#having to stare too hard at stuff without noticing

[orellazalonia]

hii!! i really really love your writing. I was wondering if I can request a bucky x actor/model!reader? Sort of like inspired by notting hill? Angst and fluff that type of stuff? thank you!

Hello there! That’s so sweet! And thank you for the request. I have also not seen notting hill either unfortunately. However, I hope you enjoy this little story I went for anyways. It sort of includes grumpy!Bucky ngl. Regardless, Happy reading!!!

Simple Solace

Summary: You duck into a quiet bookstore one rainy day, desperate to escape the cameras. There, you meet a man who doesn’t recognize your face or ask for your name. In the calm that follows, you find something rare: someone who sees you without expectation, without performance, and without needing anything in return. (Bucky Barnes x reader)

Word Count: 3.1k+

Main Masterlist

The storm started just after you slipped out the back door.

Flashes of cameras burst behind you, shouting voices chasing through the alley like thunder, and all you could think was not again. Your heels could be heard on the wet pavement as you ran, coat clutched around you, ducking your head.

It was always like this. One premiere, one whisper of a rumored romance, one slightly too honest interview, and suddenly you were prey again.

This wasn’t what you wanted when you became an actress. Not this side of it. Not the part where your life stopped belonging to you.

Your hand grasped a door handle at random, heart hammering, and rain dripping from your lashes. You yanked it open without reading the sign, stepping into dim lighting and warmth and–books? The sudden scent of aged pages and dust stopped you. Wooden shelves stretched in neat rows. A bell above the door jingled softly behind you.

Someone looked up from the counter, brow furrowing beneath a mop of dark hair. “We’re about to close,” He said, voice low and edged with Brooklyn. His eyes, blue and tired, flicked to your face and then lingered. Not with recognition though. More like surprise, you weren’t what he expected on a rainy evening.

You swallowed hard. “Please… just for five minutes. I’ll buy something.”

There was a long pause. And then he shrugged, muttering something like, “Sure,” before turning back to the old paperback in his hands.

You stepped deeper inside, careful not to drip on the floor. The silence was almost unreal after the chaos outside. No clicks, no shouts. No phones in your face. Just the occasional creak of the building and the quiet, steady sound of the man flipping a page.

It was bliss.

You wandered slowly, pretending to browse as your hands trailed the worn spines. You let yourself breathe as the ache in your chest loosened. You glanced back at the man behind the counter. He looked older than you by a few years, hair tied back, sleeves rolled to the elbows. No smile, no small talk, and no hovering.

God, that was nice.

“Do you live around here?” You asked before you could stop yourself.

He didn’t look up. “Yeah.”

You bit your lip, warmth prickling your cheeks. “You don’t… recognize me?”

Now he looked up. His stare was slow, assessing. “Should I?”

You blinked. Then you laughed, for the first time in what felt like weeks. It startled you. “No,” You said, voice light. “Sorry, you shouldn’t.”

He gave a small, unimpressed smirk and looked back down at his book.

You noticed from the corner of your eye, someone walking past the window outside and peering in. You froze.

He noticed your panic instantly. “You in trouble?”

You hesitated. “Just need to disappear for a minute.”

He studied you a second longer then closed his book.

“Come on,” He said, nodding toward the back. “You can sit in the office until they’re gone.”

You stared.

“You don’t even know me.”

“Don’t need to,” He replied, already walking away.

And just like that, you followed him. Into the back room of a tiny bookshop. Into warmth and quiet. Into something that felt dangerously close to safety.

You didn’t even know his name yet. But you’d remember the way he didn’t look at you like the whole world did.

The back room of the bookshop smelled like cedar and coffee.

There was a space heater buzzing in the corner, a little too warm, a little too loud. A small desk sat near the wall with a battered typewriter, a chipped mug, and a pile of receipts near half-read novels. A coat hung from a nail, and above it, a faded black-and-white photo of soldiers lined up beside a tank.

You stood in the doorway, damp and hesitant, while the man rummaged through a drawer, pulled out a towel, and tossed it in your direction.

“Here,” He said. “You’re dripping all over the floor.”

“Thanks,” You murmured, catching it. You dabbed at your hair, your coat, then your cheeks. You hadn’t realized how wet you really were until your fingers started to shake. Adrenaline always came first. The cold hit second.

He watched you, arms crossed, still leaning slightly toward the door as if ready to return to his book. Still suspicious, still quiet.

“You always invite strange women into your back room?” You teased softly.

“Only the ones who look like they’ve run three blocks in heels during a thunderstorm,” He replied. “And lie about wanting to buy books.”

You cracked a smile. “Guilty.”

He nodded toward the office chair. “Sit. You’ll melt into a puddle otherwise.”

You sat. The warmth of the room, the hum of the space heater, the absence of people; it all started to soften the edges of your panic. Outside the storm still raged, a clap of thunder rolled overhead, but it felt distant now. Like it belonged to another world.

The man leaned against the doorframe, watching you for a moment. His eyes weren’t cruel. Just tired. Careful. “You hiding from fans or photographers?”

You blinked. “Both, probably.”

He gave a low hum. “Should’ve guessed. You’ve got that look.”

“What look?”

“The don’t-look-at-me-but-do-look-at-me kind.”

That made you laugh again, breathier this time, easier. “It’s part of the job, I think.”

He didn’t ask what job. You expected him to, most people did. Instead, he continued, “It’s fine, you don’t owe me a story.”

That stopped you.

The quiet of it. The gentleness of it. No pressure. No prying.

“Thank you,” You whispered, more genuine than you’d meant to be.

He gave a slow nod, then extended a hand. Big, callused, and steady. “I’m Bucky.”

You looked at him, brows raised. “Just Bucky?”

He shrugged. “Most people call me that.”

You took his hand, shaking it once, firmly.

“Nice to meet you, Just Bucky,” You said with a soft smile. “I’m–“

He cut you off. “You don’t owe me a name either.”

And maybe that was the moment it happened. Not lightning-strike attraction. Not some sweeping rom-com epiphany. But something gentler. Something safer. Something rare.

Because for the first time in days, in weeks, in months… You felt like you could just be you. No cameras, no lines to deliver, no brand to protect.

Just a girl with rain in her hair, and a man who didn’t care who she was.

You stayed longer than five minutes.

The storm didn’t let up. You’d moved from perching on the chair’s edge to curling one leg beneath you, towel still wrapped around your shoulders like armor. Your soaked clothes had dried slightly, thanks to the humming space heater though.

Bucky–Just Bucky–disappeared for a moment and returned with a steaming mug.

“No sugar,” He said, placing it on the desk near you. “Didn’t peg you for the type.”

You glanced at the cup, then up at him. “What type?”

“The sweet kind,” He replied, too casually, though you caught the flicker of amusement in his eyes.

You raised the mug in mock salute. “Guess that’s fair.”

For a few minutes, neither of you said anything. You sipped your tea, it tasted simple, earthy, nothing fancy. And watched the way he leaned one shoulder against the doorway. Not the stance of a man who liked being watched. More like someone used to corners. Someone who kept his back to walls and his heart tucked out of sight.

It was odd, but comforting. In a strange way, he reminded you of yourself. Or at least, the version of yourself you used to be, before the press interviews, the contracts, the headlines about people you never actually dated.

“Is it always this quiet?” You asked softly, gesturing toward the empty shelves, the silent shop.

“Depends on the day,” Bucky replied. “Some people still read.”

You smiled. “That’s comforting.”

He tilted his head. “Why?”

“Because… most people only care about what’s trending. Viral moments. Scandals.” You paused, catching the way his gaze lingered without pushing. “They don’t have patience for quiet things anymore.”

He considered that. “Maybe they never did.”

You watched him for a moment. “You don’t talk much, do you?”

“Nope,” He said. “Do you?”

You smiled. “I used to.”

There was something there, just a flicker of understanding. You didn’t need to say more. He didn’t ask. But in the silence that followed, something settled between you. Not heavy. Not awkward. Just… mutual.

Respect, maybe.

The shop’s clock ticked slowly. The rain began to slow. You checked your phone to find six missed calls and two dozen texts. Your manager had probably gone nuclear. You sighed.

“Time to go?” He asked, his voice still calm. Unbothered.

“Yeah,” You murmured. You didn’t move yet. Instead, you looked at him, “Thank you. For not… treating me like a circus act.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t know you were part of the circus.”

You gave a small laugh. “Don’t Google me, then.”

He smirked again. “I won’t.”

And you believed him. As you stood and slipped your coat back on, he walked you to the front door. The sky was still gray, but the downpour had softened to a drizzle. Outside, there were no cameras, no noise, just the glistening street.

You paused in the doorway. “Do you… always work here?”

“Most days.”

You hesitated before smiling faintly. “Maybe I’ll come back. You know… if I ever need another place to disappear.”

Bucky gave a slow nod. “Door’s always open.”

You stepped outside. The air smelled like wet pavement and you didn’t look back. But you hoped he’d be there next time.

Bucky didn’t Google you.

He didn’t need to.

It was two days later when he finally placed you, not through the tabloids or some viral clip, but through a magazine left behind by a college student who’d come in asking for poetry and left with an overpriced espresso and old fashion books.

He found it under one of the chairs when he was closing, muttering under his breath as he collected the day’s litter. But the magazine fell open before he could toss it, centerfold spread with bold letters across the page.

“America’s Darling: The Actress Who Won’t Be Tamed.”

And there you were.

Wind in your hair. Lips slightly parted. That same haunted softness in your eyes, the one that made you look like you were thinking about something heavy even when dressed in a thousand-dollar gown. Your name in elegant white across the bottom.

He stared at the page, the photo. Then frowned.

He didn’t like being lied to. But that wasn’t quite it. You hadn’t lied exactly. You just hadn’t told him.

He leaned against the counter, magazine still open in his hands, trying to piece it together. The wet shoes. The way you had looked over your shoulder like someone was always chasing you. How you flinched at a camera flash across the street even though it hadn’t been aimed at you.

And the quiet. You’d sat in his back room like someone starving for silence.

He got that.

He’d been the Winter Soldier. Then a ghost. Now just a man with too much time and too many regrets, trying to remember how to live in a world that never stopped spinning.

You though, you were still in it. Still being devoured by it.

He flipped through the article. The journalist’s words didn’t sound like you at all.

“Charming but distant, a rising star with a reputation for disappearing between films.” “Rumors suggest a secret relationship with a political figure.” “Some say she’s difficult on set, while others claim she’s just misunderstood.”

Bucky closed the magazine. He hated all of it.

The next day, you came back.

Disguised, poorly with a hood up, dark sunglasses, and an oversized sweatshirt like you were hiding inside yourself. You walked in like a ghost, hesitating in the doorway like maybe you were hoping he wouldn’t be there.

But he was.

He didn’t say anything right away. Just looked up from his spot behind the counter, eyeing the ridiculous sunglasses, then slowly lifting one brow.

“…Really?”

You gave a sheepish half-smile and pulled the glasses off. “In my defense, it works on half the population.”

“Guess I’m in the other half.”

You stepped forward, uncertainty flickering across your features. “You found out.”

“Yep.”

“Are you mad?”

He looked at you. Not like a fan or a man dazzled by magazine spreads or red carpet glamour. Just… like a man who’d seen enough of the world to know when someone was hurting.

“Nope,” He said. “Disappointed you’re famous, though. I was enjoying pretending you were just weird.”

That made you laugh, short and surprised.

“Sorry to ruin it.”

“Still weird, though,” He added. “Especially to run into a bookstore during a thunderstorm and ask for five minutes of silence.”

You shrugged. “Guess I figured you’d get it.”

His eyes softened. “I do.”

There was a pause. Then you stepped closer, lowering your voice.

“Can I… sit in the back again? Just for a little while?”

He didn’t answer. He just pushed the office door open with one hand and motioned you inside with the other. And just like that, you disappeared into the quiet again.

This time, with someone waiting on the other side.

You didn’t talk at first.

The office looked exactly the same all cramped, dusty, and warm. You sat cross-legged in the worn leather chair again, sweatshirt sleeves pulled over your fingers, watching the heater hum. Bucky sat across from you, back in his usual spot, a book open but unread on his lap.

The silence wasn’t awkward. It was familiar now.

You didn’t need to perform here. Didn’t need to smile too widely, or filter your words, or pretend that your hands didn’t shake when your phone buzzed too many times in a row. You could just… exist.

Still, there was something new today. A weight in the air, the unspoken thing between you now that he knew.

