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bettyvick · 2 days ago

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disturbia

Stalker!Sam Monroe x Reader

Summary: You’re new on the neighbourhood when you discover someone looking at you while you make exercise on your room.

Warnings: Stalking, creepy behaviour, cursing, kissing passionately, mention of masturbation, reader makes some sexual poses.

A/N: Inspired by the film disturbia that i’ve watched recently on netflix! I’m not romanticizing this type of behaviour.

Sam Monroe had messed up. Maybe punching his Italian teacher in the face hadn't been the best idea he'd had, but it wasn't the worst either. In Sam's eyes, it was justified; Mr. Philips had dared to mention his dead father, and those were the consequences.

The judge sentenced him to two months of house arrest. At first, it didn't seem so bad; in fact, he was enjoying it. He spent his days playing video games with his friends and drinking Monster Energy from a can. But then his mother cut off the internet, and his house became a veritable prison. He was so bored that he started doing anything.

Literally anything.

He took the breakfast buns, still in their wrappers, and stacked them together with glue to create a tower. He decorated his ugly plastic anklet, which beeped if he left the house, with a skull, and flipped through punk magazines, masturbating to the female models. But after a few days, nothing seemed fun anymore, so in a desperate act, he grabbed his old binoculars that he used when he went camping and started looking out the window.

It turned out that this was much more entertaining than all he had done yet. Within a few days, he had memorized his neighbors' routines. The woman across the street, Mrs. Braun, went out every day at 6 PM to walk her Maltese dog. The neighbor on the right had a plastic, blonde mistress whom he brought home every three days when his wife left with their kid to go grocery shopping. Ed Caskey, the mailman, delivered the mail every day at six in the morning and always tripped on Sam's porch step. Sam laughed every time he saw him lose his balance. Would he fall this time? Or maybe not.

Then something changed within the routine he had grown accustomed to. On the Tuesday of the fourth week of his house arrest, a moving truck appeared at the house on the left. He quickly grabbed his binoculars and saw you wearing shorts that looked too tiny to him, a short-sleeved top that hugged your torso perfectly, and your beautiful hair falling over your shoulders. You had captivated him, and he hated it. He tried to ignore you, but it was impossible. Especially when you went to your backyard in the afternoons and took a dip in the pool. The first time he saw you take off your clothes to reveal your white ‘near thong' bikini, he thought he was going to have a heart attack.

—That's it— he murmured as you dropped the dress you were wearing to the floor. Your legs looked soft and hypnotic. Then you dove into the water, swam a few laps, and lay back on the lounge, sunbathing while listening to music on your iPod. To him, it was like watching an R-rated show, but through his window.

You've never talked, and he thought it was unlikely to happen, because you seemed cool and popular, while he was under house arrest and had a Radiohead poster by his bed. But once, as he went out to pick up the newspaper within the limits of his anklet allowed, his eyes met yours. He stopped breathing at that moment.

—Hi— you said softly. Your voice sounded much sexier than he'd imagined.

He struggled to answer, «Say hi, you idiot» .

—Hi— he stammered. Fuck, he didn't stutter, especially not over a girl.

You gave him a tender smile and, with a chuckle, walked back home. He froze; he'd certainly made a fool of himself.

Later, he saw you arguing with your father through your bedroom window. He couldn't hear what you were saying, but you seemed angry, and that made him feel a strange sensation on his chest. When your father left the room slamming the door, you opened the window and climbed onto the roof. Sam knew you loved that place; you spent more time there than in your room. You read, listened to music, sunbathed, and sometimes even cried.

Another thing he loved was watching you exercise, how you'd lie on the mat on the floor and arch your back like a cat, wearing only a pink sports bra and tight leggings of the same color. It was almost pornographic. Sometimes you'd go for a run down the street, but he didn't enjoy that as much as watching you stretch and writhe on your bedroom floor. You were so elastic, and he wondered if you'd be elastic when he fucked you…

But one day while you were doing your workout, you looked at him —for a few seconds— but you looked at him. You realized he was there, with his binoculars. He immediately fell to the floor, his cheeks red with embarrassment.

If it wasn't enough that he had stuttered when you first spoke, now you'd caught him spying on you! He was an idiot. His heart was racing. He dared to look up from his desk at your window, but you were gone.

Where had you gone?

Ding-dong

He felt his stomach drop to the floor. This wasn't real, it couldn't be. With trembling hands and a racing pulse, he approached the door and looked through the peephole.

And there you were, in your pink gym clothes, looking gorgeous. He swallowed hard and opened the door.

To his surprise, you weren't angry. You greeted him politely and began to talk.

—I've noticed you don't leave the house much. Are you okay?— you said with feigned concern. He was expecting a direct confrontation, so it caught him off guard.

—Uh, yeah, well, I'm under domiciliary arrest…— You walked through the door, even though you hadn't been invited in, and with light steps but without running, you headed for the stairs.

—Hmm, wow, what did you do?— you asked, already heading upstairs. Sam followed you through the house, nervous as he was, walking quickly, and you also quickened your pace. You opened the doors to each room on the floor until you found his. When you reached the end of the hallway, Sam stood between you and the last door left to open.

—I don't recommend you go in, it's all a mess— he said, breathing heavily. You gave him a tender look that made him give up and let you in. And it was true, his room was a mess! There were clothes strewn everywhere, unfinished food containers, Lego pieces on the floor, and a very strong smell permeated the room.

—You weren't lying— you said, picking a pair of dirty underwear off a chair with your fingertips and throwing them at his chest with an amused smile. Sam grabbed all the trash he could and piled it in a corner of the room.

—I don't lie— he said, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand.

You scanned the room, analyzing everything you saw. From the gang stickers stuck to the closet to the black binoculars resting on the windowsill. You picked them up and brought them up to your eyes at the same angle they were positioned, giving you a complete view of your room and backyard.

You turned to him with a mocking expression, binoculars in hand.

—So you won't deny that you're spying on me— He opened his mouth to apologize, but he couldn't see how. Your gaze was now stern, and it scared him. There were a few seconds of silence that seemed to drag on.

—I'm sorry— he apologized, his head down.

Then, after a few seconds of looking at him in disgust, arms crossed over your chest, you laughed, dissipating the tense atmosphere that had built up.

—It was a joke— You turned back to the window, the device in your eyes. Sam let out all the air he'd been holding and came up behind you. —So this is what you do for fun.

You turned your gaze to the house across the street, where Mrs. Braun was coming out with her little dog.

—Maybe it will comfort you to know you're not my only victim— he said. But you were his favorite one.

His eyes fixed on your tight ass in those flattering tights. You were still looking through the binoculars, unaware of anything.

—In thirteen days, I've learned a lot about the people in the neighborhood. You wouldn't believe the things people do when they think no one's looking.

He had your attention.

—Tell me.

Sam took you by the shoulders and pointed to what he wanted you to look at.

—Do you see her? Mrs. Braun?

You nodded.

—Every day she goes out at the same time to walk her dog, Gretchen— you smiled, thinking it was cute.

—So?

—And, every day she comes home happier than when she left— then he pointed to a shop at the end of the street, and you followed him. You saw Mrs. Braun leave the dog tied to the railing and go inside. —She spends more than two hours in that shop and leaves Gretchen alone outside. That 'flower shop' is a gambling den.

You gasped in surprise, making Sam smile. He watched you, spellbound; you were prettier up close than through his window.

—What about Igor Porter?— you asked, pointing at the house on your right.

—Mr. Porter is the most interesting guy in the neighborhood— he began, daring to run the ends of your hair between his fingers, twirling them.

—Do you see the red car in front of the door?

—The one with the tinted windows?

—Mhm, wait and see

Mrs. Porter came out of the house a few seconds later with seven-year-old Barry. The boy was holding his mother's hand as she pushed an empty shopping cart.

—Wait a little more…— a few minutes later, the scarlet car door opened, revealing a stunning woman with blond hair, firm breasts, and a tiny waist. Igor Porter came out of the house almost immediately, and the girl practically threw herself into his arms. Mr. Porter kissed her, and now you were genuinely shocked.

You had just discovered an infidelity.

—Oh my God— you gasped, removing the device from your eyes.

—It's strong, isn't it?— You looked at him through your eyelashes with an incredulous smile.

—It is.

You spent the following weeks going to Sam's house. After all, your parents had gone on vacation to the beach with your sister, and as punishment for your bad behavior, your father had decided to keep you at home. You cried and begged, but none of it worked to get them to take you with them. You loved the beach.

Although you liked being with Sam; he was very different from all the boys you'd ever met: direct, sarcastic, and emo.

‘I'm punk, not emo. They're totally different things,’ he'd say.

‘Sure’ you'd reply.

You liked to tease him. You knew he was spying on you, so when you wanted to be seen, you'd open the blinds and do a little show for him, stripping with your back to the window or strolling around the room in your best underwear. Sometimes you'd pretend to be asleep in provocative poses, slightly lifting your ass in the air and spreading your legs a little. You’d like to imagine him with his cock in his hand, pumping rapidly and moaning your name.

Although nothing was far from reality.

But despite the flirting, you had struck up a good friendship. You told him about your old life in the other city, and he listened attentively; it was good for him to listen to real people because of the isolation. Sam liked listening to you; he thought your voice was sexy and soothing, he believed you had a fascinating way of thinking and that he could spend hours listening to you talk about anything.

You were Sam's errand girl when his mother was too tired to go herself to buy him new CDs, Monster, or pick up his sushi orders.

You also sometimes went out for walks around the city. On one of those walks, you met Claire, a girl very similar to you, with whom you quickly became friends. One thing led to another, and you ended up giving in to having a party at your house.

—Are you hosting a party?— Sam asked you, sounding offended.

—Yes— you affirmed, grabbing your bag to go home and get ready.

—And what about me?"

—You can't leave the house, Sam— you reminded him.

—I thought you didn't have any friends here— he quoted what you said a few days ago.

—And I don't. I met Claire recently and decided to give up my house to meet more people— you explained, tying your shoes.

—It's not fair— he complained, frowning.

You went back to your house despite Sam's pleas and went straight to the shower. Then you changed—with the curtains open but with your back to him—and put on your makeup. You wore a short, sleeveless, tight beige dress that accentuated your figure. It blended with your tanned skin.

Claire arrived first, with a few familiar faces, but from then on, anyone could enter your house. After an hour, your house was full of strangers, the music was loud, and alcohol was coursing through everyone's veins. You went out to the backyard, where your friend introduced you to several guys, all very friendly and very touchy, putting their arms around your waist or gently taking your arm between their fingers.

You noticed someone staring at you and occasionally glanced toward Sam's window. You couldn't see him because of the darkness, but you knew he was there, lurking.

Then classical music, clashing with the party music playing through your speakers, began to play from the black-haired’s house. All the guests turned around in confusion, but you were angry. Really angry. Since you had moved in, you felt extremely lonely. You had many friends in your old home and were used to always being surrounded by people. You felt trapped and out of place here. That party was the perfect opportunity to fit in, and Sam was ruining it with his childish games.

You rang the doorbell, and he appeared with an unbearable grin on his face.

—What's up?— he asked mockingly, but you'd already pushed him aside and were running toward his room. Sam chased you but tripped on the steps and fell behind. You found the amplifier that was playing music, connected to the boy's phone. You ripped out the wires connecting them and opened the window. Sam appeared in the doorway and approached you cautiously, his smile gone.

—Give me that— he ordered, holding out his hand.

—No!

—Come on, please give me that— he tried to snatch the phone from your hands, but you pushed it further away and threatened to throw it out the window.

—You're ruining everything!— you said, overwhelmed.

—I don't know what you're talking about...

—Of course you know! I'm trying to fit in. I'm lonely! It's not enough for all of us to spy on our neighbors through the window— you rebuked him.

—I haven't spied on you again!— he lied to himself as she rolled her spiked bracelet onto her wrist.

—That's a lie, Sam! I saw you, and you know I saw you!

He hung his head in shame.

—How long have you been staring at me? A week? Two? Since I moved out?— you gripped the iPod tightly, anger rising. —So what is it, Sam? Huh? What else have you seen?

—What else have I seen?— he asked, approaching slowly.

—Yeah. What else?

—Okay I've seen how you always pull your kleenex from the box in groups of three. Not two, not four, always three. I've seen you're the only one in the world who eats pizza-flavored Pringles. And you never stuff the chips in, you savor each one by dividing it into four precise bites. I didn't know that was even possible. You're also the first girl I've ever seen who spends more time on her roof than in her own house. And what do you do out there? You don't talk on the phone, you don't paint your nails, you read books. Now one would think with the whole numbers thing you've got going on that you'd put them on your shelf alphabetically, but you don't. Your system's much more perfect. The ones you like go on the bottom, the ones you love go in the middle, and the ones you need, the ones you keep. going back to... well they go straight to the top next to the dream encyclopedia. You know what all this tells me? You know how things should be. The world according to you. And guess what? It's a very entertaining and beautiful thing. Even when it takes a hit. When you end up in a place like this... when your parents dump their baggage on you, or just... when it seems like those curveballs are never gonna stop you know It sucks, but just so I get it. And even if no one else has, I've noticed that. And I ain't sorry. The only thing I'll even consider apologizing for is... not dropping the binoculars and telling you this a lot sooner…

A long beat as you peered into Sam's eyes. You slowly stepped closer to him.

—That was either the creepiest... or the sweetest thing I've ever heard— you said a few centimeters of his face.

Sam leans in and kisses you. His tongue intertwines with yours deliciously. You feel the piercing in his lower lip and catch it between your teeth, making him moan. His arms wrap around your waist and you walk together until he gently lays you down on the bed. Your hands clasp either side of his head and your legs intertwine around his hips as he climbs on top of you.

—You're going to drive me crazy— he says between kisses.

#sam monroe x you #sam monroe smut #sam monroe x reader #sam monroe #anakin skywalker #anakin skywalker x female reader #anakin skywalker x reader #anakin x reader #hayden christensen #hayden christensen x reader #hayden christensen smut #anakin skywalker x you #life as a house #hayden christensen x you #star wars anakin #stephen glass x reader #stephen glass #star wars #stephen glass smut

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falloutrebellion · 2 days ago

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Overgrown Part IV

Part I. Part II. Part III. Part IV.

Pairing: Kakashi x F!Reader

Prompt: Hokage Kakashi request

Summary: You served with Team Ro under Captain Kakashi in the ANBU Black Ops. Over time, the two of you had grown close, and your attraction was undeniable. However, fate led you apart when the Third Hokage assigned you to an indefinite infiltration mission into the Royal family of Kirigakure. You assume the identity of Lady Akari for the next eight years, enduring your new life as a court spy until you put a new successor on the throne. Now that your mission is complete, you can return home to the Leaf Village. But your past lover, Kakashi Hatake, is the new Hokage. Much has changed over the last eight years: His cold heart has warmed, yet yours has been trapped in darkness. Is there any chance he can love you as he once did?

Inspired by Overgrown- FELIVAND

Masterlist.

Tags: ANBU Reader, Reader with trauma, mentions of PTSD and trauma, canon typical violence, happy ending, slow burn, mutual pining, light angst, sorry but your parents are dead :(, future smut, fluff, flashbacks will be italicized, mentions of trauma, mentions of past sexual trauma, traumatic flashbacks, FLUFF

A/N: I'm so sorry for another delay- I had surgery and haven't been able to write, but I am back! Also, I just realized that this is burning slower than I intended but I wanted to make it super fluffy with an emotionally supportive Kakashi, SO with that being said, the next part is where the spice begins 😏

You woke up with your own cry caught in your throat, body rigid with terror, sweat drenching your borrowed shirt. For a moment, you couldn't remember where you were—the shadows in the unfamiliar room transformed into lurking enemies, and your heart hammered against your ribs like a trapped animal.

The dream. Always the same dream.

You pulled your knees to your chest, trying to steady your breathing as the memories crashed over you like a tidal wave. Six years later, you could still smell the cherry blossoms, could still feel the silk of your kimono against your skin as everything fell apart.

You knew something was wrong the moment you entered the garden pavilion. The birds had gone silent, and the usual guards were missing from their posts. Three weeks earlier, your spy had discovered documents in Mitsuo's private study linking him to human trafficking in three different countries. You had been careful—so careful—but somehow, he must have noticed the seal had been broken and reset.

"Lady Akari," Mitsuo's voice came from behind you, smooth as silk but cold as steel. "What a pleasant surprise to find you here, alone."

You turned, forcing a serene smile onto your face despite the alarm bells ringing in your head. "Lord Mitsuo. I was just admiring your garden. The cherry blossoms are particularly beautiful this season."

He stepped closer, close enough that you could smell the sickly-sweet incense that clung to his robes. His eyes, usually warm with false affection, were calculating, assessing. "Indeed. Beauty can be so... deceptive, wouldn't you agree?"

You tilted your head, playing the naive noblewoman you had pretended to be for the past two years. "I'm not sure I follow your meaning, my lord."

"No?" His smile didn't reach his eyes, showing something darker underneath. "Perhaps I can make myself clearer."

He snapped his fingers, and suddenly the garden was filled with his personal guard—ten men emerging from behind trees and structures, all armed, all watching you with intense predatory focus.

Your mind raced. You could take down three, maybe four, before they overwhelmed you. But the moment you showed any shinobi skills, your cover would be blown—not just for you, but potentially for any other Konoha operatives embedded throughout the region. Your best course of action was to go with minimal fight, now that your unfortunate cards have been dealt.

"Is something wrong?" You asked, allowing a note of confusion and fear to enter your voice. Not all of it was feigned.

Mitsuo reached inside his sleeve and withdrew a small scroll—your coded message to Konoha that you had hidden in a hollow tree nearly three days ago.

Your stomach dropped.

"I've always admired your penmanship, Lady Akari," he said, unrolling the scroll with deliberate slowness. "Though I must say, your choice of cipher is rather... sophisticated for a nobleman's daughter."

"I don't understand," you said, your voice deliberately trembling as you took a step back. Your hands fluttered to your chest in a gesture of shock that you had practiced countless times before mirrors. "I have no idea what you’re talking about— that scroll isn’t mine.” You play dumb, knowing that it’s best to keep up the act and feign your innocence.

Mitsuo's smile turned cruel. "Come now, Lady Akari. We're beyond such pretenses, aren't we?"

You shook your head frantically, widening your eyes in panic. "There must be some mistake. Please, Lord Mitsuo—"

"Seize her," he commanded, and the guards moved in.

You let out a terrified shriek—not entirely acting—as you attempted to flee. Your movements were deliberately clumsy, nothing like the precision of your ANBU training. You stumbled over your elaborate kimono, making a show of tripping as two guards grabbed your arms and yanked you upward.

"Please! This is madness!" You cried out, struggling just enough to seem desperate but not skilled. "I am the daughter of Lord Hisoka! My father will hear of this outrage!"

Mitsuo approached slowly, savoring your performance. "Your father? If he is so worried about you, then let him come himself. Though I have a feeling no one will be coming to your rescue."

Ice spread through your veins. He'd been investigating you.

"Blindfold her," he ordered. "I don't want her mapping our route."

Rough hands forced a cloth over your eyes, plunging you into darkness. You continued to protest your innocence as they dragged you from the garden, mentally tracking your path through the compound. Three rights, one left, down a massive staircase, through what felt like a narrow corridor. The air grew colder, damper. Underground.

When they finally removed the blindfold, you blinked against the harsh torchlight of a stone chamber. Chains hung from the ceiling, and various implements lined the walls—tools whose purpose you understood all too well.

"Welcome to my private sanctuary," Mitsuo announced, removing his outer robe and handing it to an attendant. "Few have seen it. Fewer still have left it."

You maintained your frightened noblewoman act, though fear was becoming less of an act with each passing moment. "Lord Mitsuo, I beg you—"

The slap came without warning, snapping your head to the side. You tasted blood as your lip split against your teeth.

"Enough lies," he hissed, grabbing your chin and forcing you to look at him. "Who are you working for? The Daimyo? A rival family?"

You let tears well in your eyes. "No one! I’m not working for anyone!"

His fist connected with your stomach, driving the air from your lungs. As you doubled over, gasping, the guards chained your wrists to the ceiling hooks, leaving you suspended against the wall as you struggled to breathe.

“I know you’re lying, girl. Why don’t you make this easier on yourself and just tell me everything. I promise to treat you well if you do.” He whispered harshly in your ear as you writhed in pain.

“I have nothing to tell you,” you spit.

“Fine.” He lands another blow to your gut, and your lungs burn as you fight to breathe again. “I’ll take my sweet time if I have to. Eventually, you’ll break. It’s inevitable. As I’m sure you’ll find my methods… rather convincing.” His hand wraps around your neck, squeezing tightly until your vision blurs. “I’m going to have some fun with you.”

Running your fingers through your hair, you find it damp with sweat as you slow your breathing. The moon was still out, and the patter of rain soothed you as you settled back into reality.

You slipped out of bed, your bare feet silent against the cool floorboards. The nightmare lingered like a film over your skin, making you feel dirty, contaminated. You needed water—needed to wash away the taste of fear that coated your tongue.

The apartment was bathed in shadows, but your eyes adjusted quickly, a skill honed through years of midnight escapes and clandestine meetings. You padded through the hallway, past the living room where Tenzo had sat with you earlier, laughing about memories as if a decade hadn’t nearly passed.

In the kitchen, you filled a glass and chugged it, the cold water a shock to your system. As you lowered the glass, you noticed a sliver of moonlight cutting across the floor—the balcony door was cracked open, rain pattering softly beyond it.

Curious, you moved toward it, instinctively muting your footsteps. Through the gap, you could see Kakashi leaning against the railing, his back to you. He was shirtless, wearing only loose sweatpants that hung low on his hips. Rain misted around him, dampening his silver hair, which was messier than usual without his headband to tame it.

More shocking was his bare face, unmasked and turned toward the sky. You froze, suddenly feeling like an intruder on something intensely private.

Before you could retreat, his shoulders tensed slightly. "Can't sleep?" He asked without turning, his voice low and rough with insomnia.

You pushed the door open wider, stepping out onto the slick balcony. "Nightmares," you admitted, moving to stand beside him. The rain was light, more of a mist than a downpour, cool against your feverish skin.

"Same," he said simply, still gazing out at the village.

You stole a glance at his profile, drinking in the features you had missed over the years—the straight nose, defined jaw, and lips that curved slightly at the corners even in repose. A thin scar ran along his lower lip, one you didn't remember from before. He was undeniably beautiful, his features sharp against the moonlight.

"You're staring," he noted, a hint of amusement in his voice.

You didn't look away—you couldn’t bring yourself to. "You're not wearing your mask," you manage.

"No point when it's just us." He finally turned to face you, and you saw concern in his eyes as they traveled over your face. "You're pale. Bad one?"

"The usual," you said, wrapping your arms around yourself as a shiver ran through you. "Just Mitsuo and the garden. The beginning of what I thought was the end."

Kakashi studied you for a long moment, droplets of moisture clinging to his eyelashes. "Come here," he said finally, opening his arms.

You didn’t hesitate, stepping into his embrace and nuzzling into him the second he offered. His skin was cool from the rain, but warmed quickly where you pressed against him. You rested your cheek against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart as his arms held you firmly against him.

A moment of silence passed before you spoke up.”Thanks for letting me stay here. I honestly didn’t know what to expect when I returned.”

Kakashi scoffed while he smirked. “What? Did you think I was married with three kids?”

Looking up at him, you scrunched your nose and pulled away slightly, playfully slapping his chest. “As if. You have no idea how many times I heard the nobility complaining about your rejections to marry their ‘beautiful, obedient daughters.’”

He sighed with a gentle laugh. “Oh yeah, that’s just what I want. An obedient girl whose only skill is to look pretty.”

