again.”

you hesitate. “i don’t want you to do it just because you feel bad.”

“i’m doing it because i miss you,” he says, firmer now. “because i’ve been starving for you and too fucking tired to reach out. but i’m reaching now. if you’ll let me.”

you nod slowly, and he presses his lips to yours fully this time—gentle at first, then deeper, like he’s pouring every apology and longing into the kiss. like he’s been aching too. like he finally remembered how to hold you.

he kisses you like he’s starved for it—like he’s been standing in the doorway of himself for weeks, unable to find the key, and tonight you finally let him in.

his hand slides up your thigh, warm and steady, until his fingers dip just beneath the edge of your shorts. his knuckles brush your inner thigh, and you shiver, gasping softly into his mouth. the heat that floods your body is instant—dizzying—and he groans as you squirm in response, like your reaction only feeds him.

“come here,” he murmurs, already tugging your hips toward him until you're lying flat on the couch cushions, head tilted back against the armrest.

he drops to his knees between your legs, and the moment he looks up at you—wet hair falling over his eyes, mouth already parted like he’s hungry—your breath catches in your throat.

“you okay?” he asks, softer now.

you nod, eyes half-lidded.

“i just… i missed you,” you whisper. “so much.”

his jaw clenches.

“i know,” he murmurs, voice low and rough. “i’m gonna make it up to you, baby. just lay back. let me take care of you.”

you lift your hips obediently when he starts to tug your shorts down—slow, reverent, like he’s unwrapping something fragile. he kisses your inner thigh first, just barely grazing his lips over the sensitive skin, then drags his mouth higher.

when he sees how wet you are—already slick, glistening under the dim light—he pauses.

his eyes flick up to yours, and you don’t even try to hide it.

“i touched myself earlier,” you admit, cheeks burning. “it didn’t feel the same. i—i needed you.”

his jaw tightens, eyes darkening.

still kneeling between your thighs, his gaze drags down slowly—over your flushed cheeks, your heaving chest, the soaked curve of your panties stretched tight against your pussy. and he just stares.

his voice drops, low and edged with heat. “you know i hate it when you touch yourself, baby.”

you shiver.

“but…” he leans in, nuzzles your inner thigh, his lips brushing hot against your skin, “…i wasn’t there for you, huh?”

you nod faintly, biting your lip. “i tried. it just… didn’t work.”

he hums against your skin, one hand trailing up your thigh, splaying wide over your hip. “because this pussy doesn’t open for anyone but me.”

your breath catches in your throat.

then—he hooks his fingers into your panties and drags them down excruciatingly slow, eyes locked on your glistening cunt. you swear you feel his breath hitch when he sees how wet you are.

“fuck,” he breathes, like it punches the air out of him. “you’re soaked.”

he leans in without hesitation, licking a long, slow stripe from your entrance to your clit—and moans.

loudly.

like the taste of you alone nearly makes him lose it.

“missed this,” he murmurs, eyes fluttering shut for a moment. “missed you.”

then he dives in.

his mouth seals over your clit like he’s starved—tongue warm and wet, flicking in tight, steady circles that make your thighs twitch. you gasp, back arching, and he groans again, like your reaction turns him on more than anything.

his tongue flattens and licks broad and slow, then tightens again to flick quick patterns over your clit. when you whimper, he slides his hands up, pressing your hips down with his forearms to keep you in place, to stop you from squirming away.

“you don’t get to run,” he says against you, voice muffled. “you wanted this—missed this. let me give it to you.”

and god, he gives.

he moves like he’s memorized every sound you make, every tremble, every part of you that begs to be touched. his tongue works your clit in perfect rhythm—slow, steady, precise. he moans every time you gasp his name. and when your fingers slide into his hair, tugging, gripping, he growls into your cunt like he wants to drown in it.

“rinnie—” you gasp.

that name. that soft little plea.

it makes something snap in him.

he pulls back for a second, lips slick, panting, and stares at your ruined expression.

“say it again.”

“rinnie,” you whisper, voice shaking.

his mouth crashes back to your clit and he slides two fingers into you with practiced ease. they stretch you open—deep, slow, curling perfectly against your sweet spot.

you cry out, body arching. “oh my—rin—!”

he starts fucking you with his fingers—deep and unrelenting. his pace is slow, but brutal, curling on every thrust. paired with his tongue flicking your clit again, your whole body starts to tremble.

you’re drenched. you hear it. every wet drag of his fingers, every slick suck of his lips over your clit.

“so fucking tight,” he rasps against you. “this pussy’s been waiting for me, huh?”

“y-yes—!”

“this is mine,” he growls. “say it.”

“yours! it’s yours—rinnie, please—!”

his fingers speed up.

his mouth stays locked on your clit, sucking harder now—his tongue flicking faster, relentless. the combination builds fast—pressure curling, tightening, cresting under your skin like a wave you can’t stop.

“i wanna feel you cum, baby,” he pants against your pussy. “you gonna let me taste it?���

you’re too far gone to speak.

so you moan, and moan, hips bucking, thighs trembling.

and then—

you fall apart.

your orgasm rips through you—sharp and hot and overwhelming—your walls fluttering around his fingers, your cries echoing in the room.

suna moans into your release, drinks it down like it’s holy. he doesn’t stop. not until your body jerks from oversensitivity, and your hand pulls weakly at his hair.

then, slowly, he eases his fingers out and kisses your inner thigh like he’s thanking you.

you’re a mess—panting, legs trembling, chest heaving with every shaky breath. your skin is flushed with heat, overstimulated and glowing, and slick glistens between your thighs, dripping onto the couch cushions beneath you.

and him—suna—he’s still kneeling there, shirtless, broad shoulders rising and falling slowly, his chest kissed with droplets from his earlier shower. the towel around his waist has loosened just slightly, dangerously low on his hips, and his cock strains against the fabric, hard and heavy.

his chin glistens with your release, his lips swollen and pink. his eyes—dark, glassy, starving—drink you in like he’s imprinting every ruined inch of you into his memory.

and then—

he raises his hand.

two fingers glistening with your cum. slick and shining in the low light.

and without breaking eye contact—

suna brings those fingers to his mouth and sucks them clean.

slow. leisurely. obscene.

his lips wrap around them and he moans low in his throat, tongue dragging up to savor every last drop of you.

your breath catches hard in your throat.

you feel it.

another gush of heat between your legs—like your body’s responding all over again, already throbbing with fresh want.

he notices.

the corner of his mouth lifts, slow and lazy, but his eyes are still hazy with need. still dark.

“you’re wet again,” he says quietly, fingers slipping from his mouth with a soft pop. his voice is low—dangerous—but wrapped in velvet. “that turn you on, baby?”

you can’t even deny it. not when your thighs press together involuntarily, chasing the friction. not when your skin burns under his gaze like he’s touching you with his eyes alone.

your voice comes out breathy. “rinnie…”

and that name—that sweet, submissive lilt—makes his towel tent even more.

he growls, climbing up onto the couch, crowding over your body.

“you taste so fucking good,” he murmurs against your mouth, kissing you again. “and you’re gonna let me fuck you now, yeah?”

your breath hitches.

he presses his forehead to yours, thumb caressing your cheek.

“let me make love to you slow, baby,” he whispers, voice wrecked with reverence. “let me remind you what it means to be mine.”

you barely nod before his arms are sliding beneath your back and thighs, lifting you effortlessly from the couch. the shift makes you gasp, but he holds you close, your bare chest pressed to his while your legs instinctively wrap around his waist. the towel is bunched between you now, loose and useless, your slick center brushing against the rigid outline of his cock.

you can feel him—hot, thick, already throbbing.

suna walks with slow, steady steps toward the bedroom, eyes fixed on you. he nudges the door open with his foot, never once faltering in his hold. the hallway light hits just enough to cast the sharp lines of his jaw and the soft gleam in his eyes.

you’re both half-undressed, your body flushed and still twitching from your orgasm, but your need spikes again just from feeling him so close—so hard. you grind against him instinctively, rolling your hips forward to chase the friction.

he hisses under his breath, arms tightening around you.

then—smack.

his hand lands firm and hot against your thigh, just enough to make you jolt.

“behave,” he mutters, voice dark now. his lips graze your ear, and you can feel the warning in his breath. “you wanna cum again tonight, don’t you?”

you bite your lip, nodding wordlessly.

“then wait,” he says, his palm smoothing over the sting he just left. “be good for me. i’ll give you everything. just let me get you to bed.”

you whimper, the heat between your legs pulsing at the way he speaks to you—firm but reverent, like you’re something precious and his.

on the way to the bedroom, his hoodie and your bra are discarded along the hall—rushed, messy, fevered. the moment you reach the bed, he lays you down gently, almost worshipfully, like you’re breakable and holy all at once.

he looks down at you.

bare. breathless. glowing.

and he lets the towel drop.

it pools at his feet, but your gaze doesn’t follow it. your eyes are locked on the heavy line of his cock—hard, flushed, thick, the tip glistening with arousal. he’s already leaking, already twitching as if your soaked body alone is enough to ruin him.

your thighs instinctively fall open, legs parting like muscle memory, inviting him in. suna watches the motion with a soft inhale, his eyes hungry, dark with something primal.

“look at you,” he murmurs, climbing over you slowly, like he’s savoring the view of your bare body spread out just for him. “dripping for me already.”

he leans down, kissing your collarbone first—slow, open-mouthed—then drags his lips across your skin until he reaches your mouth. and when he kisses you again, it’s warm and deep and wet, the kind of kiss that swallows everything.

he kisses you like he’s been dying of thirst and you’re the only thing that could ever quench it.

his hips dip lower, cock sliding through your folds, coating himself in your slick. he moans softly into your mouth when he feels how ready you are—how wet and swollen and clenching at nothing.

“feel that?” he murmurs, voice rough, hips rocking gently to tease your clit with the thick, aching head of his cock. “your pussy’s begging, baby.”

you whimper into his kiss, hips rising to meet his.

then—finally—he pushes in.

the tip eases past your entrance, stretching you open so slowly it makes your eyes roll back. he doesn’t rush it. he keeps kissing you, swallowing your shaky moans as he fills you inch by inch. his tongue slips into your mouth with the same lazy intensity, syncing perfectly with the slow, deliberate slide of his cock.

“fuck,” he hisses against your lips. “so tight. so warm. still the best thing i’ve ever felt.”

you break the kiss with a gasp, head tilting back into the pillow. he follows, mouthing down your throat, your jaw, the edge of your lips. you’re trying to breathe, trying to think, but he’s barely halfway in and your body already feels like it’s burning alive.

your hands clutch at his shoulders, nails digging in when his hips roll forward again, pushing deeper.

“r-rinnie,” you moan, voice breaking into a whisper. “it’s so much…”

he kisses you again—slower this time, deeper.

“i know, baby. you’re taking me so well,” he murmurs against your mouth. “just like that. let me in. let me fill you up.”

his hand cups your thigh, spreading you wider. his pace never quickens—never—he sinks in slow, thick inch by thick inch, kissing you through the stretch, through the way your body tightens around him like you’ve been waiting to be whole again.

you whine against his lips, body arching, tears pricking the corners of your eyes from the overwhelming stretch and sweetness of it all.

when his hips finally press flush against yours, he doesn’t move.

he just holds himself there—buried to the hilt, twitching inside you—his lips brushing yours with a reverent sigh.

“there,” he whispers. “finally.”

you nod, dazed, barely able to speak.

“you feel me, baby?” he murmurs. “deep inside you, where i belong?”

“yes—rinnie, i feel you, i feel everything—”

he kisses you again, swallowing the way your voice trembles, and he doesn’t pull out yet. instead, he rocks his hips gently, barely moving—just enough for you to feel the weight of him, the thickness, the stretch.

“gonna take my time,” he promises, voice thick with emotion. “gonna love you so good you’ll forget all the nights i wasn’t here.”

your hands cup his face now, lips brushing his as your eyes flutter closed.

“just don’t stop,” you whisper. “don’t leave me empty anymore.”

his expression softens like he’s about to break.

“i won’t,” he says. “never again.”

and then—he pulls out just an inch, then slides back in, kissing you harder now.

and finally, finally, suna starts to move.

his hips roll into you with a lazy, deliberate rhythm—each thrust slow, smooth, like he’s memorizing the way your walls flutter around him. there’s no urgency, no rush. just the deep, steady grind of his cock inside you and the weight of his body pressed so perfectly into yours.

his lips never stray far from your skin. he peppers soft, open-mouthed kisses along the curve of your neck, then down to your shoulder, lingering at the dip of your collarbone like he’s anchoring himself there. every kiss is slow, reverent—matched to the way he moves inside you, the way he fills you with every deep, perfect stroke.

“feels so good,” he whispers against your skin. “so warm. so tight. you always take me so well.”

you gasp softly, fingers threading through his hair as you tilt your head, giving him more of your throat. he takes it, mouthing gently at your pulse point, his breath hot and ragged.

“missed this. missed you.”

he thrusts again—deep, slow, the kind of pace that makes your toes curl and your breath catch.

“i never got tired of you,” he murmurs, voice rough but steady. “not once. never stopped wanting you, baby.”

you whimper his name—“rinnie”—and his hips stutter, just slightly.

his hand slides down to grip your thigh, spreading you wider as he rocks into you again, a little deeper this time. your body stretches around him perfectly, molding to every slow, grinding thrust like he was made for you.

“not your body,” he continues, kissing below your ear, “not your voice, not the way you look at me when you’re falling apart.”

his words settle deep, like warm honey sinking into cracked skin.

“fuck, i missed this sweet little pussy,” he groans into your shoulder, voice husky. “i’ve been so out of it i forgot how fucking good it feels to be home.”

you choke on a moan, clinging to him tighter as your hips roll up to meet his—chasing his rhythm, desperate to be even closer.

“rinnie—please, don’t stop.”

“not going anywhere,” he breathes, kissing your jaw, your temple, your mouth again. “you hear me? i’m not gonna stop. not until you believe how much i still love you.”

his thrusts stay deep, measured—his cock dragging perfectly along your walls, kissing that sweet spot inside you with every roll of his hips. you feel so full, so cherished, your body buzzing under the slow build of heat.

and all the while, he never stops touching you, kissing you, talking to you.

“you’re everything to me.”

“you’re the best thing i’ve ever come home to.”

“i’m sorry it took me so long to show it.”

your heart squeezes painfully, eyes brimming with tears as you breathe out his name again.

and he kisses the corner of your mouth, whispering against your lips:

“let me stay here. let me love you right this time.”

the words linger in the air, wrapped in the heat of your skin and the tremble of your breath. your legs are still wrapped loosely around his waist, your arms clinging around his shoulders like you’re afraid he’ll disappear again if you let go. but he doesn’t. suna stays right there—inside you, above you, around you—thrusting slow and deep, like he’s in no hurry to reach the end.

his palm smooths along the side of your face, thumb brushing over your cheek. his forehead rests against yours, breath mingling as he presses another kiss to your lips—soft, warm, home.

it’s quiet for a beat.

just your bodies moving together.

your soft moans swallowed between kisses.

the slick sound of him sliding in and out of you.

the weight of weeks of longing melting between the sheets.

but the ache is growing—coiling low in your belly. the slow rhythm is beautiful, addicting—but it’s not enough anymore. not with how full you feel. not with how much you need him.

your voice is barely more than a whimper.

“rin… faster, please.”

he freezes, eyes flicking down to meet yours.

and just like that—his expression shifts.

from tender to something darker. more possessive.

his lips curl into a quiet, knowing smirk. “could’ve just asked, baby.”

then his hands slide down—gripping the backs of your thighs as he pushes your knees toward your chest, folding you beneath him in one smooth, practiced motion.

the mating press.

his favorite.

because this is the position where he feels the most connected to you—where he can press every inch of himself into you, watch the way your face contorts with every thrust, feel your pussy tighten around him with nowhere to run.

where he can fuck you deep enough to hit your soul.

“you know i love you like this,” he grits out, adjusting his hips until the angle is perfect, until he’s buried even deeper.

you cry out at the stretch, the sudden change, your hands clutching at the sheets.

and then he starts to move.

harder. deeper.

his hips snap into yours, the sound of skin meeting skin echoing through the room. every stroke punches a moan out of you, your legs trembling where they’re pinned against his chest. he doesn’t let up—he won’t.

then—he leans down, shifting his weight so your thighs are still pressed high but his chest meets yours again. his mouth finds your breast, warm and wet as he wraps his lips around your nipple and sucks.

your head falls back with a moan. “rinnie—!”

he groans around your skin, tongue swirling slowly, then fast, then pulling off with a soft pop before switching to the other.

“can’t get enough of you,” he pants, voice muffled against your chest. “wanna be close. wanna be inside you when you cum.”

your nails dig into his back as he fucks you deeper, faster, rougher—his mouth latching onto your nipple again like he’s drinking from you, like it grounds him.

“rin, i’m—! i’m gonna—!”

“i know, baby,” he groans, voice cracked with the effort of restraint, his hips stuttering just slightly from the way your walls are already fluttering around him. “cum for me. milk my cock. show me how good i make you feel.”

and then he shifts—just barely—but enough to slip one hand down from your thigh and press it between your bodies. the way he moves, the way he always knows exactly what you need, even now with his cock buried deep inside you, makes your heart swell.

his fingers find your clit instantly, already slick and swollen from how thoroughly he’s worked you up.

and then—he touches you.

a single, perfect swipe.

your back arches, a cry tearing from your throat before you can even bite it back.

“rinnie—!”

“i’ve got you,” he whispers, low and reverent, eyes flickering from your trembling body to your face as his thumb begins to rub slow, tight circles over your clit. “i always do.”

his thrusts stay deep and unrelenting, grinding into your cervix with each push as your thighs shake around his waist, pinned wide in his favorite position. the mating press makes you feel so full, so claimed, so his. and with his fingers teasing your clit—just right, just perfect—it’s too much.

you sob beneath him, pleasure threatening to snap loose like a wire pulled too tight.

every thrust hits your sweet spot dead-on, his cock dragging against every oversensitive nerve, while his thumb massages slow circles that have your vision going blurry, breath leaving your lungs in shuddering gasps.