Your name, your job, the swirling mess that followed you like a shadow.

You glanced over at him. “So.”

He looked up from his book. “So.”

“Not gonna ask about the scandal? Or my ex? Or if I really threw a drink at a director?”

Bucky raised a brow. “Did you?”

You blinked. “No.”

“Then I don’t care.”

That made you smile. “You really don’t, do you?”

“Nope.”

You leaned back against the chair, closing your eyes for a moment. The rain had started again outside, gentler this time. Almost soothing.

“I think I forgot how to just be a person,” You murmured after a beat. “Everything’s curated. Online, in interviews, even my voice. I hear myself and don’t recognize it sometimes.”

You opened your eyes and found him watching you. Not judging, simply listening.

“I used to be… real,” You said softly. “Now I feel like an idea someone else owns.”

Bucky was quiet for a while.

Then he set the book aside and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You’re real now.”

You frowned slightly. “How do you know?”

He looked at you; eyes steady, low voice like gravel smoothed by time. “Because you’re not trying.”

And there it was. Not a compliment. Not flattery. Just a quiet truth spoken plainly.

You swallowed past the tightness in your throat and looked down at your lap, twisting the end of your sleeve between your fingers. “I don’t know why I came back.”

“Sure you do,” He said.

You looked up.

He held your gaze, calm and unwavering. “People only run toward something when they’re tired of running away.”

You didn’t realize how close to crying you were until you weren’t until something in your chest loosened at those words. Not pity or advice, more like understanding.

Your throat felt tight. “I’m not used to people seeing me.”

He stood after a moment and moved toward the back shelf. You thought he was grabbing a book, maybe trying to change the subject, but instead he pulled down a small first aid tin and set it between you.

Then: “Your wrist.”

You blinked. “What?”

He motioned gently. “You’ve been rubbing it since you came in. Tight cuff?”

You hesitated, then tugged your sleeve back slightly. The faint red marks were still there. You’d worn a stiff and tight bracelet during your last shoot. The stylist said it looked elegant even though it left a bruise.

Bucky didn’t say anything. Just opened the tin, took out a small balm, handing it to you.

He didn’t try to apply it. Didn’t make a joke. Just gave it to you, like someone who knew what it meant to be careful with another person’s pain.

Your fingers closed around it.

“…You’re not like anyone I’ve met,” You said, voice barely above a whisper.

Bucky sat back down, book back in his lap. “You probably say that to all the bookstore guys.”

You huffed a laugh, still holding the balm. “No, I don’t.”

He didn’t smile yet, but his eyes softened.

You twisted the lid open and applied a small dab to your wrist, eyes cast downward, feeling his presence more. The sting dulled under your touch, and slowly, so did the anxious edge of the day.

When you looked up again, Bucky was watching, but not in the way others did. Not with hunger or expectation, he was… seeing you as you were.

“You don’t ask for much,” You murmured, half a question and half a thought.

He shrugged. “Don’t need much.”

You smiled, soft and a little sad. “I think I do. Or maybe I just… never let myself want anything quiet.”

He tilted his head. “You want quiet now?”

You thought for a moment. Rain tapped gently at the windows outside, the heater was running, and a man who’d once been a weapon now sat reading a book while you unlearned how to flinch.

“Yes,” You admitted. “I think I do.”

You stood slowly, putting the balm back onto a table.

“I should go,” You said, voice hesitant, almost not wanting to break the spell.

Bucky stood too, nodding once. He didn’t rush to the door, didn’t try to keep you or push you out. He just walked beside you, silent, and calm.

At the front of the shop, you paused by the door, hand resting on the knob.

“Will you be here tomorrow?” You asked quietly.

He met your gaze.

“Yeah,” He said. “I’m always here.”

And that was enough.

You stepped back into the world, but this time, it didn’t feel like it swallowed you. Because now, you knew where to go when you needed to be seen without being looked at.

And somewhere behind a tiny door on a rainy street, someone would be waiting. Not for your name. Not for your story.

Just for you.

[peasack]

Your stuff is so comforting omg 😭😭 thank you for existing

I saw your “what if you called the guys dad” post and and now I have to ask— what if you accidentally called Yelena and Ava mom?

LMAO THANK YOUUUU

I've had so many requests for this, so I just clicked on the top one. Sorry if it wasn't your request but still hope you enjoy it!!!

Thunderbolts x Gn!Teen!Reader

✦ Thunderbolts Accidentally calling them mom headcanons ✦

��� ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗

✦ Olga Kurylenko (Taskmaster)

You'd been training with Olga for months now, working hard to sharpen your combat skills. She never went easy on you, but she always made sure you got back up, even when you wanted to quit. She'd taught you to hold your own, to fight back, to survive. You spent more time with her than anyone else.

It was late during one of your sessions, exhaustion creeping in. Your arms felt like lead, your footwork sloppy. She corrected your stance again, firm but patient.

"Focus. Again."

"Ugh.. Mom, I can't, I'm too- wait-" you blurted, stumbling backwards.

You froze. She froze. The word echoed loudly in the near-empty gym.

Your stomach twisted. "I didn't mean-I wasn't thinking-"

Olga's mask tilted slightly, assessing you, like she could see the panic rising in your chest. Slowly, she lowered her guard, stepping closer but giving you space.

"You called me Mom."

"I didn't-it just slipped out! I know you're not-"

"...I know," she said quietly. "It's okay."

Her tone was so gentle it nearly broke you. She didn't tease you or make you explain. She just gestured for you to reset your stance.

"Again."

After that, she never corrected you when it slipped out again. And sometimes, when no one else was around, she'd quietly rest her hand on your shoulder longer than she needed to.

✦ Ava Starr

You and Ava spent a lot of quiet time together. She wasn't overly talkative, but you found comfort in her calm presence. She took you on low-stress missions sometimes, and when things got overwhelming, she always knew how to ground you.

You were sitting together on the couch, sorting through mission equipment. It was one of those mundane tasks that had somehow become your thing with her.

"Pass me the goggles."

"Here you go, Mom."

Silence.

Your heart dropped into your stomach as you realized what you said.

"I-uh-Ava- I meant Ava, I swear-"

She looked at you, blinking slowly. For a moment, you couldn't tell what she was thinking.

Then, she handed you a granola bar without a word and went back to sorting.

"...It's fine," she said softly, not looking up. "You can call me that."

You stared at her, unsure if she was serious. But she didn't retract it.

Over time, she started checking in more. Sitting with you in silence more. You noticed she was a little more protective on missions, a little more present when you were having bad days.

She never brought it up again, but it became a quiet understanding between you two.

✦ Valentina Allegra de Fontaine

Val had always been a complicated figure in your life. She was sharp, demanding, and somehow always the one pulling the strings.

One morning, she was driving you to school after you'd begged her not to send someone else for once.

"Thanks, Mom," you mumbled as you climbed out of the car, half-asleep.

You realized immediately and whipped around in horror.

She just smirked, leaning on the steering wheel. "Oh? Mom, huh?"

"No! I didn't mean to-I was thinking about something else-"

"Sure you were."

She waved you off like it wasn't a big deal, she didn't even bring it up days after it happened. Even so, you noticed she started making more time for you. Picking you up more often. Showing up when you needed her most.

She joked about being your 'terrifying power-hungry mother figure,' but when she called you 'kiddo' under her breath, it always sounded a little too genuine.

✦ Yelena Belova

You were sitting on the couch, scrolling on your phone, when Yelena dropped a bowl of soup in front of you. You’d been sick all day, refusing to admit it, but she’d practically dragged you to rest.

"Eat. Now."

"Yes, mom."

Her eyes snapped to you, blinking in surprise.

"What did you call me?"

You panicked. "Nothing. I meant-I didn’t- I just meant, you know, you’re taking care of me like a mom and-"

Her grin stretched wide. "Oh my God. I am your mom now."

"Yelena-"

"No, no. You said it. It is done. I will frame this moment."

You groaned, but her teasing never stopped. For days, she’d call you "my child" in the thickest fake accent, dropping snacks on your desk with a proud nod. But underneath all the jokes, you could tell she loved it more than she let on.

✦ Mel Gold

Mel was always present, always making sure you ate, checking your posture, bringing you to school when you missed the bus, always providing you a steady hand.

You’d been working on homework at the kitchen table, mumbling to yourself, frustrated.

"Mom, can you help me with this?"

You didn’t even look up until her chair scraped against the floor as she sat beside you.

"What is the question?"

It took you a second to realize what you’d said. "Oh my God. I didn’t mean to! I just-you feel like.."

Melina just gave a small shrug, a soft smile tugging at her lips. "If you wish to call me that, it is fine."

"Really?"

"If you would be my biological kid, I'd be the proudest mom ever. Now blood ain't stopping me from being that."

Your chest squeezed a little too tightly. "Thanks... Mom."

She helped you through the entire assignment, her voice as steady and warm as the tea she placed beside you.

∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗

AAA I LOVED THISSSS.

Sorry if Mel was a little ooc, since she didn't have much screentime and I hadn't written for her before I didn't really know how to write her character well, hope this was good enough tho!!!

[monayen]

thank you for answering my question btwww :3 can i ask for a ftm reader who really likes to aggrivate Nyen for fun? he would steal his kills, borrowed romance mangas, cigarettes, favorite shirt, etc. maybe insult or even tease him occasionally ^^

but he doesn't often think about the consequences of his actions as he is slick enough to escape Nyen until he actually got caught by him.

i'd prefer if the reader was Luthers/Randals pet

also can i be known as shed anon?

Kurt Cobain didn't kill himself | Nyen

➷ paring - Nyen x FTM!Reader [randal's Friends / ranfren]

➷ cws - reader is a trans male, teasing, choking / breathplay, insults / aggression, slightest talks about killing and stuff... average nyen things

a/n - nyen might seem a little OOC here, considering he talks more than i actually think he would if this was real. but those are the liberties you take when you're writing for a character whose spoken like 100 words in canon. either way, a little cringe but i had fun :-) thank u shed anon !

It was incredibly easy to get under Nyen’s skin.

You knew it wasn’t exactly smart, but maybe that’s why you did it. You liked the way he looked at you when you pushed his buttons — tight-jawed, eyes dark, trying so hard to pretend he wasn’t bothered.

You made it a habit to keep stealing his last cigarette, to keep “borrowing” a manga or two without asking, to keep appearing and snatching the final blow to whatever poor pest decided to show up in the Ivory house. 

Nyen knew that Randal spoiled you enough for you to think there weren't any real consequences. That’s why the little weirdo loved you, you were eccentric in your own right, playful and teasing like you were the funniest thing in the world. 

Having that cocky sort of immunity that came from knowing that no one wanted to deal with Randal’s bitching if they reprimanded you. Even Luther didn't have that much of a spine when it came to you. 

It all drove Nyen to his absolute limit.

-

The CD player in the catmen’s room had been playing for fifteen minutes. The house was mostly empty, save for Nana somewhere in the walls, or the skeleton in the kitchen cabinet. You stayed home too, lounging around in your own room, and thankfully occupied for the meanwhile. It was at least as quiet as it can be without most of its residents. 

It should’ve been a relaxing evening. And it was for those fifteen minutes — Nyen had already gotten comfortable in a chair, a cigarette hanging from his lip as he listened to music. 

But of course, you had to ruin it. 

You had stepped inside the room without knocking, an already familiar smile on your face as you darted your eyes to the sitting Nyen and then onto the CD player. 

“I guessed it was you playing this loud ass music, I can hear it from my room.”

Nyen seemed to ignore you, taking another drag from his cig without sparing you a glance. 

You stood there for a moment, just watching him. His scowl was evident on his face when he noticed your presence, but he didn’t say anything. Didn’t even shift in his seat.

So, you made yourself comfortable.

You crossed the room, dropped onto the edge of Nyon’s bottom bunk, and stretched your legs out, leaning back on your hands. The mattress creaked a little, but he still didn’t look at you.

“You always play your music this loud?” you asked, voice raised just a bit to cut through it, but it wasn't as loud in reality as you made it seem. “We could, like, get a noise complaint.”

Still nothing. The only sign that he was even listening was the way he began to bounce his leg impatiently. 

You squinted at the CD player, tilting your head. “This is Nirvana, right?”

That got a pause. His fingers stilled, cigarette balanced in place.

You grinned to yourself. “I don’t really get the hype. It’s kind of all the same, isn’t it? Scratchy vocals, sad lyrics, lots of noise. Feels a little overrated personally.”