“Isn’t that every man’s dream?” You smirk at him deviously. “Oh my Lord, what big muscles you have.” You squeeze his firm bicep, looking up at him with doe eyes as a subtle grin comes across his face. “You sure look like you could save me from any big, bad ninja.” You step back to physically check him out with a cocked brow, taking in every ounce of his exposed form as Kakashi rolls his eyes, grabbing your waist to pull you back toward him.

“Eh, the noble ones just aren’t my type. I prefer my girls with a little spice.” He raised his brow as he met your eyes, as if insinuating something.

“Spice, huh? Whatever do you mean, my lord?” You rolled your tongue sarcastically.

“You know exactly what I mean, brat.” Kakashi chuckles as he pulls you flush against his chest, both hands coming to your hips. You smile against his damp flesh, wrapping your arms around his waist, feeling the hardened layers of muscles.

Though neither of you said anything, it was becoming more and more clear that your feelings for him were reciprocated. Though his touches were chaste, you could feel a longing within them for more. He didn’t appear to hide it either, as he did back in your ANBU days. Your relationship was then strictly behind closed doors, existing only in privacy.

But Tenzo was right, Kakashi has changed.

You’ve never seen him smile this much. He’s much more aloof, gentle, and understanding. No longer the brooding, strict Captain you used to know.

He’s happier.

And god, you had missed him, more than anything in the world. But to return to him like this almost made the time apart worth it. You want to ask him what changed— what softened his heart, but you’re not sure he would even know that answer. While you were living through court intrigue, he had left ANBU and resumed life as a jonin, eventually becoming a sensei, and perhaps that was it.

The Special Ops isn’t for the faint of heart; the missions can break you, piece by piece.

Especially when Lord Danzo was ruling in the shadows of the Third Hokage. He was cruel and ruthless, expecting the same of anyone in ANBU.

You can’t deny that learning of his death had pleased you.

“So, I uh, planned something for tomorrow.” Kakashi’s words pull you from your thoughts. You hum and peer up at him, signaling for him to continue. “We’re going to get dinner with a few friends. Word about your arrival has spread quickly, and many people are eager to see you.”

“Is this your way of asking me on a date?” You tease with a kind smile, thrilled at the prospect of getting together with friends.

Kakashi’s cheeks flushed pink as he beamed down at you. “Yep, so dress to impress. We’re going to the nicest place in the village. Had to pull the Hokage card to get in.”

“Ooh, a fancy date? You spoil me, Kakashi.”

“Well, someone has to,” he says casually, as if the words came to him naturally.

You didn't know what to say. Heat rose to your cheeks as you stood there in his arms, the gentle rain misting around you both. His eyes traced your face with such intensity that you had to look away, overwhelmed by the sudden emotion building inside you.

"I missed this," you finally whispered, running your fingers along his bare chest, feeling the raised edges of old scars beneath your fingertips. His skin was warm despite the cool night air, and you felt his breath catch as your touch lingered over his heart.

Kakashi's hand came up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing away a raindrop. "I missed you," he replied simply, the weight of eight years hanging in those three words.

The tension between you was palpable, electric. His face hovered so close to yours that you could feel his breath against your lips. For a moment, you thought he might kiss you, and part of you desperately wanted him to. But something held you both back—perhaps it was too soon, too fragile, this reconnection you were building.

Instead, his forehead came to rest against yours, eyes closing as his fingers threaded through your damp hair. The intimacy of the gesture was almost more powerful than a kiss could have been.

"Come on," he said softly, taking your hand in his. "It's late, and you're shivering."

He led you back inside, sliding the balcony door closed behind you. The apartment was dark and quiet, but somehow felt more like home than anywhere you'd been in the last decade. Instead of heading back toward the bedrooms, Kakashi guided you to the living room, where moonlight filtered through the large windows.

He released your hand only long enough to grab a thick blanket from the back of the couch. With practiced ease, he settled onto the cushions and pulled you down beside him, wrapping the blanket around both of your shoulders like a cocoon.

"Better?" He asked, his arm slipping around your waist to draw you closer against his side.

You nodded and hummed in response, nestling into him for warmth. For a while, you sat together in comfortable silence, listening to the rain and the steady rhythm of his breathing. His fingers traced idle patterns on your arm, and you found yourself relaxing more deeply than you had in years, the nightmare's grip loosening.

"You should stay here tomorrow," Kakashi said suddenly, his voice a low rumble against your ear. "Rest, get settled. I have meetings most of the day, but I'll come home early."

You tilted your head to look up at him. "I don't want to impose—"

"You're not," he interrupted gently. "This place has always been too empty anyway." His eyes met yours, sincere and unguarded in a way you rarely remember. "And when I get back, we'll have the whole evening to ourselves. Before dinner with everyone, I mean."

The promise in his voice made your heart flutter. "What did you have in mind?"

His lips curved into that crooked smile that had always been your undoing. "That's a surprise. But I think you'll like it."

You couldn't help but smile back, warmth spreading through your chest as you nuzzled back into him. “Alright, Kakashi, you’ve convinced me. I’ll clear my schedule just for you.”

“Yeah, okay,” he chuckles before pulling the blanket over your head as you playfully swat at him.

You yelped as you struggled to free yourself from the soft cotton prison. Kakashi laughed as you weaseled your way into his lap, attempting to use your legs as leverage. When you finally emerged, hair tousled and cheeks flushed, you narrowed your eyes at him in mock anger.

"You're going to pay for that, Hatake," you threatened, poking a finger into his bare chest.

"Oh?" His eyebrow arched in amusement, eyes crinkling at the corners. "And what exactly are you going to do about it?"

The challenge in his voice was unmistakable. You lunged at him without warning, fingers seeking the spot just below his ribs that you remembered was ticklish. His eyes widened in surprise as you made contact, and he jerked away with a strangled laugh.

"No fair," he protested, grabbing for your wrists as you continued your assault. "You fight dirty."

"Always have," you reminded him, giggling as you dodged his attempts to capture your hands.

The playful struggle continued, both of you laughing like teenagers as you wrestled on the couch. For those moments, the years apart dissolved, and you were just the two of you again—not the Hokage and not the spy riddled with PTSD, but simply you and Kakashi, as you had been before.

Eventually, he caught both your wrists in one strong hand, using his weight advantage to pin you against the cushions. His face hovered above yours, laughter fading into something more intense as his eyes locked with yours. The air between you charged with electricity, your breath catching in your throat.

"I yield," you whispered, though neither of you moved.

Something vulnerable flashed in his eyes. In one fluid motion, he released your wrists and shifted, turning to lay his head on your chest as he settled between your legs. The sudden change in position surprised you, but you didn't hesitate to wrap your arms around him, one hand instinctively finding its way into his damp silver hair.

His weight felt right against you, solid and warm. You ran your fingers through his hair, marveling at its softness as you gently worked out the tangles. Kakashi sighed contentedly, his breath warm against your skin through the thin fabric of your shirt.

"This okay?" He murmured, his voice already heavy with approaching sleep.

"Mhm," you hummed in assurance, squeezing your legs around him, continuing to stroke his hair as his breathing gradually slowed and deepened.

The rain continued its gentle patter against the windows as you cradled him, your fingers working through his hair in slow, soothing strokes. His breathing gradually deepened and slowed, his body growing heavier against yours. You realized he was falling asleep, the tension in his muscles melting away under your touch.

You studied his face in the moonlight, unmasked and vulnerable in sleep. The sharp lines of his jaw had softened, the perpetual alertness that characterized him in waking hours now replaced by peaceful surrender. His lips were slightly parted, and a lock of silver hair fell across his forehead. Without the mask, without the weight of his responsibilities, he looked younger—more like the man you'd fallen in love with all those years ago, before duty and distance had carved new lines into his features.

You held him closer, wrapping your arm more securely around his broad shoulders as the other cradled his head. His weight pressed you deeper into the cushions, but it felt right—comforting rather than restrictive. You'd forgotten how perfectly your bodies fit together, how natural it felt to hold him like this.

The familiar sensation triggered a memory, pulling you back to the first time you'd ever held him this way, many years ago.

It was after a particularly brutal mission, one that had left your entire team injured. You'd both made it back to his apartment, still in blood-stained gear, too exhausted to even shower. He'd collapsed onto his bed, and you'd simply lain beside him, both of you staring at the ceiling in silence. Then, without warning, he'd turned and buried his face against your neck, his body trembling with emotions he'd never allow himself to express in words. You'd pulled him close that night, just like now, and stroked his hair until the shaking stopped.

You pressed your lips gently against his forehead, brushing aside silver strands. His skin was warm and slightly salty from the earlier rain. You kissed his temple next, then the scar that ran through his left eye, tracing its path with feather-light touches. He didn't stir, his breathing remaining deep and even.

Your eyelids grew heavy as you continued to hold him, the rhythm of his heartbeat against yours lulling you toward sleep. For the first time in years, you felt safe enough to surrender to it, and you drifted off with your fingers still tangled in his hair.

But your plagued dreams were doomed to return—Mitsuo's face morphing into shadows that chased you through endless corridors. You were running, but your legs felt leaden, and somewhere behind you, someone was screaming. With a violent jerk, you snapped back to consciousness, a small gasp escaping your lips.

The living room was still dark, though pre-dawn light had begun to soften the edges of the furniture. Kakashi remained asleep on top of you, his face peaceful, unaware of your distress. Your heart hammered against your ribs as you tried to orient yourself, forcing slow, deep breaths to calm the adrenaline coursing through your veins.

You'd only been asleep for an hour or two—typical for you these days. Since your imprisonment, you'd rarely managed more than a few hours at a stretch, your body and mind too conditioned to remain vigilant. The nightmares always came, dragging you back from whatever peace you might find.

Kakashi shifted slightly in his sleep, mumbling something incoherent as his arm tightened around your waist. The movement grounded you, reminding you where you were—who you were with. This wasn't Kirigakure. This wasn't Mitsuo's compound. This was Konoha.

Home.

Tag list: @21-princess @mutsu422 @sagehitomi123 @emotionallytonedeaf @crumbl-pie @dreamayy @sassypowerritual @-izzy-rose- @ora-la-few @dokuroskull23 @purplepuppylover1we @kermits-bitch @saoirses-things @hoohamaru @doggggggg-blog2 @amora1tarada @bokutobabee

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bloodsherry · 19 hours ago

Text

The first few times he sees Chuuya after their reunion in the dungeons, things don’t go the way he expected. Chuuya is too irritable, too raw, too violent—but not in the way that used to be funny.

Dazai doesn’t get it. He knows he should be patient, but he can’t—not when Chuuya’s right there, close enough to touch, after four long years.

He pushes, keeps pushing until Chuuya explodes.

“I thought you were dead, you piece of shit!”

It’s absurd, the words spilling from his mouth, the fire blazing in his mismatched eyes, the grief twisting his face. Dazai hears static; his lips part, but no sound comes out.

Chuuya grimaces, shakes his head, and walks away. Nothing left but dying embers.

Dazai doesn’t understand, or maybe he does, and just doesn’t want to. He knows he should give him space, more time but... it’s been four years apart and it hurts. It stings, deep under the skin. He needs Chuuya. He needs to know they can still go back. Not to the way they were, maybe—but to something better.

This time, he doesn’t push. He stays on the sidelines.

Day pass. Then weeks. Months.

Their meetings are rare—a cool breeze in the middle of a suffocating day. And it feels like maybe they’re okay again, but it's only in the midst of the fray: wild grins, the glint of battle, and looks that say everything but really say nothing.

Until it passes.

Two fists collide.

Two shoulders brush.

Hesitation.

A drink.

The time that stretches between the end of a mission and the inevitable goodbye.

Step by step. There are missteps, Dazai pushes too far, and Chuuya hides—until he doesn’t anymore.

Until they finally talk.

Dazai doesn’t understand—and it eats at him—that Chuuya, who once read him like an open book, who got under his skin, took root, and rotted everything, would believe he was dead. It makes sense, in a twisted sort of way but it still hurts.

“I don’t read minds, Dazai,” Chuuya said, drained. There was no anger in his voice, just something else. Something hollow.

Dazai wanted to claw at it, that feeling crawling damp and sticky over his skin. His fingers tightened around his glass.

“How could I have known? You left. You disappeared. I couldn’t find you.”

“I’m sorry.” His voice was a whisper. Empty and flat, and somehow still full.

Chuuya’s lips pursed.

It won’t be easy, but they’ll learn to know each other again. They’ll take wrong steps, they’ll stumble, and Chuuya will probably never fully trust him outside of battle again—but they’ll get there. Slowly but surely.

Dazai has made up his mind.

As always, right?

He will stay and fight for Chuuya. They might be on opposite sides, the world might turn against them—but as long as Chuuya leans toward him, flashes that half-smile, or his eyes spark or darken when they meet his, it will be worth it.

All of it will be worth it.

Dazai bumps his shoulder against Chuuya’s. It’s tentative—barely a touch—and Chuuya clicks his tongue in irritation. But there’s something else there. Softer. More knowing.

The word “partner” dies on Dazai’s lips—too tender.

But not for long.

Soon.

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mabyfavywavy · 6 hours ago

Text

AS ABOVE, SO BELOW (CH. 4)

synopsis: you're visited by some friends, both new and old.

pairing: saja boys x shaman/witch!gn!reader

warnings: none

>m.list here

>ch. 3 here

PRESENT DAY

it turned out the answer to your question was a lot.

almost overnight, your life had changed significantly. for one, you could now afford an actual apartment unit instead of the basement that you had lived in. there was so much more space, and the addition of not having any more bug problems was a positive.

the girls had offered for you to move into their penthouse apartment, but you had refused. you couldn’t accept something like that from them. it would have been too much.

you could have gotten a whole floor to yourself, though.

but it would have been weird living in the same apartment as your bosses.

managing huntrix was certainly the most tedious job you’ve had. you couldn’t imagine how hard bobby had it when he was the only one managing them before you. you were constantly in and out, creating schedules, booking meetings, managing everything to go smoothly during concerts and interviews and fan meets and-

that’s not even counting your double life. in the day you were huntrix’s manager, all planners and excel sheets and clipboards. at night you patrolled around the city, reporting tears in the honmoon and slaying stray demons that preyed on any unsuspecting people.

you had significantly less free time but honestly, you liked your job. it was fun and exciting to hang out with the girls. you got to visit new places when they went on tour, making memories and experiencing things you thought you would have never experienced.

huntrix’s fame grew exponentially larger in your four years of working with them, the number of fans multiplying every day.

on one hand, the honmoon was stronger than it ever had been before. on the other hand, you barely had any time to yourself left. you’ve practically become a workaholic.

well, it was strong until recently.

rumi had pushed the release date on huntrix’s new single right as the hiatus started. you still mourned the two week vacation you had planned then.

then right before the golden live show, rumi’s voice had given out.

then, a new boy band had come from seemingly nowhere with their coordinated pastel color palettes and exciting catchy tunes about sparkling beverages.

then, it turned out that the boy band was actually a group of demons disguised as an idol group to steal huntrix’s fans and have been actively weakening the honmoon.

since then, all of you have been on damage control. this meant working overtime and coming home late in the dead of night.

much like most nights, tonight you trudged home with your head pounding. you were sure that it was because of being tossed around by demons and totally not because of the stress.

this was a common occurrence, an almost nightly routine.

you exited the convenience store, the glass door closing with a chime. one of your hands held a plastic bag with instant ramen packs and the other held your phone up to your ear.

”yeah, yeah, bobby. i heard.” you confirmed, now holding your phone between your ear and shoulders. you scanned the receipt, confirming that you were charged correctly for your products.

”saja boys? what kind of name is that?” you scrunched your nose before painfully realizing that you had been bruised from the fight that you had earlier at one of the honmoon tears.

a cold breeze tickled your neck. you would have ignored it if you didn’t also feel like you were being stalked. was it another demon?

you snapped your head behind you, your hand snaking behind underneath your jacket to fish out one of your blades. they were attached to your back by a brown leather harness that was covered underneath your clothes. the blades were covered in a sheath so you didn’t have to worry about cutting your back on them when sitting. it didn’t matter anyway. even unsheathed, it was extremely unlikely that it could cut through human flesh.

maybe with enough force it could.

your eyes traveled around, searching every corner and every street lamp. you checked if you could see any tears in the honmoon nearby.

and then you saw him. a tall masculine shadow on the roof.

“hey, uh… are you still there?” bobby’s voice rang from your phone.

“i’ll call you back.” you responded, your eyes narrowing at the figure above. you didn’t follow it. you didn’t take out your knives. you simply observed, waiting for it to make a move like you always did with other demons.

and just as fast as it had come, it disappeared into a puff of smoke.

you took a different route home after, making sure that you were not followed. you had just moved in, you weren't trying to get any unwanted visitors already.

you passed the unpacked still-taped boxes and the unwrapped furniture, stumbling towards your room. you didn’t even lay on the futon and laid on the floor, kicking the plastic convenience store bag that contained your painkillers across the room.

you had moved into your new apartment only a few days ago, and hadn’t had the chance to unpack at all. you hadn’t even put up protection charms or cleansed anything new of yours. all you wanted to do when you got home was sleep.

when you slept, you dreamt.

usually they were nonsensical and you barely remembered any of them when you woke up.

some showed your family, a taunting reminder of what you had before.

on rare occasions, you didn't dream. you had experiences. ever since you were a child, you’ve had these reoccurring experiences.

you would be in a forest, much like the ones you used to roam as a child. you were always sitting on a log, tending to the campfire in front of you. the fire was lively, cracking and snapping at you every once in a while. flecks of blazing ash would levitate upwards towards the star-filled sky.

on the other side was a silhouette, their appearance hidden by the trees. they sat across from you, their posture contrasting your normal hunched over position.

you realized quickly after the first two dreams that you must tend to the fire. as lively as it was, the fire would shrink to a flame, which would die into embers. you would wake up soon after that.

if you kept the fire burning for long enough, you were able to hear a voice. it was usually barely above a whisper, and sounded strangely familiar. they would tell you things that your family had never told you, things about this world and realms beyond earth. they told you the truth to many secrets that people kept from you.

you had labeled them as a spirit guide of some sort. you had felt less confined with them, and it didn’t matter what you said in your dream, right? no one could hear what you would talk about.

you kept your guide secret from your family. to this day, they still didn’t know about them.

you hated listening to them now. hated how everything you did was met with condescension and correction.

you poked the fire with a stick you found on the ground, the brightness and heat of the inferno making your head ache.

”people are going missing again.” the voice softly spoke. you glared, not just because of the fire, but because of how the shadow was very blatantly insulting you. you drew in an inhale, the fire totally becoming much more interesting and totally not because you didn’t really want to listen to the next condescending thing that the voice had to say.

“i don’t… understand. the honmoon was stronger than ever just a few days ago.” you tossed the stick into the fire, watching as it was slowly engulfed in the greedy flames. you rubbed your temples in a smooth circular motion to try and relax your eyebrow muscles. “it just feels like things have been getting worse.”

”perhaps it's the stress between you all. didn’t one of the huntress’s voices give out before the live performance? and not to mention how tired and ragged you’ve seemed to be recently. you’ve been neglecting sleep. they’ve been working you to the bone.” the voice seemed to taunt.

it was true. with all the promotions and the interviews and the preparations for the live performance, you and bobby had work up to your necks.

and it had been canceled.

and who had to deal with the aftermath?

you couldn’t help but feel a little frustration. when you had met the girls, you believed that you had found others like you. you thought that the huntresses' goal would bring balance to both the human world and the spirit world. when you had begun to fight with them, you realized how they really felt about demons.

their viewpoint on them drastically contrasted yours.

then, you met celine and everything started to make a bit more sense.

it wasn’t that you hated her or anything. you also believed that she was a victim of centuries and centuries of tradition.

they were all only taught to hate demons for what they were because it had kept the hunters in the past safe. it had kept countless humans safe.

but things changed. huntrix, up until recently, was the strongest generation of hunters the world had ever seen. they had the ability now to ask questions about demons. they didn’t think once to look more into demons and where they really came from?

you weren’t going to judge. you were once like that too.

so you let them be. sure, you still voiced some of your concerns, but there really wasn’t any moment to. you were often sent alone to examine the new tears in the honmoon and report back to the girls. there wasn’t any need to speak about it. you haven’t even spoken to celine after your first meeting with each other.

even if your views clashed with huntrix’s sometimes, you all had the same goal: to protect humans.

and your goal to find out the source of all demons was no luck.

admittedly at first, you had been using the girls to try and further your real goal, but they’ve begun to grow on you. they were sweet, and they were a friend group where you could talk about your spiritual journey freely with.

”i don’t need to hear this from you.” you turned away from the figure, scowling. “they care about me. i’d fight for days on end if it meant that they’d be comfortable. they’re my friends.” you didn’t want to admit you were tired. there was so much to be done, and you couldn’t rest until things calmed down at least a little bit.

”i only tell you what you need to know.” the figure mused as you walked away from them and the campfire. you stopped in your tracks, the leaves crunching underneath your weight. you refused to turn around, refused to look them in the eye.

even after everything that you have done, all the things they’ve told you, it was ultimately you that had decided what to do with the information they had given you.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

you woke up not long after the next morning with your body screaming in pain. it didn’t help that you slept on the floor and not your futon either. you rolled your body to stare at the ceiling of your room, your eyes threatening to close once more.

showering was on the agenda as soon as you were able to get up, of course. you had neglected to even undress yourself from your usual work clothes. you matched with bobby (his idea), wearing the same grey blazer that he donned. your innerwear and lower wear fluctuated depending on how you felt that day.

you had woken up early surprisingly, with enough time to shower, brush your teeth and look put together for the day. you made sure to cover up your injuries and bruises you sustained last night with makeup and bandages. breakfast was almost always neglected as you usually ate at work.

you set the convenience store bag on your counter before opening one of your kitchen drawers. you scanned the contents before your eyes settled onto a half used blister pack of painkillers. popping one of the tablets open, you placed a pill in your hand. throwing your head back as swallowed it, before chasing it down with a cup of water.

today. today, you were finally going to make time to tidy up your apartment.

…who were you kidding?

all the unfinished ikea furniture pieces littered the floor of your living room. you finally had the space and money for a couch and a bigger tv, but what was the point of getting them if you didn’t have time to lounge around and actually watch it?

right now, it just looked like an eyesore.

you glanced at the boxes too. there wasn’t much to pack anyway from your old home, but unpacking and planning where everything went was just so much time that you didn't have right now.

you took your free time before the honmoon was weakened for granted. you took it for granted and now you were begging and sobbing while grabbing it by the ends of its dress as you shouted for it to come back.

you loved your job. you loved your job. you loved your job…

you checked your phone, scrolling on social media to start your day. almost immediately, you were bombarded with videos of people doing the ‘soda pop dance challenge.’

the song came out yesterday.

you continued to scroll and scroll, only to continue being harassed by more saja boys and saja boys adjacent content. there were clips of them performing on the street, clips of them chugging hot sauce on a variety show, clips of huntrix crashing the same variety show.

the girls had blown up the group chat, fuming about the saja boys and how “they weren’t even that good looking, just… just super dreamy and super hot and have you seen the guy with abs?”

and that they were demons that needed to be eradicated off the face of the earth.

well, they didn’t exactly word it like that, but they might as well have.

you checked the time and realized that you might want to start heading out. huntrix had an interview scheduled today at the tv studio for golden. you wondered how that interview would go considering they had ditched their live performance a few days ago.

well, the girls didn’t have PR managers for nothing. you were sure everything would be figured out since yesterday.

this interview was a good chance to raise their popularity, though. maybe people will start talking about huntrix and the interview instead of focusing solely on the saja boys.

maybe.

as long as this would cut your hours fighting demons, you were happy enough.