“you gonna cum, pretty girl?” he pants, lips grazing your jaw. “gonna cum all over my cock while i’m this deep inside you?”

you nod frantically, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes from how overwhelming it feels.

“yes—yes, rinnie, i—oh my god, i’m gonna—”

“then fuckin’ let go.”

he leans in close, pressing his mouth to yours, and the second you moan into the kiss—your entire body breaks.

your orgasm hits like lightning—hard and hot, making your thighs twitch violently and your core clamp down around him in pulsing waves. your back lifts off the bed, body arching against his as you cry out his name over and over again, voice raw and ruined.

“fuck, yes—cum on my cock, just like that,” he growls, watching your face, eyes nearly wild as he feels you squeeze and throb around him. “god, you’re so fuckin’ beautiful like this. so perfect. this pussy was made for me.”

you can’t even speak—only sob, gasping as his cock continues to grind deep, his thumb slowing its circles now as your orgasm washes through you in long, drawn-out tremors.

your body collapses against the bed, boneless and overwhelmed, every nerve ending still buzzing.

but he’s still hard. still inside you.

and still fighting his own edge.

suna groans above you, his pace beginning to falter, a different kind of urgency taking over his movements now. his hand leaves your clit to grip your thigh again, pushing your legs even higher, even tighter to your chest.

“so fuckin’ tight when you cum,” he growls, hips snapping harder now, chasing his own release. “can’t hold it anymore—gonna fill you up, baby—gonna cum so deep inside this pretty pussy—”

his breathing shudders as your walls continue fluttering around him, your body still wrung out and gripping him like you never want to let go.

you manage to lift your arms, wrap them around his back, anchoring him to you.

“please,” you whisper, voice hoarse. “cum inside me, rinnie. want it so bad.”

that’s all it takes.

he plunges deep one last time—so deep it punches the air out of your lungs—and cums.

he moans your name as he spills into you, thick ropes of heat flooding your cunt, his cock twitching inside you with every wave of pleasure. his face buries into your neck, one hand gripping the back of your thigh, the other curled into the sheets beside your head as he rides out his orgasm in long, slow pulses.

you feel it. every drop. every throb.

and it only makes you hold him tighter.

he stays like that for a moment—breathing hard against your skin, chest rising and falling with yours, cock still buried deep, not ready to let go just yet.

“i needed that,” he breathes finally. “i needed you.”

you nod, lips brushing his temple, still trembling beneath him from the high. your heart pounds against your ribs, the slow stretch of afterglow sweeping over your limbs, but beneath it all—you're still pulsing. still needy. still not ready to let go.

and neither is he.

suna’s still inside you, his cock softening slightly from his orgasm, but the way your body stays wrapped around him—warm and wet and clenching gently with each little aftershock—has him breathing unevenly against your shoulder again.

his voice is rough, thick with the hint of a groan. “you’re gonna get me hard again if you keep squeezing me like that.”

you smile softly, tilting his chin up until your eyes meet.

“then let me take care of you now.”

he blinks, eyes fluttering, a little caught off-guard by the shift in your tone—no longer pleading or aching, but devoted. steady.

still straddling his waist in the mating press, you slowly slide off of him—every inch leaving you makes you both moan softly, the sensation almost too much, too bare. your thighs tremble as his cock slips free with a wet sound, followed immediately by the warm, slick spill of both your releases—his cum and yours—dripping from your swollen folds down onto his lower abdomen.

it’s messy. sticky. intimate in the way only lovers who’ve been through everything can be.

you try to move, try to shift off him gently, but suna catches the motion. his eyes drop immediately between your legs and he groans—deep and low in his throat, like he’s trying to keep it in but fails.

your mixed slick is coating your thighs, still trickling slowly down onto his stomach, and the sight wrecks him.

“fuck,” he breathes, eyes darkening again. “look at the mess we made…”

you don’t even get the chance to respond—not when you feel it.

him.

hardening again beneath you.

you glance down, eyes wide, as his cock, flushed and glistening, twitches back to life against his stomach. he’s already half-hard again, his breathing uneven just from the sight of you still soaked, your folds glistening and dripping with his cum.

“rinnie…” you murmur, somewhere between breathless and shy, “again?”

“i can’t help it,” he groans, one hand gripping your hip, the other sliding up your back. “you’re still dripping, baby. fuck, i didn’t even get to watch it all spill out properly…”

you tremble, heat spiraling through your core again despite the exhaustion in your limbs.

“you do something to me,” he murmurs, sitting up so you’re straddling his lap again, chests flush. his cock presses right against your slit now, nudging between your folds, still slick with everything. “you make me insatiable.”

he leans in, kissing you—slow and greedy—his fingers sliding down to spread you open again, groaning into your mouth when he feels how soft and wet you still are.

“and you’re still ready for me,” he adds, voice rough. “still warm. still fucking perfect.”

you whimper into the kiss, rocking your hips against him again, helpless to the way your body responds.

your pussy’s still sore, stretched, and yet—his need for you, the heat of his voice, the mess between your thighs—has you wanting him again already.

“you think you can ride me now, sweetheart?” he murmurs, thumb grazing your clit with a featherlight touch. “wanna see you take me like you missed me.”

and you nod, breathless, already sinking back down—ready to remind him that no matter how many times he fills you, no matter how much he takes, you’ll always want more.

always want him.

your body aches, your thighs tremble, and your pussy’s still throbbing from everything he’s already given you—but none of that matters. not when he’s looking up at you like this. not when his touch is soft on your hips, like he’s trying to ground himself in your warmth.

suna leans back slightly against the pillows, legs spread, his toned chest rising and falling with each breath as he watches you from beneath heavy lids. his cock stands hard again, already flushed and leaking, the head slick from your shared release earlier.

“come here, baby,” he murmurs, voice low, thick with need. one of his hands slides down between you, wrapping around the base of his cock as he guides you toward it. “i’ll hold it. just take your time.”

you shift your hips, positioning yourself over him, your hands braced against his chest. slowly, carefully, you lower yourself down—letting the thick, aching head stretch you open once more.

both of you groan.

the feeling of him sinking into you again—after already being fucked so thoroughly—makes your head spin. he’s hot, thick, deep, and every inch feels like too much and still not enough.

“that’s it,” he pants, watching your face, his grip tightening around the base as you inch down farther. “take all of me. let me stretch you out again.”

you moan, breath hitching as your body accepts him—slowly, completely—until your hips finally meet his. you’re seated fully now, and you can feel everything. the stretch. the twitch. the fullness that has your pussy fluttering helplessly around him.

“fuck, you feel unreal,” he groans, both hands now gripping your waist. “look at you—already squeezing me like that.”

you begin to move—shallow bounces at first, your thighs trembling slightly with each rise and fall. his hands guide you, steady you, and soon your movements grow bolder—more confident—grinding down against his pelvis with every bounce.

the sound of slick skin meeting skin fills the room again, the wet heat of your cunt wrapping him so tightly that suna’s jaw clenches, eyes fluttering shut for a moment before he opens them again—locked on you.

“come here,” he growls, sitting up suddenly, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you closer until your chest is pressed to his.

and then—his mouth finds your breast.

he sucks in your nipple hungrily, moaning around the soft skin as he tongues it, teeth grazing lightly before he switches to the other with a wet pop. his hands never stop guiding your hips, helping you ride him in rhythm, pushing you down harder each time he thrusts up into you.

“rinnie—!” you cry, your hands tangled in his hair as you arch into his mouth, pleasure building again too fast. “that feels so good…”

“yeah?” he breathes between kisses and licks, lips shining. “these pretty tits missed me too, huh?”

he lavishes each nipple with attention—sucking, licking, pulling with just enough force to make your back arch and your pussy clamp down around him.

your rhythm grows messy, your moans louder, the coil in your belly winding tighter again as he thrusts up to meet every bounce of your hips, his cock dragging along all the right places inside you.

“don’t stop, baby,” he pants, fucking up into you now with more urgency. “wanna feel you cum again—ride me just like that—show me how much you missed this cock.”

and you do.

you ride him like your body was made to fit his. like his cock was crafted just for you—thick and deep and angled so perfectly that every bounce forces the air from your lungs and sends shocks of pleasure through your spine.

every time you drop your hips, he thrusts up to meet you, and the head of his cock kisses your cervix with an aching precision that leaves you trembling. it’s deep. devastating. the kind of depth that makes your vision blur and your breath come in stuttered moans.

“rinnie—fuck—it’s so deep,” you gasp, head falling to his shoulder. “i-i feel lightheaded…”

“i know, baby,” he murmurs, voice low and full of praise, his hands gripping your hips tighter, helping guide your rhythm. “you’re taking it so well. so fuckin’ good for me.”

his mouth finds your neck again, pressing kisses beneath your jaw, tongue flicking against the heat of your pulse point. one of his hands slides up, fingers splayed across your lower back, holding you steady as he bucks up harder, faster, the sound of your bodies meeting growing louder, wetter, messier.

your thighs burn. your clit rubs against the ridge of his pelvis with every movement. and your pussy—slick, swollen, fluttering—clings to him so desperately you swear you can feel the outline of every vein.

weeks. it’s been weeks.

weeks of aching. of waiting. of touching yourself in the quiet of night and hating how empty it felt.

but this?

this is everything.

his heat. his hands. the way he fills you up and stays there, panting against your skin like he needs you just as badly.

“missed this pussy,” he groans, voice cracking as your walls squeeze around him again. “so tight. so warm. no one gets to have you like this—just me.”

your thighs quake where they straddle him, your nails leaving crescent-shaped dents in his chest as your movements begin to falter. the rhythm you kept moments ago—desperate, steady, purposeful—is now stuttering into something sloppy and slow, hips barely rolling, your muscles too spent to keep up.

your head dips forward, forehead pressing into his shoulder as your mouth falls open in a soft, breathless moan.

that’s when he notices.

the way your moans turn into soft, broken whimpers.

the way your body trembles like it’s overwhelmed, overstimulated, ruined.

and suna grins.

a slow, knowing smirk curls against his lips as he looks up at you, the flush on your cheeks, the faraway haze in your eyes. his hands slide down, gripping your hips tighter, keeping you perched on his cock like a doll about to fall apart.

“ohhh,” he murmurs, voice deep, lazy, almost playful. “is my baby going cock dumb?”

you whimper, too dazed to even respond properly, only nodding against his neck as your pussy flutters around him again—wet, sensitive, clinging to every inch of him like your body can’t bear the thought of him pulling out.

“yeah?” he coos, a note of pride in his tone. “that’s what i thought.”

he doesn’t wait. he shifts beneath you, adjusting his position just slightly, and then—he starts to fuck up into you from below.

you sob, your fingers flying to clutch his shoulders as his cock punches into you over and over again, so deep, the tip brushing your cervix with every sharp thrust. the slick mess between your thighs makes the glide obscene—wet, hot, perfect.

“you were riding me so good, baby,” he pants, teeth grazing the shell of your ear. “now look at you. barely holding on. just sittin’ on my cock like a dumb little bunny, letting me do all the work.”

his hands move to your ass, gripping tight, guiding your hips to grind down in rhythm with his thrusts. your clit rubs against his pubic bone just right—enough to make your entire body twitch.

“feels good, doesn’t it?” he murmurs, mouth dragging along your jaw. “so deep. so full. this what you missed while i was gone, huh?”

“y-yes, rin—please, it’s so much—”

“you can take it,” he groans, pressing his forehead against yours. “you always do.”

then his mouth finds your nipple again—wet, hungry, greedy—sucking hard as he fucks you harder. his tongue flicks over the sensitive peak while one hand slips between your bodies again to rub tight, deliberate circles over your clit.

the stimulation is blinding.

his cock fucking up into you like he’s trying to brand the shape of himself into your body.

his mouth at your chest.

his voice whispering filth and devotion in the same breath.

his fingers never stopping.

“cum for me again, baby,” he grits, his thrusts turning rougher, deeper. “wanna feel that pretty pussy gush all over me again. i need to feel it.”

your back arches. your thighs start to shake again. and your orgasm builds fast—white-hot and overwhelming, swelling inside you like pressure about to burst.

“rinnie—!” you cry, your entire body going taut. “i—i’m cumming—!”

and then it hits.

your walls clench hard—tightening around him like a vice, squeezing his cock so perfectly it draws a strangled moan from deep in his chest. your climax rips through you like a tidal wave, crashing fast and furious, leaving you breathless as your moans dissolve into shattered whimpers. your entire body trembles in his lap, thighs quaking, nails digging into his shoulders as your release gushes from you uncontrollably. it hits hard—sharp, hot, overwhelming—and then your body reacts.

you squirt.

the pressure releases all at once, sudden and messy, and your slick spills out of you in wet pulses. it covers both your thighs and his abs, drenching his lower stomach, soaking his cock, the bed beneath you already ruined. you gasp, head thrown back, tears pricking the corners of your eyes as the pleasure peaks and doesn’t let go.

“fuck,” suna groans, watching it happen with parted lips, jaw slack. “you squirted, baby—fuck, look at that. look what i do to you.”

you can’t even answer. you’re still shaking, barely able to hold yourself upright, your thighs limp where they straddle his lap. you feel like you’ve melted, like you’ve unraveled entirely. and still—still—he’s hard inside you. still thick, still pulsing, twitching against your oversensitive walls. he doesn’t stop. he doesn’t even think about stopping.

instead, he grips your hips tight, lifts you slightly, and drives up into you again.

your cry is sharp and wrecked, fingernails dragging down his back as your overstimulated cunt clamps around him again, your whole body jerking from the intensity.

“s–suna—rinnie—please, i—” you gasp, but the words fall apart when he thrusts again, deep, slow, and deliberate.

“oh, you’re not done,” he murmurs against your skin, voice low and feral. “you think you can cum like that and not get fucked through it?”

you try to speak again, try to find something to cling to, but then he rolls his hips up—his cock dragging against every too-sensitive nerve ending inside you—and your hands fly to his shoulders, digging in hard. your nails scratch down his back in helpless, shaky arcs, and he groans, head falling to your neck, his breath hot against your skin.

“mark me, baby,” he pants, fucking up into you harder now. “go ahead. scratch me. bite me. let me feel how good it is.”

you do. without even thinking, you sink your teeth into the skin of his shoulder, muffling your moan as another wave of pleasure slams into you. he hisses through his teeth, hips jerking up in response, his cock pressing even deeper—filling you in a way that has your body arching, your head spinning.

“you’re so fuckin’ wet,” he growls, the sound of your soaked pussy squelching around him with every thrust. “this pussy’s so messy for me. so fuckin’ perfect. you like it when i fuck you after you cum, huh? when you’re too sensitive and still can’t stop squeezing me?”

you nod against his shoulder, still biting down, your moans breaking through your clenched jaw as he picks up the pace. he’s relentless now, hands holding your hips in place as he uses you—drives up into you with hard, deep thrusts that have your breath catching, your entire body lit up from the overstimulation.

each drag of his cock makes you twitch. each grind of his hips against yours sends another electric shock through your system.

you’re sobbing now—too much, too full, too fucked out—and he’s still praising you through it.

“take it, baby,” he breathes. “take all of it. you’re doing so good. let me fuck you dumb. let me make you forget your own name.”

your pussy flutters again, clenching down on him like a vice, and he groans so loud it vibrates through your chest. his rhythm stutters, hips bucking more erratically now, breath catching.

“gonna fill you up again,” he growls, voice wrecked. “wanna cum so deep, make you feel me for days.”

you nod again, eyes rolling back, body giving in completely.

“please,” you whisper. “please, rinnie, cum inside me. want all of it.”

that’s what does it.

he lets out a low, broken moan, burying his face in your neck as he thrusts deep, deeper, then stills—his cock twitching violently as he spills inside you. thick warmth fills you again, flooding your sore, stretched walls as he holds you tight, arms trembling around your waist, chest rising and falling in heavy, uneven breaths.

he stays there, buried to the hilt, pulsing, groaning softly as you twitch around him—still trembling, still so full, your walls fluttering weakly with every aftershock. his cum leaks out in slow, warm trails, dripping down between your thighs and smearing across both your bodies in the tangled mess you’ve made together.

but even after everything—after you squirted all over his abs, after he came deep inside you for the second time, after your entire body is limp and trembling in his arms—you feel it.

him.

still hard.

still inside you.

and when you whimper, shifting just a little on his lap, the slight movement makes his cock twitch again, still thick and rigid despite how thoroughly he just came. your head lolls against his shoulder, dazed and barely able to think straight.

“rin… you’re still… hard?”

he chuckles low in your ear, the sound deep and smug, his hands stroking slowly down your back.

“told you i missed you,” he murmurs, voice rasping with the weight of his lust. “i’m not done.”

you don’t even have the strength to respond—not with words. but your pussy clenches weakly around him, your thighs twitching, and that’s answer enough.

he shifts you gently, guiding your hips again, and groans when the motion makes your swollen, used cunt squeeze down on him with resistance. you’re sore, so sore, but the sensation of still being stretched open around him, of still feeling his cock twitching inside you, has heat building in your gut again.

“i’ve been away too long,” he mutters, lifting you slightly before thrusting back in—slow and deep, making you moan softly against his skin. “weeks without you. you think i’m gonna stop at two rounds?”

you cry out softly as he starts to move again, dragging his cock in and out of you with slow, grinding thrusts, letting you feel every inch. it’s not rushed this time—it’s deliberate. heavy. sensual. his hands cradle your hips, guiding your body to meet his rhythm.

“you deserve more than that,” he whispers, brushing his lips along your cheek. “deserve to be fucked so good you can’t walk tomorrow.”

you bury your face in his neck, moaning weakly, body already starting to melt again as overstimulation gives way to something new—slower, deeper, a third round wrapped in pleasure that borders on worship.

suna leans back against the pillows, shifting you slightly so your knees are spread wider, your chest pressed close to his, his cock sliding even deeper from the angle. he kisses you then—soft and possessive—while his hips roll up into you again and again, stretching you slowly as your slick mixes with his release and drips down his shaft.