He turned his head halfway toward you. No exact expression. Just that same unreadable, cold stare he always gave you when he was deciding whether or not you were worth responding to.

“Don’t start,” he said, voice gravelly and already annoyed. Like he’d already had the argument in his head and didn’t feel like playing it out loud.

You sat up a little straighter, letting your lips twist into something more deliberate. “I’m not starting anything. I’m just saying. It’s not bad, just… kinda mid.”

Now he was looking at you fully.

The cigarette burned low between his fingers. His jaw was tight, not clenched, but set in that way that meant he was weighing something else now. Perhaps now deciding if you were being serious, or really deciding if you were worth Randal being upset at him.

He settled on a glare, eyeing you, immediately noticing you were wearing one of his older shirts, a simple black shirt Luther had gotten him a long time ago. 

It hung a bit off your frame, loose around your shoulders and torso. The hem dipped just past your thighs barely and the shorts you were wearing underneath weren’t doing much to hide the fact.

Nyen’s stare lingered longer than he meant it to. His mouth twitched like he was biting something back an expression. He forced his gaze up, jaw tight.

“…Is that mine?” His voice came out low, flat, and a little too sharp.

You looked down at yourself, tugging at the hem of the shirt like you hadn’t even realized what you were wearing. A lie, obviously. You’d picked it out of his room on purpose.

“Yeah,” you said, feigning casual. “Figured you wouldn’t miss it.”

You shifted slightly on the bed, just enough to draw his attention again — the hem of the shirt riding up when you moved, shorts still barely visible beneath the fabric. His gaze dropped for a second, and when it came back up, it was darker.

“You like playing games,” he said quieter this time, getting up from his seat and reaching to pause the track, then moving to step towards you.

You smiled, slow and crooked. “Only the ones I win.”

His brow twitched, taking another step.

“You think you’ve got the upper hand because you're spoiled,” he spits, “Because no one tells you ‘no.’”

“I mean, you haven't.”

He was in front of you now, standing between your legs, one hand planted on the side of the bunk above you. The space between you felt hotter than it should’ve. Your smirk didn’t fade, but something in you tightened when he leaned down.

“I’ve been letting you get away with it,” he said, much louder now, but much clearer without Kurt Cobin’s voice in the background. “But you keep pushing.”

“Yeah?” is all you could breathe out, excitement already fluttering in your chest.

His hand moved at last — down to ghosting over your knee, then curling slowly around your thigh, sharp nails pressing into bare skin enough for you to wince slightly. 

“I should fucking throw you out,” he says. “but I’m sure you’re desperate for attention.”

A hum escaped your mouth, looking up at him with big eyes, “Maybe I am.”

Without warning, his other hand slammed down on your waist, fingers digging in hard, pinning you firmly to the mattress. The cigarette dropped forgotten between his fingers as he leaned over you, the heat of his body crashing down like a storm.

“You don’t get to decide when I’m done with you.” he snarls, the proximity allowing you to catch the lingering scent of smoke around him.

Your heart raced faster, but you refused to look away, too excited to not tremble slightly under him. “Is that a threat?”

“Guess.”

His fingers slid lower, tracing a slow, deliberate path beneath the hem of his shirt, fingers brushing skin that flushed instantly at his touch. You watched as he gripped the fabric, balling it in his fist before yanking you forward. 

You yelped instinctively at the sudden movement before catching yourself, quickly switching back to a teasing smirk as he held you closer. 

“So rough, Nyen. I think you might actually want to kill me for what I said about Cobain—”

Nyen’s hand just as suddenly moved to your neck, wrapping around before you could finish your jab about his favorite artist. The force pushes you back onto the bed, and you remember just who it is that is shifting onto the bed with you.

His grip tightened, enough to send a thrill sparking up your spine, your pulse fluttering beneath his fingers as he leaned in closer. The mattress dipped under his weight as he pressed forward.

“I like you better when you’re not talking,” he says, low and hot against your ear. “I like you better like this.”

His other hand had already yanked your shorts and underwear down your thighs, tossing somewhere you couldn’t see. The mattress dipped beneath his weight as he crowded closer, slotting himself between your legs with no real space left between you.

You squirmed slightly, not to get away, but just to feel the way his hips pressed flush against yours. He noticed, finger flexing where they held you. You could still breathe well-enough, though you're sure that's only because he wants you awake for this.

"I think you like it when I talk back," you managed to taunt, breathless but still loud enough he can hear. “It gets you all riled up, doesn't it?” you huff, “Knowing you— hah, can't do much about it.”

In response, Nyen's grip on your throat tightened fractionally, his own breathing becoming harder as yours stiffened with his grasp. 

The hand on your hip slid around to palm your ass, squeezing the plump flesh hard enough to leave indentions. He rocked his hips forward, grinding his clothed erection against you, your choked whines escaping with each rough pass.

“Fucking brat.”

Nyen’s hand left your ass for a moment, fumbling with the front of his jeans before freeing his aching cock. It sprung out, hot and hard and heavy against your thigh. 

"I'm going to fuck you until you learn to listen," he promised darkly, positioning himself at your entrance. "Until the only thing you remember is the feeling of my cock splitting you open."

He thrust forward, sheathing himself inside you to the hilt in one brutal stroke. A guttural moan tore from his throat at the sudden tight heat enveloping him, and he had to pause, breathing harshly above you. 

Your walls clenched around him, trying to adjust to his size. The lack of air made you a bit woozy, jaw clenching and unclenching as you tried to focus on your composure.

It was fruitless though, eyes fluttering once Nyen began to set a brutal pace inside you. He didn't hold back at all, rough and hard as his pelvis slammed into yours. 

Your moans came out in broken, breathless bursts, stifled by the hand gripping your throat. You reached up instinctively, fingers curling around his wrist in an attempt to anchor yourself underneath him.

His grip on your throat still remained unyielding, each thrust making your vision swim and your lungs burn for air. But even as your body struggled, you couldn't help buckling your hips into his.

"Fuck, you're so tight," Nyen grunted, his voice strained with exertion and pleasure. “I’m— I’m gonna fucking ruin you.”

He shifted the angle of his hips, letting you wrap your legs around his back as he somehow pushed deeper inside you. Your mind spun, clenching tighter around him as you felt your orgasm building. 

“Please,” You cried through ragged breaths, “I— fuck, need—”

Nyen didn’t let up. If anything, he pressed in closer, lips at your ear as he murmured low and sharp, “Please what?”

You shivered at his voice, heat curling tighter in your gut. His words were cruel on purpose — meant to fluster you more and tease like you always did to him.

“C’mon,” he said, biting back a grin. “Beg for it like a good boy.”

The taunt sent your heart racing. You embarrassingly whined, face burning, pulse hammering, and back curling as you choked out pleads to cum.

If your eyes could focus, you’d see the triumph glint in Nyen’s eyes at your cries, his own hips sputtering for a moment as he feels you reach your peak. His heavy thrusts became more erratic, chasing his similarly rapidly approaching climax. 

His grip on your neck and ass tightened once more, and with a final, brutal slam of his hips, Nyen buried himself to the hilt inside you and stilled. His cock jerked and throbbed as he emptied himself, triggering you to follow right behind him with a choked moan. 

Nyen finally pulled back when you both were spent, chest heaving, but his scowl hadn’t softened one bit. If anything, it deepened as he looked you over, like he couldn’t stand the sight of you — or maybe couldn’t stop staring. 

“You done acting like a brat?” he gruffs, voice hoarser than before.

You blinked up at him, lips parted as if struggling to form proper words through your haziness, still, you managed to let a smirk pull at your mouth, slow and infuriating as always, “Define ‘done.’”

Nyen scoffed, rolling his eyes as he sat on the edge of Nyon’s bed, passing over your body and still spread legs leaking with cum. “You're lucky I didn't break you in half.” 

“Please,” you breathed, your shaky hand dragging over your own form teasingly when you noticed him staring, “I wish you did.” 

He froze for half a second — then shoved off the bed with a sharp exhale like he needed to get away before he lost what was left of his patience. 

“You’re not funny at all.” 

You grinned wider. “Yeah, I’m hilarious.”

Nyen didn’t dignify that with a response. Just fixed his pants and muttered something under his breath that definitely was a curse. 

Finally, he turned towards you, a bit softer noticeably, but he still managed to keep his usual cadence before muttering, “Keep the shirt.”

You didn't get a chance to respond back with something witty, the door slamming behind him as you stayed where you were, still exposed, still sore, and still dripping juices onto a bed that's not yours.

... Sorry Nyon.

[fated-normal-767]

Anyways !! Obviously it’s giving hypno kink video but more importantly it’s easy content farm slop with mildly scary vibes which reminds me of stuff I used to watch in elementary school which reminds me of all that time I spent literally flashing a light in my eyes to try and see what color blindness was like / see those microbe stuff yknow the ones the funky colors in your line of sight , which reminds me that my brother now needs glasses which makes me think hm . I wonder if I do as well . And if I do then if it’s because of that . It’s nostalgic is what I’m getting at .

Ohhh I know what you mean I used to do that closing your eyes really hard and rubbing them to see the firework type colours or the staring at one specific light so it’d do the thing that looks like screen burn in for a few seconds + I watched these ‘CAUSES HALLUCINATIONS IN 80% OF PEOPLE WATCH CAREFULLY!!!!’ type videos obsessively in 2020 so I kind of get the nostalgia a little too

[clumsypuppy]

[plethorawrites]

Oh, I really, really like your recent blurb! Jason having a secret girlfriend/family is my favorite trope, but it is so hard to find!

Would you write about silly instances where Jason spots his family in public and tries to shuffle and guide you away without you noticing?

Ahh! I feel that validated in both my love of Jason and my love of the secret relationship trope! (This might not be exactly what you were looking for, but I hope you like it anyway!)

The first time it happened was a few weeks into your relationship, back When the two of you would meet for breakfast or brunch at the little cafe, a few blocks away from where you worked.

Jason Todd would always show up, yawning and exhausted from how tired he always was since he hadn't told you about his night job yet. But he was still on time, excited to see you even if he would go straight home and nap immediately afterwards.

The two of you would always spend more time talking getting to know one another than actually looking over the menu and ordering something to eat, but neither of you minded.

Then, one day, while he was looking away from you to hide the smile you had caused, he caught sight of Tim waiting in line to order a coffee.

Without really thinking about it, he grabbed both of your menus, propping them up and leaning over the table, trying to hide both your faces.

You frowned in confusion but leaned in too, until your faces were close together. "What are you doing?" You whispered.

"Nothing," he lied poorly, being his head over the top of a menu to see if his brother was still there and darting his head back down when Tim walked past the table. He let out a breath of relief, staring at you. "You look really pretty this close."

With an amused eye roll you leaned back in your chair, folding your arms and waiting for a better explanation. "You just wanted to talk really close for a moment?"

"Okay, fine," he sighed heavily. "I wanted to look at your freckles, alright? They're adorable. The ones on your nose are really cute."

It wasn't a lie, technically. He did love them. And you actually believed him, he thought. Or if you didn't, you didn't push the topic.

The next time you accidentally ran into somebody was at the mall, when you had dragged Jason along to help you look for a dress for a mystery date night he said nothing about, except for the fact that you had to wear something nice.

It was just his luck that you had picked the same store Stephanie happened to be shopping in as well. In most circumstances, she might not even notice him when they crossed paths in public, but in a woman's clothing store which was relatively empty, there was no way she wouldn't see him when she turned around.

Without warning, he tugged you away from rack you were looking at, pulling you into a cramped dressing room, locking it behind you.

"Wha-" You stared at him like he had lost his mind. "Why are we the dressing room?"

"How do women try stuff on when they can't turn around?" He countered, ignoring your question and planting his hand on the wall by your head to try to give himself more room in the tight space.

"It's typically not made for two people," you explained "Especially not 6'2 men."

He grinned a bit. "Do you like my height?" He asked, enjoying the proximity a bit more than he would admit.

Yes. Obviously. Who wouldn't? He towered over you. His arms could wrap around your entire body without even straining to cover more skin. Plus, he could reach the top shelf so you didn't have to climb on a chair.

But it was still too early in the relationship to tell him that.

"That's besides the point," you muttered. " Why are we in the dressing room?" You repeated.

"I just...always wanted to see a woman's dressing room," he told you, frowning at his own lie.

"Seriously?" You questioned. "You could have at least picked the big one at the end. And you didn't even let me pick anything to try on."

"Right, well..I figured we could try a different store," Jason explained, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear. "Nothing here would do you justice."