>ch. 5

a/n: guys I promise the guide is a relevant character😭 also I uploaded this on TUESDAY DON’T PLAY WITH ME ITS PAST MIDNIGHT THEREFORE ITS TUESDAY GRRR

i’m a little over halfway done with writing this story, which is good since i’m going to get a lot busier. i’m studying abroad in Korea for a year, and i’m leaving next week so i’m trying to get things done before then.

next chapter should be out on friday!

also the more I write reader, the more I just visualize nanami kento idk idk idk

ty for the support! if you want to send stuff or ask me stuff about this fic (spoiler free, of course), my inbox is always open!

taglist: @cptg00s3 @artendityshroomswilloft @kashasenpai @frogeddeyes @adorabluesposts @inojinieeee @piercing-gaze @hannahdinse8 @domesticklife @feralriverwater @saltysbiscuits @shaddow-darkcloud @Ivvcian @koshiunwilling @snowy-violet @kpopgirliez @bell7duck @snowballingdowntheroad @nightlark100 @lucimucy @d3sperate-enuf @ultimatetrashfire @trulyena @qxuanii @dvmn1emyyy

if you want to be added to the taglist, then comment that you do!

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pressgforgoodgirl · 2 days ago

Note

Heyy could I request a red dead fic???

If it’s okay I would love if you could write some pre blackwater? Like maybe the reader is 24 and Arthur is 26 but they are married and have 2 daughters? ( one is 4 the other is 2 ) and maybe the reader being pregnant with their third ( a boy who they call Arthur 🥹🥹)

But like Abigail is pregnant with Jack at this time to like maybe baby Arthur is 3 months older than Jack so when he’s 2 months old Abigail comes to the reader worried because Ovs John left? And maybe some family fluff with big Arthur (hehe little and big Arthur 😍😍) and maybe Abigail kinda envy’s how Arthur and the reader is??( I know age dates don’t really match but let’s just pretend )

a/n: ugh i love this sm. I always try to write oneshots and they turn into multi part works haha. So naturally, here is part 1. More to come soon!!! <3 Also, I am so bad at titles, so I’ve gotta come back to that part. If you have any ideas please feel free to inspire me haha.

warnings/tags: just fluff, reader is pregnant ofc, female reader with she/her pronouns, I feel like the request pretty much sums up anything that you would encounter in this fic <3

The cool river ran through your fingers and over your wrists as the water carried away the dirt and soap from the clothes you were scrubbing. You paused a moment, noticing the breeze, the sensation of the water against your skin, and the sounds of hermit thrushes singing nearby. Life was good.

Travelling with the Van Der Linde gang wasn’t always easy, especially with your two young children, and one more on the way. Raising a family amidst a band of outlaws was never what you had predicted, but for now, you were safe and settled. You knew how much these people, Dutch and Hosea especially, meant to your husband Arthur, and he promised to whisk you away at any sign of trouble. You believed him fully. Though he wouldn’t give up his loyalty to the gang without good reason, not just yet, there was no doubt in his mind that his three girls were the most precious thing to him.

In all honesty, despite the risk, you enjoyed a life immersed in nature and living among people who didn’t conform to the arbitrary ideals of current society. Your savings were building, and Dutch had been talking of settling down as ranchers. Maybe then you could start anew, worry less about the examples you were setting for your children.

Rinsing off the last piece of clothing, you piled them into your wicker basket before heaving the dripping vessel onto your hip. The task was growing harder every week as your belly grew rounder and rounder with child, now about 7 months pregnant.

“And just what do you think yer doin’, Mrs. Morgan?” Arthur dropped what he was working on, practically leaping out of his seat as you approached camp, noting the way you were shuffling along, now struggling to hold the basket. “Shoulda told me you were doin’ the washin’. Shouldn’t do that all by yourself no more.”

Though your mind had been set on continuing to do your daily chores until the baby arrived, you weren’t beyond breathing a sigh of relief when Arthur quickly removed the basket from your arms, setting it on the ground by the clothesline. “Clothes needed cleanin’, and I still have perfectly good arms and legs, don’t I? And this ain’t my first rodeo, either.”

“And every time you overwork yourself. Scare me half to death, some of the things you do.”

“Oh relax, Arthur. I’ll be fine.”

“Whatever you say,” he replied, throwing his hands up in mock surrender. “But I’ll be keepin’ an eye on you.”

As he turns back to his work, he spots Beatrice, now 4 years old, playing with your youngest, Margaret, just 2 years younger. His heart ached in the best sort of way as he watched them play house with their wooden dolls at Abigail’s feet. Though Eloise didn’t totally understand when the new baby would be coming or what that quite meant, both girls had been over the moon. For weeks, they had pretended their wooden dolls were babies, cradling them, feeding them, dressing them with leaves, and adorning them with flowers. And if the girls weren’t already in love with Abigail, they couldn’t get enough of her now that she was expecting, just like their ma.

For Abigail, her pregnancy had come a bit unexpected. She had been on and off again with John ever since she had joined the gang. And when he found out about the pregnancy, despite it being the consequence of his own damn actions, he made it known he was less than pleased. Deep down, his cold demeanor wasn’t for lack of feelings for Abigail, but rather him allowing his fear and immaturity to hold him back. He was struggling to support Abigail like he should, becoming more withdrawn as the days went by. Arthur was probably the one person who could get through to him, help him man up and work through this, but John continually pushed away his attempts.

Though it broke Abigail’s heart, she was certainly grateful to have you. She was comforted by the fact that she wasn’t going through this pregnancy completely alone, and that it wouldn’t be her closest friend’s first time either. She loved Beatrice and Eloise and had before she even became pregnant. They were two extra stars bringing light to her night sky, reminding her that whether John was there or not, a child of her own would bring so much love and joy to her world.

Though Arthur could’ve watched the girls play all day, he couldn’t stand the thought of you hanging all of those clothes alone.

“Beatrice, run along and help your mother, will ya?” he called.

“Yes, Pa,” she called back, setting down her doll before hiking up her skirts and running to your side.

“Where sissy goin’?” Eloise asked, turning to Arthur after watching Beatrice scamper off.

Arthur walked toward her, leaning down to scoop her in his big arms. “Ohhh, my pretty little girl. Gettin’ so big. Sissy’s gone off to help your mother hang some clothes to dry. I think you and I should read a story. How’s that sound?”

“I want you to read dragon story,” Eloise smiled back.

“The dragon story it is, sugarcup. Why don’t you pick up these dolls and then we can read together?” Arthur set Eloise back down, then turning to regard Abigail, the dolls still resting at her feet as she worked to knit a sweater.

“How’re ya feelin’, Abigail?”

“Not too bad, Arthur. Your girls are great company.”

“It’s all their mother.”

“And how is she gettin’ along? Haven’t had the chance to talk to her in the last couple days. Been too wrapped up in our own chores.”

“Pushin’ herself too hard, as usual. But doctor says the baby is healthy. Should be here in a couple of months.”

“Course she is. And what’dya think it’ll be? The baby?” Abigail asked, looking up through her knitting as she spoke.

“Oh, I’m not sure. I’d be lyin’ if I didn’t hope for a little boy. But I do love my girls to death. Wouldn’t trade ‘em for the world. What about you? Any idea what your little one might be?”

“I think I’ll just be happy to meet ‘em either way. I just hope John is, too.”

“That bastard wouldn’t know a good thing if it hit him square in the face. But he’ll come around. I know he will. You take care now.”

“I sure hope so. Nice talkin’ to ya, Arthur.”

“You too, Abigail. Ready, Eloise? Let’s go read that story.”

As Arthur and Eloise walked off to your tent, Abigail decided she needed a minute to stretch her bones. She could spare her knitting a minute, and like she had said, it had been a few days since she had gotten the chance to talk with you. Abigail hated to go so long.

“Need a hand?” she smiled, leaning down to grab one of the last few items from the basket.

“Oh hey, Abigail. Missed you the last few days. Just been so busy,” you smiled back as Beatrice handed you another shirt. “How are you gettin’ along?”

“Sore. Achin’. At least the nausea has gone away. Can hardly believe my pregnancy is already halfway over.”

“It really does go by so slowly and so quickly all at once. In some ways you’ll miss it, and in others you’ll wish never to be pregnant again. At least there’ll be a little one to make up for it. You’ll be a great mother, you know.”

“I’m learnin’ from the best,” Abigail replied, motioning toward you. “Say, I was just talkin’ to Arthur about yours. Asked him what he thought they’d be.”

Your heart fluttered, eager for her to continue. You didn’t want Beatrice to overhear, however, so you sent her off to see what Arthur and Eloise were up to.

Leaning toward you, her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, “Said he secretly hopes it’ll be a boy, though you know your Arthur will love that baby no matter what.”

Your heart warmed, knowing she was right. Lord above, did he love his family. But honestly, you had been hoping for the same. “That he will. I know he loves his girls, but I’d be lyin’ if I said I didn’t think he’d like to have a little boy runnin’ around. A mini Arthur. God, I don’t know whether to be delighted or slightly scared at the thought.”

“Oh, quit that” Abigail laughed, smacking you lightly with the pair of pants she was preparing to hang up. “Why don’t you run off now? See what Arthur and the girls are up to? Just one shirt left to dry.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but Abigail gave you a purposeful glare in return. “Talk more later?” you asked.

“Sure, now go!” Abigail smiled, nudging you to start walking.

As you approached the tent, you heard Arthur’s voice narrating a story, his funny voices interrupted by big, belly laughs erupting from your girls. Your chest swelled at the sound as you wondered how you had come to be blessed with this beautiful life, so full of love and happiness.

As you lifted the canvas flap, Arthur turned a page, briefly looking up at you from his chair with a beaming smile before starting on the next passage. The girls sat in his lap, one on each leg, hanging onto every word he said as they looked on to his journal, admiring the drawings Arthur had made to accompany his story.

“The prince scooped up Lady Beatrice and Lady Eloise from the evil king’s lair, bringing them to safety on his dragon’s back. ‘Take us home to Mirthlandia, dragon!’ he cried. The king shook in fear as the dragon flew away, vowing never again to capture another princess. When the prince and the dragon returned, the kingdom celebrated the princesses’ return, bringing them many gifts and presents. And so the prince, Lady Beatrice, and Lady Eloise lived happily ever after. The end.”

The girls clapped, raising their hands to wrap around his neck and chest in a giant, messy hug. “Again, again!” they chanted.

“Oh, that’s funny. It says here there’s another gift the princesses got,” Arthur said, rubbing his eyes as he feigned disbelief.

“Really? Where?” they cried eagerly.

“It says here they got… tons of tickles!” he cried, reaching both arms around to tickle their stomachs. The girls squealed in his arms, writhing away from him as they laughed in deep, contagious giggles.

Fatherhood had shown you a new side of Arthur. Out in the world, he was still a rough and tumble outlaw and outdoorsmen, but around your girls, he was a big softie.

“Alright, you girls better get back to playin’ with them dolls. Wouldn’t want them to get lonely,” he winked, releasing the girls from his arms.

“Yes, Pa,” they replied, jumping down to gather their dolls before scurrying through the tent flaps.

Turning now to you, Arthur opened his arms, welcoming you into his lap. “Best two gifts you ever did give me,” he murmured into your neck, planting soft kisses up and down. “You best get some rest now. Been workin’ too hard.”

“It ain’t even time for dinner yet, Arthur!” you laughed.

“Don’t matter. You should take a nap.”

“But I…” you began, but you were cut off when Arthur took your lips between his, kissing you slowly, tenderly.

“Don’t make me tell you again, woman,” Arthur said as he pulled away.

Part 2 coming soon!!!

#arthur morgan #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #arthur morgan x female reader #rdr2 fanfic #arthur morgan x reader #rdr2 arthur #arthur morgan fanfiction #arthur morgan fan fiction #arthur morgan fluff #arthur morgan girl dad #dad!arthur morgan #rdr2 fic #arthur morgan fic

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octuscle · 21 hours ago

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I’ve always wanted to fit in more with other guys. It’s not just that I wish I were manlier, though I do, I wish I felt more connected with other men. I wish I had bros I could hang with, or a super manly family or something. Could you help me out?

Sure, mate! Here is your story:

It was well past midnight when Erik finally pulled into the lorry park at the M1 service station just outside Sheffield. He killed the engine of his leased company car, loosened his tie, and tossed his suit jacket onto the passenger seat. His eyes were glazed, his face pale with exhaustion. The client meeting in London had dragged on, the motorway had been its usual hell, and his stomach growled with hunger.

He stepped out, walked through the automatic glass doors into the harsh glow of the service area, and made straight for the greasy spoon tucked in the back. Neon lights, plastic trays, the unmistakable stench of old fryer oil. He ordered a currywurst with chips and a large cola-mix, then slumped into one of the scuffed booths.

He’d just dipped his first chip into the curry sauce when the peace shattered. Three stocky men in grimy hi-vis vests, their T-shirts soaked through with sweat, burst in through the doors, laughing and shouting in thick Midlands accents with a foreign lilt.

“Oi, Omar, this curry sausage looks like your ugly foot, innit!”

“Bruv, if it tastes like that bird I pulled last night, I’ll have seconds!”

Erik looked up. Their arms were sun-darkened, their forearms covered in dark hair, trousers caked in building dust. But their voices—full of life, loud and raw—sounded like they came from another planet. And yet… strangely close.

“Oi boss, this seat taken or what?” asked the biggest of the three—shaved head, thick gold chain, holding a can of lager.

Erik hesitated, then nodded. “Go ahead.”

The builders dropped into the booth, trays clattering, chomping and burping and joking like they owned the place. Erik felt oddly out of place—but drawn to their energy, their unfiltered presence.

“So, what’s your gig then, mate? You look like one of them suit guys from a bank or somethin’,” one of them grinned.

“I… I work in consulting. Project management,” Erik muttered.

“Dead, man. Sit at a desk all day, yeah? No sun, no mud, no real blokes around you?”

“Something like that,” Erik admitted—and laughed, despite himself.

They introduced themselves—Ali, Hassan, and Omar. All of them originally from Syria, now working construction up and down the UK. They told him about their site jobs, crashing in shipping containers during the week, lifting weights at 6 a.m. in the local gym, about their wives—or exes—and weekends full of vodka, grilled meat, and banging techno beats.

“What’s the point makin’ bare cash if you’re sittin’ alone in a Travelodge every night, bruv?”

“With us, it’s simple. Hard graft, hard bods, hard rave. That’s it.”

Something stirred in Erik. Maybe it was the grease from the currywurst, maybe the smell of sweat and diesel, maybe just envy—of this raw, straight-up life. No endless meetings, no slide decks, no CEO small talk.

When the lads stepped out for a smoke, Erik followed. The night air was crisp, but he felt warm.

“Oi, try this on, boss,” laughed Omar, tossing him a spare hi-vis vest. “Then you’ll look like one of us, innit!”

Erik hesitated—then shrugged it on. The fluorescent yellow glowed under the floodlights. The boys clapped him on the back.

“Now all you need’s a bit o’ grime and a dose o’ test, yeah!”

He laughed with them. Something inside him shifted, slid, transformed.

He pictured it—working on site. Early mornings, hauling heavy shit, no emails, no neckties. Just steel, sweat, concrete—and these lads. His new crew. Lift, eat, rave, sleep. Repeat.

And suddenly, it wasn’t just a fantasy. Everything tilted. He looked at his fingernails—black with grime. His hands, calloused. And just beneath the rolled-up sleeves… tattoos?

The drive through the night was long. Every two hours, they switched drivers. Three lads snoring in the back, one behind the wheel. Three Syrians and one blond bloke. So on-site, people always thought Erik was the boss. But there was no boss in this crew. Just brothers.

A few weeks later, Erik was gone. In his place: Rico. Hair shaved down, skin bronzed from sun and gym lights, chest inked with sprawling tattoos. No spreadsheets, no boardrooms. His life now fit into a steel container on a massive East London building site.

He lived with Omar, Ali, and Hassan—Syrian lads, all ripped like Greek statues, each with their own ritual of lifting, eating, and grinding through the day. They moved like a crew, tight and wordless, tank tops stretched over swollen pecs, forearms veined and dusted in site grime. It wasn’t chaos—it was discipline. Waking up at five, silent protein shakes and oats. Gym before sunrise, the clang of barbells louder than any alarm. Then straight into hi-vis trousers and steel-toes, off to climb scaffolding, hammer drills buzzing against rebar.

Their container was basic: bunk beds, protein tubs, gear strewn about, beer bottles lined up like trophies. But it felt alive. The air thick with testosterone, sweat, aftershave, and respect.

Evenings were ritual too. Cheap lager. Meat from Lidl, grilled outside the prefab unit. Phones out—posing, flexing, checking each other’s form. No one spoke about emotions. Only muscle. Only grind.

And on the weekends—back to Birmingham. Clubs. Bass deep enough to rattle your ribs. Tight shirts, gold chains, shoulders too wide for doorways. Girls stared. Guys gave space. Rico stood in the middle of it all, tattooed and hard, knowing this wasn’t some temporary thrill. This was him now. No pretence. No suits.

Just iron. And brothers.

#male transformation #muscle transformation #male tf #ai image #dumber tf #inked man #workie tf #tradie tf

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magical-menagerie-server · 18 hours ago

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Another year slips away, and another Bad Smut Fest comes to a close. How fleeting our lives truly are...

Anyways! Here are some favourite snippets from this year's submissions.

Occasionally, with her handsy magical penile clitoral attachment with full sensation she’d gotten from the Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes sex shop subsidiary balls deep in Harry, she would wonder how many house points pegging the Chosen One in full sight of the world, pants down round his ankles and cheeks mooning, would lose Gryffindor. It was a fleeting consideration, but one she found particularly amusing. Maybe none at all. Maybe she'd be awarded for a job well done, taking care of their boy.

The Lengths We Go To (Are Almost As Lengthy As Your Cock, Orsino Thruston) by osculatrix

Dear Reader, It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a man trapped inside a Horcrux for more than half a century must be in want of a f**k.

Ink Bleeds Like Desire Itself by JustBlacka

This was a disaster, Draco thought as he pulled his boxers over his minuscule member later that day. He could hardly bring himself to look at the thing. Being a whopping two inches long, it curled in on itself like one of those tiny prawns Mother used to decorate her ladies-night cocktails. It was just as pink, too.

A Shrinking Feeling by syringe

He no longer had the brain power to care about the war or the horcrux hunt or picking apart the whys and the hows of the madness that had suddenly taken him over. He might as well be some Victorian bachelor, prowling the London slums in the dead of night, if all it took was a flash of embroidery on a wrist to get him off, and he didn't care.

These Dusty Bones by beanclip

He lifts Harry up with his noodly yet powerful arms and carries him to a bed. Voldemort leans over him and Harry looks into his beautiful eyes. They are so red, like a fire truck, and Harry’s dick is the siren going weewooweewooweewoo. “How old are you today?” Voldemort asks. “Eighteen.” “Wonderful,” Voldemort says. “Our bodies will join in lustful harmony with absolutely nothing between us, not even archive warnings.”

Ruby Orbs by houndsofheaven

“I’ll baste your pizza oven with my white sauce,” growled Sirius, bouncing Luna on his Tower of Pisa. Her howls and squeals of delight filled the room until he climaxed, slapping her on the ass, “Bon giorno! Now that’s a fucking delivery!”

The Horny Magic of Hogwarts by Nunspringa

Rolling onto his back, Dobby held the sock against the dim light which filtered through his small window. It was worn in places, the heel nearly transparent, but to Dobby it was more precious than the finest silks or gold. He loved feeling it on his skin, the way it reminded him of that first taste of freedom. Unlike the old pillowcase he was forced to wear, the sock felt incredible against his skin.

Harry Potter's Sock by piximera

He noticed that she made no effort to cover up her chest. He drank in her naked form, peppered with freckles that deserved to be kissed. "How many times have I told you to call me Theo." "Theo is your son's name."

The Real Thing by vitruvian8008

Peter’s love mayonnaise splashed across the priceless antique rug, painting it like abstract art that he could stare at for a thousand years. His lord’s man gravy spilled into him, filling him a hundred times over with desire that he couldn’t believe he was lucky enough to experience.

The Dark Lord's Desire by Anonymous

One week left for late submissions! Visit the collection to browse the entire fest and read last year's fics as well.

#harry potter fests #harry potter fanfiction #harry potter #fanfic fest #hp fests #hp fanfic #smut #bad smut #crack fics

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feelfreetopleasemexo · 20 hours ago

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Sometimes breaking up with someone isnt the end of the book, just the end of the chapter. You were both far too young, far too naïve and utterly obsessed with each other. Nothing good ever comes from being so focused on each other that jealousy and resentment start to peak through.

The heartbreak was disgustingly brutal. He ended up dealing the final blow after weeks of snippy arguments and uncertainty. He didn’t like that you wanted friends, and you didn’t like that he didn’t trust you. It’s how it always goes when you’re new to love, neither of you understood the other and small things that future you would find overtly easy to talk through and navigate, ended up becoming breaking points, and ammunition for further arguments. You screamed your goodbyes and spent the next five years ignoring each other, burning the other out of existence, as if your hearts didn’t still both hold the same burning seals of each other’s initials.

You got invited to a party, a school reunion, and although you told everyone you werent going, that youd rather be caught dead than in the same room as him again, something inside you still forced your feet to trace the pavement all the way there.

The room was dimly light, the bodies moving in sync to the music, and him, standing there like being alive wasnt the bane of your very existence. Your body shrunk into itself, your face contorted into a grimace as the pretty fair lights danced off his stupidly attractive cheek bones. He was the reason your heart still ached, why your hands froze at the slightly feeling of connection, and why your mind had forced the idea of love completely to the back of itself. You turned to leave, silent and angry, when he held the door open for you, now suddenly staring down at you like maybe he could be the reason you might want to stay a little longer.

Eyes connected, lips trembled, nothing but the red string being pulled taught was felt between the two of you right now. It was awkward, it was shy, it was….reminiscent.

“For all of your worth, I would lapse and fall again.”

He was the first to move, the first to pull your wrist into his fingers and drag you outside to dance with him in the flickering rain.

“For all that it’s worth, I would have loved you until the end.”

Your eyes smiled before your lips could, your heart ached for the longing of his to be pressed against yours again. You swayed as if your bodies hadn’t been torn apart all those years ago, as if it had been merely a moment away from the others.

“But im cold in your heart, and you’re branded into mine.”

His lips threatened to trace yours, but he pulled back. He knew he had no right to try to reclaim you again after all this time, so when you pulled him closer by the scruff of his shirt, he knew that maybe he could try to relearn you. After all, who else could say that theyd loved you through your worst and still dreamt of you every night since.

Katsuki, Denki, Deku, Shinso, Gojo, Geto, Yuji,

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ninus9607 · 17 hours ago

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𝟧. 𝑀𝑒𝓃𝓉𝒶𝓁𝓁𝓎 𝓊𝓃𝓈𝓉𝒶𝒷𝓁𝑒 𝒸𝒽𝑜𝒾𝒸𝑒𝓈.

Pairing(s): Pre Civil War Wanda Maximoff x Female vampire! reader (OC)

Počet slov: 4k tis.

tags: l content/warnings: wanda maximoff x oc, resident evil x marvel, sapphic fanfic, 18+,Violence, re8crossover, mention of death, mutal pinning, hurt/comfort

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡

AN: So here it is!!! Sorry for the delay guyss, but I am dealing with some things in my life, so I hope you are gonna like ittt

Blood was dripping down my wrist, under the jacket's border, and soaking the inner lining. The roar of the night air hit harder than it should have at this pace, and my motorcycle's front wheel shook just a little too violently when I made a fast turn.

"Shit," I whispered between gritted teeth, my fingers tightening over the pedal. "Come on, just a little longer."

I wasn't sure which was more painful: the cut along my ribs or the sharp dagger cut through my chest. Maybe that was all adrenaline. Perhaps I was finally dying.

How did I get into this situation?

A few hours earlier, I was laughing with Natasha, dancing with Wanda, and sipping expensive cocktails.

Now? Now I was bleeding into my boots and hoping not to pass out before reaching Avengers Tower.