“you gonna let me make up for all that lost time, baby?” he whispers against your lips, voice husky. “gonna let me fuck you again? take it like the good girl you are?”

you nod helplessly, barely coherent now. every inch of your skin feels fevered. your heart pounds. your body burns for him again.

and he gives you everything.

he proves himself over and over again.

with every deep thrust that leaves you gasping.

with every kiss that lingers on your skin like a promise.

with every time he brings you to the edge and pulls you back in.

and long into the night—until you’ve lost track of how many times you’ve cum, how many times he’s filled you—he holds you close, bodies still joined, proving that you were never too much to want.

he just needed time to remember how much he missed everything about you.

now here he was, kneeling at the edge of the bed with a towel in hand, wiping your thighs with slow, deliberate care.

the room is warm with the scent of sex and sweat, heavy with the afterglow of everything that’s just unraveled between you. the sheets are a soaked mess beneath you, tangled and clinging to your body, while your limbs lie slack, trembling, utterly spent. your skin is flushed, glistening in the low light. your chest rises and falls in unsteady breaths, and your thighs twitch involuntarily every time he touches you—still reeling from that final climax.

suna is quiet now, all of that teasing energy faded into something softer, something intimate. his hands move gently over your legs, wiping up the slick trails of cum and arousal that have dripped down to the backs of your knees. his thumb strokes just beneath the crease of your thigh, and even that has you flinching.

“easy,” he murmurs, glancing up at you with tired but affectionate eyes. “i’ve got you.”

you nod weakly, your voice hoarse from moaning his name all night. “i know… i’m just still—sensitive.”

he smiles at that. “yeah, i know.”

you watch as he folds the towel, his brows furrowed in concentration as he leans back in, wiping again, slower now.

and then, because he’s always been a little selfish when it comes to you, suna leans in and presses a kiss to the inside of your trembling thigh.

“rin—” you start, a soft warning in your voice, but it’s too late.

his tongue is already dragging up your overstimulated slit, collecting the last remnants of his cum and your release, and you gasp, your hips jerking upward as your hand flies to his hair.

“i’m just cleaning you up,” he murmurs with a devilish smirk, but the way his mouth moves against you is anything but innocent. it’s slow, tender, savoring.

and somehow, even after everything—your body responds.

your legs twitch again, a sharp tremor crawling up your spine, and you shake your head, breath catching.

“rinnie—please—i can’t—” you whisper, but you’re already grinding against his mouth without realizing it.

his arms snake around your thighs, holding you open as his tongue dips into your entrance again, licking you through it, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

one long stroke, then another.

and your body gives up.

you squirt again.

it’s sudden and messy, a wet gasp tearing from your throat as you soak his face with a hot rush of release. it pours down your thighs and splashes across his chest, some of it dripping to the floor beside the bed, and you collapse fully into the sheets, eyes fluttering back as your body convulses one last time.

he groans into you like it’s the best gift he’s ever received, letting the warmth of your release soak him as he finally pulls back—face dripping, lips parted, his abs slick and glistening.

“shit, baby…” he pants, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he looks at you with pure disbelief. “you really missed me.”

you can’t even answer. you just groan, turning your head into the pillow, utterly ruined.

he laughs, breathless and fond, and reaches for a clean towel, dabbing your thighs again, this time with a reverence that makes your heart ache. he doesn’t rush. he wipes gently between your legs, pressing soft kisses to your knees, your hips, the swell of your stomach.

“okay,” he murmurs, voice low now, soothing. “let’s get you in the shower. you need to be warm and clean. i’ll help you.”

you don’t protest. you can’t. your body’s heavy and sore, but when suna lifts you into his arms bridal-style, everything in you goes quiet. safe. anchored. he carries you down the hall, bare skin against bare skin, your arms looped around his neck as your head rests on his shoulder.

the bathroom light is soft. the water’s already running—warm, with the faintest scent of lavender from the body wash you both share.

suna sets you down carefully on the shower bench and steps inside with you, guiding your body beneath the spray. he stands behind you, shielding you from the pressure of the water, and wraps his arms around your waist, resting his cheek against the back of your head.

you sigh. the water rolls down your skin like peace itself, soothing the soreness blooming in your thighs, the ache between your legs, the raw tremble in your muscles from being thoroughly and lovingly ruined. you lean back against suna’s chest, his arms wrapped around your waist, his chin resting lightly on your shoulder as the steam rises around you both.

but the silence—the warmth—the intimacy—it's not enough.

not when he’s right there.

not when your body still remembers the stretch of him inside you. not when your skin is still buzzing with the echo of every touch, every kiss, every praise-soaked thrust.

"rin…" your voice is quiet, a bit raspier than usual, fragile and needy, "i want more."

he doesn’t move right away. you can feel his lips curve into the faintest smile against your wet shoulder.

then his arms tighten around you.

“baby…” he hums, low and indulgent. “you’ve cum how many times tonight?”

you pout, head tipping back to rest against his shoulder, eyes fluttering open lazily. “i don’t know. a lot?”

he chuckles, nuzzling into the curve of your neck, his breath warm and teasing against your damp skin.

“exactly. you squirted so many times i lost count. you’re spent,” he murmurs. “and i’m not about to let you pass out in the shower just because your pussy’s greedy.”

you flush, both from the warmth of the water and his words, and you squirm a little in his hold, grinding back against where you can already feel him half-hard, heat pressed up against the curve of your ass. you’re too sensitive to do anything serious, but even the faint contact has both of you groaning quietly.

still, he tightens his grip immediately, stilling your hips with a firm hand across your stomach.

“hey,” he warns, voice suddenly stern against your ear. “what did i just say?”

“but—”

“no buts,” he mutters, mouth brushing along your jaw as he presses a slow, open-mouthed kiss there. “don’t make me bend you over this bench and hold your thighs open while you cry from overstimulation.”

you shiver—not entirely from fear.

he smirks again, knowing exactly what he’s doing, before softening as he kisses your temple.

“i mean it,” he murmurs. “you’ve been so good for me tonight. let me take care of you properly. you’ll get more tomorrow—hell, you’ll get everything tomorrow.”

you lean back into him, huffing softly, your bottom lip jutting out as you whisper, “promise?”

suna kisses the pout away, slow and deliberate.

“i promise,” he breathes. “wanna see you on your knees. then ride you again. want to fuck you in front of the mirror. all of it.”

you moan into the kiss, but when your hips twitch again—another teasing grind—he growls softly and slaps your thigh gently under the water.

“behave,” he murmurs against your lips.

so instead, you melt into him, letting him tilt your chin toward his, his mouth finding yours again with no rush, no heat—just long, tender kisses beneath the stream of water. the kind that say i’m not done with you—not even close—but right now, i love you too much to fuck you again when your legs are already trembling.

your arms loop around his neck, fingers carding into his wet hair as he kisses you deeper. you moan softly when his tongue slides into your mouth, slow and deliberate, like he’s trying to memorize every inch of you all over again.

his hands roam your back, slow and reassuring, massaging out the tension in your shoulders. he kisses you again and again, coaxing you down from the edge you didn’t even know you were still standing on.

and even though he doesn’t take you again in the shower, that kiss—the way he holds you against him, strong and steady, murmuring soft little praises between each press of his lips—it feels like more. more than sex. more than lust. it’s him saying: i love you. i missed you. i see you.

when the water is turned off and the steam begins to settle, he wraps you gently in a towel and dries you off like you’re something fragile—like he’s afraid to lose you again to the space that had grown quietly between you these past few weeks.

suna hums under his breath while helping you into your favorite sleep shirt, one that’s oversized and soft, one that used to be his. he slides on his boxers, still damp around the edges, then gently combs his fingers through your damp hair, tucking it behind your ears like it’s second nature. there’s no rush in any of it—just tenderness, care, and quiet devotion.

back in bed, the sheets have been changed—he did that too, while you rested your head against the bathroom counter, legs too weak to stand fully. now the duvet is clean and warm, the lights dimmed low, and when you climb into bed beside him, his arms are already waiting to pull you into the curve of his body.

you curl into him like muscle memory, your leg tangled over his, cheek pressed against his chest. his hand strokes your back lazily, up and down, grounding you.

“you’re so good to me,” you murmur, voice soft and sleepy.

“not as good as you are to me,” he replies without missing a beat, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head.

there’s a pause, a silence filled with his fingertips tracing shapes into your spine.

“rinnie,” you whisper, “you’re not… tired of me, right?”

his hand stills.

he shifts slightly, tilting your chin up so you’ll look at him, even in the low light.

“never,” he says firmly, his voice low and hoarse from everything—sex, emotion, everything. “i’d never get tired of you.”

you blink slowly, lip quivering just slightly. “even if we don’t do stuff like tonight all the time?”

“baby,” he murmurs, leaning down to kiss your temple, your cheek, then your lips. “i didn’t fall in love with you because of what we do in bed. i fell in love with you because you’re you. the way you always know when to check on me. the way you always leave the hallway light on because you know i hate coming home to a dark apartment. the way you still get nervous when i kiss your neck like i didn’t already make you mine years ago.”

his voice gets softer, more serious.

“i got exhausted. i let the world outside this apartment wear me down, and i forgot how much you were waiting for me. that’s on me. but being with you? coming home to you? touching you, holding you, just lying here like this? i crave it. i crave you. always.”

you bury your face into his neck, pressing a slow kiss to his skin, holding him tighter.

“i wanna sleep with you still inside me,” you whisper.

he tenses just slightly, then sighs into your hair with a low chuckle.

“you’re insatiable,” he murmurs, voice fond. “you really want me to stay inside you while you sleep?”

you nod against his neck. “you said you missed me…”

“i did,” he groans. “i still do. i always do.”

another sigh, this time heavier, but laced with nothing but surrender. he shifts onto his side, nudging your thighs apart as he settles behind you, one hand guiding himself back to your entrance—still slick, still warm.

he slides in slow, careful, groaning low in his throat as he buries himself inside your sensitive cunt one last time.

you gasp, body relaxing immediately at the feeling of being full again—of him, deep and slow and safe.

he wraps his arms around you from behind, one hand cupping your breast, the other holding your waist as he presses a kiss to your shoulder.

“happy now?” he mumbles sleepily.

“mhm,” you breathe, already drifting. “perfect.”

and that’s how you fall asleep—his cock still nestled inside you, his arms wrapped tight around your body, your heart steady again in the rhythm of his presence.

for the first time in weeks, the bed doesn’t feel cold.

it feels like home.

[imnotjustreadingg]

Taste like home

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader (y/n)

Genre: Slow-burn romance, hurt/comfort (a little), fluff

Word count: 1855

Summary: Bucky slowly began to open up to Y/N, the only one who treated him right since the beginning

It was late autumn when Bucky Barnes first walked into the Avenger's communal kitchen and found you dancing barefoot on the tile floor, humming a tune too old for someone your age to know. He stopped in the doorway. You didn’t hear him at first, too focused on stirring something in a pot that filled the air with the scent of garlic, onions, and roasted tomatoes. The sleeves of your sweater were pushed up to your elbows, and your hair was pulled back in a loose, hurried bun. Music played faintly from your phone, Billie Holiday's voice filling the room. Bucky hadn’t heard her voice in decades. It stopped him cold.

You turned when you finally noticed him and offered a warm smile, like he wasn’t the former Winter Soldier, like he wasn’t the man who still woke up screaming at 3 a.m.

“Hey,” you said casually, as if you'd been expecting him all along. “You hungry?”

He hadn’t meant to stay, he only came down for some water. Something about the scent of real food, not just protein bars and green sludge Steve always pushed at him, had drawn him like a memory he couldn’t quite place.

“…I guess,” Bucky replied, voice cautious.

You smiled wider, reaching for another spoon. “Come here. Try this.”

He hesitated before stepping forward slowly. He looked down at the steaming red sauce you’d been tending. You lifted the spoon and gestured for him to lean down. He did, reluctantly. The moment the flavor hit his tongue—sweet tomatoes, basil, a hint of wine—it was like a small explosion of warmth in his chest. He blinked.

“You okay?” you asked softly.

He cleared his throat. “Yeah. Just… tastes like Sunday.” Your brow furrowed, confused but not pressing. “Well, sit. You’ll love the rest of it. I made fresh pasta too.” He sat.

✩──────────✩─────────✩──────────✩─────────✩

Two weeks later the kitchen became your shared space. No one really commented when Bucky started lingering near the stove when you cooked. Or when you started making extra portions without asking. The others were too busy with missions or tinkering in labs. You and Bucky found peace in something simple: food, and the quiet moments that came with it. He learned you were a telekinetic, but still preferred to use your hands when chopping vegetables. That your mother was Italian, and your grandmother had taught you to cook by feel, not recipe. “You’re the first person I’ve met who uses touch as much as I do,” Bucky said one night, holding up his metal hand after you accidentally brushed it while handing him a fork. “Most people… they flinch.” “I don’t flinch from people I trust,” you replied easily, your gaze soft but steady. He looked down at the pasta. “You shouldn’t trust me.” “I think I should be the judge of that.”

✩──────────✩─────────✩──────────✩─────────✩

The others began to notice how close you were getting. Natasha, the first one to notice, raised a brow the first time she saw you slide a plate toward Bucky before sitting down yourself. Then Steve gave a small smile one morning when Bucky accepted a homemade croissant from you, still warm, and mumbled a quiet, “Thanks, doll.” Even Tony—who’d taken the longest to accept Bucky after everything—commented dryly, “Barnes smiles now? Must be the apocalypse.”

But no one said anything more, because it was clear Bucky was healing. Slowly, but meaningfully. And you were a part of that.

✩──────────✩─────────✩──────────✩─────────✩

One night, in the quiet of the kitchen, it was past midnight and Bucky found you sitting on the counter, knees drawn to your chest, eating leftover risotto straight from the container. You looked up at him sheepishly.

“Couldn’t sleep,” you said, covering your mouth.

He nodded, understanding. “Me neither.”

You held out the spoon. “Want some?”

“Do you ever wonder if you’ll feel normal again?” he asked after a while with hoarse voice, accepting the spoon.

“No. I don’t think I will. But I’ve found things that make the pain quieter. This place… the people. You.”

Bucky’s eyes met yours, shadowed but open in a way they never were before. “You make it quieter for me too.”

You reached for his hand. He didn’t pull away.

✩──────────✩─────────✩──────────✩─────────✩

When the winter turned into spring by March, Bucky knew the names of every spice in your cabinet. He could make your grandmother’s marinara by memory, though he never did unless you were in the room. He said it didn’t taste right without your voice in the background, humming old jazz songs. One afternoon, he asked if you wanted help making gnocchi. You raised a brow in surprise.

“I thought you hated the dough part,” you said.

He smirked. “You said it was about the feel, right?”

So you taught him. Your hands brushed often his cold vibranium fingers, surprisingly gentle as he pressed and rolled the soft potato dough.

“I like cooking with you,” he said quietly.

“I like everything with you,” you replied, not even trying to hide it.

His smile was small, but real. And that night, for the first time, he kissed you. It was hesitant, reverent, as though he couldn’t believe he was allowed this kind of softness.

✩──────────✩─────────✩──────────✩─────────✩

The kitchen smelled like espresso and warm pastry when you walked in, rubbing sleep from your eyes and wearing one of those oversized sweaters Bucky always secretly stared at. Steve and Sam were already seated at the counter, each with a massive mug of cappuccino in hand and chocolate croissants on their plates, flaking golden crumbs onto the marble surface as they laughed about something you couldn’t quite catch. And then there was Bucky. He sat stiffly, a spoon resting in a bowl of sad, pale porridge that looked like it had been steamed directly from a 1943 army ration pack. No butter, no sugar, no fruit—just bland, flavorless mush. You blinked, baffled.

“Bucky,” you said cautiously, stepping closer. “What… what is that?”

He glanced up, caught off guard by your question. Sam froze with a croissant halfway to his mouth, and Steve went suddenly still, eyes flicking to Bucky with quiet concern. Bucky gave a sheepish shrug, avoiding your gaze. “Oatmeal.”

“That’s not oatmeal,” you said, inspecting it like a suspicious lab sample. “That’s punishment.”

He chuckled humorlessly. “It’s healthy.”

You crossed your arms, not buying it. “And?”

Steve opened his mouth, but Sam subtly nudged him, eyes warning. They both fell silent, watching their friend closely. Bucky sighed. “My—uh, this girl I used to see… she said I was getting soft. Around the edges.” You froze, the words sinking in like stones in water. “She got on me about my diet. Said I needed to cut sugar, carbs, everything. So… I did.” He stirred the sad porridge absently. “She’s not around anymore, but I guess the habit stuck.” The silence that followed was heavy. Steve looked down at his cappuccino like it had betrayed him. Sam grimaced, muttering, “That’s rough, man.”

But you?

You didn’t say a word.

You turned, calm as ever, and reached for the salt shaker. Without hesitation, you sprinkled a few generous shakes into the porridge—too many to be accidental.

Bucky stared. “Y/n—?”

“Oh no, how careless” you said pretending to be sorry.

“This,” you gestured vaguely at the bowl like it had personally offended you. “This is self-inflicted oatmeal prison.”

“I didn’t ask you to—”

“I know you didn’t,” you said gently, already pulling out ingredients. “But I want to.”

“But—”

You raised one hand without turning around, a subtle shhh gesture that shut him up faster than Hydra trigger words. He watched as you moved with confident ease—whipping together flour, eggs, cocoa, and melted chocolate like you were born doing it.

The griddle hissed. The room filled with the warm, intoxicating scent of chocolate chip pancakes—real ones, thick and buttery, the kind meant to heal.

Steve and Sam exchanged a look behind you. It was unspoken, but clear: She’s the one.

Sam smiled into his mug. “You know, I suddenly feel spiritually connected to this pancake intervention.”

Steve chuckled softly. “She’s got good instincts.”