You huffed, finding it slightly amusing how foolish he was acting. But frankly, it wasn't terribly bad to be stuck in a tight space with him. So, you waited a moment longer before unlocking the stall.

You still had to find a dress.

Things were peaceful for a bit, you and Jason seemed to be growing stronger in your relationship and things began to get a little bit more serious. Jason seemed to be growing stronger in your relationship and things began to get a little bit more intense.

He knew that eventually he'd have to tell his family about you, but the next time he saw one of his brothers in public, he couldn't help but shy away from the task of introducing you.

In his defense, Damian really wasn't the first sibling you would want to meet.

He'd taken you to a nature preserve, because you said you used to go all the time as a kid but stopped after getting older.

You were practically giddy, feeding the animals from your palm, scrunching your nose when their whiskers ticked you. Jason was enjoying it too, more so because of you than the animals.

But while he was mocking you for your squeals, he heard a familiar voice having a one sided conversation with a lemur.

He turned and there was Damian, having his biweekly visit to see the animals that Father wouldn't let him bring home.

Jason cursed internally, pulling you away from the animals, accidentally spilling the feed from your hand.

"Hey, I stillwanted to see the—"

"I'll bring you back, I promise," he said, cutting you off as he dragged you behind a tree.

You wiped off your hand on your jeans and tilted your head. "What is it?"

"I just think you've been giving the animals too much attention," Jason noted. "I feel left out."

"Oh, c'mon," you rolled your eyes.

"Really," he insisted. "You kissed a sloth and a goat but not me."

He pouted a bit and leaned back against the tree, still holding you arm, though loosening his grip before running his hand up and down your arm apologetically.

You sighed, glancing around briefly, not really taking notice of the small, angry child, yelling at some poor worker, before leaning up on your tip toes to kiss his lips very quickly. "Satisfied?"

He smiled softly. "No." He shook his head, pointing to the exit. "Can we leave?" He asked gently.

"Will you bring me back?"

Jason nodded immediately. "Whenever you want," he said.

You gave up and left with him.

Now, if you really thought about it, you could easily put two and two together, but really, the instances were so far apart that you didn't really question the strange behavior.

He had managed to be, for the most part, pretty subtle about pulling you away from his family whenever he encountered them, as few and far between as those moments were.

Like the time you were walking down the street while it was raining and he spotted Duke crossing the street towards your direction. Even though he knew you loved the rain and hated umbrellas, he still pulled his jacket off, covering your head.

"Jay, I told you, I'm fine," you assured him, trying to move it off of you.

"Yeah, but you'll catch a cold," he insisted, pulling even further over your head while blatantly stealing an umbrella from a small stand that was selling them.

He popped it open, covering his own face as you walked past Duke.

"I will not," you told him, finally tugging it off. You frowned, not feeling any rain on your skin. "Where the hell did the umbrella come from?"

"Uh- someone handed it to me," Jason muttered. "Nice man."

And even though he despised running into people he knew because it always put him on high alert, trying to figure out what to do or where to go to keep whoever they ran into from spotting them, sometimes, he actually rather enjoyed the chance to pull you away from the rest of the world.

For instance, when you insisted on going to a carnival, which he wasn't a big fan of at first, until you guys got there and he saw your eyes twinkling at all the lights.

Any thoughts of boredom were quickly drowned out by the sound of your screams on the scarier rides, when you'd reach for his hand. And he bought every single treat you so much as looked at— the funnel cakes, the fresh lemonade, the Carmel corn.

He was watching you pull fresh cotton candy from the stick it was spun around when out of the corner of his eye he caught his brother Dick, along with Wally walking across the fair grounds.

Jason was sure they wouldn't notice you with how far away they were, but he refused to take the chance. So, he interlocked your hands, tugging you into a nearby photo booth as you made a sound of confusion.

"Just thought we should grab a souvenir," he said, beating you to the punch before you could ask what he was doing.

"I'm still eating my cotton candy," You told him. "I should fix my hair too."

Jason got a devilish glint in his eye and ran his hand through your hair jostling it further as you screeched in disbelief. "I think it looks good like that," he admitted, staring at you now that it had a bit more volume.

You blew a loose strand from your face. "I can't believe you did that," you stated. "It's all disheveled."

He nodded, still thinking it looked beautiful. Sort of like how it was when you woke up next to him.

"C'mon," he urged, pulling you into his lap. "I like you this way." He threw a few quarters in the slot and before you knew it you had a strip of three pictures, none of which were appropriate to show to anyone.

A picture of him stealing your cotton candy, a picture of him nuzzling your neck while you scrunched your nose in the way that made his heart clench, and a picture of him tasting said cotton candy on your tongue.

So, maybe it was an over reaction to pull you away from the rest of his carnival when it was huge and chances were Dick never would have even seen you. But God, did he enjoy it.

Then, there were, of course, the far less subtle times which didn't end quite as well.

Like when you just so happened to be walking out of a movie at the same time Cassandra and Barbara were heading into one.

"I think the sequel might actually be better than the original," you told him, arms interlinked as you walked.

"Uh huh," he wasn't paying attention anymore after seeing his sister and Babs at the soda machine, filling up their drinks.

He couldn't exactly pull you into a different theater, especially since he didn't know which one they would be going into.

The next best option? Throwing the empty popcorn bucket over your head.

"Jay?!" You exclaimed.

"It's a discount thing," he muttered vaguely, grimacing at his own excuse. "Wear the bucket out and you get a free movie."

Okay, not the next best, probably. Maybe like...sixth best? Seventh at most.

He pulled you past them, keeping his hand on the top of the bucket to keep it in place while raising his hoodie and keeping on the 3D glasses from the movie until you were past them both.

Once you were, he pulled it off and you were...well, fuming. Rightfully so.

"What the hell was that?" You asked, a bit bitterly, not buying his excuse for a second. "I'm covered in popcorn butter.

He cleared his throat, kissing your greasy cheek and licking his lips tasting a salty popcorn and butter on your skin. "Tastes good, though," he mumbled.

You stormed out on him.

And then, when you chose to walk all the way back to your apartment in frustration, both with his actions and lies, he finally came clean.

"I just... don't want my family to mess anything up between us," he confessed, barely even looking at you.

Vulnerability wasn't his strongest asset, but he was trying. For you.

You washed your face off in the sink for the third time and still felt greasy. Even if you got it all off your face, you'd need a shower to get it out of your hair.

"Why couldn't you just tell me that?" You asked, still confused. It wasn't like you didn't already know who his family was.

"I just- I didn't want you to think I was hiding you," he muttered.

"Jason, you put a bowl of popcorn over my head so your sister wouldn't see me. That's hiding," you stated firmly.

"Yes but it's not hiding out of embarrassment!" He clarified. "My family can be a lot to handle and they might scare you off and they'd definitely mock me endlessly for being in love with you."

His eyes went wide. That...was an accident. He didn't mean to confess that.

You stared at him for a moment, blinking. "Did you just say what I think you did?"

"I uh- well that wasn't..." He cleared his throat. "Yeah," he finally agreed with a slight nod. "But you don't have to say it back or anything, I know I'm not the easiest person to love and it—"

You were already kissing him, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him closer. He was caught off guard, but it didn't take him long before he kissed you back, his hands finding your waist and steadying you both.

"You're stupidly easy to love," you told him, resting your forehead on his.

(+Bonus)

It was a quiet Friday night when the two of you were at a nice restaurant, celebrating a year of being together. The food was good, the music was soft and nice, and Jason was practically a drooling mess over you, like usual.

So much so, he didn't even notice when his father walked into the restaurant with a date of his own.

You did, though. And in keeping with the spirit of what had apparently been a pretty large part of your relationship, even without you knowing it, you slid out of the booth quickly grabbing his hand and pulling him from his chair.

"Hey, wait a second!" He exclaimed as you rushed him out of the restaurant before he got to finish his dessert. "We still have to pay."

"We'll come back tomorrow and pay," you assured him, pushing open the door, into the cold evening.

"What the hell was that about?" Jason asked once you were outside and seemingly slowed down.

You pointed towards the window. "Your dad," you muttered.

He could see Bruce sitting at a table across from Selina, his eyes scanning a menu while occasionally looking up, probably to compliment her or something.

He huffed. "Add that restaurant to the list of places we can't go," he mumbled, shrugging off his jacket and handing it to you. "It got cold outside," he simply said when you frowned in confusion.

You pulled on the nice jacket that matched his suit. "Thanks," you said, wrapping your arm around his, tugging him away from the restaurant. "C'mon, I'll buy some more dessert."

He hummed, and pressed a kiss against your head. "Alright," he agreed, letting you lead him away from the restaurant and down the street.

[sttoru]

·.⌇ 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒. you’ve been one of sukuna’s many concubines for quite a while now. yet, you still cannot get rid of the jealousy in your system whenever he interacts with the other women in his harem.

wc. idk around 1 to 2k

tags. true form!sukuna x concubine!female reader. angst (hurt to comfort), fluff, suggestive at the end. heian era. you call sukuna ‘my lord’. reader gets called ‘brat, little girl’. size difference. no part2, don’t ask i beg. not beta read.

“get back here, brat,” sukuna raises his voice as he follows you. he isn’t one to care about others’ emotional outbursts, yet here he is, chasing you after you’ve poured out your heart to him.

you don’t know why you’re this upset. you do know, however, that it’s childish of you to walk away mid dinner. you should’ve just stayed seated and refuse to let the thoughts consume you.

now you’re speed walking down the hallways of the estate—your legs carrying you as fast as they can without actually making a run for it. your mind keeps replaying the ‘unsettling’ scene that caused you to flee.

you remember it vividly. the sound of sukuna’s low, amused chuckle. how intrigued it was because of something another concubine told him—how he stopped chewing to say something back to her. which he rarely does.

hell, you’ve never seen him laugh around his other concubines.

“i do not wish to talk to you right now, my lord,” you reply, voice raised so the distance wouldn’t make it a hassle for the king of curses to hear you. you know that feisty attitude of yours entertains sukuna to no end.

he raises an eyebrow once he’s heard your voice; how it’s dripping with envy and hurt. you’ve never reacted like that before—at least not in his presence. it made him want to figure out why and how.

though, he can easily guess the reasoning behind your sudden defiance.

“oh, that so?” sukuna hums. he’s lenient with you this time around. he could catch up to you in under a split second, but he decides to give you that sense of accomplishment first before completely destroying it. he walks after you slowly, your fast steps being the same tempo as his slow pace.

you don’t answer. you’re stubborn. you have no right to feel jealous. you are a fairly new concubine—only a couple months ago did you join sukuna’s harem. yet, the time spent with him was precious.

he treats you differently. everyone notices that. everyone tells you the same. you know he does by the way he lets you off the hook with most stuff you say and do.

you don’t know what you did to gain his favouritsm, but it’s addicting. his attention is addictive. real addictive.

you had sworn not to develop any unneccessary feelings for that ruthless sorcerer. but, with the way sukuna treated you so gently behind closed doors, it was impossible not to.

you eventually reach the doors to your chambers. you slide them open and wish to close them behind you, only for a big hand to halt those movements. you freeze in place and refuse to look up at the owner of that said hand.

“look up,” sukuna demands. his voice causes goosebumps to appear on your arms, but you still don't budge. he clicks his tongue. that’s your first warning. two more and your punishment will be carried out, “we can do this the hard way too if you want.”

you turn your head, your fingers curling around the material of your kimono. you really should not feel this way about a little interaction between sukuna and his other concubine. that is none of your concern. what he does with those other women is none of your concern.

and yet. . .

“i don't want to,” you retort. sukuna walks into your room with a sigh. each step he takes forwards, you take backwards. your back finally bumps against the wall next to your bed.

sukuna towers over you, his tall and big frame making you feel vulnerable. especially with the way those red eyes of his are staring down at you. he crosses all four of his arms before speaking.

“tell me what’s running through that head of yours,” sukuna inquires sternly. he isn’t playing around anymore, you can tell. you glance the other way—knowing that he will laugh at you the moment you tell him why you’re upset.

you have a feeling he knows the reason behind your tantrum anyway.