It began after the party, which ended shortly after midnight. I could not sleep. Surprise. So I did what any emotionally unavailable immortal would do when haunted by past ghosts: I started hunting for answers.

There had been clues: deep Hydra discussion escaping via the internet. Clues related to never-destroyed leftovers files. Tony and Steve never approved the mission, and no one else had followed up on the lead. But I understood the signs.

I arrived early in the morning. The building had been hollowed out like a dead tree, eaten from the inside. No birds went to perch on the roof. It didn't take me long to uncover it: a staircase leading underground, hidden behind a rusty panel. My fingers still smelled like old iron and decay.

I picked the lock using muscle memory. I could have just kicked the door open, but I didn't want to wake any ghosts that were sleeping here.

There were no bodyguards. No traps. Just long-forgotten dust and a few yellowed lightbulbs flickering with old electricity.

I followed the corridor down to a locked archive room. The first file I opened was from 1914, and then my name.

Subject: Anastasia D. - Bloodline Protocol.

I flipped the pages.

There were photographs. I'm just a few weeks old. I was staring blankly at a camera I had forgotten about.

"The subject had genetic features but an incomplete mutation. Further contact with vampires is required. Maternal sensitivity is a danger."

Another photograph. My mother is confined to a chair. Another page. A map of Castle Dimitrescu. Family tree. Bloodlines are shown in red. My name is circled three times.

And one word scrawled over the last sheet in big black ink:

"AWAKENING."

I didn't hear them until the first one smacked me against the wall. A grunt escaped my lips before instinct took over. My elbow crashed into his throat, causing him to fall back, but two other silhouettes rushed.

Hydra.

They were obviously aware of my visit. Of course, they left the files out as a trap.

One slammed a shock baton into my ribcage, sending white fire down my side. I collapsed forward, spewing blood on my boots, before twisting just enough to swing my leg around and dropping him.

Another knife sliced across my shoulder. My vision blurred. I felt warmth seep down my back. I fought harder.

My fangs raised, and the air filled with the sound of bone against stone. I dropped one, then another, but the final one - taller and heavier - caught me right in the gut with the hilt of his blade. I staggered and gasped. He swings again. I barely escaped.

I pressed my fingers into his chest, fire blazing on my hand. He shouted and collapsed. But by then, the harm had been done. Blood drenched my clothing. I took the files and ran.

By the time I got to the bike,half-blind and bleeding in several places. My head throbbed. My hands were wet against the grips. The world whirled more than once, and I bit my tongue to stay awake.

By the time I got to the borders of Manhattan, dawn had begun to paint the sky with faint orange.

I didn't even stop at the Tower's main entrance. I drove into the underground garage, nearly clipping the wall before parking with a scream that resonated through the metal.

Then I limped - no, stumbled- into the elevator, slamming my palm against the screen. Medbay.

It took too long. When the doors swung open, I ran into the clean hallway. But it was empty. Not one goddamn person. The med corridor was silent, with mild blue lighting. There are no nurses. No bots. No FRIDAY greeting me with attitude. I was shaking, one hand pressed firmly over the wound in my chest.

"Come on," I mumbled, pulling open drawers and cold storage. No blood packets. There are no donations on file this early. I put my hand against my side again, groaning.

"Dammit!" Then I saw it.

One last small chilled drawer with a handwritten label reads: Donor - Type O Neg. - Emergency Only. I didn't care.

With shaky fingers, I cracked it open and removed the silver purse. My fangs ached as I glanced at the blood in the bag. I dropped to the floor against the wall, fangs digging in, a metallic taste pouring to the back of my throat like relief and thunder.

My heartbeat slowed. My vision cleared somewhat. But the pain was still strong.

Relief washed over me in slow-paced waves, lowering the screaming pain. I closed my eyes for a bit and focused on breathing. One hand remained pressed tightly to the cut on my ribs. The other trembled, still holding the half-empty blood pack.

"Would you like me to alert medical staff?" FRIDAY's voice rang out softly from the ceiling.

I blinked up, my eyes narrowing.

"Oh, wow," I replied bluntly, sarcasm thick on my mouth. "Early riser, aren't we?" Silence followed. I chuckled once - dry, humorless - and threw the drained pack in the trash. Missed.

"I am fine. There's no need to set off the alarms. Just your friendly vampire, bleeding out in the hallway."

I forced myself to get up. Each muscle screamed. My head swirled again, but I grabbed the counter for balance before pulling open another cabinet.

Sterile cotton. Antiseptic, stitches, and tools.

The medical bay always had everything I needed - whatever anyone needed. However, the disorientation in my limbs remained, as did the wet warmth collecting beneath my shirt.

That man-whatever he was-hit the right place. Just above the ribs. Left side. Clean strike, too.The single spot where a vampire could die if given the correct pressure, weapon, and motivation. I'd been lucky. But not enough.

I grumbled between my teeth as I peeled up the fabric to reveal the wound. It was ugly. Dark, ripped, and slowly bleeding. I pressed a pad against it and wrapped a roll of gauze tightly.

I needed to rest. I needed blood.

"Should I call someone now?" FRIDAY asked again, more insistently this time.

I scoffed. "No."

"Anastasia"

"I said no."

I paused, breathing lightly, one hand braced against the edge of the counter.

"Do you want Natalia to walk in here and see me looking like death warmed over?" I mumbled, my voice harsh and dry. "Do you have any clue what kind of arrogant lecture I'd get? No, thanks. I'd rather dig my own grave."

I tried to take another step and felt the ground change beneath me. My kneecaps buckled. I almost fell. The room shook again.

"FRIDAY," I warned with clenched teeth.

But she remained mute. She didn't listen. Of course, she did not.

Because FRIDAY was designed to accomplish one thing better than anything else: detect when someone was lying. And I was definitely lying. I sank into the nearest chair, bloodied and frustrated. "You'd better not have called Nat," I mumbled. No response.

But then footsteps...

One pair. I remained still. But I could feel it's not Nat.

Wanda.

"Great," I muttered under my breath. "Just great."

She paused at the doorway, refusing to move immediately. Her magic seemed to disturb the air like static, making it anxious and tight. My palm was still securely wrapped around the blood bag I'd barely managed to find, pressing against my ribs as if it could keep me standing.

I did not turn to face her.

"Anastasia?"

Her voice was quiet. Scared.

"Don't freak out," I rasped, still tasting copper on my tongue. "It looks worse than it is."

That was a lie. It was exactly as bad as it looked—maybe worse. My side was on fire, my head was banging like a hammer within my brain, and the blood bag wasn't doing much to calm the shaking in my hands.

I heard her walking in gently, her boots softly tapping on the flooring. The sweet scent of her perfume reached me - jasmine with something darker and harsher beneath. She didn't say anything else until she was right in front of me, close enough that I could feel her blood.

"What the hell happened?" she asked, her voice tight.

"Got into a small... situation."

"By yourself?" Her eyes narrowed. "You left without informing anyone. Without support. And now you're sitting in here, bleeding out like a goddamn idiot."

I winced, but not because of the wound.

"I had to check something," I mumbled. "It was personal."

"You almost died."

I eventually looked up at her. Her fists were clenched, and the edges of her magic pulsated weakly around her fingertips - uncontrolled.

I tried to distract. "You should see the other guys."

She did not smile. "You're not funny."

"I am charming. Sometimes it overlaps."

Her jaw clenched. "You really think now is the time to make jokes?"

"I didn't expect it to go wrong."

Wanda moved closer. She crouched in front of me gently, hands resting on her thighs, her gaze fixed on mine.

"Why didn't you tell anyone?" She whispered.

I looked away. "I thought I could handle it."

"You're not invincible."

I scoffed. "That's debatable."

"I'm serious, Ana. You could've been killed," she murmured softly now. "And no one would have known how to find you. We would've woken up to find a blood trail, if anything at all."

"I'm not used to people looking for me," I muttered, hardly catching my breath.

She looked at me for a second. Her face softened. Then she stood up, went to the cabinet, and returned with gauze, alcohol, and medical tape.

"Let me help."

"I've got it."

"Stop."

Wanda's gaze kept shifting to the blood soaking through my side, her jaw clenched. She seemed to be analyzing something - most likely me - to figure out how much longer I had before passing out again.

"You need to take it off," she added, her voice low.

I blinked. "I beg you pardon?"

"Your shirt. I need to see the wound before I can help you."

Despite the pounding pain in my ribs, I gave her a crooked smile. "M'lady, I expect you to take me to dinner before getting me half-naked."

Her brows narrowed slightly, but I noticed a little blush on her cheeks. She didn't say anything for a moment, just stared at me, seemed to decide whether to argue or strangle me.

"This isn't funny," she said, her voice softer.

"It's not meant to be funny," I said, smirking despite my discomfort. "It's called flirting. Don't pretend you're not used to it."

Wanda sighed, "You're literally bleeding out, Anastasia."

"And yet I still have excellent taste," I said, noticing the corners of her lips twitch slightly.

She reached for my shirt but halted before touching it, her fingertips hovering near the hem.

"May I?" she asked.

I nodded. "Yeah. Go ahead."

She washed the wound in quiet, the strong smell of antiseptic stinging more than the wound itself. Her hands were steady, but I could feel the tightness in her shoulders and how her breath caught whenever I flinched.

She wrapped the bandage tightly.

After a long pause, she looked up at me, her face unreadable. "You said it was personal. What did you find?"

I reached behind me and carefully removed the blood-smeared folder from where I had tucked it against my spine. "Files. From Hydra. About Me. About children. Experiments."

Her eyes moved over the folder, but she did not take it from me. "And you went alone?"

I sighed. "I didn't want to drag anyone into my mess."

"You are not a mess."

I blinked at her.

"Stop acting like you're some lonely wolf from a tragic gothic novel," she said,

I wasn't sure what to say. She rose up, wiped her palms, and gazed down at me, as if she were weighing something.

"You're not staying here," she finally said.

"I can't stand..."

Before I could finish the sentence, she rushed quickly and confidently, pulling me up into her arms.

I let out a breath. "Wanda, seriously."

"No. You had your say. Now it's mine."

I did not fight her. My body was too heavy. The pain was darker now, settling deeper into my bones.

She carried me along the corridor as if I weighed nothing. Her grip was firm, her arms wrapped snugly about me. As we walked through the doorway to the common room, I said quietly, "You didn't have to help me."

She didn’t answer at first. Just walked over to the couch and slowly placed myself down, getting a blanket and wrapping it around me with such care that my throat tightened.

Wanda stayed after helping me settle into the couch. In fact, she only moved a few steps away. I expected her to say something like "Rest now," or "Don't bleed on Tony's furniture," and then vanish away into her own world.

Instead, she returned a minute later, going carefully across the floor, holding a bag of blood in one hand and a glass in the other. "It's not fresh," she explained as she placed it on the coffee table, "but it'll keep you from passing out again."

I raised an eyebrow. "You're still here?"

"I'm still here,"

I whispered a faint "thanks," then leaned forward, my hands shaking slightly as I poured the blood into the glass. The smell alone made my fangs ache. I sipped it gently, allowing it to calm the heat in my chest. Although the ache had not gone away, it seemed less intense. Her presence seems to soften the edges.

She then did something surprising.

She took the remote from the table, turned on the TV, and started browsing the streaming apps. I had never seen her that relaxed before. Finally, she turned on a television and lay back on the couch next to me - near but not too close.

"... Bewitched?" I asked, blinking at the black and white screen.

"I like the older seasons," she muttered.

I turned my head slightly, the soft light from the television flickering across her face. "What are you doing?"

Her gaze did not leave the screen. "Watching TV."

"No, I mean - why are you still here?" I asked, my voice lowering as I grew sleepy. "You do not have to babysit me, you understand. I am not dying anymore."

She eventually looked at me, "You were bleeding and about to pass out. You can't pretend you're alright." She tilted her head. "And maybe I want to stay."

She returned her attention to the TV, her voice becoming lower. "When I was a kid, my father would bring home old sitcoms, Cassettes, DVDs, anything he could find. We didn't have much, but Pietro and I would sit on the floor in front of this tiny little TV with him and my mother, laughing like we had it all."

She put her head back against the pillow and said softly, "After Pietro died, I didn't watch anything for months. Couldn't. But I eventually started again. Because it helped me feel closer to them."

I stared at her quietly, my heart beating somewhat slower. Her voice had a rough yet controlled tone to it. "I just… thought maybe it would calm you down, too," she added, staring over at me. "If you wanted."

I first looked at her and then at the television. Samantha twitched her nose and sent a broom floating across the room.

"Okay," I whispered. "We can watch Bewitched."

She nodded softly and simply. There was no huge reaction. Just stayed there - warm alongside me, arms crossed under her chest, eyes flickering between TV and me.

I had no idea how comfy I had become until I felt my body sink deeper into the couch. The ache in my side was still pulsating, but the blood was soothing. I rested my head softly against the side of the pillow near her shoulder, but not quite touching. My eyes grew tired with each old jingle, laugh track, and flash of light on the screen.

The last thing I heard was Wanda's voice, low and near, saying something I couldn't quite understand.

A few hours later...

I awoke as faraway noises came from the sprays of sleep, quiet at first, then louder. It's too loud. I opened my eyes just in time to hear the elevator doors slide open and heavy footsteps stomp toward the common area.

"Are you kidding me, Anastasia?!" Natasha's voice rang through the tower, like a slap.

I winced and sat up too quickly, only to regret it instantly. My ribs twinged, a dull but persistent reminder that I was not yet healed. I rubbed my hand across my face as Nat screamed into view.

She seemed angry. Like a full red-alert Romanoff pissed.

"You went there? Alone?" She snapped, raising her hands in the air. "We have literally red-highlighted it. Missions were refused there. There are too many missing bodies. Too many damn traps. And you!" she pointed at me, " - just walk in there on your own like it's Tuesday and you're going out for coffee?"

I blinked, trying to sit up straighter and rubbing the sleep out of my eyes. "Well, I did almost grab a coffee on the way..."

"Don't you dare joke right now!"

Wanda appeared close behind her, arms crossed tightly, eyes fixated on me with the same hard gaze.

"How did you know where I was?"

"Friday, set a monitoring device on your motorcycle in case of an emergency, and when I found out you were hurt, I wanted to know where you went."

"Are you fucking kidding? Stalkers."

Tony, for his part, trailed behind them both, holding a tablet and wearing a severely bored grimace. "Wow, so this is the chaos I missed while having a totally peaceful nap." He sipped from a freshly brewed cup of coffee. "Who knew blood-covered, half-dead vampire drama would interrupt my morning caffeine?"

"Guys, relax," I replied, slowly waving my hand."I am fine. See?" I lifted the edge of my shirt up slightly, displaying the area on my ribcage where the wound had already healed. The skin was still faintly red, but there was no blood or visible injuries. "Healing benefits. One of the few advantages of immortality."

Natasha narrowed her gaze. "Then show us all the wounds."

I paused.

Wanda moved forward, her voice calm yet cold. "Lie down. Now."

I opened my lips to argue, but she tilted her head, and my resolve crumbled like tissue paper.

"Yes, ma'am," I mumbled before sliding back onto the couch with a groan. Wanda didn't appear smug about her victory, but there was something satisfying about the way she grabbed the med kit from the side table and opened it without asking.

Tony perched himself dramatically on the armrest of a nearby chair. "I knew one of you was going to snap and become the boss. I just did not expect it to be Maximoff."

"Shut up, Stark," Wanda and I said together. That made me snort.

Natasha sighed slowly before folding her arms and sitting on the coffee table edge in front of me. "What were you even looking for?"

I slumped back and groaned as Wanda gently examined the mending wound on my chest. Despite her anxious demeanor, her fingers were remarkably stable.

I pointed to the black folder still resting on the couch near us. "That."

Tony reached for it and flicked it open, frowning. "Is this your school scrapbook?"

"Funny," I said. "No. It's files. Hydra used to function from a building before splitting. I tracked some activity after the party and went alone, assuming it would be quiet. Found them in a locked drawer. They are about me."

"Wait - you ?" Natasha asked.

"Yeah. Like me, as a child. Medical scanning and bloodline analysis. Experiments to induce vampiric genetics in children. Hydra had been trying to create vampires. Or... something near them."

Wanda paused, her hands still by my side.

Tony furrowed his face as he flipped over the pages. "Well, that is not weird at all. It appears they were employing gene-splicing technology that before everything we thought they had. Wait, this is outdated."

"1914," I completed for him. "Which means they've been keeping tabs on me- or my family"

Wanda's voice was tight when she said, "So you went alone. Into a known Hydra trap zone. Because you thought it could be connected to you?"

"Yes, also I was bored," I replied plainly.

"And nearly died,"

I gazed at her. Really stared at her. "But I didn't."

Natasha groaned and brushed her hands across her face. "You're unbelievable."

"I told you, I'm fine," I whispered.

Natasha collected the files and approached Tony. "Can you run diagnostics?"

"Already scanning them," he continued, his expression serious as he scanned the weird symbols in the margins. "But this isn't just about you. If they were experimenting with bloodlines, this could be related to more than just vampires."

I nodded slowly. "It's everything connected. I am just the beginning."

I let the silence last for a few more seconds before sitting up straighter. "Alright," I murmured, moving a strand of hair away from my face, "what are we waiting for? Let us go catch them."

"No," Natasha and Wanda answered instantly.

I blinked. "What do you mean, no?"

Natasha gave me a harsh stare that could have ripped out my other lung. "You are half-alive, Anastasia. You almost bled all over the floors this morning."

"I did not - " I started, but Wanda raised her hand.

"You are not moving," she continued, her tone low, calm, and forceful. "You're going to sit here, drink something, rest till your injuries are healed."

I opened my mouth. I closed it. I opened it again. "Okay, first of all, rude."

"Second of all?" Natasha asked.

I leaned back, letting out a big sigh. "Whatever. You two are very controlling."

Wanda arched her brow. "You say that like it's a problem."

I grinned, my lips curved slightly. "Friday, can I have some new blood? Preferably not expired?"

"Already delivering, Miss Dimitrescu," the AI said gently.

"Oh, cannot believe she can be kind," I said with a laugh.

Natasha gave me one more long gaze, as if she were trying to set me on fire with her thoughts, before heading down the corridor. "I am going to find Steve and Sam. He'll want to look at those files, too."

"Tell him to bring coffee," Tony said as she went.

I shifted carefully, watching her leave. When she was out of sight, I turned to Wanda. She had not moved. She just remained there, arms held loosely across her chest, peering down at me as if I'd try to run again.

"What?" I asked quietly.

She did not respond right away. Then, "You scared me."

That hit harder than I thought. I turned aside to the coffee table and the empty glass from earlier. "Wasn't my goal."

"I don't care," she said gently. "You still did."

"You know I'm not used to people worrying."

I let out a big sigh and fell back against the couch, resting my head. She did not speak.

The TV was still on, showing some blurry black-and-white sitcom I couldn't name, with the laugh track crackling like static.

"What's that?" I asked.

She blinked. "What?"

"The show." This is older than Bewitched, I believe; I don't recognize it."

Wanda looked down, flustered. "This is the only season of The Dick Van Dyke Show that I could find."

She paused. Then, with a sad smile, "Some of them are difficult to find now. The originals, I mean. And I haven't really - " she shrugged, her eyes flicking away, " - I haven't asked anyone for help. I don't like bothering others. Or ask for money."

"You wanna watch some with me?"

She blinked in disbelief. "You want to?"

I shrugged. "It's either this or I go fight someone again, which would get me even more into trouble.

She let out a soft laugh before reaching for the remote. "Okay."

"Deal,"

#fanfic #marvel #wlw #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff #marvel imagines #wanda maximoff imagine #wanda x reader #wanda maximoff x female reader #re8 village

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ladyhelona · 16 hours ago

Text

Drawn to Ruin (Part 2)

Sebastian Michaelis x Maid!Reader (not really a virgin anymore lol)

A/N: I accidentally deleted this when I was trying to edit it, so it's no longer attached to the ask. Anon asked for part 2 of Sebastian x Virgin Maid, and so here you go! I took the "good girl gone bad" and made it my own, made it smutty as hell, and got this. This is the smuttiest smut I've ever written, see warnings below. I hope you like it 🖤

Content Warnings, MDNIs:

Explicit sexual content (18+)

Power imbalance (demon x human, employer x maid)

Somno-adjacent teasing (mild — she’s shy/delirious but consenting)

Consensual dubcon vibes (emotional repression, corruption kink, shame-play)

Mirror sex

Mild choking (hand on throat, no asphyxiation)

Virginity loss aftermath / “ruined for anyone else” themes

Religious and purity-based corruption themes

Degradation (pet names like “pathetic,” “filthy,” “good girl”)

Obsessive/possessive dynamics

Mentions of manipulation (emotional, sensual)

Spiritual blasphemy undertones (forgetting every god but him)

It had been two weeks.

Two weeks since Sebastian defiled you on the sterile counter of your lab. Two weeks since you had given yourself to him.

And now you were avoiding him.

You were where he was not. If you were forced to be in the same room, you didn’t look at him. Couldn’t.

You couldn’t name it, but something terrible had filled you—like bile rising in your throat. Perhaps it was shame. Guilt.

Every time you even so much as stole a glance at Sebastian, all you could remember was the sounds he pulled out of you with his fingers stuffed deep inside of you.

It replayed in your mind like a broken record, one that couldn’t turn off.

You buried yourself in your duties just to avoid him.

Suddenly, all of your ingredients need to be organized in alphabetical order.

Even though you had just done that this morning.

Or all of your beakers needed to be sterilized. Again.

But no matter how many times you wiped and cleaned that cursed countertop, the memory lingered like bad perfume.

You hated what he’d done to you.

You hated that you liked it even more.

You hated that you wanted to do it again most.

But even your lab wasn’t safe, not really. Even in the dead of night, you’d hear footsteps right outside the door. Once, there was a cup of tea right next to your lab journal. One that wasn’t there before you quickly left to grab something.

Or a fleeting glance over his shoulders. Your eyes would meet his red ones, and it was like he knew.

Knew you were losing it. That shame was eating you alive, and it was living in your head.

And he liked it.

You were an alchemical genius. You could create lethal poisons by memory, antidotes that doctors would struggle with.

And you were being undone by a man.

Every time he looked at you, even from across the room, it felt like he was pulling the thread that held you together. Bit by bit, he was going to unravel you.

You knew you couldn’t avoid him, not forever. Maybe you could.

It was late evening. The lab was clean, too clean. You had scrubbed every surface twice. The air smelled faintly of soap and chemicals.

The chalkboard had the same formula it did yesterday, but in a neater script. The vial beside you was still warm from sterilization—again.

You were pretending to work, sort of. You had done everything you needed to do, which means you ran out of busy work. So you were scribbling down notes that meant nothing. Uncorking things, sterilizing what was already sterile.

You moved mechanically, hollow.

It was late. You should’ve gone to bed.

The door opens with a creak, and you pause. You know who it is without turning.

“We’re running low on cold tincture,” Sebastian said, low. You could just feel him watching you.

You don’t turn to look at him, just nodding before you scribble something into your lab book, “I’ll handle it.”

Half of the lines you had written were the same ones, over and over again.

You turned back to the chalkboard, feigning deep focus. You expected him to turn, to hear his footsteps retreating and the door close.

You do not.

He lingers instead. Standing there, eyes raking over you.

“You’re avoiding me.”

You stiffen—just slightly, but enough. He notices, he always does.

“I’ve… been busy,” you said, quietly. As if you weren’t sure you believed it yourself.

“Busy with a formula you perfected yesterday?”

You’re silent. You’re caught. You know it.

Sebastian steps closer, not touching you. Not yet. But you feel it, the way he’s lingering behind you.

“You are many things,” he says softly, almost reverently. “Brilliant. Kind. But a liar is not one of them.”

You still won’t meet his eyes.

But he’s so close you can smell him—smoke, spice, and sin.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen,” you whispered.