When the first stack was done, you slid the plate in front of Bucky, topped with a pat of butter and a drizzle of maple syrup. You said nothing. Just nudged it toward him and went back to the stove to flip the next batch.

Bucky stared at it for a long moment.

“I don’t deserve this,” he muttered.

You glanced back at him, soft but firm. “Maybe not. But you need it.”

His chest tightened.

He took a bite.

It was warm. Sweet. Comforting. Real.

And in that moment, Bucky didn’t know whether it was the food or the fact that someone cared enough to fight for his breakfast, but something in him cracked open. He looked at you, standing barefoot at the stove, hair messy, humming off-key, and he smiled for the first time that morning. Steve caught it and nudged Sam with his elbow. Sam grinned, eyes twinkling. “He’s so gone.” And Bucky? He didn’t even deny it.

✩──────────✩─────────✩──────────✩─────────✩

The tower's rooftop garden bloomed in july, and Bucky surprised you by waking you at sunrise.

“Come on,” he said, a mischievous light in his eyes you hadn’t seen before. “We’re cooking outside today.”

You blinked sleepily. “What?”

He handed you a basket. “I found tomatoes. Real ones. They’re perfect.”

So you went together, you made bruschetta, grilled vegetables, and the simplest pasta dish he could find.

You sat on a blanket under the morning sun, eating and laughing when Bucky got olive oil on his nose.

“You’re different now,” you said, watching him.

“I feel different,” he admitted, watching you back. “Like I can breathe. Like I deserve to.”

You leaned in and kissed him again. “You do. You always did.”

✩──────────✩─────────✩──────────✩─────────✩

You were soaked from a mission gone wrong. Bucky helped you strip out of your wet gear, wrapped you in a towel, and pulled you into the kitchen. The power was flickering, and you were shivering. Without a word, he made you soup. Just like you’d shown him. It was clumsy, slightly too much salty but you ate every bite, heart aching with something tender and strong. He sat beside you, his hand on your back, his eyes dark and full of something fierce.

“I love you,” he said, like a vow. “Not just for the food. But because you made me want to live again.” You cupped his cheek, tears warm on your face. “I love you too, Bucky. You don’t have to be perfect. You just have to stay.”

“I will,” he whispered. “As long as you’ll have me.”

They would say Bucky Barnes, the man who once lived as a ghost, found his way back to life through you.

And he’d say it started with a spoonful of tomato sauce.

But you knew better.

It wasn’t the food, not really. It was the way you saw him—broken and whole, lost and found. And how you loved him, quietly, patiently, until he learned to love himself, bite by bite, day by day.

[jadetheblueartist]

MY CHILDREN

(That includes you my little oldie Laz man)

These are my little guys who finally got references. They are rottmnt ocs and I am becoming quite fond of them. Lazarus is a spinosaurus yokai, and Yuki is an Indian Star Tortoise yokai.

I am wanting to s q u e e s h them

[gihunloversunite]

5 days bruh how are you holding uppp

4 days now… I’m screaming crying and throwing up, how are you holding up bestie

[stormbreaker-290]

Oghhhhhhh I need to sleep,,,,, but my brain is so full of things,,,,,,,,,,, ouhhhhh I wanna draw,,,,,,,,,,, but I am wayyyy too damn eepy to draw,,,,,,,,,hudhshusjshdsj

[celestiamour]

‧₊˚✧ ❛[ no one has to know what we do ]❜

ft. cho sang-woo x f! reader — squid game

╰₊✧ you lay in bed with your dad’s best friend after a night of passion┊1.3k words

contains: slight smut!! dom sang-woo & sub reader┊age gap (reader is early 20s & sang-woo’s early 40s), (adopted) dad’s best friend trope, purposeful seduction, one-night stands, unprotected piv (don’t do anything the reader does, this is fiction & unrealistic, stay safe), creampie, biting, smoking, 

➤ author's note: i was thinking about this man all night, i’m not kidding, i’m doing it again tongiht too because he’s so fine idc if he’s evil, i wanna fuck him not fix him

it’s nearly four in the morning on another cold winter’s night with nothing but a yellow-tinted bedside lamp illuminating the room, completely silent aside from the rustling of the blanket from your movement. you sigh softly and nestle closer to the man lying flat on his back for more of the addicting warmth radiating off his body, your face nuzzling into the crook of his shoulder and your legs entangling with his. he doesn’t pull away like you expected him to, just takes another drag on his cigarette and ignores you for the most part with the weight of the past few hours— the weight of the sins he committed tonight— pressing into his mind.

you, on the other hand, were all soft smiles and feeling content as if you just crossed off an accomplishment on the top of your bucket list. for a situation that could ruin both of your lives if discovered, it certainly feels blissful and freeing to finally fuck the man you’ve been dreaming about almost religiously ever since you came back home from university for the holidays a week ago. you have no idea how you’ve never met him until now when you’ve heard so much about him, but perhaps it was better that way when your thoughts were less than innocent. 

despite being middle-aged, he was still very handsome with intelligent albeit weary eyes which seemed to hide some sort of darkness to them. you found yourself studying him from afar, noticing him not wearing a wedding ring and making no mention of a family other than his mother, so you quickly made up your mind that you were going to fuck him before going back to school. it’s not like you had anything better to do anyway.

it actually didn’t take much to seduce him surprisingly: accidental eye contact filled with longing, lingering touches when you handed him his chilled cheap beer, careful actions and words to play up your sex appeal— it reminded you that most men are the same even if the stoic cho sang-woo was older and prided himself in his cunning mind, starved for affection with wandering eyes that frequently followed beneath the hem of your skirt. he looked at you behind his glasses with distrust and tried to act indifferent towards you in front of gi-hun, probably already suspicious about your intentions, but you could already see him drinking up your appearance in your cute little outfit as he downed another bottle. this little game was one you knew well and you always won in the end, there has yet to be anyone you wanted who couldn’t resist you and he certainly wasn’t going to be the first.

he stayed the night in the guest bedroom because it was already dark out, your former room which was converted after you moved out (sometimes it was rented out for extra cash), and at the strike of midnight, you knocked on the door and presented yourself to him seeking his comfort for an unspecified reason with slightly teary doe eyes. it was clear that you didn’t disturb him from his slumber and that he was already awake, visibly restless, and maybe even stressed. it doesn’t take a genius to figure out what was bothering him so much. he was hesitant to let you in at first, as any good man would, but his resolve crumbled after seeing how beautiful you looked in the dim light (not like it wasn’t already a breeze away from collapsing after the alcohol). it’s surprising what a little silk nightgown can do with the thin straps threatening to slip off your shoulders, the short hem revealing your soft thighs, your perk nipples straining through the thin fabric, and how small and vulnerable you looked shivering in your lack of clothes.

“you shouldn’t be here at this time.”

“are you going to turn me away?”

still, even if it all went according to plan, he’s not in love with you. you don’t think he is anyway. you don’t expect him to be. would you like him to be in love with you? it might put the aching loneliness at ease even if it won’t make it disappear entirely. he’s a man old enough to be your father after all, he’s a man who grew up with your father and considered him to be a close friend. is this how you thank your father for taking you in and sharing what little he had with you? by seducing and sleeping with his best friend? 

in all honestly, though, he certainly fucked like he was in love with you— like you two were the last two souls on this earth. he was a lot more pent up than you anticipated, or a lot more lonely, trusting into you so deeply one would think he was trying to reach your empty heart as you clawed at his back leaving red rivers of scratched skin. you barely even needed any prep for his size with how soaked you were, evident with a wet patch on your underwear which he teased before throwing it to be forgotten on the floor along with all your other clothes. 

it was difficult to keep the sinful sounds of sex to a minimum, skin against skin with moans slipping from your mouth and groans from his. he had to resort to covering your mouth with his large palm to shut you up and bit into your collarbone leaving his mark on you, finally finishing inside of you in his haze before using his fingers to help you reach your orgasm and embarrassing you for once by staring intently at how the mix of your arousals dripped all over his hand.

“when are you leaving for university?”

“why, are you going to miss me when i’m gone?”

“we shouldn’t be doing this.”

“no one has to know what we do,” you giggled, placing a kiss against the corner of his mouth and inhaling the smoke. “i’m old enough to keep a secret.”

those last words made him pause for a second. this was immoral and forbidden. if seong gi-hun were ever to find out, their relationship would be ruined forever and you would be disowned, and he could only imagine the look of betrayal on his face. yet you didn’t seem to care in the least bit about what he would think, gingerly rubbing your thighs together at the feeling of him leaking out of you and touching the area where he bit you. it drew his attention, finally turning to you and admiring the mark sunken into your skin, looking almost proud of it like art on a clean canvas. 

“i don’t want you sleeping with some other stupid boys when you go back.”

“hm, only if you promise that this won’t be the last time and that you also don’t fuck anyone else while i’m gone.”

“you know, i can’t promise that. we were lucky to not get caught this time, but who’s to say there will be a next time?”

“well, then i’ll go back to university and have sex with whoever i want, then you can do the same—”

“oh, shut up,” he scolded, pinching your cheeks to pull you towards him and kissing you possessively as if he could consume you whole by it. you were glad to reciprocate, allowing him to climb back on top of you while your arms wrapped around his neck. “fine, as long as you keep your word.”

he said it like he didn’t really want to continue this, like he was conceding to your demands and was merely tolerating you with better things to do, but the thinly veiled desperate need in his words and actions was clearer than glass to you. not that you minded, it was all working out just how you wanted it to.

[suksatoru]

it's half past midnight when you hear the first telltale sign that someone is trying to break into your apartment. the shifting footsteps outside the front door were too loud to ignore, there was the unmistakable sound of someone breathing, and then came the dreaded, incessant jingling of the door knob.

dabi kept an extra pair of his combat boots outside your apartment door to scare off anyone from even attempting to break in when he's not around—you'll be sure to tell him his little trick did in fact not work if you manage to survive this entire ordeal.

dabi was a pretty resourceful boyfriend. he had given you some... questionable self defense weapons. prioritizing your peace of mind, you didn't ask him where he got the illegal artillery from and simply tucked it into the back of your coat closet (the world was a scary place, you weren't an idiot who would turn down extra protection).

and thank the universe you didn't, because now you have a bat with a bunch of nails tacked onto every square inch of its surface to, hopefully, fight off your intruder. your fingers tremble as you dial dabi's number, hearing it ring before it goes straight to the automated voicemail—anxiety prickles in your stomach, and you flinch when you hear the door knob shake even harder than it was before.

just your luck. tightening your grip on the bat, you take a tentative step backwards to keep yourself out of sight in case the door does cave in and open.

"the one time he isn't home," you mutter wearily under your breath before quietly gasping when you hear something scratching against your doorknob—it takes you half a second to realize the perpetrator was picking the lock, because it suddenly snaps off its latch and opens with a horrifying clink!

the door doesn't open. not for a heartbeat, at least. but the moment it does, you swing the bat as hard as you possibly can—throwing all your body weight into the hit.

dabi had less than a second to duck out of the way.

you miss—or in other words, he avoids getting his face bashed in by a single millisecond as the nails slam against the doorframe behind him instead.

he's crouched on the floor, eyes wide and a little breathless while you stand above him, completely stupefied

"dabi?" you shriek, half relieved and half mortified as you let go of the bat still stuck in the wood, gently pushing his boot with your slipper clad foot in questioning

"at least i don't have to worry about leaving you alone on missions as much," he says, eyes simmering with amusement and fatigue as you sputter, trying to string together enough words to form a coherent sentence

"what the hell! wha—how—why would you scare me like that! you have a key, you asshole! use it! a-and i called you! why didn't you pick up?!" you snap, delivering a swift kick to his shin as he hisses through his teeth, grin wide and toothy as he stretches his legs out in front of him, making no move to get off the floor

"first of all, my phone got crushed in a fight. second, i accidentally melted the key—don't ask me how. and third, the reason i picked the lock was because i thought you were asleep. i just wanted to come in quietly without waking you up. what the hell are you doing awake, anyway?" he muses, slumping a bit against the wall as you stay quiet.

with a sigh, you close your front door shut and make sure to lock it properly before lowering yourself onto the ground beside him. he smells like smoke, and there's dried blood on his pants. it doesn't stop you from pressing yourself into his side and dropping your head onto his shoulder

"you woke me up," you murmur, and he scoffs

"as if. i was as quiet as a mouse. you just have freakishly good hearing senses," he says with a breathy chuckle as you frown

"i could've seriously hurt you with that bat. can you please try and give me some sort of a warning next time? i don't think i'd be able to live with myself if something happened to you."

dabi doesn't answer for a while. he's staring straight ahead to where your bedroom door is left ajar, the warm golden light of your lamp spills into the hallway and illuminates it in a soft glow that looks like sunshine

"it's gonna take a lot more than that to kill me."

silence settles over you two, and dabi takes a split second to glance at you through his peripheral vision—you have both of your arms wrapped around one of his, and your brows are furrowed as your eyes remain closed.

he glances up at the bat, still jammed into the door frame, thanks to the nails, before he grins.

"it's pretty sick, huh? that bat's gotta be one of my favorites. and you have good aim—pretty lethal combination, if you ask me.

"dabi," you scold tiredly, but he just brings a finger to your lips

"shh shh, don'cha think you've yelled enough? do you want another noise complaint from those nosy neighbors of yours? can't say i could fault them this time, though—it is pretty late."

your lips settle into a pout, and you grumble quietly under your breath as he tucks an arm under your knees and behind your back before standing up

"come on. i'm tired as shit—and bloody. i'll shower and join you in bed, all right?"

you don't say anything, simply nodding as he carries you to your room. he settles you onto the heap of blankets before heading to your shower.

normally, dabi would've just passed out the second he got home. but he didn't want you laying in filth. so, here he was—scrubbing himself down and hopping out of the shower after another ten minutes to see you curled up under the blankets.

it had been a horrible couple of weeks for him. fighting in terrible conditions and sleeping in even worse—but coming home to you was always something that made the torture bearable.

he slips into bed after turning off the lights, and you instinctively move to hold him. your arms wrap around his middle and your head falls on his chest. a warm palm slides under your shirt and settles onto the planes of your back a moment later

"next time, i'll sneak in through your balcony. be the perfect knight in shining armor for you—i don't think you'll have enough time to grab the bat by the time i get in."

you don't open your eyes, but your lips stretch into a small smile that has dabi grinning widely

"missed you," you murmur with a yawn as he hums, staring up at the ceiling

"go to sleep. i'll be right here when you wake up, promise."

once your breathing evens out, dabi peels himself out of your embrace as quietly as he possibly can. he takes a quick walk around you apartment—ensuring all the windows were closed, the front door was locked, and no one suspicious was lurking outside before he re-enters your room and slides back into bed.

he finally lets himself fall asleep, and it's the best sleep he's had since he left you.

it's not because of the air conditioning, it's not because of the bed, and it's not because he'd gotten to take a shower—really, the only reason he was able to fall asleep peacefully was because he had you with him, tucked into his side and in bed, right where both of you belonged.

[holyblonded]

the m word | stargirl

pairings: alexia putellas x teen!reader

summary: 3 times you accidentally called alexia mom and the one time you planned it

warings: bad parents, flu

notes: this takes place a few months to a year or two after estrella joined the team

When you first moved up to the senior team, you had no idea what to expect. You were only fourteen, the youngest player by far, and all your friends (besides Jana and Bruna) were still in the academy. Your mother, on most days, was off doing God knows what, leaving you to navigate this new world on your own.

But something you never expected was how close you’d become with Alexia. From the moment she scouted you, she took you under her wing, guiding you through the chaos of professional football, especially at such a young age. She made sure you ate properly, did your homework, and kept you in line (for the most part) during training. She even gave you rides to and from practice, looking after you in ways no one else had in your life. Tonight was no different.

The team’s plane had just landed back in Barcelona, the clock inching past midnight. You were exhausted, curled up between Jana and Bruna, their heads resting on top of yours as the three of you dozed off in your seats. The steady hum of the plane’s engines had lulled you into a deep sleep, and you barely stirred when the seatbelt sign dinged, signaling it was time to disembark.

Alexia stretched and turned back to find the three of you completely knocked out. With a small shake of her head, she reached over, nudging Jana and Bruna awake. “Come on, we landed,” she said softly.

Jana groaned, rubbing her eyes as she sat up, while Bruna yawned, slowly blinking herself awake. But you didn’t move.

Alexia poked your arm. Nothing. She shook your shoulder. Still nothing.

“She’s not going to get up,” Bruna muttered sleepily.

Jana smirked. “You know what to do.”

Alexia sighed before glancing over at Jenni, who had been watching the whole scene unfold with amusement. “Jenni,” Alexia said, tilting her head toward you.

Jenni grinned. “Oh, I got this.”

Before you even knew what was happening, strong arms scooped you up, lifting you effortlessly from your seat. You stirred slightly, groaning, but instead of fighting it, you simply curled into Jenni’s shoulder, completely deadweight in her arms.

“She’s like a little koala,” Jenni teased, carrying you down the plane steps while the rest of the team laughed quietly.

“Try having to wake her up every day,” Alexia muttered, rolling her eyes as she followed behind.

Jenni carried you through the airport, through baggage claim, and all the way to the car without you waking up once. When they finally reached Alexia’s car, Jenni shifted you in her arms. “You’re heavier than you look, mona (monkey),” she grumbled, carefully maneuvering you into the backseat. You murmured something incoherent but didn’t wake up, your head slumping against the window.

The drive home was quiet, the exhaustion of the match settling into all of them. When they finally pulled up to your apartment, Alexia got out and walked up to the door, fishing your keys from your bag. She slipped one into the lock, but it didn’t turn.

Frowning, she tried again. Nothing.

Jenni, watching from the corner, raised a brow. “Everything okay?”

Alexia’s jaw tensed. “The keys aren’t working.”

Jenni frowned and walked closer, trying them herself. Still, the door wouldn’t budge.

“That’s weird,” she muttered, glancing over at Alexia.

Alexia nodded slowly. Something about this didn’t sit right with her, but she wasn’t going to push it now, not with you dead asleep in the backseat. “She can stay at mine tonight,” she said simply.