“it’s nothing of importance, my lord,” you shake your head and relax your tense shoulders to make you seem less upset. your words have some truth in them—you don’t think your feelings of envy hold any value to him.

sukuna sighs again. he’s trying his best not to be annoyed at you. you’re his favorite and he wishes not to sadden you any further. he steps forwards, one hand moving to cup the side of your face.

his rough fingers play with a string of your hair, “i’m not stupid, little girl. i don’t like it when my woman is in distress.”

your heart skips a beat. this is what confuses you—how he can go from stern to gentle and vice versa. it’s surprisingly unexpected, which makes you long for more. even if his behaviour is confusing.

you look up at sukuna. your eyes meet for the first time in a good couple minutes. the corner of sukuna’s lips curls up into a satisfied smirk. that’s one step closer to getting you to open up.

“now,” the king of curses lowers his head to your eye level, the proximity all the more nerve wracking. he holds your jaw super tightly out of the blue. it makes you whimper.

“spit it out.”

there it is. the duality of the man strikes once more. you swallow the spit that’s been building up in your mouth. you bite your bottom lip lightly, trying to gather and form the right words to explain yourself.

sukuna wouldn’t understand. he’s a cold-hearted man who doesn’t care about such ‘trivial’ matters. he’ll just call you stupid, pathetic or whatever other derogatory term.

you stop your thoughts for a moment.

“it’s really just a stupid thing,” you mutter. your fingers curl around sukuna’s wrist—the one hand he’s using to firmly hold your jaw. you take a deep breath in, “i did not like it when you, errr. . . when that woman talked to you at the dinner table.”

your voice is clearly dripping with jealousy. pure, pure jealousy. and for what? because he talked to his other concubine. you feel stupid. you thought you discarded your personal feelings for the sorcerer before you the moment you turned into one of his many women.

“that woman?” sukuna tilts his head, feigning ignorance. that little grin on his face tells you enough. he’s playing with you like some form of entertainment. well, technically you are.

he wants you to be specific. he’s forcing you to be by acting like he doesn’t know what you’re talking about.

in all honesty, sukuna’s already forgotten what that woman had said to him. it wasn’t and still isn’t worth remembering. all he can recall is your adorable facial expression when you saw him interact like that with his other concubine.

that little frown on your face was priceless. it makes him want to keep teasing you.

“you know who i am talking about, my lord,” you huff, trying to look away, but get stopped by sukuna readjusting his grip on your jaw. he firmly yet gently taps your cheek once and you know what it means.

“attitude,” sukuna warns with a quick hiss. he can let you say whatever you want to him, but you also have some limits regarding which tone you use with him. you apologise quietly under your breath.

the king of curses nods in satisfaction before releasing the grip on your jaw. his large hand trails down to your neck, thumb rubbing up and down your throat, “so, my little girl is mad at me because i talked to another concubine of mine, huh?”

you nod mindlessly. sukuna can easily get you to comply with him—to obey his every word, simply with his actions. the terms of endearment he uses are the cherry on top. they slip off his tongue so easily with you.

“tsk tsk,” sukuna shakes his head. his hand is now on the back of your head, fingers tangled into your hair. he’s staring down at you with a smug expression. he knows he’s got you wrapped around his finger, “how childish of you.”

you knew that would be one of the things he’d say to you. what you didn’t expect is for him to go for a kiss right after. his lips land on yours firmly, and to no surprise, you instantly return the gesture.

your arms wrap around his neck—your chest pressing against his. sukuna wastes no time in picking you up and letting your legs encircle his waist. he’s not pulling away for air to breathe and you don’t either.

“you’re going to listen to me, yeah?” sukuna murmurs between passionate kisses. he’s holding onto you tightly with two arms, his free hands roaming over your body whilst he pins you against the wall.

when you whimper out a weak, high-pitched ‘yes, my lord’, he smirks against your mouth before turning to kiss your neck. he slightly bites the skin to make sure you’re paying attention to him.

“i don’t remember what that woman said,” sukuna continues, nearly out of breath because of the kisses he’s leaving all over you. he easily grabs both your wrists and pins them above your head on the wall, “i was too busy lookin’ at a much prettier concubine of mine.”

he pulls back a little so he can look you in the eyes. you’re panting and embarrassed by what he just said. one of his hands finds your face again, tracing the shape of your mouth.

“my favourite,” sukuna whispers whilst licking his lips. you can see it in his eyes: he’s silently planning out how he’s going to remind you of your place. your place as his favorite concubine.

he dips his head back down, aiming for the valley between your breasts. he closes his eyes before sucking on the surrounding flesh;

“guess i’ll be nice for once ‘nd show you just what it means to be my favorite so that you’ll never dare forget it again.”

[markluvrrr]

mark one shot

☆ starring. mark lee x fem! reader

☆ summary. Mark was having trouble with composing a song for his upcoming solo album. But then it clicked, he was missing something. You.

☆ warnings. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT oral sex (fem receiving) fingering, recording sex, unprotected sex (don't do this), creampie, mark is sexy asf

☆ wc: 1.5k (not proofread. i wrote this in one sitting oops)

ᯓ Mark was hard at work these past few weeks, in between working on his solo album and promoting for NCT Dream, he almost had no time for you.

But nowadays, majority of the time he was in the studio, you were too. You were becoming clingy, but not unbearingly clingy. You just needed to be in the same presence as Mark, or you'd go insane.

You watched as Mark played with a few keys on his keyboard, adding and deleting stuff on the screen. He was producing one of the songs for his album all on his own, and he was having trouble.

"Babe, you should take a break." You call out, sitting up on the couch that was across the room from the desk that had all of the equipment needed to make music.

Mark sighs, taking his headphones off and pinching the bridge of his nose. "I just can't figure out what's missing..."

You hum, understanding how stressful this was for him. He needed to complete the album before the deadline that was fast approaching. "You will Mark, you always do."

He smiles at that, standing from his chair, stretching before falling onto the couch next to you, his head landing in your lap. You play with his hair as he stares at the ceiling, deep in thought. The sound of his breathing steadied your own.

You watched as a light bulb turned on in his brain, and he sits up with a gasp. "I know!"

"What?" You ask, almost as excited as him.

"Uh, I'll need to get your opinion first," Mark starts and you urge him to continue. He hesitates for a moment before finally stating, "I need your moans in the song."

Your eyes widen, almost choking on your own spit. "Woah, lets unpack that..."

"No way your fans would be chill with that, for one. Same with your company, babe." You explained, and Mark listened intently before smirking as you finished.

"It'll be fine, they'll be super quiet in the song, like barely there. I could get away with it. If my fans notice, then they notice." Mark reasons and you sigh in defeat.

"I'm fine with it if you are sure." You smile, kind of excited to do this.

Mark's hand is now on your thigh, looking at you teasingly. "How about we do it now?"

You hadn't been intimate in a while because of Mark's packed schedule. You bit your lip, fuck, you were pent up from all these weeks without him. "God, please."

Mark's hand leaves your thigh and you watch as he reaches over to the microphone he had set up next to the computer, bringing it a little closer and pressing record. "I'll ask one more time, are you sure you're okay with this?" He asks as he settles back next to you.

You nod, smiling lovingly. "Yeah I am, Mark."

His hands trails up your thighs, leaning in and his lips are finally on yours, determined and needy. You bit his lip in desperation, and he opens his mouth enough where you can slip your tongue.

Your hands were bunched on his t-shirt and his hands were under your skirt, dancing on your skin and setting it aflame. When you pull back for air, Mark keeps eye contact as he pulls your panties to the side, his cold fingers brushing your clit making you whine.

"Mark." You whisper breathlessly, your hands now on the hem of his shirt, and he lets you take it off in one swift motion. "Pretty boy."

He blushes at this as he takes your shirt off too, leaving you in your bra. You decide to push your own skirt down, impatience taking over you. "Please, I need you."

"I know baby, just wait." He murmurs, one hand absentmindedly rubbing your inner thigh as the other pets your hair. Then, finally, his hand leaves your thigh and touches you where you craved Mark most.

It started off as light, slow circles on your clit. "You're so wet, baby." He smirks, as two of his fingers now slide up and down your folds, before he dips them into your entrance. "Mmm, more." You moan.

He pushes them inside to the knuckle and starts curling them right where you liked it most. "Fuck, Mark!"

You were soon filled with disappointment when he pulled his fingers out of you. You watched as Mark slid off the couch and sunk onto his knees, pulling your panties down with him, settling his head in your thighs.

You felt his breath tickle your folds before he dives in, tongue lapping at you like a dog in heat. Your hands fly to Mark's hair in no time, turning you into nothing but a whimpering mess.

His tongue sucked on your clit as his fingers curled into you again, hitting your g-spot at every angle. "Ah, fffuck, Mark.." You slurred, pulling his hair harshly, making him groan against you.

Mark could feel your walls clenching his fingers as his mouth does wonders on your clit, and you could feel the tightness in your stomach about to snap. "Mark, I'm gonna..."

"Cum for me, baby girl." He rasps against your heat and one last prod at your g-spot had you seeing stars, moaning loudly as you came undone.

Mark doesn't stop, still devouring you while you shook above him. "Shit, stop, 's too much!" You whimpered.

You had to pull his head back for him to stop, and Mark looks up at you with a dazed grin, his mouth covered in your juices. he looked so beautiful like this.

He licked his fingers clean of your juices, never breaking eye contact, before raising from his spot on the floor. You wasted no time in unbuckling his belt, pulling his boxers down along with his pants as fast as possible.

"I need you inside of me right now." You said desperately, and Mark flipped you over on the couch so that you were facing the wall, back arched, and he was standing behind you.

Mark's hands found purchase on your ass first, giving it a playful smack which made you whimper embarrassingly loud.

Looking back, you watched as Mark's other hand pumped his hardened cock slowly, tip leaking precum, as he finally places it between your folds, rubbing it up and down teasingly.

"Mark, please." You whined, and Mark just chuckled. "So impatient, baby. I'll fuck you real good, promise."

You silently screamed as Mark enters you for the first time in a while, his big cock stretching you painfully as he slowly bottoms out. Soon, the pain fades away. "Can I move?" He whispers, his hand on the small of your back, soothingly rubbing it as he waits.

"Yes." You sigh out as Mark pulls out of you before slamming right back in, making you cry out. He soon finds a good pace that had you gripping the couch and moaning loudly.

"Such a tight pussy, made for me." Mark whispers in your ear, voice raspy, as he leans over you, kissing your neck and leaving marks you were gonna have to cover up before you left the studio. Thank god this place was sound proof and had no cameras.

"Harder," You whined. Mark obliges, and soon your legs were shaking. He thrusts deep inside, you swore you could see the outline of his cock if you looked down. "Oh, fuck, right there!"

Mark was getting close now too, his soft groans turning into desperate moans and whimpers. It was always music to your ears whenever he made those noises. "Cum in me, baby."

"Fuck, you sure?" Mark groans, thrusts getting sloppy as his hand slides down your chest to your clit, applying pressure there. "Please." You moan, and Mark holds his own orgasm off until you cum again.

After a few more moments, the pressure on your clit got too much and your legs were shaking uncontrollably, Mark's hands digging into your hips to ground you as you screamed his name.

"That's it baby, let go for me. You're so beautiful." Mark praises as he finally thrusts into you one last time before releasing inside you.

Your pants filled the room, and Mark pulls out of you before flipping you over. He watches as his cum drips out of your folds and groans at the sight. "Such a good girl."

Mark pulls his clothes back on quickly before grabbing tissues, wetting them with the water bottle on his desk and cleaning you up. He kisses your thighs tenderly while he does.

"I love you, Mark." You murmur as your fingers cascade through his hair. He smiles up at you with those eyes that made you melt. "I love you too."

After you got dressed and calmed down, you and Mark decided to review the audio. Even you found your own moans sexy as you listened.

When Mark added them into the song the next day, you realised he was right. The song did need them, making it so much more seducing like he was trying to go for.

You decided you'd help him out with his music more often after that.

© markluvrrr

[lay-z]

cotton candy clouds | 3

Synopsis: Due to his rank, status, and many combat achievements, Lieutenant Riley is assigned an emotional support hybrid by the brass; whether he likes it or not.

Pairing: handler!Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x dog!hybrid!fem!Reader

Warnings/Info: 18+ MDNI | Reader is a purebred Samojede (dog)hybrid. Despite ears, tails, and their adapted nature/instincts and personalities, hybrids have human features. | bimbo!Reader; hypersexuality; heavy smut; tw: past (sexual) abuse/manipulation; cussing; fluff; jealousy; angst; hurt/comfort; eventual romance; strangers to lovers; dub-con elements (Mind the warnings for each chapter!)

*ESH – Emotional Support Hybrid

☁ ccc; masterlist

It’s 0400 in the morning, when Simon jerks awake from his light slumber by the sudden timid knock at his bedroom door. 