“Liar.”

It wasn’t a cruel accusation— just a fact.

You flinch nonetheless.

“You wanted it,” he continues, soft, relentless. “You still want it.”

You open your mouth to say something, anything. But words fail you. You shake your head, barely.

Sebastian leans in. His breath ghosts the shell of your ear, and a shiver runs up your spine.

“You don’t know how to lie. Not properly. It’s why it’s so easy to read you.”

“You don’t hate me. You hate that you enjoyed it.”

Still, you say nothing. Your throat is too tight, and something hot coils deep inside of you.

“You’ve always been good. Always kind. Untouched not just in body, but in soul.”

“And now I’ve ruined you,” Sebastian said it gently, devastatingly.

You exhale shakily. That word, ruined. It shouldn’t make your stomach clench like that. It shouldn’t make your heart flutter.

“But do you want me to fix it?” He murmured, “Or do you want me to ruin you again?”

You were burning. Sebastian hadn’t touched you, and yet your skin was on fire. Heat pooled in your belly, and you ached between your thighs.

When you finally turn around to look at him, you almost melt.

He’s so close. Too close. His presence coils around you like smoke, like velvet—like everything you’ve been trying not to want.

Your eyes lift to meet his.

And the look he gives you?

It’s ruinous.

A heat blooms in your chest—your belly—low and aching and helpless.

“Sebastian,” you whisper, unsure whether it’s a plea or a warning.

But then his hand rises—slowly. Carefully.

And his fingers brush your cheek. Your jaw. His thumb ghosts over your lower lip, and you feel the heat spike, a tremor running through you.

Still, he doesn’t kiss you. He’s waiting for your collapse. Sweet. Inevitable.

You lean forward first.

Just barely. A breath.

But it’s enough.

His lips capture yours like a secret stolen in the dark.

The kiss is soft at first—shockingly so. Reverent. Gentle.

But you gasp.

And that’s all it takes.

He swallows the sound. His hand cups the back of your neck. The other anchors your hip.

He kisses you like he’s claiming the breath from your lungs. Like he’s dragging you back into sin, and you’re letting him.

You arch against him, and suddenly the world becomes smaller—quieter—until there’s only his mouth, his hands, him.

It was the way you melted into him, breathed him in like he was the air you needed to breathe.

“Do you remember?” he murmurs against your throat. “How sweet you tasted when you broke?”

You do. Gods, you do. But this time… you want more.

“Sebastian…” you whisper again. Your fingers curl tighter in his waistcoat. “Not here.”

His lips still against your neck. You expect him to tease. To say something cruel and soft.

Instead, his voice lowers, velvet-sinful. “Then say it. Tell me where you want me to ruin you.”

You hesitate. Just a breath. And then:

“Somewhere… softer,” you say. “Somewhere I can feel everything.”

His eyes darken, delighted. And without another word, he lifts you again—arms like iron, touch like reverence.

You bury your face in his shoulder, suddenly shy as he carries you down the hall, past flickering lamps and empty corridors, into the quiet hush of a room that smells like sandalwood and secrets.

When he sets you down atop the soft sheets, the moonlight slicing across the bed

That’s when he says it:

“I’m going to make you beg me to do it all over again.”

Jackets and shirts came off and fell to the floor. You didn’t even notice his gloves were gone until you felt his bare hands cup your face, as if you were something delicate.

To him, you were—a dove who flew too close.

He was on top of you, caging you in the way a predator would the prey they caught. And perhaps it was fitting—Sebastian planned to devour you.

And god, you were going to let him. Hands fisted into the material of his shirt and desperately pulled him closer.

As if he wasn’t going to be your ruin.

His knee was placed between your thighs, and you whined. Grinding against his knee, he could feel it. How wet you were.

“Needy little thing, aren’t you?” He chuckled against your lips, dark, low, and amused. “Surely, you aren’t this desperate for me?”

Your face flushed, and before you could blink, his hand had slipped beneath your petticoats, fingers stroking the large wet stain on your underwear.

“You’re dripping, and I haven’t even touched you properly. How pathetic. How precious.”

You were drooling between your thighs, all for him. The knowledge made something dark curl into his chest.

Sebastian wanted nothing more than to make you sob his name. Loud enough for the whole manor to hear, until it was imprinted into the walls.

Without warning, ruthless hands were pulling your petticoats down, tossing them to the floor without a care. You suddenly tried to shield yourself, earning an eyebrow raised from him.

Sebastian tsked, “You’re trying to be modest now? Adorable. Almost believable.”

A mere flick of Sebastian’s wrist had you suddenly exposed, hands pinned above your head with ease.

He parted your thighs with ease, revealing the way your slick spread thing. Eager, all for him.

Sebastian let out a soft “Hm,” before his thumb found your clit, smearing your slick against it in slow circles. It made you gasp softly.

It was amusing to him that barely touching you elicited such reactions. You were already struggling to bite back a moan.

“Even now, you’re clenching around nothing,” his voice was soft, dangerously soft.

It was then that he slipped two fingers inside of you with ease, the sound was obscene—slick, eager, sinful. He paid no mind, massaging your insides with slow curls of his fingers.

“Ah, Sebastian!” You cried out, biting back a moan. The demon did nothing but chuckle, watching as you fell apart on merely two fingers.

“This is what you wanted, isn’t it? To be undone. To be ruined.” He teased, with a slight tilt of his head, as he suddenly roughly slammed his fingers into you. It made you cry out; it stung deliciously. “I’m merely doing what you asked of me, little dove.”

His pace was not kind; it was rough. As if he were determined to be the one to push you off the edge and watch.

Even if you wanted to retort, the only thing that left your lips was broken cries and moans.

You felt it in your belly, the tight coil about to come undone as you reached your peak. Sebastian knew it too. He saw it in the way you were gripping the sheets tightly.

“You break so sweetly…. I almost feel merciful.” He breathed before pulling his two fingers out of your wet cunt with a squelch. The coil in your stomach, the pleasure building to your orgasm, was quickly dwindling. “But I’d rather not.”

You blinked up at him, confused. Needy. “Why’d you stop?” You whined, hanging on the edge of release. The need in your voice made Sebastian chuckle.

“Be a good girl and lick it off,” he purred, holding up two fingers covered in your slick. “And I’ll give you what you’re so wet for.”

You had never done this before—obviously— but the promise of relief after two torturous weeks was reward enough.

Your hands held his, bringing them to your lips. The taste was heady, a dark blend of salt and something faintly sweet—you.

You were so eager to please—sweet little dove.

The way you looked up at him through your lashes with wide eyes, sucking on his fingers, swirling your tongue around them.

It was sinfully erotic.

And you had no idea what a feast for the eyes you were.

His cock throbbed, straining against fabric—aching for the softness he’d already claimed.

It took everything in him not to shove you down and make you forget your own name.

“Hands and knees, little dove,” Sebastian says, voice low and dark. “Let me see where you’ve been aching for me most.”

His words make you flush, but you do as he says, almost under a spell.

And what a sight it is.

Watching you in such a position— thighs spread, a perfect view of how wet you were— was delicious—the slight arch in your back.

“Look at you,” he murmured, leaning down to wrap his hand around your throat. Not choking, but firm. Guiding your head to the dressing mirror in the corner. “You look like a delicacy.”

The sight in the mirror made you want to look away, but you couldn’t. You were completely bare in every sense.

“A banquiet laid bare,” Sebastian said softly, pressing a kiss to your shoulder that felt unnaturally gentle. “…And it’s all for me.”

He shuffled behind you, not fully visible in the mirror. You felt the blunt tip of his cock drag up and down your cunt, gathering your slick. Teasing.

You shuddered, back arching.

It was then that Sebastian pushed the tip into your aching cunt, pushing deeper past the tight ring of muscles with a shallow sigh. You were squeezing him so deliciously.

He held you still, preventing you from trying to escape the stretch you were feeling.

It took one forceful thrust of his hips to push into you halfway.

He gave you the small mercy of adjusting before he fully sank into you, the air leaving your lungs. You’ve slumped into the bed, face in the pillows with your ass up.

You were temptation made flesh to the demon.

A pure soul—not naive— and he was the one who got to ruin you.

It took a few slow thrusts, but it wasn’t long before you were muffling your moans into the pillow.

To think, you avoided him for two weeks only to end up naked with his cock sinking into you. The thought made him chuckle internally.

“You play the good little maid,” Sebastian muttered, fingers gripping your hair tighter at an intense thrust that has your whining moans hushed by the pillow.

“But you’ve always wanted to be filthy for me, haven’t you, little dove?”

He got his answer when your hips began to roll on their own—slow, deliberate, sinful. When your spine arched deeper just to take him further. When you dared to lift your gaze to the mirror and meet his eyes, a silent plea was written across your face, ruined and radiant. The good girl was gone. In her place was something hungrier. Bolder. Desperate to be filled, to be wrecked, to be his.

The good girl died a few orgasms ago.

Now?

You moaned at every drag of his cock against your silken walls.

Your cunt greedily swallowed every inch he gave you. Like it couldn’t be sated.

Maybe you couldn’t be either.

Not when tears are wetting your lashes, not when your eyes are almost rolled back. Especially not when your hips bounce back to meet his deep thrusts.

You were almost as insatiable as he was.

You couldn’t stop. Wouldn’t.

Perhaps the whole manor had heard you moaning his name— for once, Sebastian didn’t care. How could he, when he had you like this? Begging for more? Begging for him?

No man could make you feel like this— in fact, he was determined to ruin you for anyone else.

You were a vision of debauchery and devotion.

Sebastian wanted to burn the image into his head. He wanted to keep you all to himself. He was greedy. Selfish.

He didn’t want you moaning or falling apart like this for anyone except him.

Only him.

When he was done, he wanted you to forget every god but him.

#ladyhelonawrites #sebastian michaelis x reader #kuroshitsuji #yandere sebastian michaelis #kuroshitsuji x reader #black butler #black butler x reader #sebastian michaelis smut #black butler fanfic #dark romance #smutty smut smut #smutty fanfiction #smutty writing #black butler sebastian #kuroshitsuji fanfic #kuroshitsuji smut #oh my god this is sooo yummy #live laugh love sebastian michaelis

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confines · 1 year ago

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me and my cousin i'm barely on speaking terms with (but in a relatively casual way) repotted her deceased grandmother's pothos today. this was our first time actually properly repotting it bc last summer it was in such a fragile state and we were so scared to hurt it that we just lifted it out of its pot and placed it in a bigger one but this go round we basically dismantled it entirely. we got eight discrete plants and placed it into four different pots!! in nine months it went from the edge of death to that many plants and like ninety leaves altogether. so if you're bad with plants but still wanna fool with them, i guess you should get a pothos.

#neither of us are corny enough to say it or interested in tearjerker moments but i think we both felt the presence of her grandmother HEAVY #this was the only potted plant of hers still living since she died back in 16 & it was. god. it was no longer variegated from lack of light #it actually had more leaves than i remembered. it had like 20. but for every leaf there were 4 places there should've been and wasn't.#water that touched the soil came back yellow which i've never researched to see what the cause is #but i associate it with like. bogs. and stagnation #like if it was still in that dark corner of my other cousin's living room it fr might be dead now #but in nine months thanks to my other cousin asking for help and thanks to us repotting it and taking our turns with it #it has more than quadrupled in size and is variegated af #i don't know what we'll do in like six months when it wants to do it again...#i'm keeping mine somewhat contained tbh i don't even like pothos i just love it bc it's a piece of my aunt #and it is like objectively so fucking sweet that we've rehabbed it like that #adam yaps #like two weeks ago i asked my other cousin if she'd want a pot of it when we repotted and she once again emphasised #that she didn't want it or any cuttings off it leaving the family or being handed out willy nilly #and i once again tried to explain that it's a pothos. it wants to be split up and thrown all over.#that's a pothos' favourite thing #plus her mom probably gave an ungodly amount of people cuttings off it like come on now #but anyway maybe she'll understand now when she sees and fully comprehends that in 9mos we turned half a plant into 4 #at this rate we'll either be giving bits away or throwing bits away. those are the options we will eventually face.#because you can't just repot infinitely. eventually your whole house will be one massive pothos in a hundred pots.

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oldesigns · 7 days ago

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save the cat, get the girl

clark kent x fem reader

summary: when your cat went missing, there was a man willing to search for your fur baby to the ends of the earth to make you happy.

word count: 5.5k

warnings/mood: fluff, slight angst —or too much if you lost a cat like me—, reader's cat is missing, but not dead!!! clark being adorable as always, it is mentioned that clark's blazer is too big for reader in case that is an issue for you. english is not my first language, and it's kind of crap, i'm sorry. google translate and i are besties but lmk if you see any grammatical errors pls.

a/n: hiii! it's been a while since i last wrote one shots here, hope this isn't shitty. i wrote this because my cat is missing —too— and i really miss him. idk, it was my way of comforting myself and right now i wish superman was real and brought my baby back:(((

my english has become terribly rusty, it took me ages to research each sentence and see if it made sense, so i hope it does. xoxo

Clark Kent was searching for the courage to ask you out.

He'd been interested in you ever since Perry White introduced you as the newest addition to the Daily Planet. He read everything you wrote, listened to everything you proposed, smiled every time you struggled with the printer, and thought of you whenever he should've been focusing on something else.

You were the most precious thought that had ever inhabited his mind.

Lois had been encouraging him for weeks, but he could've sworn that every time he got close, you'd put an invisible wall between you. He honestly didn't understand. You'd never been rude, but he could see how you placed a subtle boundary every time he tried to get to know you.

And he would have taken it as a clear rejection and walked away immediately if it weren't for the way your heart raced and your face flushed when he was close.

On Monday, as always, he arrived at work rehearsing in his head how he'd approach you. He wasn’t arrogant, but he wasn’t a complete fool either, not enough to screw it up just by asking the girl he liked out. But you made him nervous. Your smile made him nervous. And your unreadable attitude made him even more nervous.

But on Monday, you didn't show up.

Not five minutes later. Not fifteen. Not thirty. Not an hour or two later. Not even when he sadly glanced at the door, hoping you'd be the one walking in. And never—since you'd arrived months ago as the new reporter at the Daily Planet—had he regretted not asking for your number as much as he did then.

He knew he wasn't the only one who noticed your absence, or who worried when Perry explained you were sick and had taken the day off. But he truly felt like a lost and abandoned puppy.

Was this a sign from the universe that he shouldn't ask you out?

Still, his mind wandered elsewhere: how sick did you have to be to miss work? You hadn't missed a single day since you arrived. In that moment, he wished he'd approached you sooner, maybe then, he could've helped.

He was distracted all day, and no one missed it.

After all, it wasn't like it was a secret to anyone in that office that Clark Kent looked at you like you'd painted every sunset in the sky. Everyone knew it.

Except you, of course. Obviously.

ꫂ❁

On Wednesday, against all odds, you arrived at work 15 minutes late, with a scolding from your boss and a huge thermos that took Clark no more than 5 seconds to figure out had coffee in it, not water, as usual.

His happiness at finally seeing you was overshadowed by concern when you gave him a soft "Hi" an attempt at a smile that looked more like a grimace, and then walked straight to your desk.

Your hair was a little—maybe more than a little—disheveled, as if you'd rushed to get there, but also like you hadn't even tried to style it in the first place. You had dark circles under your eyes that your concealer did little to hide, your nose was still red, and you wore the dullest, saddest look he'd ever seen on you, or any human.

He hesitated, but after exactly seven minutes of staring at his desk, he sighed, stood slowly, and walked over with a thin cardboard box you'd recognize anywhere.

"Hey," his soft, low voice filled your ears, making you look away from your phone.

The familiar object in his large hands made you immediately raise your head to stare at him in disbelief. Your heart practically leapt out of your chest when you saw his tender smile and shy gaze.

"You always say the cookies from that coffee shop are your favorite," he explained, slowly bringing the box closer to you. "I thought you might feel better." He shrugged a little, as if he hadn't just forced you to blink multiple times to keep from crying.

"Clark..." you whispered, your surprised gaze still fixed on him as you took the box of cookies, almost flinching when his hand brushed against yours. "Clark, I don't know what to say. Thank you so much, I really, really appreciate it."

Normally, you wouldn't have been so sentimental about it, but your cat, whom you had rescued three years ago, was missing. You'd been searching high and low for him, without success. You still hadn't recovered from your cold. Your emotions were terribly unraveled. And the fact that the small gift came from the charming man you were silently pining for... Yes, you were justified.

"It's nothing, really. I knew you were sick, and it was the least I could do," he assured you, still with that smile but with a more serious expression.

Clark leaned forward a little, resting one hand lightly on your desk without invading your personal space, as if he were going to tell you a secret—which was partly true, but it was more so you wouldn't have to crane your head to look at him and end up with a sore neck.

"I know we're not very close," he began again, and you could almost hear the disappointment in his voice as he said those words, but you chalked it all up to your imagination. "But... Are you really okay?" he asked, genuinely concerned, staring at you with those beautiful blue eyes of his that nearly made you break down.

It took you a few seconds to answer.

"Yes..." your voice came out barely above a whisper. "I'm fine, Clark, thank you. I'm not that sick anymore." You tried to smile amused, but he didn't notice a hint of amusement in you.

"That's not what I meant..." he replied, not sounding insistent, just... kind, genuine.

You had to hold your breath and blink quickly again so you wouldn't cry right there. You really needed to vent to someone about the nightmare your last few days had been. Clark inspired confidence, and just as you were about to speak-

"Clark, don't you think she already has enough work to do for you to distract her with desserts and 'love serenades'?" Perry's voice, a few feet away, froze you both for a moment. You felt your face heat up, and the dark-haired man in front of you opened his eyes as if he'd been caught red-handed.

"I-I..." He shook his head, letting out a nervous chuckle and adjusting his glasses, but he didn't find the strength to deny with his own words what the older man had just said, so he avoided the mocking glances of his coworkers and looked back at you, ashamed. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to cause you troubles."

"It's okay, Clark, really." You looked at him with a smile that, while meant to be reassuring, didn't reach your eyes. "Thanks."

"I should go, but..." He straightened and gestured his thumb behind him. "If you need anything, anything. I'll be right there." He pointed at his desk, which was a few feet from yours and that you definitely saw every day.

Then he walked away, leaving you alone with your sadness, your thoughts, your cookies, and the memory of his smile.

And it was just that Clark Kent struck you as the most attractive man you'd seen in a long time.

And no, obviously it wasn't just his gorgeous face, his height, and his strong body. It was everything: from his passion for his work to his kindness and kind heart. His entire personality made you believe you'd met a damn unicorn.

But you did nothing for your little crush. You smiled at him and were as friendly as you could be with a man you didn't really want to get to know for fear of discovering he was more perfect than you thought, and that would turn your little crush into a real crush.

And how would you allow yourself that in your new job, where you weren't indispensable and still had to prove your worth?

You didn't try to get his number, a date, or a conversation beyond whether or not the coffee pot at the Planet should be replaced.

But now he was really making it difficult for you.

Clark spent the rest of the time wondering if he should approach you again. He couldn't help but notice how you dropped everything to check your phone—which you never let go of—every time it buzzed.

He wasn't trying to be weird, but since he couldn't see you because of that, he focused on listening to make sure you weren't crying or just still breathing because you hadn't spoken to anyone.

When he strained his ears, the only sounds he heard coming out of you were a quiet "Shit" every time you unlocked your phone and the way you sniffled occasionally because of your cold.

And although he was a little confused and curious, he was more concerned.

But he did not approach again.

No matter how much he wanted to comfort you about whatever was bothering you. You didn't seem to want company, and he would never push you.

ꫂ❁

It had just started raining when you left work.

The sky had been cloudy all day, like it had been all week, but the downpour with brutal force arrived in seconds just as you were getting ready to leave.

"No, no, no..." you muttered under your breath as you stepped out of the elevator and headed for the building's entrance.

You pressed your palm to your forehead, letting out a heavy sigh as the icy wind leaking through the door sent shivers down your spine. Your long-sleeved shirt wasn't thick enough to keep out the cold, or the stares once it got soaked and turned see-through.

And there was no way you were asking the receptionist for help, he was the same one who always acted like paying attention to you was a personal favor.

You didn't need this. You definitely didn't need it pouring. Not when your whole week had already been a mess.

You shook your head and hugged your arms around yourself. It was already getting dark, so you didn't think it was a big deal. You had just stepped away from the glass walls and were heading for the door when someone called your name.

You didn't even have to turn around to recognize the tall, cute guy behind you. It was Clark Kent. Clark with his messy black hair. Clark with an umbrella in one hand and his briefcase in the other. Clark without a smile, but still with that face full of kindness. You'd recognize him anywhere.

You'd both stayed late that day. You did because you were buried under a backlog of work. He... you weren't sure why. It didn't really make sense.

He approached you with a slight frown, clearly confused by what you were about to do.

"Are you going out like that?" he asked, not rude, just... concerned. And even a little shy.

"I have to get home somehow," you said with a shrug, your lips curling into a faint smile.

"But you're still sick. Don't you have a coat? A sweater? Something...?" He glanced over you, clearly noting you had none of those things, though he still seemed to hope you'd magically pull one out of your bag. You didn't even have an umbrella.

You looked down, a little embarrassed. "No... I forgot. I had to rush to get here."

But Clark didn't judge. He set his briefcase down and started taking off his blazer, then held it out to you.

"You don't have to-" you began, but he just shook his head and gave you that charming smile only he could pull off, nudging the blazer forward.

"Please."

You couldn't help a weak smile as you slipped your bag off your shoulder to take it. How could you resist? You didn't have the energy to argue. You were exhausted, stressed, and sad. And Clark saw it all.

His blazer was far too big on you; it swallowed your hands completely. But the moment you slipped it on, the scent of his cologne surrounded you, warm and comforting. Heavenly. He heard your heart race, just like his, but that didn't stop the worry in his eyes.

Then he said your name softly, making you look at him. He was close, but not invading your personal space, and when his blue eyes met yours, you had to remind yourself to breathe.

"What's wrong?" he asked, gentle, but full of concern, and your heart skipped a beat. He tilted his head slightly, like a puppy trying to understand commands. You secretly cursed him for making you feel so much.

You sighed, struggling to find the words. "I didn't... miss work because I was sick. I mean, I am a little sick, but... I was looking for my cat. Lucifer. He... went missing."

Clark felt his heart sink when he heard the sadness in your voice. Of course it was about Lucifer: your cat, your baby. Your little pet with oddly perfect fur and, in your words, a receding hairline so dramatic it made him look funny. And those huge, cartoonish eyes that always looked like they were judging everyone. You talked about him constantly. You even had him as your wallpaper on your work computer.

You looked away and rushed to explain, not wanting him to think you were careless with your cat.

"S-Sometimes I leave the window open 'cause he likes the air. Sometimes he goes out, but he always comes back. Always. He's been doing this for three years. He always comes back. He has a collar, and his tags have all my info in case this ever happens, but..."

You took a shaky breath. His free hand gently touched your shoulder as he leaned closer.

"Hey, hey. You don't owe me any explanations," he said calmly.

"I spent the whole weekend looking for him. Monday, Tuesday too. I put up signs everywhere, whistled for him every night, left some windows open in case he came back, and... he hasn't."

You finally let out a sob, and that was all Clark needed to pull you into his arms.

You covered your face with your hands and leaned against his chest as the tears came. The warmth of his body was like a shield made just for you.

You didn't know how long you cried wrapped in his arms, you only knew that you let out what you had kept inside for a whole week, and that you did it with the right person.

"I don't know what else to do. I've run out of ideas. And now it's raining, and he's probably out there, soaked and cold." You sobbed once more, trying to breathe. "I really miss him."

Normally you wouldn't allow yourself to be so vulnerable, even if you weren't surrounded by people. But there was something about Clark Kent that made you feel safe and trust him blindly, and for the first time in days, you felt a little calm, only in his arms.