Jenni agreed, and soon, you were once again being carried, this time into Alexia’s apartment. While Jenni went to shower, Alexia brought you into the spare bedroom, pulling the covers back before carefully laying you down. You stirred slightly as she tucked the blanket around you, your eyes fluttering open just the slightest.

“Buenas noches, mami,” you mumbled sleepily, your voice barely above a whisper.

Alexia froze.

You didn’t even realize what you had said before you were already slipping back into sleep, your breathing evening out. Alexia stood there for a moment, completely speechless, watching as your face relaxed against the pillow.

She swallowed, something unfamiliar twisting in her chest, but she didn’t say anything.

Instead, she simply exhaled softly, reached out to brush a stray curl from your forehead, and whispered, “Buenas noches, Estrella.”

Then, without another word, she turned off the light and quietly shut the door behind her.

The night sky above you stretches endlessly, the stars scattered like tiny diamonds against the vast darkness. The crisp air carries the electric energy of the stadium, the thunderous roar of the crowd vibrating through your bones. Games like this— games that mattered, games that demanded everything from you, always sent an intoxicating rush of dopamine through your system.

Your pulse thrums in your ears as you take it all in, grounding yourself in the moment. You’ve been here before, but somehow, it always feels brand new. The magnitude of El Clásico never fades, never dulls. The rivalry is embedded in every touch of the ball, every challenge, every goal.

“You ready?” Mario asks, slinging an arm around your shoulders, her voice low but charged with anticipation.

You smirk, shaking out your shoulders. “I’m always ready.”

The first goal comes early, a beautiful sequence of passes that ends with you slipping between defenders, receiving a perfectly weighted ball from Alexia, and slotting it past Misa with the outside of your foot. The eruption of noise is deafening, your name bouncing off the walls of the stadium as you sprint toward the corner, fists clenched in triumph.

The second goal is a blur. Marta intercepts a wayward pass, Laia sends it down the flank, and Leila cuts it back for you at the top of the box. Without thinking, you strike it first time, curling it into the far post. Two-nil.

By the time the third opportunity presents itself, Madrid is desperate, pushing high up the pitch in a last-ditch effort to claw their way back. You see it before it even happens, one bad touch from their midfielder, a brief lapse in control. You pounce, intercepting the ball near the halfway line.

There’s no hesitation. Your eyes flick up, spotting Misa off her line, and your body moves instinctively. You pull your foot back and strike through the ball with perfect precision. Time seems to slow as the ball soars through the air, carrying all the way from midfield, past the scrambling keeper, and into the back of the net.

For a second, the stadium holds its breath. Then, an explosion of sound.

You even don’t think, you just run.

Pure, unfiltered euphoria surges through you as you sprint toward the bench, your legs burning but your heart flying. Alexia is the first person you see, her arms wide open, and you leap straight into them, wrapping your arms around her neck as she catches you effortlessly.

“Mami!” The word slips out in your excitement, a natural instinct, completely unnoticed by you as you bury your face in her shoulder.

Alexia squeezes you tight, pressing a hand to the back of your head. “Qué locura, Estrelleta,” she murmurs, laughter laced in her voice. “You’re unbelievable.”

Neither of you notice the way Mario’s brows shoot up, how Laia covers her mouth to stifle a laugh, how Leila exchanges a knowing glance with Marta. They don’t say a word, but the moment is filed away, stored for future teasing.

Right now, though, none of it matters.

Right now, you’ve just put three past Madrid. Right now, you’re weightless, wrapped in Alexia’s arms, the chants of your name filling the air. Right now, you are exactly where you belong.

The dim glow of the living room lamp barely illuminated the room, casting soft shadows on the walls. You were cocooned in a thick bundle of blankets, your limbs heavy, your body radiating unbearable heat, yet somehow you still shivered. Every breath felt like a monumental effort, your throat raw, your head pounding like someone had taken a sledgehammer to it.

“Jenni,” you croaked dramatically from your fortress of suffering. “Jenni, please come quick—I am dying.”

Jenni, who had been putting on her shoes by the door, let out a soft giggle as she grabbed her wallet. “I know, bebita,” she said, adjusting her jacket. “That’s why I’m going out to get medicine.”

“No,” you whined, reaching out a feeble, shaking hand like a character in a tragic play. “Don’t leave! It might be the last time you see me. Tell everyone I fought bravely.”

Jenni rolled her eyes, walking back over to you with an amused expression. She crouched beside the couch, brushing your sweaty hair off your forehead before pressing a kiss to it. “You’ll survive, drama queen,” she teased. “Try not to perish before I get back.”

You barely had the strength to glare at her before she slipped out the door, leaving you alone in your misery.

Somewhere in the apartment, a door creaked open. Heavy footsteps padded toward you, slow and groggy.

A shadow loomed over you before a voice, low and thick with sleep, broke through the haze of your fever.

“Estrella.”

You barely registered Alexia standing over you, her hair disheveled, wrapped in a loose hoodie and sweatpants. She blinked at you, squinting as if trying to process the scene before her.

“You’re awake,” you murmured weakly, blinking up at her with glassy eyes. “Mami, I don’t feel good.”

She frowned. “What?”

You waved a limp hand. “Never mind,” you sighed, turning your head dramatically. “I think I’m hallucinating.”

Alexia sighed, rubbing her temple. “You are not hallucinating.” She crouched beside you, pressing the back of her hand against your forehead. “Dios mío, you’re burning up.”

You nodded solemnly. “I am dying.”

“You’re not dying.”

You reached for her hand, gripping it weakly. “Promise me something.”

She raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“Take care of Eli when I’m gone.”

Alexia exhaled sharply through her nose, clearly trying to suppress a laugh. “You are not dying,” she repeated firmly before standing up. “Stay here.”

“Not like I have a choice,” you mumbled into your pillow, your body too exhausted to do anything but sink deeper into the couch.

A few minutes later, Alexia returned with a steaming mug in her hands. She sat on the edge of the coffee table, watching as you blinked sluggishly at her.

“Drink this.”

You wrinkled your nose. “What is it?”

“Tea.”

“What kind?”

“The kind that will make you feel better.”

You groaned. “That sounds fake.”

Alexia narrowed her eyes. “Estrella.”

You pouted but took the mug in your shaky hands. The first sip was bitter, but warmth spread through your throat, soothing the raw scratchiness. You took another sip, then another.

“Good girl,” Alexia murmured, reaching out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

When you finished, she took the mug from you, setting it aside before you suddenly grabbed her wrist, stopping her from moving away.

“Stay,” you murmured.

“Estrella—”

“Please,” you mumbled, your fever-dazed brain barely processing anything beyond the need for comfort. “Lay with me.”

Alexia hesitated for a moment before sighing and carefully maneuvering herself onto the couch beside you. You immediately curled into her, burying your face into her hoodie, her warmth soothing in a way nothing else was.

“Mami? Thank you,” you mumbled sleepily.

Alexia stiffened, but when you didn’t say anything else, when your breathing evened out and your grip on her hoodie loosened she simply exhaled, letting it go.

She pulled the blanket tighter around you, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head.

“Descansa, Estrellita,” she whispered.

And for the first time that night, your fevered mind let you sleep.

You adjusted the top of your suit jacket anxiously, smoothing out invisible wrinkles as you sat between Jenni and Alexia. Your fingers tapped against your thigh in a restless rhythm, your heart pounding harder than it ever had before a game. The room was filled with the biggest names in football, the air thick with anticipation as the ceremony reached its climax.

On stage, Kylian Mbappé held the envelope in his hands, the golden Ballon d’Or trophy gleaming beside him. The entire room seemed to hold its breath as he slid his finger beneath the envelope’s flap, carefully pulling out the slip of paper inside.

“The Ballon d’Or goes to…” He paused, glancing up with a knowing smile before announcing, “Alexia Putellas!”

The room erupted into applause, cheers echoing off the grand hall’s walls. Jenni let out a celebratory whoop beside you, clapping wildly. You turned to Alexia, but she was frozen for a second, processing the moment. Then, she exhaled sharply, a bright smile breaking across her face as she stood.

You were on your feet before you even realized it, clapping so hard your palms started to sting. As Alexia made her way toward the stage, she turned slightly, meeting your eyes for the briefest moment, and you saw it, the unguarded emotion, the disbelief, the sheer joy.

She took the trophy with steady hands, then approached the microphone. The applause quieted as she scanned the crowd, her expression softening as she took a breath.

“I don’t even know where to begin,” she said, her voice steady yet full of emotion. “First, I want to thank my teammates, my coaches, and everyone at FC Barcelona. This award is not just mine—it belongs to every single person who has supported me, pushed me, and helped me become the player I am today.”

She paused for a moment, glancing down at the trophy, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Football has given me so much, but more than the trophies, more than the accolades, the most important thing it has given me is family.”

Your breath caught in your throat as her gaze found yours.

“To my teammates, my friends, to those who have stood by me no matter what, I love you all,” she continued. “But there’s one person I want to mention specifically.”

You stiffened slightly as she smiled directly at you.

“Estrella,” she said, voice warm, affectionate. “From the moment you walked into our team, you changed everything. You are a force of nature, a player unlike any other, but beyond that, you are one of the strongest, bravest people I have ever met. Watching you grow, on and off the pitch, has been an honor. And I want you to know that no matter what, no matter where football takes you, no matter how many goals you score or trophies you win, you will always have a home with me.”

Your throat felt tight. The room clapped again, but all you could do was sit there, gripping the arms of your chair, your chest aching with something indescribable.

Alexia wrapped up her speech, thanking her family, her late father, and everyone who had been part of her journey. Then, with one last glance at you, she stepped off the stage, the trophy clutched tightly in her hands.

The rest of the ceremony passed in a blur. You weren’t paying attention to the other winners or the speeches, you were waiting. The moment the event concluded, you weaved through the crowd, searching for her.

And then you saw her. She was standing off to the side, trophy still in her hands, talking to a few journalists. But as if sensing your presence, she turned and the moment she saw you, her face lit up.

Without thinking, without hesitation, you ran toward her, closing the distance between you in seconds. She barely had time to react before you jumped into her arms, wrapping yourself around her. She stumbled back slightly but caught you with ease, laughing as she held you close.

You buried your face in her shoulder, inhaling deeply before pulling back just enough to look at her.

“I’m proud of you, Mami,” you said, voice quiet but firm.

It wasn’t an accident. It wasn’t a slip of the tongue. It was deliberate, intentional.

Alexia’s breath hitched. Her eyes widened slightly, her grip on you tightening. She smiled, something soft and unbearably fond in her expression as she rested her forehead against yours.

“Gracias, mi niña,” she whispered.

And for once, you didn’t mind the tears pricking at your eyes. Because for the first time in a long time, you felt completely, undeniably at home.

[dirtyvulture]

The Maid - Part 4

Socialite!Wanda Maximoff x Beefy!Rich!Reader*

Maid!Natasha Romanoff x Beefy!Rich!Reader*

18+ only, read at your own risk

Word count: 2245

Summary: You are married to a wealthy socialite, but your newly hired housemaid doesn’t approve of the marriage.

AN: Thank you for the continued support! You all make my day with your comments and theories. :)

Read part 3 here.

*Reader has a penis, no pronouns used.

You sit at the kitchen table nervously, drumming your fingers on the wood. You knew Wanda would be home late–she never had the respect to give you a proper timeline for her outings. The clock tells you that it’s a little past midnight, and sleepiness burns in the corners of your eyes, but you told yourself you aren’t going to bed until this is all over. 

You run the lines over in your head. What you want to say to her exactly, what you’ll counter with if she reacts well or poorly. You’ve waited long enough to have this conversation, perhaps too long, but Natasha finally gave you the push you needed.

“Do you still love her?” Natasha asks softly after you tell her the whole story of your wife’s philandering. 

You don’t answer. Deep down, you know your love for her was being tested to its breaking point, and you weren’t so sure it would survive after this. “I’ll talk to her tonight, when she comes home,” you say. “You should probably go home. I can’t imagine it’ll be a pretty conversation.”

“I’ll stay if you want me to,” Natasha insists. “You shouldn’t be alone to do something like that.” Your heart melts, and for a moment you want to get up and kiss her. Not that you wanted to pull a Wanda, but you couldn’t ignore how beautiful and generous your maid was. She was excellent at her job; never complained and went above and beyond, even when your wife was being a total bitch. She treated you with the respect and kindness you deserved. She was everything you wanted in a partner and more. 

But you were stuck with Wanda. For now, at least.

“Are you sure? Wanda might be home late and I don’t want you to feel obligated to stay just for me,” you say. 

“It’s fine. She won’t even know I’m here. I can leave out the back door,” Natasha says.

“Thank you, Natasha.” Her support means more to you than you’re allowed to express. 

“You’re welcome.”

Now, with Natasha hiding in the kitchen, the two of you wait.

***********************************************************************

You accidentally doze off and wake with a start when you hear the garage door open. For a moment, you don’t even remember where you are or why.

“Natasha? Are you still here?” you whisper as loud as you dare.

“Yes.” Her head pokes out from around the corner of the kitchen.

Relief fills you. You were worried she would ditch you after all, not that you would’ve blamed her in the slightest. “Wanda’s home,” you tell her, and she nods and disappears again. At least you didn’t have to face your wife entirely alone.

You sit rigidly still on the couch until your wife walks in, almost passing you at first. 

“You’re back,” you say, and she jumps, reaching for the light switch and revealing you on the couch.

“I said I’d be back tonight,” she says.

“Who were you out with?”

“My girlfriends.”

“No.” You stand up and walk over to her. You are a great deal taller than her and for once she looks like she feels her size around you. “Who did you go out with tonight?”

Wanda doesn’t make eye contact with you. “You know…Carol, Darcy–”

“Are you fucking them too?”

“Excuse me?” Wanda draws back from you until she bumps into the bookshelf.

“You heard me,” you say through clenched teeth. “Were you fucking them too?”

“No. Why the hell would you think that?”

“Because I know you spend all your free time fucking anything that moves behind my back.”

The silence in the air is electric. Your heart is thundering in your chest so hard you wonder if Natasha can hear it. Wanda’s eyes widen. 

“I...I’ve never done that,” she says, but her falter shows her lie. “How dare you suggest–”

You take your phone out and show Wanda the screen. She squints at it in confusion at first, then a shadow of horror passes over her face when she realizes it’s the camera view from the little ceramic turtle you planted in the china cabinet, now showing the two of you standing there.

“You hid a camera in my own home–” Wanda starts.

“I hid a shit ton of cameras in our home,” you say. 

“So this is why your business is failing,” she cackles, and the switch in topic throws you for a loop. “You spend all day watching and stalking me in our home when you’re supposed to be working. No wonder you don’t bring home any money. Not only are you a shitty spouse, you’re also a shitty worker.”

Anger explodes inside of you, and for a moment your control slips. You lunge for Wanda, not even sure what you’ll do once you grab her, but she slams her palms to your chest and sends you staggering back. She turns and yanks a book off the shelf, removing a revolver from the pages and pointing it towards you with trembling hands.

“Don’t get any closer to me, you fucking creep!” she yells.

Your anger dissolves into concern. “Put the gun down, Wanda. Please. Let’s just talk about this like adults–”

“Oh, now you want to talk like adults?” Wanda laughs manically. “Where was this before you started illegally recording me in my own home?”

“You’re fucking cheating on me!” you scream, losing your composure again. “I moved us into this big house, in this nice neighborhood, and you’re just so fucking ungrateful for any of it!”

“I didn’t want any of it to begin with!” Wanda returns.

“Why not? Because you had to leave behind your fuck buddies in our old neighborhood?”

“You’re the exact same person here as you were over there. A self-righteous piece of shit,” she seethes.

“If you’re so sick of me, why don’t you divorce me?” you ask. “Oh wait.” You snap your fingers. “I bet no one would want to sleep with a washed-up divorcee. Because where’s the fun in that?”

Wanda turns the gun around and points it at her temple. “I’ll kill myself if you divorce me,” she says, then shifts the gun to point towards her chest, “But I’ll make it look like you did it.”

The blood in your veins chills at the thought. “Give me the gun, Wanda.”

“Take it from me,” she goads.

While you have very little confidence in your disarming tactics, you do know you’re stronger and faster than Wanda. You also don’t fully believe that she’ll kill herself right here, so that gives you an advantage of time. 

Before a plan even forms in your head, you reach out with your arm and slap Wanda’s hand away from her chest. She startles and drops the gun; you expect her to dive after it but instead she whirls around and punches you in the face. Despite all of her faults, she’s never outright hit you before, and your vision swims as your head whiplashes against the bookshelf. 

“You crazy motherfucker,” Wanda screeches, punching you again and you fall to the floor, instinctively curling into a ball to protect yourself. Her foot slams into your ribs and for a second, you can’t believe you’re getting the beating of a lifetime from your own wife.

Meanwhile, Natasha is in utter shock at the events unfolding in front of her. She feels like she’s overstepping some serious boundaries, but she can’t leave you now, especially with Wanda having the upper hand. 

“Wanda, stop!” she hears you gasp as Wanda grabs hold of Crime and Punishment uses it like a weapon, raising it behind her head and smashing it against your body over and over. Natasha can’t bear to stand there anymore. She has to protect you from your insane, deranged wife.

Natasha crosses the living room in four leaping strides and picks up the revolver. Wanda looks shocked more by her presence than the fact that she’s now staring down the barrel of her own gun. 

“What the fuck are you still doing here?” Wanda says.

“Get away from Y/N,” Natasha says, holding the gun in both hands. The weight feels disconcertingly familiar, and despite her nerves, she isn’t shaking.

“Are you fucking her?” Wanda suddenly turns to you. “You’ve got some nerve watching me get it on with the neighbors when you’ve been fucking our maid–”

“Shut up!” Natasha yells. “I’m not doing anything with Y/N!” she says, although she wishes that wasn’t the truth.