Hoping he’s imagined it, like many other times he’s hallucinated before, he rubs a hand over his tired features with a soft groan; eyes squinting at the silhouette of his bedroom door in the darkness, breathing shallow to pick up more potential noises while hoping nothing will follow– 

But there is another knock at his door, more distinct this time, and Simon accepts it with a heavy sigh before dragging himself out of his bed reluctantly, not bothering to put on another shirt. From past experiences, he knows better than to crudely grumble that this better be an emergency, because in nine out of 10 times, it turns out to be one. 

Flinging his bedroom door open, his fingers find the hallway’s light switch by muscle memory, illuminating it brightly and revealing you to his dismay, as if you could’ve simply disappeared in the past hours like he’d wished you would before falling asleep, and he finds you shifting on your bare feet with unnatural urgency. 

“Wot?” he gruffs out, voice even more rough and gravelly from a familiar combination of sleepiness and irritation. He pretends not to notice that you’ve changed into his shirt he’d previously given you; forces himself not to let his eyes flicker over your exposed legs, not even briefly, while the loose fabric conceals your curves from his direct view, its hem barely reaching up to the middle of your thighs. 

Still shifting from one foot to the other, you crane your neck to meet his hard stare with equal persistency; your own eyes puffy like you haven’t slept a single minute yet. “I have to pee,” you explain bluntly. 

He almost tuts, tilting his head to the side in slight disbelief. “And?” For a moment, you look confused about him daring to question why that is his problem; big eyes blinking up at him while your fluffy ears twitch a little before you finally solve the mystery for him: “Well, I always had to let Ryan know.” 

Ryan? As in… your previous handler? You must’ve been able to read it all on his naturally expressive face; his right eyebrow, split by a scar, cocking in question, his curiosity piqued now. “And why’s tha’?” he asks, despite not wanting to, and crosses his burly arms in front of his bare chest standoffishly. 

Without a hint of hesitation, you answer with the most innocent look on your face: “He liked to watch.” And Simon immediately regrets asking in the first place. His arms unfold, chest deflating as his empty stomach sinks, and to his horror, you continue yapping without a lick of pudency. “Sometimes he made me pee on his–“ 

“Gah! O’lright–” he nearly barks, eyes squeezing shut briefly while his whole body cringes at the mental image you just planted in his mind. “Stop, tha’s enough, okay? I get it.” He grumbles, muttering another “Fuck,” under his breath. Too much information. 

While Simon eventually ushers you towards the small guest bathroom by the front door, his mind keeps wandering back to the revelation you hit him with oh so casually, like it’s not something you should have always kept locked away between yourself and your bloody partner–or handler, in this case. As if you’ve ever enjoyed any of the stuff that bloody twat, Ryan, has ever done to you. 

His arms are crossed self-soothingly as he leans against the opposite wall of the bathroom door for no other reason than getting caught up in his own messy thoughts while you go on to do your business, when your earlier expression pops up into his head, and with it a revelation he should’ve come to sooner.  

The stagy nonchalance, the perfectly crafted, sweet smile that didn’t quite reach your tired eyes when you’d told him what one of your previous handlers made you do, the forced eye contact with him– 

And suddenly, Simon can feel that burning rage simmer in his gut, making his blood boil and the vein in his neck throb while his pulse quickens rapidly, when he comes to realize how people must’ve been taking advantage of you all your life, simply because of what you are, and what comes naturally to you with your nature as a hybrid–a bloody dog hybrid at that. 

Obedience. Submission. Loyalty. The urge to serve and please.  

When the water tap stops running and the door opens shortly after, his thoughts get interrupted and his mood changes promptly when his eyes lock with yours once more; long lashes fluttering against the bright light as you tilt your head back to meet his scrutiny. 

“For the record,” Simon starts as he pushes himself off the wall, “if you need to use the bathroom, you won’t ask anyone for permission again, understood?” 

Fidgeting with the hem of the shirt you’re wearing, he notices the sudden tension in your shoulders before you give a hesitant nod. “Yes, sir.” 

Simon huffs, nose wrinkling like he smelled something acidic. For someone so used to being met with respect and immediate obedience at a dekko, the word “sir” coming from your lips in his regard, makes him bristle. Who’s taught you to be so submissive? Are all *ESH’s like you? And which one of those fuckers made you refer to him as “sir” and only that like some perverted powerplay?  

He doesn’t realize how meanly he’s glaring at you until you speak up again, your voice meek and unsure: “Can I sleep with you now?” His eyelids blink and the crease between his eyes smoothens out. The innuendo isn't lost on him, though he can't tell if it's intentional. If this is Price’s idea about shock therapy, he will have to tell his Captain to piss off even more firmly come tomorrow. 

“In your bed... I mean.” You add with a hint of plea that leaves Simon horrified internally after the second of consideration he just gave to your request before simply grumbling a tired “No.” again.  

And the door to his bedroom falls shut behind him anew, leaving you to your own devices once more. 

It’s barely 0700, when Simon enters the Captain’s office with you and your things in tow. He doesn’t bother to knock; his nerves already fraying at the edges like cheap cotton yarn after having to refuse to take you out on a leash and ending up herding you through the base since you obviously have a knack for wandering off–and greeting every single bloody person you come across with a wagging tail. 

Captain Price raises an amused eyebrow along with his coffee mug while Simon puts your suitcase and the untouched gift basket down in a corner before coming to stand stiffly in front of the large, cluttered mahogany desk. 

His patience is running even thinner, when Price takes a slow, slurping sip of his coffee instead of assuring Simon that everything has been taken care of; that you’re no longer his problem now. “Well?” he asks brusquely, balling his gloved hands into fists. 

“Good mornin’, sweetheart,” Price greets you, immediately catching your attention as you stand by the bookshelf in the corner. Simon rolls his eyes behind his mask when your white tail twitches happily at the attention, though he manages to contain his scoff.  

“Hello! Good morning!” You chirp with a smile, taking a cautious step towards the other man while Simon catches the way your eyes flicker between him and his superior nervously, as if you’re unsure how to proceed with him present–and for a fleeting moment, it pleases him for some twisted reason. 

“How was your night with Lieutenant Riley?” 

Simon’s forehead creases underneath his balaclava at Price’s oddly phrased question and intervenes briskly before you can inhale enough air to answer: “Can we focus on the more important matters now, Cap’n? Did’ya come up with a solution yet?” Simon makes a vague gesture towards you while you stand nearby coyly, plucking pink lint from your cardigan out of your tail.  

Price lets out an exasperated sigh before his broad shoulders shake with a rough chuckle that causes Simon’s frown to deepen. “Christ, it’s not even eight in the bloody morning on a Friday, Simon–” 

“Sir, you promised to make the necessary arrangements, to find a solution–” Simon interrupts but stops himself, grinding his teeth hard enough to make his jaw hurt when Price shoots him a reprimanding glare.  

The phone’s shrill ringing cuts through the sudden tension and Simon uses it to his advantage as Price reaches for the receiver; steel blue eyes watching the Lieutenant like a curious hawk while he answers the call.  

Meanwhile, Simon’s dark tawny eyes fixate you as he takes one heavy step towards you. “Take a seat on that couch and stay here,” he tells you curtly, hoping his tone of voice is enough to get through your stubbornness. “Listen to what Price tells you, lass, because this is where we part, understood?” 

And then he turns on his combat boots, heads for the door before you can so much as nod, and Simon ignores the soft, keening whine behind him as he leaves you behind. 

And the day moves forward with its usual routine while Simon almost manages to forget about the whole ordeal with the hybrid as he deals with his rookies, upcoming drills and ignoring the paperwork he should’ve started taking care of last week, until he spots you across the parade grounds in the middle of chewing out one of his soldiers for fucking up an exercise for the third time in a row. 

His dark eyes zero in on you, casually strolling next to Gaz, who seems to be showing you around base, and Simon bristles at the way you smile up at the young Sergeant; batting your eyelashes while you seem to be hanging on every word Gaz utters to you. He’s not sure if his mind is playing tricks on him again, but he’s sure there is something else–something way too dark and familiar–hiding behind your unnaturally sparkly eyes. 

“S–Sir?” the rookie stutters nervously, pulling the Lieutenant out of his brief stupor. 

“Wot?!” Simon snarls from behind his mask, accent thick and dark eyes blazing with even more pissed off fury as they snap back to the rookie while the latter continues to shrink under his Lieutenant's sharp glare.  

And Simon ignores it when his soldiers start sharing new rumours and conspiracy theories among themselves about the cause of his particularly foul mood today.  

By noon, Simon has dragged himself into the busy mess hall for another strong cup of tea, though he stops dead in his tracks as soon as his friend’s booming and thickly accented Scottish burr can be heard above the general noise of his surroundings. 

It doesn’t take long to find the source, and Simon realizes that he must double his efforts to outrun your lingering presence. 

Soap stands at a packed table, one boot-clad foot perched on a vacant chair while one arm is slung around your shoulders casually, tucking you against his side while he flaunts his other hand with animated gestures as he speaks. 

Simon’s hands ball into fists at his sides, and the leather of his skeleton gloves creaks as he watches on, standing in the middle of the entryway to the mess hall, though everyone scatters and makes sure to swerve around him like Moses parting the Red Sea.

Soap is obviously showing you off to the other gawking soldiers as if you’re some prized possession–a mere thing, though Simon can’t tell what is worse–Soap acting like you belong with him now, or the fact that you’re obviously happy about it while your tail swishes behind you, all coy and jolly.  

However, while Simon’s eyes keep lingering on you for another moment, he notices the way your cottony triangle-shaped ears twitch and swivel, basically doing recon, while your eyes flicker and sweep over the crowd like you wish to disappear, like you’re wishing for protection, like you’re searching for– 

Simon’s jaw ticks under his mask as his teeth clench harshly, and with a shake of his head, he turns on his boots to walk out of the mess hall. Tea be damned. 

When Simon enters Captain Price’s office at the end of the day, ready to sign out for the weekend, his stomach drops when he spots you sandwiched between Gaz and Soap on the small leather couch in the corner by the window, while both Sergeants continue to entertain you. To his surprise, you don’t even seem to notice his presence as your attention is held capture by the two men. 

“Here to sign out, I assume,” Price remarks factually from behind his desk, not bothering to lift his eyes as he reads a document and takes a slow puff of his cigar. “Go on, then. Have a nice one, Lieutenant.” The Captain mutters through the thick plumes of smoke curling and dissolving into the air. 

But Simon barely pays any mind to the underlying sarcasm in Price’s words as he watches with narrowed eyes how you start nuzzling along Soap’s jawline while the Scot strokes the whole length of your plush white tail almost lasciviously.  

And suddenly, his swift feet carry him over there with a mind of their own, blood already boiling below the surface before Simon confronts the younger male: “The fuck ya think you’re doin’ there, Sergeant?” Sergeant, not Soap or Johnny, because Simon is vexed at the man for no other reason than feeling protective of someone who’s obviously being taken advantage of by his friend. 

He’s more than aware of how much of an opportunist Johnny can be–especially when it comes to women. Catch the bloody git talking to some lass who’s vulnerable, recently broken up with, instead of getting with the one who’s obviously looking for some quick fun at the pub. 

“Wha’?” Johnny blinks up at Simon with those freakishly big and bright blue eyes, feigning innocence. “Am doin’ nothin’, Lt. Jus’ showin’ the bonnie lass some much needed affection.” 

Simon clenches his teeth at that, restraining himself from saying or doing something he might regret later, when his eyes flicker over to Gaz, who gets up at once to remove himself from the situation with an awkward cough. Meanwhile, you’re practically lounging in Johnny’s lap, tail wagging lazily as you gaze up at Simon; a picture of innocence.  

There’s a moment of charged silence before Simon speaks up again; your name falling from his lips for the first time in a gruff command before he adds in a low growl: “Up.” 

The way your spine seems to straighten immediately, ears twitching and eyes widening at his sharp order, makes him feel–something, and it’s nothing good. “I said get up,” he repeats to you, glaring at Johnny as if to dare him to keep you on his lap, though Johnny simply rolls his eyes and lifts his hands in a placating gesture. “You’re comin’ with me, lass.” 

Gaz, leaning against Price’s sturdy mahogany desk, long legs crossed at his ankles, shares a look with the Captain, who leans back in his office chair, one hand resting on his chest while he takes another slow drag from his cigar with a smug glint in his eyes– the one he always gets after a particularly successful mission.  