It felt like your tears were burning his soul and breaking his heart as he felt you tremble. In that moment, he knew one thing for certain: he never wanted to see you sad again.

"I know. I will help you." His low and warm voice filled your heart with comfort. You tried to calm yourself, shaking your head as tears still ran down your cheeks.

You thought you looked like a mess. Clark thought you probably made the stars feel insecure.

"You already helped me today," you said with difficulty, pulling away while wiping your tears. Your breathing was uneven, and you sighed, trying to stop sobbing. His hands moved gently to your arms, not wanting to pull away or distract you. Before he could answer, you added, "I'm sorry... I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable or..."

"You didn't." He smiled softly despite the slight disappointment at losing your touch. You felt a little self-conscious under his tender gaze but forced yourself to wipe your tears once more.

"I know it must seem stupid to cry like this over a cat, but..." You sniffed, biting your cheek to keep from breaking down again, this time unable to hold back. But he was already shaking his head.

"No. It's not stupid." He lowered his head slightly, looking at you fully so you'd know he was genuine. When he saw your expression soften and your attempt at a smile, he glanced up at the sky, noticing the rain still hadn't stopped.

He slung his briefcase over his shoulder and picked up his umbrella from the floor. "You should take this." He held it out to you, looking shyly at you.

"No, Clark... You'll get wet, and you could be the one to get sick now." Even though you immediately felt cold where his hands had been, you found the strength to refuse.

He let out a barely audible nasal chuckle, not mockery, but tenderness—which showed in his flushed cheeks and lowered gaze—. He wouldn't get sick, he knew that, but you didn't, and he imagined what you were thinking.

So he seized another chance.

"Will you let me walk you back to your apartment, then?" His hopeful eyes met yours, glistening with both tears and surprise.

And who were you to deny Clark Kent anything when he looked at you as if you were the meaning of his existence?

The walk home felt peaceful—for you. He had to keep asking you questions, just to focus on your voice and not the racing heartbeat—which he wasn't sure was yours, his, or both—that thundered in his ears every time you leaned too close to stay under the umbrella or avoid bumping into strangers.

You told him how you'd rescued Lucifer a few years ago; how tiny he was, how unruly his fur used to be before turning into the exact opposite. How you'd fed him milk with a syringe, or the baby food you made just for him. Clark already understood why you missed your cat, but the more you talked, the more he understood you.

Even if it twisted his stomach to see you so heartbroken, talking about how much you missed your kitten, Clark had never been more certain of his feelings for you, that he truly liked you. After all, he once let himself be arrested just to save Krypto—and Krypto wasn't even his. Why wouldn't he help you find your cat?

Once you reached your building, still under the shelter of his umbrella, you looked at him with a weak but genuine smile and sighed.

"Thank you, Clark."

He smiled softly.

"You don't need to thank me... but, if you'll let me... Can I ask you something?"

His question caught you off guard, but you nodded, eyes curious.

"Don't go looking for Lucifer. At least... not tonight. It's late. Let me help you," he said soft, pleading, yet with a firmness that made your breath hitch.

"Clark... you're very sweet, but... I don't know. You probably have better things to do than help me find my cat." Your voice trembled, uncertain, because deep down, you wanted his help more than anything. But you'd already done everything you could think of. What else could he possibly do?

"I don't have any, and even if I did... I wouldn't want to. I wouldn't offer if I didn't think I could actually help," he assured, though he hesitated, knowing he couldn't explain how. So he spoke again, not with arrogance, just clumsily: "Besides... I've got some friends."

There was something tender in his attitude, but it was his quiet determination to be there for you that truly moved you.

Still, you couldn't help but joke, "What? Cop buddies or something?"

He chuckled and shook his head. And of course you thought about it; after all, Clark Kent had interviewed Superman more times than anyone else at the Daily Planet... —not that there were many— but you dismissed the thought just as quickly. There was no way he'd even think of asking Superman to find your cat.

"No... but sometimes he wears a red cape and flies, if that helps"

Okay. He thought about it.

"Superman?" you asked, incredulous, genuinely surprised. "You’re going to ask Superman to help you find my cat?"

He'd do anything for you.

"He will," Clark said, firm and confident in a way you’d never seen before. So confident, it almost felt suspicious. "He... he’d never say no to something like this. He saves squirrels, after all, doesn’t he?" he added with a nervous, amused smile.

Of course you were surprised. Superman surely had far more important things to do than help you find a lost cat. So did Clark. But the absolute certainty in his voice almost sounded like a promise.

Without thinking, you wrapped your arms around his waist and hugged him tight, careful not to knock yourself with the umbrella.

Now Clark was surprised too, and more than surprised, he was completely smitten. In that moment, he wasn’t a man who could bring down buildings with a flick of his wrist. He was just a man melting under your scent, knees weak from your body pressed to his, heart racing as your thanks vibrated through his chest and turned his cheeks a soft shade of pink.

But before he could react—before he could properly wrap his arms around you—you pulled away.

"Thank you, Clark. Really... thank you so much. If... if he agrees, I have thousands of pictures of my baby," you said, fumbling through your bag for your phone.

"I—I don’t really know how his powers work, but… maybe he could hear him? He’s really loud. Or maybe he has a super sense of smell. I could give him one of Lucifer’s sweaters..."

You unlocked your phone, and then froze, realizing what you had just said. "Not like he's a sniffer dog or anything, I mean..."

Clark's chuckle silenced you instantly. Your cheeks burned even more when you realized he wasn't laughing at you. He was touched. His smile, his gaze, were filled with something you hadn't seen before... something that made you forget how to breathe. And when he reached out again to place a hand on your arm, it was your heart that forgot how to beat.

You wondered if he had always looked at you like that or if you had just never noticed.

"Don't worry about that... He will. I'm sure he'll bring Lucifer back to you." He dared to stroke your arm with his thumb, and his reassuring smile widened when your lips curved upward and you let out a soft sigh.

You held yourself back from throwing your arms around him again; you didn't want to be reckless anymore.

But it was almost physically painful not to properly thank the man who looked at you as if he was waiting for you to tell him to fly around the world just to ask "When?"

And while, to you, it was simply his way of offering peace and hope, Clark was making a promise.

After all, Clark Kent was Superman. And he wouldn't let you suffer one more day.

ꫂ❁

After finally exchanging numbers with Clark you walked into your lonely apartment, for the first time in days, feeling hope.

Hope that this time, your cat would actually come back to you.

You also allowed yourself to believe a man, because he wasn't just any man. He was Clark Kent, and that's why you trusted him when he assured you that Lucifer would be found, and kindly asked you not to go out looking for him at night.

Clark wouldn't admit it to you at the time, but even for someone like him, it was incredibly difficult to find an animal as small and elusive as a cat in a city like Metropolis.

But he always knew that teamwork went a long way, and that there was a group of other superheroes perfect for helping him.

Back in your apartment, when the rain stopped, you set out your cat's food and left it by the window, just as you had been doing for the past few days.

The television was playing a crime series that didn't interest you, but you kept your eyes on it anyway, trying not to stare out the window.

You'd made dinner, but you'd devoured the pasta dish out of anxiety, not hunger, because you didn't have any.

The hours passed slowly and torturously. At that point, you couldn't remember a single moment when your leg wasn't bouncing up and down and your fingernail wasn't scratching the armrest of the sofa.

You wanted to go out, to find Lucifer on your own and try your luck, but Clark was right. Even though Metropolis wasn't nearly as dangerous as Gotham, it still had its own dangers.

So you channeled your nerves into cooking. You made cookies. You'd had enough cookies for the day, but you knew you didn't have to eat them, so you baked as many as your kitchen's ingredients allowed.

You were listening to pop songs, the kind where the singer never shuts up, to help you avoid overthinking and just sing along quietly.

Then, a noise from outside stopped you just as you were taking the cookies off the tray.

You practically threw it onto the counter next to the spatula and rushed into your living room.

You gasped when you saw the balcony of the emergency stairs, and two figures you knew like the back of your hand.

There he was: Superman, in red and blue, with a little dirt on his face and a small smile as he gently placed your cat on the window sill, right where his food bowl was.

And there was your kitten.

Superman's smile grew enough to crinkle his eyes when he noticed you, but even so, you could see the shyness in him. And it was so familiar it made your chest swell with affection.

But before you could even try to remember who else had made you feel that way, he simply raised his hand, waved goodbye, and flew away.

You were stunned for a few seconds before you heard Lucifer's chewing grow louder, and you didn't hesitate to run to him with a smile and watery eyes.

"My baby," you whispered with tenderness and a joy that you couldn't describe in words upon finally seeing your kitten. "I missed you so much." you picked him up and separated him from his food for the first time without any guilt.

You placed several kisses on his head while repeating "I love you" over and over again. The cat snuggled up to you as always, and you leaned closer to him, sniffing. "Don't ever do that to me again. That was stupid. What's wrong with you? You scared me so much." You pulled away slightly to look at him, already prepared to lecture him, until you saw a strange piece of paper stuck between his neck and his blue collar.

You held Lucifer steady with one hand as you took the paper and unfolded it.

"The Justice Gang (temporary name) also helped save Lucifer.

If it happens again, don't put yourself at risk. You can always ask me for help :)

- Superman."

You hugged your cat tighter as you put the paper back in your pants pocket with a smile. Lucifer finally had enough of all the affection, and you left him to eat again.

"I had to ask the same superheroes who saved the city from being cut in half to find you. You're grounded, Lucifer." You pointed your finger at him, speaking firmly, causing the cat to look at you for about two seconds before going back to eating.

You sighed, moving closer to the window and and stuck your head out a little, hoping to catch a glimpse of your hero flying by, but you saw nothing but a beautiful sky full of stars.

"Thank you, Superman..." you whispered, petting your Lucifer and smiling into space, unsure if anyone would hear you. You just needed to say it.

And he heard you, of course he did.

That night, you slept with your cat on your pillow again, and for the first time in a week, you truly rested.

ꫂ❁

The next day, Clark arrived fifteen minutes early. So did you.

You'd both been on each other's minds that day, much more than usual.

He had just finished giving directions to an intern downstairs when he saw you walk in, wearing a radiant smile that made his heart swell.

Your eyes landed on him, and your smile widened. He forced himself to say goodbye to the intern, though his voice was shaky and he was suddenly out of breath. You were glad to see him.

You ran—really ran—toward him, not just smiling, but laughing. You had his umbrella and blazer in your hands, your purse hanging from your shoulder, but none of it mattered when you grabbed his wrist and let out the most excited "Come!" he'd ever heard.

He was never happier to follow someone.

You quickly led him to a slightly more secluded spot on the ground floor: the hallway leading to the storage rooms and basements. Anyone paying attention might still see you, but at least you wouldn't be in plain view.

And before he could make a sound, you launched yourself at him with a force that should have knocked you both off your feet.

But Clark didn't flinch even a bit. This time, he immediately wrapped you in his strong arms as you threw yours around his neck.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you! Clark, thank you!" you exclaimed, your eyes closed as hard as your heart was beating, because thanking him through a message did not come close to showing your true feelings. The happiness in your voice lit up his soul and he couldn't help the silly smile that formed on his lips.

It almost hurt to pull away from him, but you needed to see him. So you leaned back just a little, your hands resting on his biceps, silently lamenting that you couldn't see them without those elegant shirts and blazers.

How was he so strong?

His hands rested above your waist, not wanting to overstep, but not letting go either, because you hadn't. And that alone made his brain short-circuit.

He was completely stunned when your eyes finally fell on his. You took in his cheeks, now tinged with red, his slightly parted lips, and the furrow in his brow, like he couldn't believe he had you in his arms like that.

You forced yourself to speak, before you gave in to the urge to throw your arms around his neck again and kiss him until you both lost your minds.

"You have no idea all the crazy things I've done. I put his litter box outside because someone said he'd come back if he could smell it. Left his food on the window sill. Looked through every trash can of the streets. I talked to every cat I came across and asked them to look for him because an old lady told me to and..." You took a deep breath, thinking of how much you'd missed your cat, then forced yourself to stop and look at him.

Big mistake. Your knees faltered for a second at the sight of his affectionate smile, the kind that made his eyes crinkle, while his grip on you waist tightened ever so slightly.

"I think they're the cutest things I've ever heard anyone do."

And it was as if the world around you slowly faded away, just to appreciate this one moment between the two of you.

After seconds of silence and staring at each other as if you'd designed summers at the beach and he'd designed winters in front of the fireplace, the only thing that came out of your mouth was your slightly high-pitched voice saying, "I brought you cookies."

His eyebrows lifted and his eyes lit up, as if you'd just offered him the whole world instead of just some homemade cookies.

Though he forced himself to find the willpower to let go of you, that his hands now hanging at his sides, felt strangely out of place, like once they'd been where they belonged they had no longer a purpose.

First, you handed him his blazer and umbrella, which he took with a soft "thank you" and that familiar kind smile of his.

Then you held out a small—well, small for him—red container with a clear lid that revealed the neatly stacked cookies inside.

He took them gently, his eyes flicking up to yours with a mix of surprise and tenderness.

"You didn't have to, really," he said with a shy smile, his voice low. "Thank you. I really appreciate it."

You forced yourself not to be inhibited by his sweet attitude and continued. "I wanted to get something for Superman and the... Justice Gang too, but it was like leaving cookies and milk for Santa, so... If you ever see them, tell them that when I'm not at work, I can make decent desserts," you shrugged, and you both giggled.

"I'll see what I can do," he assured you, amused, still staring at the cookies in his hands as if they were the eighth wonder of the world.

"I'm no expert baker, but... I needed to thank you with more than a hug," you sighed. "And even then, cookies don't seem enough."

Clark shook his head, looking into your eyes with a reassuring smile. His gaze suddenly changed, scanning your face as if trying to read something in your expression, and you felt your cheeks warm.

He opened his mouth slightly, but before he said anything, he took a deep breath, looking for courage.

His smile faltered a little nervously, as he looked away for a moment before returning his gaze to you and finally spoke.

"So what about a date?" His voice came out barely above a whisper, filled with shyness and longing.

But your silence didn't help, and this time he kept talking. "Only if you want to... I mean, anything: dinner, breakfast, lunch, coffee, tea... Or nothing, obviously you don't have to..." he stammered, his face burning all the way to his ears.

And now you interrupted him. You had no idea, you couldn't imagine how long I'd waited for this.

"When?" you asked with a bright smile.

And Clark Kent had never been more grateful to an animal.

But don't tell Krypto.

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i2sunric · 1 month ago

Text

𝐄𝐌𝐀𝐈𝐋𝐒 𝐈 𝐂𝐀𝐍’𝐓 𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐃 (l.hs)

p.s. ─────── ୨ৎ ────── i already did

PAIRING: boss!heeseung x employee!reader (f)

SUMMARY: who knew an email sent in a moment of range could spark a burning desire between you and your boss?

WARNINGS: 95% smut 5% plot. fingering, dirty talk, reader is burnout, semi public sex, oral (m receiving), blowjob, p in v, unprotected sex (don’t be silly, wrap your willy), sex while on the phone, pool sex (not really narrated), missionary, riding, creampie, office sex; fluff, established relationship, reader wears a tiny bikini, lmk if more. NOT PROOFREAD.

PUBLISHED: 28th June 2025

WC: 9.4k

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a/n: i’m so fucking sleepy i just wan to go to bed but hey! i’ve been dead on this app for sometime so lemme drop this. hope y’all like it and please LIKE & REBLOG to share + lmk your thoughts 🩷🩷 (enjoy my calligraphy in the picture).

It was one of those days.

The kind where your inbox filled up faster than you could breathe, the phones wouldn’t stop ringing, and the breakroom coffee had been left to die a slow, cold death in the pot since 8 a.m.

You hadn’t even had a chance to take more than two sips of yours— barely enough to take the edge off the brutal headache crawling behind your eyes.

Noon had come and gone, and your lunch sat forgotten in your drawer, untouched and already lukewarm.

You rubbed at your temples as you stared at the latest email that had just come in from her again— your personal tormentor for the past three weeks.

Mrs. Kim.

There she was, requesting the same impossible order you had already refused.

Not once. Not twice. Eight goddamn times.

You counted them.

You explained patiently and then less patiently that the items she wanted were discontinued, had been discontinued for two fiscal years now, and were no longer in the company’s catalogue.

You linked her to alternatives. You CC’d the product manager. You called her, even, and yet here she was again—

"Dear,

Following up again. I don't understand why this is taking so long. I’m requesting the original order from 2021. Can you process this today?"

That was it. The last thread of your patience snapped.

Your fingers flew across the keyboard, possessed, every keystroke a satisfying clack of indignation.

You didn’t care.

You were soaked in stress and caffeine and the fading hope of ever having a quiet afternoon.s

"Mrs. Kim,

For the last time: we do not carry that product anymore. I have told you this eight times. Eight. I don’t know if you’re ignoring me on purpose or just incapable of reading full sentences, but either way, I’m not wasting any more time repeating myself. Maybe go get yourself checked.

You are welcome to refer to the updated catalogue I sent you four emails ago. If that’s too difficult, I’d be more than happy to point you to someone who does have time to coddle unreasonable requests.

Kindly, please, stop emailing me about this.

— Y/N"

You clicked "Send" with a sense of righteous satisfaction.

A victorious breath left your lungs as you leaned back in your chair, folding your arms.

It wasn’t until ten minutes later that you saw the reply ping.

And then you saw who it was from.

Lee Heeseung

— Re: Mrs. Kim order.

Your blood turned to ice.

You forgot.

You completely forgot about the BCC—the default blind courtesy copy to your boss, a setting meant for transparency, accountability, and gentle professional oversight.

You’d set it up months ago during performance review season and then never gave it a second thought.

You clicked on the thread like you were opening your own coffin lid.

"Hi Y/N

Well… that was certainly a passionate response.

I think she noted on the product being discontinued.

Let’s circle back to this client later. maybe I can take over if needed.

For now, step away from your inbox and grab a coffee. Deep breaths. :)

— Heeseung"

Your stomach dropped so fast it might as well have hit the basement.

He didn’t even sound mad. That was the worst part. There wasn’t a single reprimand, not even a passive-aggressive comment.

He was giving you a chance to fix it yourself.

You stared at the screen for another full minute, then slowly stood, your legs weak as you grabbed your employee badge and took the elevator upstairs.

The executive floor was always eerily quiet compared to the chaos below.

Carpeted hallways absorbed all sound, and the scent of fresh espresso floated from the machine that Heeseung insisted on using himself every morning— never the breakroom sludge.

You walked past the glass meeting rooms, the sleek decor, until you reached the wide double doors that marked his corner office.

You paused. Knocked.

"Come in," came the voice. low, smooth, always relaxed in a way that somehow made it more intimidating.

You pushed the door open and stepped in, trying to keep your posture from crumpling into guilt.

Heeseung sat behind his desk, blazer off, sleeves rolled, laptop open. His eyes flicked up to you.

"Hey," he said, not unkindly. "Surprised you didn’t run straight to the fire escape."

You swallowed. “I… I’m so sorry, sir.”

His brow arched slightly, and he leaned back in his chair, folding his hands on the edge of the desk.

He didn’t say anything right away. Just waited, giving you enough silence to make your own words echo back at you.

“I didn’t mean for it to go out like that,” you rushed, nervous now, your throat tight. “I was just so— so overwhelmed, and she’s been driving me insane for weeks, and I know that’s no excuse, I just… I completely forgot the BCC was still on. I wasn’t trying to be unprofessional… well, okay, I was, a little, but I didn’t mean for you to see it, and that’s not better, I know, but—”

"Take a breath," he interrupted gently.

You did.

Inhale. Exhale.

He tilted his head, looking at you with a calm you were desperately trying to borrow.

"You clearly didn’t mean for me to see it," he said with a hint of dry humor. "That was obvious by the way you said, ‘incapable of reading full sentences.’"

You winced. “I know. I know, I’m so sorry, that was… I was just frustrated.”

"Yeah, I got that part loud and clear." He smiled faintly. "You know, if you’d added one more insult, I think the server might’ve flagged your email as harassment."

You dropped your face into your hands. “Oh my god.”

He laughed quietly.

It wasn’t cruel.

It was soft. Understanding.

Which only made the heat crawl up your neck worse.

"I’m not mad," he said, and you looked up, cautiously.

He stood, walking slowly around the desk to lean against the edge.

His arms folded casually across his chest as he looked at you.

"I’ve seen worse. Much worse. Hell, I’ve sent worse. You’re not the first employee to lose it on a client who doesn’t listen, and I doubt you’ll be the last."

"That doesn’t make it okay," you murmured.

"No, it doesn’t. But it makes it human. And it tells me you care enough to be pissed.”

That surprised you. You blinked up at hiem.

He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. "I don’t need perfection. I need people whoho get frustrated when things go wrong. But I also need people who can recognize when they’ve gone too far and come up to say what you just did."

You looked at the floor. “Still… I should’ve handled it better. She might report me.”

"She might," he agreed, not sugarcoating it. "But I’ll handle it if she does. I’ve got your back."

You swallowed hard. His voice was calm, but firm. Final. He meant it.

"Thank you," you said quietly. "Really."

"You’re welcome. And hey…" He pushed off the desk, walking toward the espresso machine behind him. "You didn’t have lunch yet, did you?"

Your stomach growled traitorously. He glanced over his shoulder and grinned.

"Didn’t think so. I’m ordering in. You’re having a rough day, so I’ll let you pick the place."

You blinked at him. “Are you… rewarding me for that email?”

He smirked. "No. I’m rewarding you for surviving the week without quitting or combusting, consider it a boss’s mercy."

You laughed, finally, the tension bleeding from your shoulders.

He handed you his phone with the food apps already open, the glow of the screen warm against your palm.

And as you scrolled through the options, still feeling the flush of embarrassment under your skin, you thought— maybe it wasn’t the worst day after all.

☆.

Today was the worst day.

It had already gone to hell by the time it hit 6:45 p.m.

You were the last person left on your floor. again.

The office was a graveyard of abandoned coffee cups and empty swivel chairs, the windows dim with evening light as the sun dragged itself under the horizon.

Everyone else had mysteriously developed urgent appointments or nonexistent deadlines that somehow meant they couldn’t stay late to help with the mountain of archival reports dumped unceremoniously onto your desk.

You were hungry.

Tired.

Your back ached from leaning over outdated filing codes, and your fingers were permanently smudged with printer toner and dust.

Your last message in the team group chat asking “anyone still around to help scan the last batch?” had been left on read.

Of course it had.

You swore under your breath, stuffing another stack into the ancient office printer that had already groaned at you three times.

The stupid thing was older than your internship

. It made this grinding, death-rattle sound every time you asked it to scan anything double-sided. You were halfway through cursing at it when the overhead lights flickered once.

Twice.

And then the power cut out completely.

A sharp click of darkness. Then silence.

You stood frozen in place, fingers still on the edge of a document feeder. A beat passed. Then another.

You stared into the void, blinking, the only sound the faint tik-tik-tik of the unplugged printer slowly powering down like it was dying dramatically in your arms.

You sighed. “You have got to be kidding me.”

You waited. Surely the backup would kick in.

It didn’t.

The battery emergency lights flicked on around the hallway, casting everything in a soft red glow like the inside of a submarine.

Your entire floor looked apocalyptic.

It would’ve been funny if you weren’t thirty pages away from finishing and aching to get home.

"This is so stupid," you muttered to yourself. You paced around your desk, cracked your knuckles, and then, because the universe clearly had it out for you, tripped slightly on a cable.

You whirled around, eyes narrowing at the printer like it had personally insulted your intelligence.

You weren’t usually violent, but something about the whole day had ignited a very specific brand of frustration in your chest— the kind that made you want to break things. Or cry. Or both.

So when the lights buzzed for a brief second and the printer beeped at you with a snide error code for the fifth time in a row, you snapped.