“I don’t believe that.” Wanda marches over to Natasha, leaving you unraveling on the floor. Blood drips from your nose and mouth, and Natasha can see the purpling bruise on your cheek. “Vision told me Y/N took you to see Wicked on my anniversary–”

“Because you couldn’t be bothered to remember and go yourself!” Natasha says.

Wanda is too enraged to quiet. “How dare you enter my house, take advantage of my kindness, and take my partner to bed–”

“Back off!” Natasha says, raising the gun until it’s almost level with Wanda’s eyes. “Not everyone is a cheating whore like you.”

Both Wanda and Natasha seem shocked by her choice of words. Natasha’s arms shake as they drop a few inches. She won’t hold back anymore–but neither will Wanda.

“You little bitch.” Wanda draws her arm back. Natasha flinches and squeezes the trigger.

BANG.

The gunshot is much, much louder in an enclosed space, and Natasha’s ears ring so hard they hurt. Wanda stands before her, her jaw dropped in shock. A stain of blood grows on her shirt, centered over her bellybutton. 

“Oh my God. Wanda, I’m sorry, I didn’t…” Natasha gasps, unable to wrap her head around her own actions. 

“You…You shot me,” Wanda says, grabbing her stomach as she falls. Natasha tries to catch her but misses; you appear behind Wanda and lower her slowly to the floor. “How is that possible?” She looks up at you and your face is pale with shock. “You fucking shot me!”

“Nat,” you whisper. “Nat, give me the gun.”

“I’m…I’m so sorry,” Natasha cries, handing you the weapon and backing away from the two of you. “I thought she was going to hit me and–”

“It’s okay.” You stand up, wobbling a little, and rush to her side. “Go home Nat, okay? Go through the back door and jump the fences if you have to. And if anyone asks where you were tonight, you weren’t here.”

“No, no.” Natasha fights the tears threatening to spill out. “That’s wrong. I did this, I want to take responsibility for it–”

“No,” you say. “With your background, you’ll be locked in prison the rest of your life, if you don’t get deported first.”

“M-My background?” Natasha stammers. “How do you know about–”

You shake your head, indicating now is not the time to have this discussion. “For the record, it never made me trust you any less.”

“Are you sure?” 

“Yes.” You reach out and grab her hand. It calms Natasha instantly. “Go now. Let me handle this. I’ll come find you when this is all over.”

“I’m so sorry,” Natasha sobs.

“It wasn’t your fault. Now get out of here, please!”

Natasha doesn’t wait to hear you instruct her again. She looks at you, her savior, one last time, completely ignoring Wanda laying on the floor, before dashing off towards the garage. It’s pitch-black, but she doesn’t dare turn on a light, and fumbles for the back door. Outside, the air is nippy and her breath clouds in front of her face. She takes a deep breath to orient herself, then runs headfirst towards the neighbor’s fence, hauling herself over it as quietly as she can, crossing their yard, and leaping over the next fence. 

She has to jump over two more yards before she gets to the street, racing to her Nissan and peeling away down the street. In the safety of her car, the realization crashes over her and she can’t stop the waterworks. 

She can’t believe she shot your wife. She can’t believe you knew her background. Clint had told her no one would find out what she had done in Russia after she assumed a new identity, but you had found out somehow. And yet, you were still okay hiring her even after you knew she had killed her former boss. 

The sounds of sirens pierce her thoughts and Natasha seizes up. A black-and-white police car races by. Either you had called them, or a neighbor had heard the shouting and gunshot. Natasha prays her presence had gone undetected. She had never been more thankful Wanda forced her to park down the street, where her car was less likely to be seen. 

She wonders if she’ll ever get to see you again.

***********************************************************************

After Natasha leaves, you take a moment to absorb your surroundings. Wanda is gurgling and crying on the floor, pressing her palms against her stomach, blood spilling through her fingers and on the tiles Natasha had mopped earlier that day.

Your grip tightens on the gun as you move to stand over Wanda, where she can fully see you. Your body throbs where she hit you, and you know you don’t look much better than her. Blood bubbles out of her mouth. She can’t speak anymore, but her eyes are fiery and pleading.

You lift the gun, which feels like a thousand pounds in your hand.

“Someone should’ve done this a long time ago.”

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

AN: Welp, that escalated quickly. Will Wanda live? Should she?? 👀

Click here for Part 5.

Please like, reblog, and comment! Follow for more content. 🥰

[favefandomimagines]

My Boy Only Breaks His Favorite Toys (f.l)

Summary: Y/N discovers a secret that could cost her and Frank everything

Request: @soflowra hiiii!!! could i request a frank langdon x reader where she finds out about the benzos and kind of confronts him? (thank youuuu!!!)

AN: I took some creative freedom with this one lol

The hum of fluorescent lights was constant in the ER, like the white noise of chaos. Monitors beeped, patients groaned, and somewhere down the hallway, someone was yelling about a broken femur. Dr. Frank Langdon thrived in the noise. It kept his mind racing, his hands moving, and the darkness at bay.

Y/N stood in the doorway of Trauma 2, arms crossed over her chest, watching him work. The moment was so typical of him—snapping orders, trauma gown tied loosely around his body, a half-empty Red Bull undoubtedly nearby. Sarcastic, fast-talking, brilliant. God, he was brilliant.

She was on her way back to OB when he caught her eye and winked.

“Should’ve been a trauma doc, sweetheart,�� he called out as he approached her.

She rolled her eyes, fighting back a smile. “Maybe in my next life.”

They’d been together for a year. It started just after his divorce—messy, public, and the talk of the hospital for months. She wasn’t trying to be anyone’s rebound.

But with Frank, it didn’t feel like that. There was something real underneath all his walls and caffeine highs. Something warm. Vulnerable. Something he’d given only to her.

She loved him.

But lately… something felt off.

It started with charts. She was covering for another doctor in General that week—odd, yes, but she liked to keep her skills sharp. While reviewing a patient’s post-op pain management plan, she noticed the dose of hydromorphone seemed high. Not alarmingly so—just… off. She shrugged it off. Maybe it was an attending’s call.

Then another chart. Then two more. All written up by Frank.

Each time, the dosage ordered was slightly higher than what the patient had been administered.

She brought it up casually while they were at the nurses station after another OB consult he paged her for.

“Hey,” she said softly, “you ever accidentally order the wrong dose on a discharge script?”

His eyes flicked to hers. “What are you talking about?”

“I just saw a few that looked a little high. From you.”

He didn’t blink. “Pain is subjective, right? I go by instinct. Better to have it and not need it.”

She nodded. But her stomach curled, tight and uneasy.

By the end of shift, she couldn’t ignore it anymore. Frank was still Frank, still sarcastic and lightning-fast, still showing up to every shift extremely over-caffeinated. But there were cracks.

When she ran out to his car to grab her jacket, she found an empty oxy bottle in his car’s cupholder. Not prescribed to him, no prescription on it at all.

It was nearly midnight when she decided. She stayed late after her shift, combing through the hospital’s prescription logs. She knew the system. She knew the way people tried to hide it. She also knew what to look for.

Her heart cracked as the pieces came together.

He was stealing. Masking it under the chaos of the ER. Signing off on more than what was used. Logging it as administered. And no one else had caught it.

Not yet.

She confronted him later that night in the on-call room.

Frank was sitting on the edge of the cot, sipping from a fresh Red Bull and scrolling through his phone like nothing was wrong. He looked up, grinned. “Hey, baby. Didn’t think you were on tonight.”

“I’m not,” she said quietly, shutting the door behind her.

He frowned at her tone. “Everything okay?”

“I know, Frank.”

His expression didn’t change. “Know what?”

“I know about the pills. I know what you’ve been doing.”

Silence fell. Thick and suffocating.

He stood slowly, the can in his hand shaking just slightly. “I don’t know what you think you know—”

“Don’t,” she said sharply. “Don’t lie to me.”

He swallowed hard. “Y/N…”

“You’ve been altering scripts. Signing off on meds that were never given. I checked the logs. You think no one would notice?”

“I’m not a junkie,” he snapped. “A junkie couldn’t do what I do every day. I run trauma codes, I intubate drunk driving victims with one hand and hold pressure with the other. A junkie couldn’t do that.”

Her chest rose and fell in a slow, controlled breath. “You’re addicted, Frank. That’s what this is. And I don’t care how steady your hands are or how many lives you save—you’re still stealing. You’re still lying. And if Abby finds out…”

That stopped him. The sound of his ex-wife's name leaving the lips of the woman he loved.

“She will fight you for custody,” Y/N continued, her voice cracking. “And she’ll win, Frank. You think the board will let you near narcotics again? You think a court’s going to hand your weekends with the kids to someone diverting benzos from their hospital?”

His jaw clenched, but he didn’t speak.

“This isn’t just about us,” she whispered. “You have kids, Frank. They didn’t ask for any of this.”

He turned away, his shoulders tight, head bowed like the weight of the room was finally crushing him.

“I know,” he murmured. “God, I know.”

She swallowed the knot in her throat. “You want to tell me you’re not a junkie, fine. But what happens when Abby finds out? When the hospital files a report? What happens when you have to look your kids in the eye and explain why Daddy can’t come around anymore?”

His breath hitched.

“I’m not trying to hurt you,” she added, softer now. “But this… this will destroy you, Frank. If you don’t stop it now.”

He didn’t say anything.

He laughed bitterly, running a hand through his hair. “You don’t get it.”

“Then help me understand.” she pleaded. “You lied to me, Frank. For months.”

He didn’t say anything.

“Why?” she whispered. “Why couldn’t you just tell me?”

Frank sat down again, burying his face in his hands. His shoulders shook, and for the first time since she’d known him, he looked like he might break.

“After the divorce,” he said finally, voice hollow, “I couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t eat. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her face. Everything I lost. And then the ER… it’s never-ending. One shift bleeds into the next. I needed to keep going. Just… keep going.”

She said nothing. Let him talk.

“So I started small. Just to take the edge off. Then I needed more. And I knew how to get it. Then we got together and you deserved more than the mess that I am.”

Y/N’s eyes burned.

“I’m not proud of it. I’m not… asking for forgiveness.”

She sat down beside him, but didn’t touch him. “So what now?”

He looked up at her, eyes red. “I’ll tell Dr. Robby. I’ll get clean. I swear. I just—” His voice broke. “I can’t lose you.”

She reached for his hand.

“Frank,” she said softly. “You need to get clean because you want to. Not for me. Not for this relationship. But for you.”

He nodded slowly, brokenly.

“But I’ll be there,” she said, “every step of the way. If you let me.”

He squeezed her hand. “I don’t deserve you.”

“Maybe not,” she whispered, “but you still have me.”

[thesquidgame]

Predictable

Hwang In-ho x wife!reader

Part One Part Two

Summary: Your peaceful married life is disrupted by strange symptoms.

Warnings: ANGST, money issues, hospitals, disease outbreak (MERS), disease symptoms (not MERS), poor working conditions, bad coworker, (implied) understaffed hospitals, panic, health problems, medical condition, neurological symptoms, blood, graphic depictions of medical emergency, vomiting blood, stepping on glass, extended TWs: here

Word Count: 2k~

Your apartment was dingy and small. It was on the outskirts of Seoul, and your had to take three buses to get to work. But it was alright. Your house was clean, and In-ho came home every day before you and made dinner. Your schedule was a bit more unpredictable. As an ER nurse, you tried whatever you could to get home on time, but mostly, you ended up at work until midnight. 

It was a hectic job, but you were used to it. Unlike some of your colleagues, nothing extreme had happened to you in years, the first and only time being when you were accidentally stabbed with a needle. Still, it was stressful, but In-ho made all of that anxiety go away the second you saw him.

Whenever you came home, your husband would smile, kiss you, and present the delicious dinner he had made you. You would then sit at the dinner table and talk about your days, sometimes for hours, into the early hours of the morning. Then, you would wake up and do it all over again.

Your friends remarked on how boring you and In-ho’s lives were, that there was no real excitement, and that you were just going through the motions. You couldn’t disagree more. You loved going through the motions, and waking up every day knowing what you would do, and that your husband would be waiting for you at home. The predictable joy was your paradise. In-ho would wonder too, questioning if this was what you wanted. He couldn’t imagine how someone like you would want to be with a boring policeman with a 9-5 job. You couldn’t explain it, didn’t need to, you just loved spending time with your husband.

Your wedding was small and cheap, in the worship hall of a local church on a Saturday afternoon. Your family didn’t have the money for a flight to attend, and you couldn’t afford to bring them to you. So, your family was replaced by your friends, and Jun-ho walked you down the aisle.

The reception was in your house, and you and In-ho had stayed up late the night before making food. It was the best day of your life, and your friends and family stayed up late eating in the basement of the church at folding tables.

That night, you and an In-ho made love for the first time (always a gentleman), and as you slept on his chest he promised you that he would do anything for you. Even if he couldn’t give you much in terms of nice clothes, or a nice apartment, he would make you as happy as he possibly could.

In the fifth year of your marriage, both your and In-ho’s careers became enormously stressful. The MERS outbreak in South Korea made your hospital one of the central trauma centers for victims, and In-ho received a promotion, giving him more and more hours away from home.

One day, during a long shift, you almost passed out. The hospital was loud and frantic, and you fell over in the middle of the ER, the voices and lights around you becoming a blur. You only were able to regain focus when a doctor grabbed you by your shoulders and screamed in your face, “Get the fuck up and treat your goddamn patients!” He screeched, the force of it causing spit to fly into your face.

Dazed, you got up and continued treating patients, pushing your brief pass-out back into your mind as just a brief fluke.

Over the next week, you were less and less hungry when In-ho would make food. He would look at you concerned, “Honey, is there something wrong with the food? I thought this soup was your favorite.” 

You offered a weak smile in return, “I love it In-ho, I just don’t have an appetite today. Sorry.”

He smiled back, “All alright, just let me know if I can do anything.”

Work got more hectic for both of you, and moments of exhaustion grew in you more and more, but all could likely be attributed to the stress of the job.

The nausea started a month after the exhaustion. At least once during a shift, you would have to run to a bathroom to throw up. After one especially hard day, where, with still six hours left in you had already thrown up three times, you called In-ho crying.

“In-ho.” You said through sobs.

Nothing else passed your lips, but immediately your husband broke out into a flurry of questions, “Honey, what’s wrong? Is everything okay, did something happen?” You could hear the panic in his voice as clearly as you could see it if he was standing right in front of you.

You didn’t say anything for a minute, just continued crying as you heard In-ho try to interject several times, but each time he stopped himself, waiting for you to say something.

You were just about the explain the situation when you heard someone knock on the door of the bathroom, “Nurse Hwang, are you in there?”

“Yes, I’ll be out in a minute.” You said, your hand shaking as you held the phone.

“We need you out here now, you can’t waste time in the bathroom.” Your coworker said. She was nice, and a recent graduate of college. Her inexperience and fear were evident, and while whatever problem she was facing was likely her responsibility, she would be torn to shreds by your boss if she didn’t do everything right, and you had to help her.

“In-ho, let’s talk when we get home.” You said, forcing your sobs back into your throat.

“(Y/n), wait-” You didn’t let him finish, hanging up now was already hard enough but if you let him talk longer it would only get worse.

The chaos of your shift only got worse and worse, and it was nearly 4 AM by the time you got home. You felt like death itself had risen and slapped you across the face.

In-ho was sitting at the table, his leg bouncing so hard you could feel the vibrations through the floor. “(Y/n), what’s wrong are you okay?!” He said, panic radiating off his skin as he reached up and grabbed your hands, searching his gaze up and down you.

You had called him earlier tonight, hadn’t you? But for some reason, the why just wasn’t there, “I- I called you earlier today, right?”

His brow furrowed in confusion, “yes, you were crying. I’ve been terrified for hours. What happened?”

You looked away from him, “I- I don’t remember.”

“What do you mean, you don’t remember? Honey, what’s going on?” He grabbed your shoulders, out of concern, and you winced away from him.

“Ow, that hurt.” You muttered, rubbing your shoulders.

The fear only seemed to grow in his eyes, “I didn’t grab you that hard I didn’t think. I’m so sorry, are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m fine, it’s just been a long day.” You gave him a half-hearted smile, “can we just go to bed?

He frowned but nodded and gently wrapped you in a hug, “Of course, let’s sleep, and tomorrow we’ll see if you can remember.”

Nothing came to you in the morning, and when you took your shirt off to change into your scrubs, you noticed purple bruises on your shoulders from where In-ho had grabbed you the night before. 

“Honey, is everything all right in there, you’ve been changing for a while?” In-ho called in from the other room.

“Yeah- yeah, everything’s okay.” You put your shirt on, not telling In-ho so as to not upset him. You knew that he hadn’t grabbed you that hard, so you didn’t want to scare him with freak bruises.

In the next month, it became harder and harder to function. Your body constantly felt exhausted and weak and sore, and you almost never had an appetite. Sleep was rare to come by due to a constant itching feeling that would spread over your body.

The world felt blurry a lot of the time, you got more confused and forgetful at work and at home, and your bosses would tear into you more and more. It was difficult to bring anything up to In-ho, his schedule became so busy that you talked less and less, and you didn’t want to stress him out with problems that were likely just caused by a stressful job.

Whenever he would notice something, and ask you what was wrong, it felt like pieces of a puzzle that wouldn’t fit when you were answering. Your responses wouldn’t quite make sense, you would say something a little bit incorrect, or wouldn’t completely answer the question. Both you and In-ho were confused by it, but neither had the time nor energy to prod further.

Everything in your life was falling apart and getting worse and worse, but you felt too dazed most of the time. You couldn’t really think about everything happening, and it all just spiraled out of control.

In-ho awoke in the middle of the night to the sound of gagging. He stumbled out of bed, wondering if you had eaten something that upset your stomach.

“(Y/n)?” He asked as he walked to the bathroom, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

Nothing could have prepared him for what he saw in front of you. You were crouched down on your hands and knees, a couple of feet in front of the toilet, throwing up. Throwing up near-black dark vomit.