Clutching your leash in his left hand, he ignores the way his mind is trying to warn him how the leather will soon burn through his glove like acid as much as he ignores the way you follow him so obediently, and Simon freezes when Captain Price addresses him again, producing a stack of papers from a black folder: “One more thing, Lieutenant–” 

Bureaucracy. Lovely.  

Simon groans internally as he reads the first few lines of the documents–your official handlership papers. “What if I refuse to sign ‘em?” he asks, eyes flicking up to meet his Captain’s. 

“Then I will!” Johnny calls out from his spot on the couch, earning a snicker from Gaz and a crooked smirk from Price while Simon shoots a glare in his friend’s direction. 

Price shakes his head, still smiling, while he flicks through the pages, before finding one in particular. “You know the answer to that,” he says and pushes the paper over his desk towards Simon before holding out his good pen and giving you a little wink as you stand patiently behind your new handler. 

“Don’t make me regret this,” Simon mutters under his breath, voice muffled by his mask as he snatches the pen out of his Captain’s grasp.  

And he positions the tip of the pen at the signature line, hesitating as his heart thuds against his ribcage in a slow yet harsh beat. His eyes scan over the page again, his mind in a confused frenzy, until he spots your own signature at the bottom of the document–a delicate swirl of letters next to a date a few days prior. 

@lucienofthelakes @kakashiislut @jggykhug09090 @edgarapoecolouredglasses @kerst666 @whos-fran @d1zzy-r1v3rs @userinaliel666 @annoyingstrawberryballoon @vmaxis @tessakate @dneicjefx @sushiumex @yourfavreggie @cmbghost @brokexintroverted

[rafessecret]

Hey beautiful! I have another request for you singen you liked my 7 min in heaven one :)

Older boss rafe who had an affair with his younger assistant y/n ( they broke it off because he wanted to repair his marriage)

Now he is always joking that "thank god he didnt get her pregnant" and stuff like that

So y/n puts a little viagra into his coffee and within minutes he is begging her to let him f her again

She rides him and he is so lost in lust that he doesnt even notice that they didint use a condom

So as he comes deep inside of her she whispers in his ear "now you got me pregnant daddy "

Love ,

L

⋆˚࿔ assistant¡ reader && older¡boss rafe cameron

OOPS, YOUR COFFEE TASTES WEIRD?

You were his favourite sin.

Rafe Cameron, your older, married boss, was the reason you wore lipstick in the shade of ripe cherries and skirts too tight to be appropriate. For months, he had you bent over his desk, your moans echoing between glass walls and floor-to-ceiling windows. He used to grip your hair like a lifeline and call you his good girl while fucking you raw during lunch breaks, then fix his tie before going home to her. There were nights in his sleek black car, your panties tossed somewhere in the backseat, your lipstick smeared across his neck as he moaned your name like it meant salvation.

Until he ended it. Said he had to fix things at home. Said he had to be a husband again. Now? Now he walks past your desk every day, smug in his navy-blue suit, salt-and-pepper hair perfectly styled, eyes flicking over you like he’s still fucking you in his head.

❝Lucky I pulled out. Thank God I didn’t get you pregnant, huh?❞ he jokes, low and dark, with that crooked smirk that used to make you melt. You smile back. Soft. Sweet. Secretly seething. That morning, you wait until the office is still and quiet, the usual clatter dulled by early hours and tired assistants. You drop a little blue pill into his coffee—the one he takes black, no sugar. It dissolves instantly.

By the time your meeting starts, his leg is bouncing beneath the table, jaw tight. His golden skin flushes pink. You watch his hand twitch toward his lap like he doesn’t know what to do with himself. After, you find him in his office. The blinds are closed. He’s pacing like a man unravelling, one hand tugging at his collar. He throws himself in his plush chair.

❝What did you do to me?❞ he growls. His voice is lower than usual—ragged, edged with something desperate. His hair’s a little messy, like he’s run a hand through it a hundred times. He looks so fucking good like this. Untied. Sweating. You don’t answer. Just lock the door, the click of the lock echoing between you.

Then you strut forward. He stares at you—at the hypnotic sway of your hips, the peek of skin where your thighs kiss beneath that tight little skirt he used to fuck you in. His eyes are ravenous, jaw locked, fists clenched like if he doesn't touch you now, he’ll fucking combust.

You climb onto his lap without invitation, without a word—just your perfume and a slow grind of your hips as you straddle him, lips parted in a soft little pout. ❝Miss me, Daddy?❞ you coo, fingers toying with his tie as you start to move. His hands fly to your waist like instinct, but they tremble like he’s barely holding it together. ❝Fuck, baby, don’t—❞

❝You’re already hard,❞ you purr, circling your hips just enough to make him hiss. ❝Might as well put it to use.❞ His cock—hot and painfully hard—throbs beneath his slacks, pressed against your soaked panties. Every little shift sends a fresh wave of heat flooding your cunt. ❝We can’t—we can’t do this again—❞ he tries, voice thin. But the way his hips buck up against you? Says otherwise. Says he’s desperate.

You don’t wait. You slide your panties to the side, and with one hand wrapped around the base of his cock, you sink down on him. Raw. Slow. Bare. He gasps—head falling back, mouth wide, a moan so guttural it vibrates through your core.

❝Fuck—fuck, baby—❞ You ride him like he’s yours. Like nothing ever ended. Like he was made for you and you for him, and every thrust is a reminder of it. Your thighs burn, clinging to his hips, skirt bunched up high around your waist. Every bounce sends your tits swinging, every grind forces his thick cock deeper, kissing your cervix so hard you see stars.

It’s unbearable—the stretch of him. He’s so fucking big. You’d almost forgotten how it feels to take all of him. How your pussy aches to be split open like this. How wet you get, how full. You’re soaking him, gushing every time you sink down and grind against his base like you never stopped.

Your fingers curl into his hair, tugging, nails scraping his scalp as you lean close to whimper against his flushed skin. ❝You feel that, Daddy?❞ you breathe, syrupy sweet, breath hitching with each bounce. ❝That’s how wet I am. Dripping for you. Fucking soaking, just for you.❞ Rafe groans—loud, rough, helpless. His hands dig into your hips like he’s trying to hold on, drag you deeper, and force you to stay right there, impaled on him, cock buried to the hilt. His voice is hoarse, desperate. ❝Please, baby—fuck—I missed this—I missed you—I can’t stop—I don’t want to—❞

He fucks up into you with a feral rhythm, so hard and deep it punches moans out of you, leaving your mouth hanging open. His cock slams right into your sweet spot, kisses your cervix like it owns you, and the heat of it—raw, thick, relentless—has you trembling. You throw your head back and cry out, the sound filthy, shameless, echoing through the office he used to ruin you in.

You bite into his neck, licking up his sweat, clawing at his shoulders. Your pussy clenches hard around him, slick walls fluttering, milking every inch. ❝Are you going to cum, Daddy?❞ you whisper, voice like poison and sugar. ❝Gonna fill me up? Paint my insides like you used to?❞ He chokes on a gasp, his whole body jerking. ❝Gonna cum—fuck—fuck, baby—I’m going to fill you—please let me—please—❞

And then he breaks. He cums with a ragged moan, cock twitching deep inside you, thick, hot ropes of cum spilling into your cunt. You feel every pulse of it, your walls fluttering around him like they’re begging for more. He sobs into your shoulder, body shaking, arms wrapped around your waist like you’re all he has left in the world.

You don’t stop. You grind through it, slow and deep, milking every last drop, feeling the mess drip out around him and down your thighs. You keep him buried inside until his hips stop twitching, until the room is nothing but the sound of your shared panting, skin on skin, your combined sweat and slick making everything shine. Only then do you lean in, lips brushing the shell of his ear.

❝Now you got me pregnant, Daddy.❞

His eyes snap open. Wide. Shining with something between fear and desire.

And you? You just smile.

── ⋆ 𝐲𝐚𝐩 : ahh L i love you so much thank you for this request. i've had a few pieces brewing for older boss rafe and his pretty little assistant for a while now so this was perfect. hope you love it you filthy thing, mwah

── ⋆ 𝒕𝒂𝒈𝒔 : @scne-vampire @browniepop62 @urcoolgf @folksriddle @loverliner @delicatelyquiet

©RAFESSECRET ⋆˚࿔ est. 2025

[miks-delusional-blog]

Imagine BF! Jason Todd…

Imagine BF! Jason Todd, but he’s not very good with his words so he shows his love in other ways.

He remembers everything you say. Almost to annoying degree where he’ll quote you verbatim in an argument.

But, he will always remember everything you ramble about. So if you off handedly talk about a snack you had as a kid next time he’s at the store he’ll find it for you.

Maybe one day the two of you come back to you apartment, the door squeaks as you open and close it. You mutter to yourself “Need to oil that…” before continuing with conversation. After a few weeks you notice there’s no more squeaking from your door and perhaps it hasn’t been squeaking for a while when you reflect on it. You comment on it and Jason just replies “oiled it ages ago”.

Maybe Jason keeps doing these nice things without telling you. You never seem to run out of toilet paper. Your kitchen faucet isn’t dripping anymore. The locks on your windows work. Your fan spins without noise. You always have ice in the ice tray.

It sort of makes you feel insane. Not knowing what nice thing Jason has done without telling you. You’ve never seen him fix things around you apartment- or fill the ice tray!

So when you confront him about it, not with aggression but with slight bewilderment he’s a little bit stuck on how to respond.

“Are you… angry?” He asks with a tinge of embarrassment.

“No…I’m not…but… why don’t you tell me you do all of this?”

He averts his eyes for moment “I don’t know… guess I just… sort of do them without thinking too much about it. And I don’t want to make you think you have to thank me for all this stuff- I just… wanna make sure you’re comfortable.”

“Oh… well, that’s very sweet of you but I want to thank you. I want to appreciate everything you do for me-“

“You do.”

“No- I don’t… you- I want you to know how much I appreciate you. You do so much for me- even things that aren’t like urgent. I’ve never seen you fill that ice tray- but there’s always ice!”

Jason can’t help but let a small chuckle slip.

You feign a hard stare but your lip curls a little. “It’s not funny. Makes me feel insane. Like I got a-a magic house fairy that fixes things and buys toilet paper. You don’t have to do all that stuff for me you know.”

“I want to.”

“Why?”

“Cause I love you-…” it slips out before he can stop it.

Shit. Is it too soon to say that?

“…well. I love you too.” You return with a smile.

[fairestwriting]

Reader sleeping on the couch after an argument w/Dorm leaders? How they would react w/happy endings?

this got super long so i decided to change up the post layout so longer stuff would look nicer. But im also posting from a new device so if this goes up and theres any formatting fumbles then uhm. you didnt see anything

𐙚 Riddle Rosehearts

Despite how hotheaded and stubborn he is, it’s actually really rare for you two to really argue. He values your opinions on everything, and he’d hate for you to feel like he doesn’t hear you or care about your feelings. The last thing he wants is to make you feel like doesn’t care.

That, however, is something he’s still learning. It’s not very easy to let go of the habits he developed growing up— Especially if he thinks what he’s doing is best for you. He doesn’t know how to convince people, so he ends up coming off forceful and inconsiderate. It might even happen without him noticing he messed up, if you’re not extra straightforward about it.

So he knew you weren’t happy with him, but really didn’t think it was that bad, seeing you asleep on the couch is the last thing he was expecting. Even more if it’s the first time it happens, it makes him freeze go into panic mode.

You’re woken up to a really shaken looking Riddle, asking you what you’re doing on the couch at this time in very genuine confusion. He might not even have considered it was because of the argument, too focused on trying to figure out what’s up with you. And it’s hard to stay upset at him when he so readily listens to whatever you have to say, apologizing profusely and making a promise to not do it again that he’ll always keep. His intention from the start was to do what’s best for you, after all— So if he turns out to be wrong, the first thing he wants to do is to correct it.

𐙚 Leona Kingscholar

Arguing with Leona is… definitely a situation. It might have you wondering if it even counts as an argument at all. Sometimes he just doesn’t seem to even react to what you have to say, sometimes he straight up states he can’t be bothered to argue. He’s not as stubborn towards people he really likes, but he’s still very proud.

He can actually tell that he messed up very quickly, pretty much in the middle of whatever interaction went wrong, but can’t bring himself to actually back down and admit it. He doesn’t even bother trying to convince himself that he’s right or anything, he’s just that allergic to saying the word “sorry”.