“Alright, you boxy little demon,” you hissed. “Let’s dance.”

You kicked it.

You meant it to be symbolic. A warning. An expression of just how done you were.

Unfortunately, your foot caught the corner of the machine.

And because karma is very real and very punctual, your boot slid awkwardly through the paper tray, lodging itself inside the machine with a humiliating clunk.

“Shit,” you whispered, staggering forward and grabbing the desk for balance. “No, no— come on.”

You tugged. Nothing.

You yanked harder..

“Are you kidding me?” you groaned, now bent awkwardly sideways over the printer, one foot completely jammed in the lower tray, arms flailing for something to grab.

The evil machine wobbled, and you grabbed it to keep from tipping it over, your hair falling into your face as you tried to wiggle your leg free.

The overhead lights snapped back on all at once.

Power returned with an electric hum.

Machines came alive. Computers rebooted.

The lights flickered to life overhead like judgmental gods bearing witness.

And at that exact moment, you heard a door open down the hall.

You froze.

Slow footsteps. Leather shoes on carpet.

You knew that walk. You’d memorized it over the last few months without meaning to— those long, easy strides. That quiet confidence.

Lee Heeseung.

Of course he was still here. Of course he chose now to emerge from his corner office.

You tried to untangle yourself, but the paper tray refused to budge, your boot stuck in such a cursed angle you briefly considered removing your entire leg.

Heeseung’s voice was much too close when he finally spoke.

“…Am I interrupting something?”

You froze, eyes wide.

You didn’t even need to look at him to hear the amusement dripping off every syllable.

“I—” You cleared your throat. “No. I mean, yes. I mean— I’m fine.”

you finally risked a glance up… and there he was, standing a few feet away in his usual dress shirt and slacks, sleeves rolled halfway to his elbows, tie loose, a sleek laptop tucked under one arm.

His dark hair fell across his forehead in a way that was just unfair. And he was smiling. Very clearly trying not to laugh, but smiling.

“Should I even ask how this happened?” he said, gesturing vaguely at the situation.

You, half-folded over a printer like a modern art sculpture. One foot swallowed alive by outdated office equipment.

You groaned and dropped your head against the top of the machine. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

He chuckled under his breath, moving forward. “Alright.”

Your head snapped up. “Really? You’re not gonna ask why I did this?”

He raised an eyebrow. “It’s clear you have some anger management issues.”

You blinked at him. Well, he ain’t wrong.

He crouched down beside the printer, setting his laptop carefully on the floor. “Let me take a look, don’t move.”

“Oh yeah,” you deadpanned. “I’ve got so many options.”

He shot you a grin. “Careful. Keep being cute and I might leave you here.”

You flushed, instantly. “Sorry, Sir.”

“What?” he said, clearly enjoying this too much. “I’m just saying, I’ve never had an employee try to merge with office machinery before. It’s a new milestone.”

You buried your face in your hands as he gently maneuvered the paper tray open from the opposite side, humming softly to himself.

“Alright,” he said after a moment. “I see the problem.”

“Is it me?”

“Mostly.” He grinned, grabbing onto the corner of the tray and wiggling it slightly. “But also, this machine is trash. You were absolutely justified in assaulting it.”

You bit back a laugh. “Don’t tell HR.”

“HR’s gone home. And besides, I’m the one you report to.”

You paused. “So you’re saying I could commit minor office crimes and get away with it?”

He glanced up at you from under his lashes, dark eyes amused. “I’m saying if anyone’s going to report you, it won’t be me.”

The tray finally released with a snap, and your boot came free all at once, nearly sending you toppling backward. Heeseung caught your arm before you could fall, his grip warm and steady.

“There we go,” he said, helping you balance. “Foot intact?”

“Barely,” you mumbled, brushing your hair out of your face. You looked down at your scuffed boot, then back up at him. “I think we might need a new printer.”

He smirked. “I think you need a break.”

You hesitated. The words hit harder than they should’ve.

Because he was right.

You’d been drowning lately, taking on every overflow task, every weekend shift, picking up the slack whenever someone else dropped the ball.

You hadn’t complained. Not out loud.

But your body was exhausted, your head full of static, and your foot was living proof that you were about five seconds from completely losing your mind.

Heeseung must’ve seen it in your face, because his expression softened.

“Hey,” he said gently. “You don’t have to keep doing everything on your own.”

You looked away. “It’s fine. Everyone’s busy. I can handle it.”

“Just because you can doesn’t mean you should.”

There was a silence. A long one. He stepped a little closer.

“I’ve been watching you,” he said softly. “Not in a creepy way— just… I see how hard you work. How you take on more than you’re asked to, how you stay late every night, even when it’s not your responsibility. You think that goes unnoticed?”

You swallowed. “It’s not a big deal.”

“It is to me,” he said. “You don’t have to burn yourself out to prove you belong here.”

The words hung between you, heavy and warm and real.

You finally looked up at him and found him already watching you, his gaze steady, thoughtful.

You felt something in your chest shift. Something small, quiet, and undeniable.

Heeseung smiled gently. “Come on, I’ll buy you dinner, you’ve earned it.”

You blinked. “You’re bribing me with food.”

“I’m rescuing you from this cursed printer,” he corrected. “It’s part of the job description.”

You laughed, a real one this time, and let him lead you away from the graveyard of scanned archives and haunted machinery.

His hand brushed yours as you walked side by side out of the office, and neither of you moved away.

☆.

You hadn’t expected anything beyond some greasy takeout and maybe a few jokes to soften the edge of your embarrassment.

But somewhere between the second round of dumplings and Heeseung trying to guess what playlist you put on when you're really mad, something shifted.

You found yourself laughing more easily than you had in weeks.

He was funny in a sly, dry sort of way— casual but sharp, with this low warmth in his voice that made everything he said sound like it had a double meaning.

Not that he was flirting.

Not exactly.

But there was something in the way his eyes lingered on yours a second too long after every shared joke, something in the way his thumb brushed too casually along the rim of his cup when you took a sip of yours and left a glossed fingerprint behind

And you weren’t exactly not leaning in when he talked.

When you came back to the building, it was after an hour, There was a kind of stillness that made your footsteps echo across the marble floors and made the flicker of vending machine lights look cinematic.

He’d offered, half-jokingly, to let you finish up your work in his office, because his A/C actually functioned, and his desk chair didn’t creak like it was on the verge of collapse.

You said yes. Obviously.

Heeseung unlocked his door and held it open for you.

His office smelled faintly like citrus, due to the candle lit in the corner, and something a little woodsy, probably the cologne that clung to his shirtsleeves.

The overhead lights were dimmed low, and the view from the floor-to-ceiling windows behind his desk stretched out into the city, glittering in the dark.

You stepped in and paused, suddenly aware that you were somewhere very personal. It was tidy, precise.

You turned to thank him, but he was already watching you from the doorway, his hands in his pockets.

“Take the desk,” he said, smiling softly. “I won’t even be mad if you kick it.”

You smirked and dropped your bag onto the guest chair. “Don’t tempt me.”

He moved past you, loosening his tie the rest of the way and tossing it onto the coat rack.

The click of his laptop followed, and then music— something R&B and low enough that it almost felt like background noise to the silence around you.

You settled behind his desk, relishing the cool burst of air from the functioning A/C vent. The chair was absurdly comfortable.

You kicked off your boots and leaned back with a soft sigh of relief.

“Better?” he asked from his corner.

You nodded. “Miles better. I might not leave.”

He raised a brow. “Is that a threat or a promise?”

There it was again— that something.

just enough weight behind the words to make you pause. His voice had dropped half a note lower.

You reached for the folder you’d been working on earlier that you brought there, suddenly conscious of the faint buzz under your skin.

You tried to focus on your work, but your mind kept slipping.

The room was warm now, and so was the space between you, too heavy with something unsaid. Every glance he gave you seemed a little longer, like he was debating something in real time.

You looked up from the folder and found him leaning against the edge of the window, arms folded, watching you.

“You’re different when you’re not in the middle of a crisis,” he said.

You blinked. “What do you mean?”

“You’re quieter, but in a good way. Like you finally have room to breathe.”

Your heart gave a small, unwanted flutter. “Is that your way of saying I’m usually too stressed out to function?”

“No.” He stepped closer. “It’s my way of saying I like seeing you like this.”

The space between you collapsed by inches.

He was standing just on the other side of the desk now, one hand resting lightly on the polished wood, eyes locked on yours.

The city lights outside were a soft blur behind him. Your breath caught, stuck in your chest.

“Heeseung…” you started, uncertain. Because somewhere between fries and dumplings, he gave uou the green light to call him by his first name.

“I’m not trying to mess with you,” he said softly, cutting you off without force. “But I’d be lying if I said I haven’t been thinking about this… about you.”

You swallowed. The tension had shifted into something tangible now.

It pooled in your belly, a tightness threaded with heat. You felt it in the curl of your toes against the carpet, in the quick, darting beat of your pulse.

“I wasn’t sure if I was imagining it,” you murmured.

“You weren’t.”

You stood slowly, the chair gliding back with a soft scrape.

He didn’t touch you yet.

“I meant what I said,” he said, voice low and even. “I’ve seen how much you carry. You work so damn hard, and no one ever makes space for you to just be. I want to do that, even if it’s just for tonight.”

There was something deeply sincere in his voice. Like this wasn’t just wanted. It was something more careful. Something he’d been holding back.

You stepped into his space, breathing shallow, and said, “Then show me.”

The moment he touched you, it was with a reverence that made your knees weak.

His fingers grazed your jaw, tilting your face up.

He paused, just long enough to make sure— long enough to let you lean in first. And when you did, he kissed you like he meant it. Like he’d been waiting.

His mouth was warm and slow against yours, lips parting gently, breath mingling. His hands found your waist, grounding and sure, pulling you closer.

You curled your fingers into the collar of his shirt, the soft cotton warm from his skin. He deepened the kiss gradually, coaxing you into it, tasting the hesitation out of your mouth until you melted into him.

When you finally broke apart, you were breathless.

He leaned his forehead against yours. “Still okay?”

You nodded. “More than okay.”

“Good,” he murmured. “Because I’m not done.”

He walked you backward toward the desk, hands steady on your waist, until you were pressed against the wood.

He kissed your neck softly, then more deliberately, leaving a slow trail to your collarbone as his hands skimmed under the hem of your blouse.

You gasped when his fingers touched your skin, warm and unhurried, exploring every inch like he wanted to memorize it.

You reached for his belt, nerves trembling with anticipation.

He caught your wrist gently “Let me take care of you,” he said, voice like velvet.

You nodded.

He moved with purpose now, pulling your blouse off with a soft sound of approval, eyes dark as they raked over you.

He leaned you back over his desk, fingers gliding down your hips, lifting you slightly onto the surface. The wood was cool under your thighs, the air sharp against your skin.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer.

His mouth returned to yours with renewed urgency, hands trailing over every curve, every line, until you were sighing against him, your fingers tangled in his hair.

When he finally undressed you fully, it wasn’t rushed.

It was deliberate. Worshipful.

He pressed kisses to the inside of your thighs, your hips, your ribs, like he was chasing every sigh that left your mouth.

And when his hands finally slipped lower, when his fingers teased and stroked and coaxed you into a slow, building pleasure, you arched under him, gasping his name.

“Heeseung— oh—”

He smirked, slipping a finger inside you, and then a second one.

You were so worked up already, your thighs trembling around his waist as he pressed kisses on your neck.

“Fuck,” you sighed, “Faster.”

“Milady.” he complied, hurrying his fingers, curling them right where you needed them.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered. “Let me hear you, let go.”

And you did.

You came undone with your back arched off his desk and his name on your lips.

Later, as he tucked you into his chair with your shirt back on and a glass of water in your hand, he knelt beside you, brushing your hair gently from your face.

“Still okay?” he asked again, voice soft.

You nodded, eyes fluttering closed. “Better than okay.”

He smiled, his thumb brushing your cheek.

“I meant it, you know,” he murmured. “Whatever happens after this— I want to be the one who makes space for you.”

You reached for his hand, lacing your fingers through his.

“I think you already are.”

☆.

It had started with an email. And it continued with an email now too.

You were half-conscious, running on your second cup of coffee and buried in quarterly reports, when your inbox pinged with that familiar chime.

Most emails in your morning queue were mind-numbing— reminders from admin, updates on broken copy machines, requests to “circle back” on things that no one ever wanted to circle forward in the first place.

But this one was from Heeseung.

The subject line read:

urgent file request – please review ASAP

Your stomach twisted the way it always did now when his name popped up on your screen. A quiet, breathless little flip.

You clicked it open, expecting a report or some scanned doc he wanted reviewed.

Instead, you found:

From: Lee Heeseung

To: You

Subject: urgent file request – please review ASAP

Can you come to my office and check if the file I’m thinking about is tucked between your thighs?

Might need to examine it closely.

Very closely.

– H.

You nearly choked on your coffee.

Heat rushed to your cheeks and your neck as you jerked your head up— he was in his office, of course.

Glass walls, the blinds open. He was pretending to be on a call, holding the phone to his ear, nodding, totally composed.

But when your eyes met his, he winked.

The phone probably wasn’t even on.

You sunk a little lower in your chair, your thighs tightening automatically.

That look he gave you set off a ripple down your spine.

It had been three weeks since the first time he pulled you across that desk and showed you just how good things could feel.

Since then, everything between you had changed.

You still worked. Still got things done.

but now, when he passed by your desk, he let his fingers brush your shoulder a little too casually. When he asked you to stay late for “filing,” the door always locked behind you. And now, apparently, he was taking it to email.

You typed back before you could second-guess it:

From: You

To: Lee Heeseung

Subject: RE: urgent file request – please review ASAP

Sorry, that file is confidential. You’ll have to check with your hands. or tongue.

I’m available in five.

— Y/N

You slipped into his office with a folder in your hands purely for cover.

He was seated behind his desk, jacket off, shirt sleeves rolled up to his forearms. The city glared behind him in the afternoon light, and his laptop was open— but he barely glanced at it when you stepped inside.

He leaned back, dark eyes dragging over you from head to toe.

“Lock the door,” he said quietly.

You did. And closed the curtains for privacy.

When you turned back around, he was already on his feet. He crossed the room in a few slow steps, standing in front of you, taking the folder out of your hands and setting it blindly on the shelf.

He cupped your face, tilting it up, and kissed you without hesitation.

It was slow at first, teasing— his lips soft, mouth coaxing yours open as if he had all the time in the world.

You sighed into it, your hands going instinctively to his waist, curling into the soft cotton of his shirt.

The kiss deepened, his tongue stroking over yours, and you whimpered softly when he slid a hand down your back and pressed you against the door.

“Lord,” he murmured, mouth brushing against yours, “you taste like cinnamon today.”

You swallowed hard. “Too much coffee.”

“Perfect amount,” he whispered, and kissed you again.

He backed you toward his desk, trailing kisses from your mouth to your jaw, down the line of your neck.

Your hands fumbled with his buttons, needing him closer, needing something to fill the ache that had been growing ever since that first email.

When he sat down in his desk chair, he pulled you into his lap without asking.

You straddled him, your skirt already hiked up. His hands settled on your thighs, slow and warm, thumbs stroking upward.

“You always get so worked up when I tease you,” he murmured against your ear. “You like getting those emails?”

You nodded, breath hitching. “You’re going to get me fired.”

He laughed softly, low in his throat. “No one’s firing you. Not when you do such a good job to me.”

You kissed him again and rocked forward just enough to hear the sharp inhale he tried to swallow down.

His grip on your hips tightened. You could feel him through his slacks, warm and firm beneath you, and the pressure of your body against his made your skin feel hot all over.

He tried to pull your blouse open, but you caught his wrist.

“Let me,” you said, voice just above a whisper.

His breath stilled.

You slipped off his lap, slowly, sinking down between his legs.

His brows lifted, mouth parted, but he didn’t say a word.

Just leaned back in the chair, eyes locked on yours, pupils blown wide with heat.

You reached for his belt with shaking hands, fingers slow and deliberate.

The clink of metal filled the quiet room, followed by the soft drag of his zipper. Heeseung exhaled hard when you brushed him through his boxers, already hot, already thick.

“You’ve been thinking about this all day, haven’t you?” you said, looking up at him as you lowered his waistband.

He let out a breathy laugh, voice tight. “Are you really going to make me beg?”

You smiled.

“No.”

And then you took him in your mouth.

He groaned instantly, his hips twitching up, one hand flying to your hair but stopping short of gripping it.

Always waiting for you to take the lead. Always making sure.

You hollowed your cheeks, taking him deeper, tongue gliding along the underside, savoring the weight and heat of him. He cursed, low and raw, his other hand tightening around the edge of the chair.

“Fuck—” he breathed. “You’re too good at this.”

You hummed around him in response, and he shuddered.

The thrill of having him like this, head tipped back, jaw clenched, breath uneven, sent sparks through your veins.

His thighs flexed under your palms, and when you looked up at him, his eyes were half-lidded and glazed, locked on you like you were the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

“Baby, wait—” he said suddenly, voice cracking. “You keep going like that, an I’m not gonna last.”

You pulled back slowly, your mouth wet, lips swollen. “Isn’t that the point?”

He blinked hard, laughing breathlessly, and pulled you to your feet.

“I’m going to owe you for that,” he said, voice rough, still out of breath.

You climbed back onto his lap, letting him tug you close. His hands found your hips again, holding you there like he never wanted to let go.

“You already do,” you whispered against his mouth.

And when he kissed you this time, it was slower. Deeper.

Less urgent, more full. Like he wasn’t just thanking you with his mouth, but promising something.

His fingers slipped beneath your skirt again, and this time you didn’t stop him.

He pulled your panties to the side and you sank down on him with a sigh.

“Holy shit,” he groaned, already thrusting up into you “You feel like heaven, baby,”

You hummed, already squeezing around him “You’re so big.” you murmured, resting your head in the crook of his neck.

You felt him twitch inside you “You can’t say things like that.”

Heeseung glanced at the clock on the wall. “We have three more minutes before someone gets suspicious.”

“Then you better hurry.” as those words left your lips, Heeseung thrusted up fast and hard, chasing both of your highs.

He planted a hand on your mouth and held your waist with the other, so tight a bruise would probably form the following day.

You squeezed your eyes shut as white washed over you, a particular deep thrust getting you over the edge, tightening to the point of pain around him.

“Fuck.” he groaned and pulled out to jerk off, but you quickly slapped his hand away and put him back inside you.

The mere action caused his hot release to spill, coating your walls.

“You didn’t have to do that.” he said, breathless as you got up on wobbly legs and put your panties into place.

“Oh please.” You fixed your hair “You’d rather me havig to explain why there’s a white stain on my skirt?”

He smirked, tucking himself back in his trousers, “Touché, baby.”

☆.

California sunlight spilled golden through the glass balcony doors, bathing the entire suite in that soft, lazy kind of warmth that made your skin glow even when you weren’t trying.

You were floating in the center of the hotel room’s private pool, limbs stretched out on the flamingo inflatable mattress, sunglasses slipping slightly down the bridge of your nose.

Your legs dangled in the cool water, barely kicking, your only real effort being adjusting your position every few minutes to stay in the shade of the swaying palm tree outside.

It had taken you exactly one hour on the first morning of the trip to finish the task Heeseung had “urgently” brought you to California for: color-coding and organizing his meeting schedule and dinners with clients.

One hour.

Sixty minutes of tapping at your laptop while sipping overpriced coffee from the mini bar and watching your boyfriend move shirtless around the suite while on a call.

Then, nothing.

The rest of the two-week “business trip” had been one long, uninterrupted vacation— for you, at least.

You weren’t entirely sure if Heeseung had ever actually needed your help or if he just wanted an excuse to bring you along without raising eyebrows at the office.

Either way, you weren’t complaining.

He was in the bedroom now, getting ready for another meeting with suppliers, while you basked in complete, indulgent peace, a mango drink resting on a floatie beside you.

The silence was broken only by the soft splash of water and the hum of light music playing from the speakers in the corner of the suite.

“Baby,” Heeseung called from inside the room, his voice slightly muffled.

You lifted your sunglasses with one hand, squinting toward the balcony door. “Hm?”

“Where’s my tie? The navy one.”

“You mean my navy one,” you corrected, smirking. “The one you let me use for my aesthetic outfit.”

He emerged into view then— black slacks hugging his legs, crisp white shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest, and his hair still wet from the shower.

He looked at you, at the pool, the view, the drink, and let out a breath that sounded halfway between a sigh and a laugh.

“You’re telling me you brought it just to never actually use it; since you’ve been floating for a week.”

“No,” you replied, raising your drink. “I brought it for aesthetic purposes. I was actually planning on using it today.”

He shook his head with a grin, disappearing for a couple of minutes before reappearing with the tie in hands.”

“You’re the most spoiled assistant I’ve ever hired.”

“I’m not technically your assistant,” you pointed out.

“You were for an hour.”

“And I was excellent.”

He crouched down beside the pool, tying the silk around his neck with practiced fingers.

The way he stood in the sun, looking so put-together and elegant while you floated in a barely-there swimsuit, made the corners of your mouth twitch up in appreciation.

He caught the way you were looking at him and raised an eyebrow. “What?”

You tilted your head, letting your fingers drag through the water. “Just thinking.”

“Dangerous.”

“Just remembering how I was supposed to be working on this trip.”

Heeseung stepped closer, knelt down again so your faces were almost level. The sun lit up his eyes, made the edges of his smirk gleam.

“You did,” he said. “You organized my entire schedule in an hour and got me a better restaurant reservation than the company’s PR manager could. You're essential.”

You scoffed. “Please, you just wanted an excuse to have me in a bikini while you take calls.”

He smiled wider, unapologetic. “Guilty.”

You watched him adjust his tie, watched how he paused to smooth his shirt over his stomach before finally stepping back with a low whistle.

“How do I look?” he asked.

You pulled off your sunglasses, dragging your eyes from head to toe and back again.

“Like you’re about to cheat on your fiancée with your poolside mistress.”

Heeseung let out a bark of laughter. “Good thing my girlfriend is also my poolside mistress.”

He walked over to your float and, with no warning, shoved it gently with his foot.

You yelped as the mattress tipped slightly, water splashing over your legs.

“Rude!”

“You started it,” he said, lips twitching with amusement.

You kicked water at him in retaliation. He dodged it, barely, and pointed at you like he was scolding a child. “Do not make me cancel this meeting.”

“I dare you.”

He gave you one last look, long and deliberate, like he wanted to say something but was holding back, then sighed and backed away.

“I’ll be back in two hours,” he said, glancing at his watch. “Three tops.”

“Don’t hurry on my account.”

“You saying you won’t miss me?”

“I’m saying you should make it up to me for dragging me across the country and making me do sixty minutes of labor.”

He chuckled again, stepping into his loafers by the door. “Oh, baby, I plan on making it up to you every night.”

You raised your glass. “I’ll hold you to it.”

Then the door closed, and he was gone.

You sighed deeply, happily, as you turned your face toward the sun and whispered, “Best fake job ever.

☆.

The sun had shifted from blazing overhead to a slow, golden creep across the hotel balcony, casting palm leaf shadows over your stretched-out body on the poolside chaise.

The water made soft sloshing noises nearby, and the air carried the sweet, heady scent of chlorine and sun-warmed skin.

Your cocktail glass sat empty on the tile. Your fingers had gone limp around your sunglasses, which had slid just enough to let one eye peek through.

But you didn’t move. You were somewhere between sleep and heat-drunk bliss, limbs too heavy to care.

The faintest breeze kissed your thighs, cooling the warm sheen of sun on your bare legs.

The strap of your bikini had shifted slightly. Your breasts curved gently out of their fabric prison, unnoticed by you in your half-dozing state.

The suite’s private pool was wrapped by stone walls and the tallest hedges you’d ever seen. The kind of privacy only the wealthiest or most mischievous sought after. No one could see in. And you didn’t expect anyone to be watching.