“(Y/n)!” In-ho, in that moment, felt more terrified than he had ever before in his entire life. He ran over to you and crouched down on the ground next to you. Your entire body was shaking, and you kept throwing up. “(Y/n), what’s wrong? What’s happening? What’s going on?” He didn’t know what to do. No amount of disaster or emergency training he had received had prepared him for this moment.

You didn’t answer, couldn’t answer. He grabbed you in his arms, and you shook against his chest as he ran out of the apartment. He didn’t put on shoes, or a jacket. A broken bottle his neighbor dropped in the hallway cut his feet as he ran to the elevator, but he didn’t feel it. You were still throwing up on his chest and his fear for you was all he could focus on.

The car ride felt like it lasted hours. You were in the passenger seat, never stopping throwing up. His feet were cut up, and his white shirt was covered in blood.

He parked right in front of the ER you worked in, not pulling into a parking space. He carried you in his arms to the front desk, and all of the staff stared in shock for a brief moment at the sight of their coworker being carried by her husband, covered in blood. Within a quarter of a second that felt like an hour, they all rushed into action.

Someone took you out of his arms and placed you on a gurney, wheeling you into a trauma bay, while blood from In-ho’s feet followed you in a trail. Your eyes opened and shut, and you focused on your husband yelling your name, “(Y/n), (Y/n)!” As his face and voice faded in and out.

Part two will be out soon!

[kajibunny]

☾⋆⁺₊✧ help! i can't fall asleep ‧₊˚⋆✩. w/ the wind breaker boys

✿ featuring: haruka sakura, hayato suo, ren kaji, hajime umemiya, jo togame, yamato endo (first time writing endo! hihi) ✿ contains: comfort, fluff, established relationship, a lil suggestive (suo's and endo's part) ✿ a/n: why aren’t kaji’s and endo’s eyes closed in the banner? because they’re not getting any sleep tonight, that’s why! jk i just couldn’t find any pics ( ≧ᗜ≦) wishing you cuties to have sweet dreams of your favorite wb boi every night! ⟡ ✿ wc: 2k

— you can’t sleep, you say? well, your boyfriend believes he has the perfect remedy - and by that, he means himself.

ʚɞ suo -

you've always slept next to suo on your shared bed. until recently, he'd been coming home late due to his busy schedule and night patrols. 

the bed felt cold whenever he wasn't there with you, and it dawned on you as soon as you reached your hand out and felt the empty space next to you. as you tossed and turned, you realized that you can't get yourself to fall asleep without him.

suo came home a little while later and found you waiting for him by the couch, grasping his pillow which smelled faintly of him in your hands, his familiar scent enveloping you as you wrapped your arms around him and welcomed him home with a kiss. 

"hm, my little night owl can't sleep again? want me to make you some herbal tea?" he offered, laying down on the couch with you, a smile present on his face. you could tell he was tired, but he always put you first.

"no, hayato, want you..." you shyly responded. 

"how do you want me, love?" he asks in return. "like this?" he pins your wrist down on the couch with his hand and leans down to trail kisses on your collarbone. suo still hasn't lost his teasing side despite his exhaustion, it seems.

"you know what i mean..." as much as you wanted suo in all aspects, you knew that rest is important, too.

suo tucked your stray hair behind your ear. "can't fall asleep if i'm not beside you, huh?" he chuckled softly, as you nodded in response. 

"i want you...to come to bed, hayato." you pleaded, almost a whisper, feeling a wave of calm immerse you as soon as you felt suo's presence. suo hummed in response as your eyes slowly fluttered shut. you two never made it to bed and instead ended up sleeping on the couch, with you in suo's arms, while he held you tightly, showing you how dearly he missed you.

ʚɞ kaji -

you've accidentally overstayed at kaji's house because you were up late watching the concert livestream of your favorite band together, and now you two were in a heated debate over which song was performed the best, if it was his favorite, or yours. 

"okay, fine. your favorite song is better, ren. anyway, you're my favorite." you attempted to be sweet with your boyfriend, leaning your head on his shoulder and nuzzling your cheek against his. kaji sighs and pats your head softly in return. 

"go home already. it's past midnight." he closes his laptop that was streaming the end of the concert, and stood up from the floor, extending his hand to you and telling you that he'd bring you home, but you chose to stay seated and didn't move an inch. 

"i don't want to." you crossed your arms and pouted. 

"where are you going to sleep, then?" kaji looks down at you while anticipating a retort. once you had your mind set, there was no talking you out of it, it seems. 

"aren't you going to be a good boyfriend and offer your bed to me, ren?" you pitched the idea to kaji, who just furrowed his brows in frustration at your unwillingness to do what he asks of you. 

"don't you have your own bedroom? in your house?" he asks rhetorically, earning another huff from your lips. 

"it's not the same-!" you blush, wishing he would just offer his bed to you already. it's not like it's the first time you two shared a bed.

"fine, come here." kaji opens his blankets and leaps into his bed, leaving a small space for you, as you hopped into his blankets with him and snuggled closely into the back of his hoodie.

kaji turns over to look at you, and his sleepy gaze almost made your heart leap out of your chest. 

he had his headphones on, but you could hear a faint and familiar beat from it. you then realized that it was your favorite song playing. 

"is that my-" before you could finish, kaji put his headphones on you. 

"this reminds me of you, it usually helps me fall asleep..."

he takes in your surprised reaction from knowing that he thinks about you before going to bed. "okay, yeah. maybe your favorite song is better. anyway, you're my favorite, too." kaji admits to you. now you're so enamored with him that you think you won't let kaji get any sleep tonight, either. 

ʚɞ sakura - 

it's not the first time you've slept next to sakura, but for him it always feels like it's the first time. 

it took a little while for sakura to adjust to having a warm presence next to him while he sleeps, and this time he has tucked himself at the furthest corner of the futon, which may seem like he's avoiding you at first glance. 

don't get him wrong, he really loves you so much, it's just that he's feeling quite nuanced still, and is not sure how to get used to your affections.

"haru, you don't like sleeping beside me? why are you so far away?" you admittedly also had a difficult time adjusting, but for a different reason. it was because you wanted to cuddle up close next to sakura as you bask in his warmth and he heats you up like a furnace. although now, with him more than arm's reach away, your shared futon just felt cold and empty to you. 

"i can't fall asleep like this." you say as you roll yourself over to sakura, his body coming into contact with yours. 

"i can't fall asleep either when you're so close to me. i'm just..not used to sleeping beside anyone." he refused to face you, a bright red blush creeping up his cheeks. thankfully the lights were mostly turned off so you couldn't see it. 

"still? well, you better get used to it, because i'm not going to sleep until you hug me." you remarked.

sakura slowly turned to face you. "fine. just a hug, then?" he just wanted you to be able to sleep properly, so if it means getting himself to adjust quickly, then so be it.

"why? want to kiss me too?" you slyly responded, making his blush turn an even deeper shade. 

"i-if that's what it takes to get you to fall asleep, then fine!" he quickly pecks your lips then turns his back to you again, letting you hug him from behind and hold him in your arms. you giggle to yourself as you feel sakura ease into your touch, little by little. 

ʚɞ umemiya - 

umemiya knew you like the back of his hand. 

he knew you had trouble sleeping, and he'd never want you to stay up by yourself, so he often tried to match your sleep schedule. keyword: tried. the thing is, umemiya always ends up falling asleep no matter how hard he tries. being around you at night just always made him feel very calm and secure...and sleepy.

with heavy eyelids, umemiya tried his best to stay focused on the book he was reading, while you were seated in between his legs, caged in his arms, reading along with him. 

"i know you're really sleepy, haji. it's okay, let's continue tomorrow. you should rest, you had a long day today." you say in a soft voice. umemiya puts the book down on your lap, perching his chin on top of your head. 

"i wanted to stay up with you tonight." you swore you could feel him frown a little, as umemiya wanted to spend every waking moment with you, literally. 

in seconds, umemiya was half-asleep, forehead pressed against your shoulder while already dreaming about presenting you with his freshly sprouted batch of tomatoes from his garden. "for you, my gorgeous little petal..." he murmurs.

"aww, i love it, thank you, hajime! i see you're having dreams as sweet as you are too." you smiled and played along with him, moving back to position umemiya's head on the pillow and tucked him into bed, pressing gentle kisses on his face. 

"love you...beautiful...tomato..." umemiya mumbles while reaching for you with his eyes closed, and ends up pulling you in to lay on his chest. "your beautiful tomato loves you too." you cooed, seeing umemiya smile lovingly at you in his slumber. 

ʚɞ togame - 

the first time you spent the night at togame's, you insisted on sleeping in the living room, despite him hoping you'd want to sleep next to him in his bed. 

your hesitation had stemmed from a mixture of nerves and respect for his space, but now, as the night wore on, you found yourself yearning for his comforting presence.

you carefully entered togame's room and walked towards his bed. "jo?" you whispered and nudged his shoulder a little.

he slowly awakened, yawning and rubbing his eyes. normally, he would be annoyed if anyone tried to wake him up, but not you, you were the exception. he only looked at you with pure love in his eyes. 

togame looked so soft under the light of the moon, a gentle smile forming on his lips as he laid his sleepy green eyes on yours. "yes, my angel?" 

"...can i sleep in here with you?" you asked, clutching your pillow and blanket, knowing you can't go to sleep if you were to do so alone in the living room.

togame's smile widened, a knowing glint in his eyes. "yeah? you want to? i knew you wouldn't be able to stand sleeping in separate rooms. you'd miss me too much." he pulled you into his bed, pressing gentle kisses to your cheek and neck.  

"i do miss you, i guess." you admitted, melting into his embrace. 

"i missed you too. the bed felt too big without you." togame chuckled softly, wrapping his arms around you. 

you let out a small giggle as well. togame took up most of the bed with his tall form so him saying that the bed felt too big was kind of funny. "the sofa also felt too big without you." you told him.

you two laughed at your own silliness, as you initiated a little pillow fight with togame before he caged you in a tight hug. 

you eventually drifted off to sleep, cozily positioned between togame's arms, realizing that this was exactly where you were meant to be. sleeping beside him, on the bed (and not in the living room) together.

ʚɞ endo -

the reason you couldn't sleep these past few days is because of endo himself. you swore that tonight would be the night that you'd finally complete all eight hours. but of course, endo had other plans for you.

"oh, you won't be sleeping again tonight, pretty girl." you felt the mattress dip slightly as endo sat down beside your form which was curled up in your blankets, his presence as unavoidable as ever.

"again, yamato? we've been doing it for three nights straight now, you're insatiable." you hoped to set your boundaries with endo, but it seems he has no intentions of letting you rest. "you're like in heat or something." you add.

"but you love me and you give in to me anyway." endo chuckles softly, the sound both comforting and infuriating in its familiarity.

"i don't know, do i?" you responded, peeking out from under the covers to meet his mischievous gaze.

"well, you better admit it, or else no sleep for you tonight either." he said simply. you couldn't tell if endo was being serious or just joking.

"fine, i love you a little." you considered his words, the constant tug-of-war between his desire and your denial wearing you down. 

"just a little? you sure? it didn't seem like it last night when you were screaming my name." he leaned closer, his tattooed fingers gently brushing your cheek. 

"okay, maybe i love you a lot. just maybe." you roll your eyes and tried your best to resist yourself from smiling. 

"that's more like it." endo's eyes sparkled with triumph, but there was genuine affection there too, just for you.  

it made you realize that even if you did try and fulfill your eight hours of sleep right now, those eight hours would be filled with thoughts of endo. maybe you were as infatuated with him as he was with you too, just maybe. 

© kajibunny 2024 / all rights reserved

[mariasont]

dangerous currents

sharing a wall with hotch means resorting to a midnight swim, you weren't expecting him to join you

pairing: aaron hotchner x sweetheart!reader warnings: fem!reader, midnight swim, reader alluding to some naughty thoughts, hotch accidentally grabs readers ass prompt: here wc: 1.2k

Honestly, you don’t recall consciously deciding to go swimming. One minute you’re wrestling with sheets that somehow manage to be both itchy and disappointingly thin, trapped in the endless loop of your overly chatty brain, and the next you’re thigh-deep in moonlit waves, saltwater lapping around you like a peace offering for your misery.

If you’re being brutally honest (and lately, brutal honesty seems to be your new best friend), your insomnia might have something, just a smidge, to do with Hotch lying just inches away, separated by drywall and what might as well be actual paper for insulation.

Your hearing has leveled up overnight, picking up every breath, every toss and turn from his side. 

It feels wrong, intrusive even, but also exhilaratingly intimate.

Which explains why, at two in the morning, you’re out here, counting on saltwater to settle your overactive mind and extinguish the stubborn heat flooding your face.

You’re mid-float when your instincts snap you upright, adrenaline spiking so fast you almost inhale a lungful of ocean.

There’s a shadow on the shoreline.

But then it steps forward, moonlight carving out the unmistakable angles of a handsome face that sends your stomach tumbling into your feet for a different but no less stressful reason.

Hotch.

You could laugh or cry, but instead, you quietly make your way towards the shore, waves breaking around your ankles.

“You scared me half to death,” you mumble, hugging your arms around your chilled body and feeling every bit like a reckless kid who’s just disappointed the one person she desperately wanted to impress.

“Do you know how unsafe it is to swim alone at night?” His lips press into a straight line. “Anything could’ve happened, and none of us would have any idea.”

“Sorry,” you exhale, sincerity tangled up with humiliation as your gaze flickers upward through wet lashes. 

You mean it. Of course you do — he looks worried, and that worry always seems worse when it’s aimed directly at you.

Hotch studies you for a second, then asks, “Do you plan on coming inside anytime soon?”

Going inside would be simpler. Easier. You could neatly sidestep this entire messy situation.

But the moment you close the door behind you, it’s back to square one — too quiet, too dark, thoughts screaming at you in surround sound.

A single creak of his bed, and suddenly you’re in dangerous territory. What if he sleeps shirtless? Or in boxers? What if that sound he just made is the result of an indecent dream?

And then, somehow, you are the indecent one, palms tingling with a restless need that used to feel rare but lately shows up with frustrating frequency.

All because of him.

“I think I’ll stay out for a little longer,” you say, tossing a forced shrug. “The ocean hasn’t tried to kill me yet, so I figure we’re on decent terms.” 

Hotch arches a brow at that, clearly unamused. He glances at the ocean, then back to you, a silent calculation taking place behind dark eyes.

Then, without warning, he grabs the hem of his shirt, pulling it over his head in one fluid motion, folding it once before tossing it onto the sand.

“What are you doing?”

He gives you a faint, reckless half-smile. “Making a bad decision.”

You laugh, more out of shock than anything else.

He steps toward the water, shirtless, and suddenly every thought you’ve ever had vacates your head.

Sure, yesterday you’d seen him on the beach, but that was distant and crowded, shielded by sunglasses and casual team conversation. 

Here, now, it’s just you, him, and the unsparing glow of moonlight revealing every agonizing thing you absolutely shouldn't notice. Like the dark dusting of chest hair, the disciplined sculpt of muscle across his torso, the line of hair drawing your gaze lower, lower —

You swallow roughly, stepping deeper into the water to physically pull yourself out of danger, but your gaze betrays you once more, darting sideways in helpless fascination.

“How did you know I was out here?”

“You’re not exactly quiet.”

Your blood turns to ice, then instantly flares hot. How did it never occur to you that if you could practically track his breathing patterns, he could easily have heard your shifting, your whispered curses, or worse, that one barely suppressed sigh when your imagination got carried away earlier.

“I guess not,” you mutter, “I didn’t realize you were listening.”

His laugh is quiet but genuine, and you’re surprised to find yourself smiling in return. How bizarre yet wonderful it is to witness the softer version of Hotch, miles away from the person he has to be at Quantico. You suddenly want very much to keep him like this.

“Funny,” he murmurs, “I was thinking the same thing about you.”

Your face instantly burns, and you’re suddenly extremely grateful for the darkness, although knowing your luck, that probably isn’t really doing you any favors. You force a shaky laugh, pretending you didn’t just hear the tease in his voice, or at least pretending it didn’t affect you.

“You really didn’t have to come out here,” you say, eyes fixed stubbornly on the horizon past his shoulders. “I would’ve been fine, you know.”

The water rises around your collarbones, licking under your chin with every small movement. Hotch stands barely submerged past his chest. Even nature is unreasonably biased toward him.

You dig your toes deeper into the sand, resisting the tide and the impulse that keeps nudging you closer to him.

“Someone has to make sure you don’t drown.” 

You open your mouth — to protest, maybe flirt (wishful thinking, obviously), or perhaps just awkwardly deflect — but before you can embarrass yourself further, a sudden wave crashes forward, knocking you straight into him.

Hotch barely budges, absorbing most of your momentum, but your hands land catastrophically. One lands safely on his chest, but the other falls disproportionately lower, fingers splayed over the enticing line of hair disappearing beneath his waistband. 

Simultaneously, his own hand catches your hip, then slides, firm and unintentional, on your ass.

Both of you freeze. 

“Sorry — I — um, the wave.” As if that clarifies anything at all.

Beneath your hand, his stomach tenses, his chest lifting with increasingly rapid breaths.

Still, Hotch doesn’t move, doesn't shift away. His palm stays exactly where it landed, warm, and surely, he has to know exactly what he’s doing. He has to.

“You’re freezing.”

“I —,” you start but whatever you meant to say disappears before it finishes forming. 

He slowly, almost reluctantly lifts his hand from you. Your skin sparks at the loss, hypersensitive where he just was.

When you meet his eyes again, something new flickers there — something you’re certain wasn’t present before tonight. 

Want.

It’s a look he’s taught you to recognize — eyes darkening, pupils dilating, respiration just a bit quicker. Except this isn’t an interrogation room, and the person in front of you is not a suspect, he’s Hotch.

And this want feels very, very personal.

But he only nods once, then glances toward the beach house.

“We should get out of the water.” 

You don’t want to get out. Every part of you rebels at the idea of leaving this bubble. This fragile space that’s somehow made everything else feel distant, unreal.

But you can’t deny the truth in what he doesn't say. If this boundary were broken tonight, there’s no going back, no returning to the careful neutrality you’ve both perfected.

So, you nod slowly, forcing acceptance as your heart protests.

He moves first, and you fall into step beside him, close enough that your shadows merge.

join me at the beach for my 1 year/4k event!

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[ryusuisloveinterest]

Dr. Stone headcanons of the Wise Generals' sleeping habits? Pretty please🥺

hello 🦕 anon! So sorry for the wait but I hope you enjoy the little headcanons! Just imagining this was so cute to me so I really hope you enjoy!🫶

5 wise generals sleeping habits 💤💞

Senku: 

I think Senku would actually have a pretty good sleep schedule 

He needs the right amount of sleep to use his brain to the fullest 

As for sleeping in general he’s a side sleeper

He hates laying on his back and hate laying on his stomach 

He’s not a cuddler AT FIRST

But as time goes on he gets a bit more clingy

First it’s just hand holding

Then it was intertwined legs

But one night he woke up and you weren’t there

He walks around the hut (if it’s the Stone Age) or the house (if it’s modern or 4d science) looking for you

He kinda gets nervous until he sees you coming out of the bathroom

He chuckles as you follow him 

As soon as you both lay in bed he locks you with his arms and legs and you’ve both slept like that ever since 

Chrome:

Chrome tries to have a good schedule, but his mind just wakes him up in the middle of the, curious about many things he’s yet to learn

You’ll often find him messing with his rocks or just sitting up and looking outside

“Oh I’m sorry did I wake you? I just couldn’t sleep.”

A lot of times you’ll just sit with him and let him ramble or you slowly drag him back to bed

There are some nights where you’ll fall asleep while you guys are talking and either you’ll wake up in the same spot you fell asleep in or you “magically” end up back in your bed

The few times Chrome doesn’t wake up he’s a heavy HEAVY sleeper 

I’m talking like the world could literally be ending and he’s still somehow asleep 

He’s an everywhere sleeper. As in his body is all over the place when he’s asleep 

You two will start off cuddling but by the end of the night Chrome’s horizontal to the bed with his waist all twisted up and his arms all over the place

You might even accidentally get punched or kicked once or twice💀

Gen:

Gen can just magically falls asleep

He doesn’t even show signs of being tired he’ll just be like, “goodnight y/n” and then knock out

He doesn’t really have a sleep schedule but always gets his 8 hours or more

Like some nights he goes to bed at 8 but then wakes up at 7 or he goes to bed at midnight and wakes up at 11 in the morning 

I say he’s either a normal side sleeper or he sleeps in the fetal position 

Sometimes he’s cuddly and other times he’s not 

He’s either all up on you, just holding your hand, or just close

Ukyo:

I think Ukyo would still kinda have his military sleep schedule engraved in him somehow 

From what very little I know about the military there’s the same rise and shine and nighty nighty all the time so expect Ukyo to have the same schedule every single day

I think he’s a light sleeper so try your best not to toss and turn

He likes to sleep on his side or on his back

His breathing is very light so it literally sounds like he’s dead some nights

It’s genuinely concerning 

He loves cuddling, unless you move around a lot, then it’s harder for him to sleep

Massage his head and he’s out

He’s honestly like a cat, just so satisfied when you rub his head

Ryusui:

What’s a sleep schedule 😀

He either goes to bed at a reasonable time or is just up for days straight with little naps here and there

“My desire doesn’t sleep! So why should I?”

I swear 

You have to pull him to bed

When he FINALLY lays down, he’s all over you

Like you like your personal space, but he LOVES it

He’ll either be holding you, or you’re on top of him, or he’s on top of you, or some other weird position 

I hope your body’s normally cold cause his body runs extremely hot, so if you run cold then it’s more bearable 

Has the cutest little snore

I wouldn’t even consider it that it’s just a little squeak he kinda makes when sleeping 

Sometimes he sleeps the whole night, other times he wakes up and starts doing something 

If you choose to stay up with him because he would never make you he’ll share his thoughts and desires with you 

But if you stay asleep you’ll feel a light kiss on your head and hear a small “I love you” before he’s off doing who knows what 

[n0tamused]

Jiyaaaan request coming your way~

While training his soldiers, one of them accidentally calls him 'Dad'. This leads to the reader teasing them but Jiyan teases back by calling them 'Mom' (or the gender neutral for it?)

(Was reading tv tropes and Jiyan had the 'A Father to his Men' tropes in his character tab lol)

A/n: Anon this request was so sweet, thank you sm for sending it in! Jiyan the father of an army fr.. I do hope I executed it well. Enjoy!

Content: Jiyan x F!Reader, fluff and playful stuff, nothing more

The morning sun had long since shifted its axis towards the center of the sky, blazing down through cotton clouds that sailed the azure skies. Below them, in the open fields, west of the main base cacophony sounded, consisting of commands, groans and other sounds of effort as the Midnight Ranger performed their training. And today Jiyan had come to overlook the session himself, although it wouldn’t be the first time. He was often so preoccupied with tasks at the front lines that he didn’t have the time to be leading drills too frequently, but when he did get the chance to do so he would take it. While it wasn’t a full reprieve from the battle, it was still a stark contrast to the grotesque and twisted fates he’d see daily on the battlefield.

Jiyan was noticeably more disheveled by the end, hair messy and hanging in strands and clinging to his sweaty forehead, hands on his hips as his voice rose to meet all ears present. You have just been passing by, helping carry supplies that just came in, and loading old and empty boxes back to be refilled in the city. For once there was no rush that would make your legs ache or your lungs hurt, allowing you all the precious time to bask in the views, the soft chatter and, of course, your dear lover.

The sun caught his figure and formed a golden aura around him, his skin glistening, and you couldn’t help but take a seat at one of many big boxes at the side of the training grounds after you had finished your task. In passing you caught a few looks, and a few smiles of the soldiers you knew from before. They looked much  more lively, despite the rigorous training they just went through. It made your heart warm seeing them in better spirits, wishing nothing more than to see them prevail and be happy. And just as you had recognized a bunch of familiar faces did Jiyan conclude his small speech, about to dismiss everyone with advice of rest hanging on every word. He had spotted you from the start, when you were going by with supplies in arms and soon he’d have a chance to speak to you too, he thought.

“General Jiyan! General Jiyan, a word or two- if I may?” 

It was a voice of one of the new recruits, Jiyan noted as he gazed at the face of the youth, a boy of twenty or so years by the looks of it, and eyes full of curiosity and admiration. He had come up to Jiyan just as he had turned towards you, prompting him to stay rooted in his spot a little longer. A few more young rangers came up behind the recruit, sharing the same curiosity but also being aware of whatever the recruit had on his mind.

“Yes? Is there something you need?” Jiyan questioned, looking at the young man. From his peripheral vision he spotted you moving down from the boxes and joining his side, staying quiet after a short word of greeting towards his Rangers, but your presence felt like a cool breeze under this sun, and he appreciated it all the more.

“I just wanted to say how great today’s training session was, we learned so much more than we did with our drill sergeant” he praised, smiling up at Jiyan all the while, “And I just wanted to ask whether or not you’ll be leading our training session tomorrow as well? Or any other day that is, we would really benefit from your teaching. I mean, you've seen it all for yourself at the front lines!"

The other few with him nodded along, prompting a small smile of pride to form on your face from seeing their fascination with Jiyan. To them he was everything they aspired to be - strong, enduring, tough but not lacking kindness or knowledge. There were times where they were scared to approach him, not knowing how he’d react to their questions, but from observing his interactions with others they warmed up to the idea and plucked all their courage. 

A polite smile curled up on Jiyan’s face as he regarded the youth with gentle golden eyes. His presence as the drill sergeant today wasn’t due to his availability, but a simple coincidence and necessity to fill the shoes of their drill sergeant that had been injured due to Tacet Discords, and Jiyan just happened to be able to be there. “Ah, you have my thanks, rangers. If a replacement for your drill sergeant does not arrive tomorrow and I am not required to be at the front lines, then I will be leading your training tomorrow as well” he told them, which pleased them greatly to hear.  “Although I’m sure Sargent Jin’xi has much more to teach you, something much more important for your sound development in this profession. You cannot take his method lightly. He has seen everything I have, as well. His knowledge is as valuable to your growth, and even more so than mine. You need the good foundation he can give you” He was aware of how confusing or hard it could be to listen to Jin’xi, as the sergeant had quite the eye for details and slow progress in lessons due to his meticulous nature - but that also made him all the better for his station. He was observant and could pluck out bad behavior and mistakes like weeds, and that is better to be done here, than in the middle of battle.

“We know, general, but sergeant Jin’xi is just so hard on us.. sometimes it really seems like he has no limit” one of the women standing behind voiced, earning a look from Jiyan that spoke of his understanding but also his disagreement with the subtle message they were trying to send - please, replace sergeant Jin’xi, or, save us.

“Yeah! One time I accidentally mixed up the weapons in the storage room and he had me do everything on my own again, saying how such mistakes can’t happen on the front lines, how it all means life or death” the first young man said, brushing his fingers through his hair and sighing. “I understand it, but we just got here..” he added and looked at his comrades. 

What was supposed to be a short chit-chat turned swiftly into a gossip galore about Jin’xi. Had Jiyan been any different from the man he was currently, he would’ve scolded them, taken offense at how they spoke about his colleague, but he was in their shoes once, always on edge around the higher ups, and he wished not to bring that same unease to them. He didn’t fail to remind them to not speak like this in front of everyone, and to respect sergeant Jin’xi when he does eventually return, and they gave him their word.

The first young man that approached looked at Jiyan after their discussion, both hands on his hips and looking more relaxed. “We won’t forget that, I promise on my last name! Still, we appreciate your kindness, and one more thing dad- I MEAN- GENERAL!” His entire face crumbled into a look of terror, and all eyes of the group shot to him, looks of surprise and amusement appearing before several of them erupted into laughter after taking a wary glance at Jiyan - who was not offended.

“General Jiyan! Oh god- I apologize, general, I don’t know where that came from-” he stammered, shaking his head and his hands, face flushed from sheer embarrassment. More choked words tumbled out of his mouth, desperate to excuse himself and forget about this. 

Jiyan can’t help but chuckle, the corners of his lips twitching in a failed attempt to hold back his smile. “At ease, recruit. You have not done any crime” he nods at the other, his eyes softening and not showing any sign that he’s about to dish out some punishment - that’d be ridiculous. 

You can’t help but crack a laugh too, covering your lips with your hand as to stifle the sound, but your mirth was evident in your eyes. “Have I missed a chapter? I didn’t know you had kids, general Jiyan” you teased, earning a few shocked but heavily amused looks from the group. Giggles erupted once more, all stifled as they waited for Jiyan to respond to the quip.

Jiyan turns his head to look at you, his eyes boring into yours and questioning your intentions - you can read the thoughts going through your head and your smile only widens in a silent call to a challenge of wits. He didn’t expect you to say something like that, but he could only huff, hiding his amusement under an abrupt guise of confusion.

“Kids?.. Why, I had hoped you’d recognize your own kids, Miss (L/N)” he shot back instantly, making your jaw drop at his rebuttal, a gasp flying past your mouth. “General” you said, accusations plenty heard in your tone as the atmosphere melted into one of jest and play.

Many eyes flickered between you and him, taking in the easy way you conversed with one another.

“Yes? What’s the surprise for? The recruits look up to you too, if you fail to notice. You can confirm with them right now” he is shifting the spotlight to you, and the recruits are quick to jump in too. “It is right, miss. Personally I haven’t been around you for long, no longer than I interacted with the General, but you two are alike, you treat us new ones with a firm but kind hand” a young woman said, smiling at you, and you feel your heart climb into your throat. 

“Can we really be surprised, they’re always together too-” "Aren't they married?" Whispering is heard amidst the group, and Jiyan looks amidst the faces to catch the one that said that but fails to do so, or refuses to weed out the individuals, and his eyes go back to you to catch your response. It’d be a lie to say your relationship with him was a secret, everyone knew there was something deeper between the two of you, something you didn’t show in public due to the war and status, but it was undeniably there. Still, hearing it loud and clear like this was like a splash of cold water. Despite their chatter, the group remained respectful, sweet in their musings.

“Ah, quiet, I do not want to hear it. This is about you, General”

“Ah, don’t run from it now. You’re the one that started this” he commented, rolling his eyes as he folded his arms over his chest. “Anyway, you’re all dismissed. I have a word with.. mother over here. Off you all go. I will see you all in the morning for another training drill. Get some rest” he speaks to the group, gazing upon their faces, only to see how they looked at him with some sort of childhood wonder, and that’s when he realized he must be flushed too. A sheepish smile bloomed on his face. 

“Alright! Awesome-” “Yes, sir!"

“Have a good day, General! And you too, Miss!” 

He watched them leave, bidding them all farewell, and when he turned to face you again he saw you pinching the bridge of your nose, hiding away the biggest smile of the day, the apples of your cheeks redder than before. The Midnight Rangers were undeniably close in connection, having spent so many nights and days huddled together for warmth or laughs or protection, and this small exchange only warmed Jiyan’s heart, to witness how positively they felt around him - and you. 

“Didn’t think we’d become parents so soon. Have we gotten that old already?” Jiyan commented, tone softer in a way he only addressed you when you were alone, and there was no one near the training grounds to hear you.

“Oh, shut up, Jiyan-” you playfully snapped, biting your lip as you looked up at him, stifling a giggle. “You are unbelievable!”

“Hm? Did you expect me to stay quiet today or ignore your quips?” he smiled bigger and you have to admire the little dimples in his cheeks as the smile reaches his eyes, making them squint at you softly.

“I don’t know what I expected, but your response was certainly the last thing I expected” you replied and shook your head, as if that would shake off the redness tinting your skin, imitating him now by crossing your arms. The two of you were looking at each other, wordlessly admiring your red faces while throwing these little quips at one another. 

“Ah.. you’ll get used to it, dearest wife”

Ⓒ n0tamused. Do not repost, translate, edit, and/or copy any of my works. Likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated.

[theplotdemandsit]

When Five finally makes it back home with his siblings, finally makes it back to the right timeline, he finds he’s still holding his breath. 

“Is it really over?” He thinks out loud. 

“I guess there’s only one way to find out,” comes Luther’s response. 

So they do. And everything seems…normal?

But as much as Five wants to sleep for ten days straight, he can’t help but feel on edge. He spends his time visiting each sibling, popping in for dinners or briefly making sure they haven’t felt anything out of the ordinary. One day Allison asks him if he actually wants there to be an approaching apocalypse. His eyes fall onto Claire who’s catching him up on High School Musical the Musical the Series.

“No,” he answers. “I really don’t.” 

They make time for family dinners every Sunday. They still bicker and maybe swing some fists every now and then, but everyone is fast to apologize and laugh again. With room to breathe again without high stakes, the hurt finally begins to heal. They had been family before, but it slowly begins to feel like a real family. 

And for the first time, they really get to know each other. For all the crap they gave Luther about the moon, they listen as he shares the misery and loneliness and betrayal he felt. Allison describes her time as a Black woman in the 60s without her voice. Literally. Viktor tells them about what it was like growing up powerless only to end the world twice. How he lost his memory and found the one he loved only to lose that too. 

Klaus manifests Ben (who is still a ghost but as alive as he could get) and together they tell of their adventures growing up and the cult Klaus accidentally created. In between laughs, they also learn about Klaus’s harrowing experiences with drugs and death.

And Five? He has over 40 years of stories, and at first he doesn’t want to share any of it. His time in the Apocalypse, his time in the Commission, murdering for the sole purpose of survival in order to get back to his family—it’s not a side to him he wants his family to know about. 

But at the same time for reasons he can’t explain, he does want them to know. For the first time, he wants to talk to his family, the family he worked tirelessly to save. 

Little by little, he does just that. Every now and then he will start a sentence with, “Back in the Apocalypse…,” during dinner or his visits with them. Silly ones at first, like the time he had the nasty Twinkie. The time he sang all the Beatles songs he could remember and pretended he was having a concert. The time he found Umbrella Academy action figures and reenacted missions with them. 

When it’s just him and another sibling, he starts sharing some of the hard stuff too.

He tells Allison how he starved during his first winter alone and hallucinated that she had helped him find food. When he woke up he found himself in a storage house full of canned goods and bawled his eyes out.

He tells Diego about the first time he killed someone. How the scariest thing was that he wasn’t shaking. 

He tells Viktor how he sometimes still wonders if he deserves everything he got for messing with time in the first place. How he’s afraid that one of these days he’ll wake up and be alone again.

He tells Klaus about the time he thought about giving up and ending it all. 

He tells Luther about Dolores. About how even though he knew he was crazy for talking to a mannequin, Dolores was the better part of him that salvaged his sanity.

He tells Ben (and Klaus, by default) that his biggest regret is not being there. That he tries not to think about how things might have been different if he’d stayed.

Slowly, slowly, bit by bit, the tension eases from his shoulders. He stops worrying so much about the world ending and how to keep everyone alive. Instead, he spends his time going to the park with Claire, helping Diego and Lila with the babies, having midnight food outings with Klaus, and listening to Viktor play his music.

At their weekly family dinner, Luther tells Five he has a present for him and pulls out a box of Twinkies, saying, “I know you want to try one.”

Five gives him a practiced glare and says, “I would rather swim in a pot of boiling oil.”

Before, his family might have stared at him like he grew two heads, but now they laugh and think his retort is hilarious. Luther opens the box and pulls out a bag of marshmallows instead, and Five can’t help but crack a smile. 

One day they ask him what his plans are—what’s next for the oldest sibling.

Five warms his hands on a hot mug of coffee. “I’m tired of thinking about the future,” he tells them. “Right now, I just want to spend time with my family.”

That earns him plenty of “aww”s and “You’re such a softie, Five.” He waves them away and tries to duck out of their hugs, but they get him in the end. And even if he could teleport, he doesn’t want to.

He hadn’t been looking for happy, but he found it anyway.

Now cross-posted on Ao3 under the same handle!