But someone was.

You stirred when you heard the creak of the glass door sliding open behind you.

Then footsteps.

Then a pause.

“Jesus Christ,” came a voice “This is what I come home to?”

You cracked one eye open, squinting up into the dusky light.

Heeseung stood by the edge of the pool, jacket off, tie loosened, top two buttons undone, a grocery bag of overpriced room snacks in one hand.

His eyes were dark. Hungry. Like he hadn’t had a sip of water all day and you were the first drop.

You blinked at him sleepily. “Hi.”

He dropped the bag. “Hi? That’s all you’ve got?”

“I was sleeping.”

“You were melting.” He moved closer. “You were— fuck, your tits are just out.”

You lifted your head, lazily looked down, and shrugged. “It’s your fault for buying me a swimsuit two sizes too small.”

“And I’d do it again,” he muttered, already crouching down in front of you.

You giggled, eyes fluttering closed again. “Good meeting?”

“Don’t care,” he said, brushing a hand up your thigh. “Missed you.”

You felt his fingers, warm and familiar, sliding over your skin.

You sighed. “I got tan.”

“You got delicious.”

You opened your eyes just as he leaned down, capturing your mouth in a slow, sun-warmed kiss.

His lips tasted faintly of mint and something sweet, and when he groaned softly against you, you felt it everywhere. You kissed him back lazily, smiling into it, dragging your fingers through his damp hair.

And then, because you couldn’t resist—

You shoved him.

Hard.

He didn’t have time to react. A yelp of pure, startled betrayal escaped his lips as he tipped backward, arms flailing, hitting the water with a spectacular splash.

You burst into laughter, doubling over on the chair, clutching your stomach as the water rocked with the force of his fall.

His head popped up seconds later, soaked and blinking, his once-perfect shirt plastered to his chest.

“You—” he sputtered, coughing once, glaring at you with water dripping from his lashes. “You menace.”

“I warned you not to flirt near the pool!” you said between gasps, wiping your eyes.

He grabbed the edge of the pool, hair slicked back, mouth twitching in a way that should’ve warned you.

“You’re so dead,” he promised. “I’m gonna end you.”

You squealed and tried to scramble off the chair, but it was too late. his hands gripped your ankles and yanked.

You hit the water with a splash and a shriek, the cold shocking your overheated skin instantly.

You surfaced, breathless and gasping, blinking salt out of your eyes.

“You asshole!”

“You started it!” Heeseung was laughing, fully soaked now, his shirt and pants clinging to his body like a second skin.

He was unfairly hot, even wet. Especially wet.

You swam toward him with furious strokes, water flying around you both, and he caught you around the waist as soon as you got close enough.

“Say sorry,” he said, lips grazing your ear.

“Never.”

His mouth met yours before you could say more, hard and deep

He wrapped his arms around you beneath the water, pulling your body against his like he couldn’t bear the idea of even an inch of space.

The way his hands moved over your skin, palming your ass, your thighs, sliding beneath the useless scraps of your swimsuit, made your breath catch in your throat.

“You feel like summer,” he murmured against your neck. “Warm and soft and fucking perfect.”

You tangled your fingers in his hair and tilted your head back, your breath hitching when his lips traveled lower, kissing a slow trail down your jaw, then your collarbone. The water lapped gently around you, your bodies floating in the privacy of the pool, lost in each other.

When he pulled the top of your swimsuit aside, exposing the bare curve of your breast, you didn’t stop him.

And when he kissed over your nipple, dragging his tongue slowly around it before sucking it into his mouth with a quiet, greedy sound, you moaned, arching into him.

You pressed your mouth against his temple, whispering, “You’re still in your clothes.”

He lifted his head, breathing heavily, his eyes dark.

“You planning to take ‘em off me?”

You bit his earlobe. “Maybe.”

“Fuck,” he breathed, sliding his hand between your thighs underwater. “You’re already so wet.”

“It’s a pool, genius.”

“You know what I mean.”

And you did.

You kissed him again, slow and wet and needy, wrapping your legs around his waist as he held you up, the water making everything feel weightless.

His hand found that perfect spot between your thighs and pressed, rubbing slow, delicious circles that made you tremble in his arms.

The sky overhead darkened into soft pinks and golds, casting both your bodies in sunset glow. The water shimmered. The world blurred.

But all you could feel was him.

All you could taste was his breath in your mouth, his fingers pushing you closer and closer to the edge, and the low, ragged way he whispered your name against your shoulder when you gasped, legs tightening, your body pulsing around his hand.

And then, grinning against your lips, he asked, “Still think I wore this shirt just for business?”

You laughed into his mouth, breathless and drunk on him.

“No,” you whispered. “You wore it so I’d rip it off later.”

He smirked. “Then don’t keep me waiting.”

☆.

And you didn’t.

After his act of pleasure in the pool, Heeseung brought you inside, not caring about you both being damp, and laid you down on the suite bed.

You undressed each other with the kind of fire that ignited sparks between your burning forms.

And then he was inside you.

The city lights bled through the floor-to-ceiling windows behind him, casting sharp golds and deep blues against the curves of his body, his bare chest above you, sheen of sweat at his throat, fingers pressing hard into your thighs as he moved inside you like he owned you.

Like he wanted to prove something.

The only thing you could still feel was how he looked between your legs, the way his voice rasped when he told you, “You’re not leaving this bed until I’ve had every part of you.”

You were already wrecked, your body limp from the last orgasm he’d dragged out of you.

You weren’t even sure if this was the second or third round now. His thrusts had gone deeper, slower, more deliberate. He wasn’t rushing. He was savoring you.

And then his phone rang.

You both froze for half a second. The sound cut through the room, vibrating against the nightstand.

Heeseung groaned into your neck. “Ignore it.”

But then he glanced at the screen. His jaw tensed.

“Shit,” he muttered. “It’s Mr. Dufour, from Paris investors. I have to—” He was still inside you. Still rock hard. “Just… don’t move.”

You blinked up at him, dazed and flushed. “You’re kidding.”

“I’m not,” he said through clenched teeth, swiping to answer with one hand. His other never left your waist. “He’ll lose his shit if I don’t pick up.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but then—

“Bonjour,” Heeseung said smoothly, voice dropping into french, polite and practiced as he settled more firmly between your legs. His hips shifted.

You gasped.

He was still moving.

Not hard, not fast— but deep. Lazy, unhurried strokes, his eyes locked on yours while he spoke like everything was normal.

“Oui, Mr Dufour. Vous allez bien?” (yes, mr. dufour. are you doing well?)

You bit your lip, hard, trying not to moan.

The sheer insanity of it, his voice so calm, words sliding like honey in another language while he kept fucking you, slow and deliberate, hips rolling with obscene precisione

“J'ai envoyé le rapport sur le plan d'investissement hier.” (i sent the report on the investment plan yesterday.)

You dug your nails into his shoulders. He didn’t flinch.

His free hand slid between your bodies, brushing your clit with teasing strokes.

You whined, quietly and desperately but he only smiled.

Not sweetly. No, this was the smile of a man who knew he was driving you insane.

“Oui, je vous serais reconnaissant de me faire part de vos commentaires une fois que vous l'aurez examiné.” (yes, i would be glad if you could give me a feedbacks when you review it.)

You clenched around him, and for a split second, his voice hitched, only slightly, but he recovered fast.

You wanted to scream. Instead, your breath came out in little gasps, your back arching under him, heat rising through you in thick, dizzy waves.

“Heeseung,” you whispered, pleading.

He didn’t break eye contact. Just leaned closer, breath brushing your lips, and whispered back, “Be quiet.”

He was still speaking French into the phone. Still sounding professional. Still thrusting into you like he had all the time in the world.

You were unraveling beneath him.

His fingers found your clit again. Pressed lightly. Rubbed in slow, careful circles.

uour lips parted, and he kissed you hard, swallowing your cries as your climax built dangerously close again.

“Non, il n'y a pas de problème. Je vous contacterai bientôt.” (no, no problem. i’ll call you back soon.)

He ended the call.

There was a beat of silence. You could barely breathe.

Then his voice dropped to a low growl. “You didn’t listen.”

“I—” You were panting now. “I tried.”

He slid out of you slowly, only to slam back in with no warning.

You cried out, loud this time, legs tightening around him instinctively.

“I told you to be quiet,” he said again, but he was grinning now, breathless and wild and just as undone as you.

“You were, fucking speaking another language, what did you expect? That was hot as fuck.”

He grabbed your jaw and kissed you like he’d been starving for you all over again.

“Next time,” he said against your mouth, “I’ll put you on speaker. See how well you stay quiet then.”

You moaned into the kiss. “You’re insane.”

“And you fucking love it.”

And you did. Every slow, punishing thrust he gave you after that call, until you came again, clutching him so tightly he groaned your name like a prayer and finally followed you into oblivion.

Heeseung collapsed over you, breath hot against your shoulder, both of you sticky with sweat and utterly destroyed.

You lay there for a long time, your hand tangled in his damp hair.

“Just so we’re clear,” you murmured eventually, still breathless. “If you ever do that again, I’m going to break your phone.”

He laughed into your neck.

“I’d like to see you try.”

☆.

California wasnt so quiet at night, it still held its chaotic and festive atmosphere; but it was less noisy than day.

Heeseung stood barefoot in the kitchen, phone pressed between his shoulder and cheek, one hand cupped around a steaming mug of coffee, the other resting loosely on the marble counter.

The clock read 3:12 AM, but the supplier he was talking to was halfway across the world in Malaysia, bright-eyed and loud over the line.

“Yes, I got the spec sheets. I’ll forward the revised invoice before tomorrow,” he murmured, trying not to sound like he was barely two hours out of bed, or that he was still aching in every limb from the way you’d pulled him into you earlier that night.

His other hand scrubbed at his face, jaw rough with sleep-stubble.

He wore nothing but a loose pair of gray sweats, the waistband low on his hips, his skin still warm from your touch.

Every time he blinked, he could still see you— flushed, breathless, tangled in his sheets like sin wrapped in silk.

He should’ve stayed in bed. Lord, he wanted to.

But the time zones wouldn’t bend for him.

“Right, just make sure the quantities are adjusted. I don’t want to see another backorder excuse in the next—”

He didn’t hear the sound of you approaching. You always moved soft like that— barefoot, sleepy, half-dreaming when you woke.

It wasn’t until you slipped your arms around his bare torso that he felt you.

You hugged him from behind, face nuzzling into his back, your body covered only by the warm duvet you’d stolen from the bed.

Your skin was flushed with residual heat, cheek pressed between his shoulder blades.

He paused mid-sentence.

Your voice came out soft, “Come back to bed.”

He swallowed, throat tightening around the words he’d meant to say.

“Just a second,” he murmured into the phone, gently pulling it away from his ear. “Hold on.”

You didn’t let go.

In fact, your arms curled tighter around his waist, and he could feel the slow drag of your bare chest pressed to his back, the way you breathed in the scent of his skin like you needed it to fall asleep again.

“You’re cold,” he murmured, not even turning around yet, his hand covering yours where it rested low on his stomach. “You should’ve stayed under the covers.”

You mumbled something unintelligible and a little whiny against his skin, still half-asleep.

“I got lonely,” you finally whispered. “Bed’s too big without you.”

That nearly broke him.

He glanced at the phone still clutched in his hand, hearing the faint crackle of the supplier’s voice on the other end.

He could’ve finished the call. Should’ve.

But your breath was slow and warm against his back, and your fingers were tracing lazy little circles against his abdomen like you didn’t even realize you were doing it.

Heeseung tilted his head toward the phone and spoke quickly. “Sorry, I’ll get back to you in an hour. Something urgent came up.”

The line clicked off. He didn’t care if the supplier was annoyed.

You didn’t say anything at first, not even as he set the phone down on the counter and turned slowly in your arms.

You looked up at him through heavy eyes,, hair a tousled halo around your face, skin lit by the faint blue haze of early morning.

The duvet stayed wrapped around you, but he could see the line of your shoulder, the slope of your collarbone, the flush in your cheeks.

You looked like something out of a dream.

His voice came out rougher than he meant. “You’re dangerous.”

You tilted your head up at him, blinking innocently. “Me?”

“You.”

He ran his fingers through your hair, thumb brushing your cheek. “You do things to me I can’t explain.”

You leaned into his chest again and murmured, “Then stop trying to explain and just come back to bed.”

He chuckled low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your skin. “Pushy.”

You tugged him gently by the waistband of his sweats. “You like me pushy.”

He did.

Buthe liked you like this, too— soft and quiet, in the middle of the night when the world was paused just long enough to let him hold you without pretending.

So he kissed your forehead and reached down, scooping you up in one smooth motion.

You squealed, the duvet slipping a little, exposing your legs as you curled instinctively into him. “Heeseung!”

“You woke up,” he said as he carried you down the hall, voice mock-serious. “Then interrupted my call. Now you’re going to make up for it.”

“I missed you,” you said, chin tucked against his shoulder, “You’re the one who left me naked and cold in your enormous bed.”

“Don’t act like you didn’t steal all the covers and kicked my back”

He nudged the bedroom door open with his foot and carried you back to bed.

The mattress were still warm where you’d been. He laid you down gently and crawled in beside you, wrapping an arm around your waist, burying his face in the crook of your neck.

“You’re such a clingy sleeper,” you mumbled.

“I like sleeping with you,” he said, pulling the duvet higher around you both. “Shut up and let me enjoy it.”

You smiled sleepily, eyes already drifting shut again, your body melting into his.

And there, under the weight of blankets, limbs tangled together, his breath evening out beside yours, you both slipped back into the kind of sleep that only came after passion, laughter, and the slow certainty that neither of you wanted to be anywhere else.

It started with an email, and it ended with love.

3K notes · View notes

ilovolderman · 3 months ago

Text

Playing It Cool

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Summary: Sam’s getting way too suspicious about your secret relationship with Bucky.

Word Count: 1.6k

Warnings: humor, fluff, secret dating, laundry room shenanigans, sam wilson being done

A/N: this can be read as a standalone even though it's part of a series called "You Said What". It doesn't necessarily follow a specific order, but if you want to check out the other parts, here they are: part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6 thanks for reading, i hope you like it :)

Sam didn’t sleep well.

It wasn’t the coffee. It wasn’t even the lingering PTSD from a week spent chasing Hydra remnants. No, this was different.

This was gut feeling. Instinct.

He was standing in the kitchen, hair wild, hoodie misaligned, and eyes like a war veteran who’d seen things and couldn’t unsee them. The clock blinked a smug 7:03 a.m. He poured black coffee like a man betrayed by the very concept of sleep.

That’s when he saw it.

Two mugs on the counter.

One had your initials. The other—a vintage WWII fighter plane sticker. It hadn’t been there last night. He knew, because he always did a final kitchen sweep before bed. Counters clean. Dishes put away. Mugs? Accounted for.

His eye twitched.

“…Barnes,” Sam whispered.

He crouched slowly, inspecting the mugs like they might start confessing their crimes.

Then the hallway creaked. Sam turned so fast he sloshed coffee onto his hoodie.

You entered the room, yawning dramatically, hoodie sleeves engulfing your hands.

“Morning,” you mumbled.

Sam squinted. “Is it? Is it really?”

You blinked. “…Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he said, with the exact tone of a man who was absolutely not fine. He walked to the table and pulled out a chair like it owed him money. “Sit.”

“Why?”

“Because I have questions.”

“I’m not under interrogation.”

“You are now.”

“…Sam.”

“Tell me what you were doing between 0500 and 0700 hours.”

“Sleeping.”

“Alone?”

You squinted. “What kind of creepy follow-up—?”

Sam narrowed his eyes like a raccoon about to steal a whole rotisserie chicken. “I knew it. There’s a cover-up.”

You grabbed a piece of toast and headed for the hallway. “There’s a cover-up on your brain, Wilson.”

“I’ve seen the signs,” Sam called after you. “The glances! The whispers! The ‘accidental’ brush of hands during mission briefings!”

“Maybe I’m just clumsy!” you yelled.

“And matching mugs?”

“That sticker was mine first!”

Before Sam could yell something, Bucky entered the room, with aexpression criminally smug. He looked like the kind of man who had just done something worth hiding.

“Morning,” Bucky said, voice low and gravelly. He moved to the coffee pot.

Sam’s eyes followed him like a hawk on its sixth espresso.

“You okay?” Bucky asked.

“I’m great,” Sam replied. “Y/N just left.”

“Cool.”

“Came in lookin’ real tired.”

“People get tired.”

“You look real tired.”

Bucky paused, looked Sam dead in the eye. “You implying something?”

Sam sipped his coffee. “I don’t know. You implying something?”

They stared each other down. The air crackled. Somewhere in the distance, a tumbleweed rolled by. A raven cawed.

“You need sleep,” Bucky muttered.

“I’ll sleep when the truth sleeps,” Sam snapped back.

Then Sam dramatically left the room—only to storm back in ten seconds later to grab a banana. He peeled it with authority and left again.

Later that morning, when Sam had finally left for a jog—or more accurately, a neighborhood reconnaissance mission—you found yourself back in the kitchen. You were putting away a dish, humming quietly to yourself, when a pair of warm arms slid around your waist.

You didn’t jump. You never did when it was him.

“Hey,” Bucky murmured against your neck, voice soft now, stripped of the earlier smugness he reserved for sparring with Sam. His lips brushed your skin like a secret.

“Hey yourself,” you whispered, leaning back into his chest. “You’re not worried Sam’s going to install surveillance cameras?”

“He probably already has.” You both laughed.

He rested his chin on your shoulder. “I left my mug out on purpose, you know.”

You turned your head to look at him, brow raised. “Seriously?”

Bucky shrugged, expression boyishly proud. “He’s been circling for weeks. Figured we’d give him a trail to follow. Let the man feel like he cracked the case.”

You chuckled, shaking your head. “You are so chaotic.”

He grinned. “You love it.”

You turned in his arms, resting your hands on his chest. “Yeah… I kinda do.”

He kissed you then. Slow. Sweet. Familiar. The kind of kiss that said, even with a super-spy roommate and questionable mugs, this? This is real.

Later that night you bumped into Sam, sitting on the couch. He was hunched forward, elbows on knees, staring ahead

“Where are you going?” he asked, voice low and suspicious, eyes narrowing like you’d just confessed to treason.

You froze. “Uh. Laundry?”

“Interesting,” he said, voice dripping with suspicion. “You know who else said they had laundry tonight?”

You blinked. “…Literally everyone who owns clothes?”

Sam didn’t smile. He leaned in, voice lowering like he was revealing national security secrets. “Barnes. Same night. Same floor. Same time.”

You paused just long enough to regret getting out of your room.

“It’s a laundry room, Sam,” you said flatly. “That’s how they work. People… use it.”

“Mmmhm,” he replied, writing something cryptic in his notebook. The pen squeaked aggressively against the page.

Just then, the door swung open—and in walked Bucky Barnes, freshly showered, damp hair swept back like a shampoo commercial, whistling something suspiciously upbeat.

“Y/N. Wilson,” he greeted smoothly.

“Barnes,” Sam said, staring like he was trying to burn a hole through his soul with his eyes.

You smiled. Just a regular smile. Harmless. No romantic undertones. Just two coworkers… being cordial.

Totally.

“You know... I was asking Y/N here,” Sam said, still squinting, “about her suspiciously coordinated laundry schedule.”

Bucky didn’t miss a beat. “Must be fate.”

You coughed, choking down a laugh.

Sam slammed his notebook shut with the kind of theatrical flair that screamed “I was born for this drama.”

“Enough. You think I’m not onto you. But I see things.”

Bucky raised a brow. “You seeing ghosts again?”

“I’m seeing clues, Barnes. Don’t play dumb. You two doing laundry together. The mugs. The vanishing act during last Tuesday’s debrief—twenty minutes. Both of you. Gone.”

You opened your mouth, searching for a reasonable explanation, but let’s be honest—this was Sam. There was no “reasonable” left. This man had turned your laundry schedule into a covert op.

You crossed your arms. “We went to get snacks.”

“Snacks,” Sam echoed flatly.

“Yes,” you said, trying to maintain dignity. “You know. Human food. Fuel. Chips. The sacred post-mission ritual.”

Sam’s expression didn’t change. “For twenty minutes.”

“There was a vending machine incident,” Bucky added smoothly, stepping closer, unbothered. “Y/N had a standoff with a bag of peanut M&Ms. It got intense.”

You rolled your eyes as Bucky leaned casually against the doorframe, looking way too smug for someone being accused of laundry-based espionage.

Sam was relentless. “You think this is a game? Because I’ve got spreadsheets. I’ve got charts. I have timestamps.”

“I’m flattered,” Bucky replied, folding his arms. “Didn’t realize I was your top case file.”

“You’re not,” Sam snapped. “You’re just the most suspicious.”

You shook your head, already backing toward the hallway. “Okay, well, I’m gonna go… do the thing. With the clothes. Like a normal human person.”

“Sure you are,” Sam muttered, squinting again like he was two seconds away from installing security cameras.

“Goodnight, Wilson,” Bucky said with a wink. And then—because of course—he followed you out.

“Hey!” Sam called. “This isn’t over!”

You didn’t turn around, but you did hear the sound of him furiously scribbling in that cursed notebook again.

You and Bucky sat side by side on top of the industrial dryer, the hum of the spinning machines filling the quiet room. A single overhead light flickered occasionally, casting a soft glow over the laundry baskets at your feet. The scent of fabric softener lingered in the warm air.

“He’s going to lose his mind,” you murmured, folding a hoodie with unnecessary precision.

“He already has,” Bucky said, smirking. “Tried to stick a tracker in my jacket this morning.”

You laughed, bumping your shoulder into his. “We should start leaving fake clues. Plant a puzzle piece under his pillow. Hang a tie in the garage.”

“I already put a sock in the fridge,” Bucky said casually, reaching over to pull a warm towel from the dryer.

You turned to look at him, mouth open in delight. “You didn’t.”

“I did. Red. Argyle. No explanation.”

You grinned, shaking your head. “I love you.”

Bucky chuckled, leaning in to kiss your temple. “I know.”

You went quiet for a beat, letting the rhythm of the machines and the safe warmth between you fill the space. His knee rested against yours. The scent of his cologne barely clung to the edge of his freshly laundered shirt.

He reached for your hand, twining his fingers through yours beneath the basket of still-warm socks. “He’s getting close, though. We are getting pretty obvious.”

“You wanna stop?” you asked, turning toward him.

He looked at you—really looked. And it was all soft eyes, steady presence, and a patience you hadn’t known you needed until him.

“Not a chance.”

Bucky smiled, warm and easy, and pressed his forehead lightly to yours.

“So,” you whispered, “what are we going to do when Sam actually proves something?”

“We deny everything.”

You laughed. “Even under interrogation?”

“Especially under interrogation.”

One day, he’d prove it.

But not today.

Meanwhile in the living room, Sam was writing in his notebook. On the top of the page:

CASE #110: They’re DEFINITELY Dating. And beneath it, scrawled in increasingly frantic handwriting:

shared laundry = suspicious

“Coincidentally” always sitting next to each other

Y/N smiled at him like he invented air.

Bucky smiled back.

FRIDAY pinged softly. “Sir, your blood pressure is elevated.”

“Because there’s a LIE in this house, Friday!”

War was still on.

But as long as you had Bucky Barnes looking at you like you were his whole world?

You were definitely still winning.

taglist: @svtbpbts @cupids-mf-arrow @whitewolfluvr @cece2608 @yehfitoormera @yesiamthatwierd@poodleofstardust @poodleofstardust @homeless-clown @kitasownworld @loversrocktvgirl2

A/N: it's me again, hi. just wanted to say a big thank you for all the comments and feedback i've been getting from all of you. never thought that a one-shot could turn into a series with already SEVEN PARTS. anyway, just thank you all again. i hope you're liking where this is going. see you next chapter <3

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