When he walks past you, his first thought is that he should just “let you sulk”. It’s probably not the first time it happens to him in a relationship— And the same routine plays out every time. He wants to walk away, but he can’t. He eventually does, then he comes back and stares for minutes. Regret starts to really sink in then.

You have a blanket draped over you the day after, and Leona just so happens to be around to ask, much more tentatively than usual, if you’re coming with him to get breakfast. It’s his version of an apology, kind of. He’ll actually say it out loud if the subject of the argument was more serious, but that’s rare. He’s not very good at this and the both of you are aware of that, but he still cares, and he’ll get there eventually. Maybe.

𐙚 Azul Ashengrotto

Surprisingly, or perhaps not, he might actually have the lowest argument rate out of all dorm leaders? He owes a lot of it to just being good with words, he pretty much always manages to bring up his disagreements in a really non-confrontational way, they’ll barely even register as disagreements at all. If he can’t find a way to seamlessly compromise, he often just keeps his thoughts to himself.

...Mostly because he gets too anxious at the possibility of you rejecting him. Even if it’s something small, it’ll stay inside his head and refuse to leave, getting dwelled on when life starts to get particularly stressful. If you two argue, the likelihood is that he actually started it, because some other minor issue came up and the pile he was mentally stacking ended up falling apart.

Things can get really messy in the moment. Everything sounds offensive to him when he’s freaking out, while at the same time he’s painfully aware that he’s being overly emotional and causing problems that didn’t exist before. He stops his rant suddenly when self control manages to return to him, but at that point things were already said, and you’re walking separate ways after he awkwardly suggests you two just take a moment to cool off.

He might not even see you on the couch, being too ashamed to leave his office, but Jade will let him know either way. Azul won’t disrupt your sleep, and he’ll even try to give you enough time in the morning to get through your usual routine, but as soon as it’s possible he’s looking for you to privately apologize. He takes care to clear up any misunderstandings before voicing any of his worries, even though it’s visible how nervous he is. It comforts him just to see you looking at him with fondness again, seriously relieved that he won’t be losing you over the situation.

𐙚 Kalim Al-Asim

Kalim is another one who doesn’t really argue, but that’s not to say he doesn’t voice his disagreements, because he does, and he does it very often. It happens as soon as the thought pops up in his mind, spoken all lightheartedly. Regardless of what the subject being talked about is.

…Which can very easily become a problem. He does take all your boundaries very seriously, but you need to be very straightforward about them. So if it happens that you two get into a topic he doesn’t know is touchy for you, he might say something that comes off insensitive. And yes, he will ask you as soon as he sees the change in your expression, but the lack of tact doesn’t mix well with you already being upset, and you end up just walking away.

Only then he stops talking, freezing up completely. He can tell, that you probably want some space now, and he’ll honor that— but the whole thing doesn’t leave his mind for hours. He has no clue of when he should go look for you to try to talk and apologize, no clue of how he should even word it all when he doesn’t know what he did wrong. His heart shatters when he sees you sleeping on the couch.

He probably asked Jamil for advice, then heard that he should really give you your space, but he just can’t take it. You get shaken awake and he’s tearing up while he apologizes, saying he really didn’t mean to make you upset, that he’ll do his best to be more careful if you tell him just what went wrong, but also that you don’t need to talk right now if you don’t want— He’s a little clumsy, and very emotional, but you know he means well, and that he loves you very much, which he’ll be sure remind you of over and over again.

𐙚 Vil Schoenheit

It’s no secret that he can really nag people, but Vil really doesn’t like to actually argue— He’ll say it every time a disagreement or misunderstanding starts to get tense. Partially a self-reminder, he’s aware that he doesn’t have nearly as much patience as he would like to. It can take a decent amount of effort to keep himself in check.

You two do successfully compromise very often, but sometimes even his suggestions can come off very harsh. It’s no secret to anyone who knows him. His peacemaking attempts are still pretty blunt, and his opinions are never held back. It can easily get upsetting, going as far as feeling like he’s judging you even though he’s not.

Vil actually takes a moment to tell that he might have said the wrong thing. He’s not so proud he’ll refuse to admit his own mistakes, but he’s just… used to upsetting people. You can outright leave mid conversation and it still won’t be his gut reaction, he always believes whatever he’s saying and only wants the best for you. It can take a good few moments until he realizes you’re not just “sulking” the way his underclassmen at the dorm do when he scolds them. Finding you asleep on the couch can honestly shock him.

He won’t wake you up right away— It’s still important for you to get your rest, and he wants to really think about what happened before he says anything— but there’s no way he’ll let you spend the night there. His voice is really soft when he calls your name, waiting for you to gather yourself before he tells you he’s sorry. Gently reassuring you in whatever you need while he explains himself, he’ll make sure everything is okay before he touches you at all, wrapping you up into a hug when everything is finally settled.

𐙚 Idia Shroud

He’s freaking out, full stop. He didn’t even think he’d ever get far enough with someone to be in this position. Since when does he even have the audacity to argue with a partner he never even believed he’d get? Whatever he did, he wholeheartedly believes he screwed up big time.

...And even though it’s his anxiety talking first, he might actually be right. He’s usually really passive, doesn’t even voice disagreements beyond maybe just whining about not wanting to go somewhere with a lot of people. And even then, he might be willing to try, just for you — So what went wrong? Probably a messy misunderstanding, where he said a lot of things he doesn’t mean…

He’s honestly just expecting it to be over. Believing that you’re going to block all his socials and never speak to him again. The second you walk away, the only thing in his mind is the absolute worst, so when he sees you on the couch he’s… relieved? But just for a second. It means there’s still hope for him! You would have just disappared if you wanted nothing to do with him, right? But he also recognizes the trope, he knows he’s going to need to work to be forgiven—

Idia is just standing there when you wake up. Pacing around the living room and losing his mind. He gets startled when he sees you’re awake, like he’s terrified of what will come next. At least he’s had (more than) enough time to think about what happened… the apology you get is very much sincere, even if it gets rambly at certain parts, ending with the two of you comforting each other.

𐙚 Malleus Draconia

For obvious reasons, things can get tricky with Malleus. Whenever you feel like you’re really starting to understand him, something strange will happen again, it’s a real cycle. All the factors in his upbringing connect with each other to build a very specific kind of character. Even if it looks like you two are really similar, there’s going to be a minimum of a handful of details that just change everything.

He’s always careful with his words, with basically no exception, but sometimes he just doesn’t know what the “right” thing to say would be, or he doesn’t know what a certain cue could mean in the moment, or whatever he knows is something that doesn’t apply outside of specific context of the royal family he’s a part of— The possibilities are endless, but a lot of the time, it’s more likely that things will just chalk up to the fact you don’t understand each other’s perspectives.

He might notice something is off right away, he might think nothing wrong happened at all, it can be wildly different depending on the topic at hand. He’ll ask what’s wrong if he does notice, but even if you do try to explain to him why you’re hurt, it may not make sense inside his head right away. And even though he’s genuine and fast to apologize, it can feel cold when he clearly can’t tell what’s actually wrong.

When he walks by the couch you’re asleep on, it doesn’t even register as being related to the argument right away. He shakes you awake to tell you it’s not a good idea to sleep there because it gets really cold later in the night. Right now, he’s had enough time to process and understand the situation, quickly giving you a new, truly heartfelt apology. Even if in the whole thing, in retrospect, was a pretty minor issue — And if it isn’t, or you’re just not ready to forgive him yet for whatever reason, he doesn’t push it. The only thing he’ll insist on is having you sleep somewhere more comfortable, really.

if you like my work you can support me by commissioning me or tipping me on ko-fi ── ᵎᵎ ✦

[mariasont]

hey girlie, first of all absolutely adore all of your hotchie fics no one writes him as well as you do!! second of all i am dying to read bimbo!assistant! x hotch smuuuutt (only if ur comfortable, pls ignore if not!!) i feel like that would be the only time hotch would have her completely and utterly speechless (idk why but i literally cannot get hotch w a breeding kink out of my goddamn mind!!!!!!) anyways hope ur having a fab day, and thank u for feeding us over the last few days 😘

Space Between Distraction & Indulgence - A.H

summary: bimbo!assistant!reader want’s aaron’s attention. aaron wants to finish his case notes. too bad for him, you always get what you want

masterlist

pairings: aaron hotchner x bimbo!assistant!reader

warnings: 18+ MDNI, explicit stuff going on here, fingering, p in v, no condom (bc we trust hotch is responsible but you shouldn’t be), dirty talk, hotch is a boob man sorry not sorry, after care with a side of psychoanalysis bc he can’t help himself

wc: 6k (got a little carried away my b)

a/n: thank u sm for requesting ugh!!!! u all r going to give me a god complex if you keep talking about how i write hotch LOLOL i love u sm hope u like the fic!!

Saturdays with Aaron had a way of making time feel like something slippery and golden, something you could almost touch before it vanished between your fingers. The mornings stretched long and languid, a lazy kind of indulgence that should have felt endless, but somehow, with him, it never was.

You woke up late. Very late. The kind of late that made you blink at the clock in mild disbelief before flopping back against the pillows. And then there was the warmth. Not just the heat of the blankets, but something deeper, something winding low in your belly.

Oh. Right. The dream. You swallowed, biting your lip as if that might make the memory dissipate. It wasn't outright filthy, but it had been suggestive enough. Annoying. Frustrating. Embarrassing. It was the kind of thing that made you wish Aaron was still in bed.

He wasn't, of course. That would require Aaron Hotchner to do something reckless and irresponsible, like relax. If he wasn't keeping the country from total collapse, he was finding something equally as urgent to fix, probably buried in reports right now, coffee in hand, eyes scanning the page like national security depended on it. And maybe it did. You didn't know.

What you did know was that you'd been circling him all afternoon, orbiting like some needy little planet trapped in his gravitational pull, and he still hadn't acknowledged you. A small part of you, one you didn't want to name, had hoped he'd notice you by now. That he'd glance up, see you, reach for you. But he hadn't. And that was okay. Really. You weren't needy. You weren't desperate.

But you noticed him. You always noticed him. And this version of him, the weekend version, was particularly hard to ignore. The casual clothes, casual for him, anyway, stomped all over your ability to think straight (not that you had much to concentrate on in the first place).

The grey crewneck he had on stretched across his shoulders, molding to the shape of him like it had been made for him. His jeans, worn in all the right places, settled on his hips in a way that made you feel like a pervert just by looking.

Even his hair had you practically drooling. Not messy, of course — Aaron Hotchner didn't do messy — but it was softer than usual, a little mussed, like he'd dragged his fingers through it one too many times without bothering to fix it.

It made him look almost touchable, like someone who should have been stretched out next to you on the couch, letting you mess it up even more, not hunched over a pile of paperwork like the case files were going to disappear if he blinked.

His forearms flexed every time he turned a page, his muscles shifting subtly every time he moved. You didn't even realize how blatantly you were staring until his fingers skimmed up to his jaw, scratching absently at the stubble there. Because now all you could think about was how it would feel under your fingertips, under your lips, under — okay. Enough.

The magazine in your lap was technically open, fingers flipping through glossy pages filled with designer gowns and scandalous headlines. Normally, you'd be all over it, sipping coffee as you devoured the who wore what and who was caught with who. But today, you weren't really reading, you were just holding it, turning pages for the sake of it. Something to occupy your hands while you definitely didn't stare at Aaron.

He had started keeping these around after you mentioned, offhandedly, how much you loved them. You hadn't even meant it as a suggestion, but the next time you visited, there it was, sitting on the coffee table like it had always been there.

He hadn't spared you so much as a glance since you walked in, not even when you'd practically drifted past his desk, close enough that he should've felt you there. He had mumbled a good morning, sure, but his eyes never left the page, his attention locked onto whatever was in that file.

You sigh, loudly. Pointedly. The kind of exaggerated little huff that normally earns you at least a glance, maybe even a what's the matter, sweetheart? There was no reaction today. He just flipped another page, one hand smoothing over the text, the other tapping against the desk like you were completely invisible.

You toss the magazine onto the table, just a little too hard. Then you stretch out on the couch, shifting just enough that his button-down rides up, baring more of your thighs than should be considered decent. The air against your skin makes you hyperaware of what isn't there, only your favorite panties. The tiniest scrap of fabric between you and absolute obscenity. If he so much as glanced in your direction, he'd have the perfect view. But he doesn't.

You sigh again, softer this time, just enough to sound absentminded, like you're not trying to get his attention (even though you absolutely are). As you push yourself off the couch, you stretch a little, giving yourself an extra moment to watch him. You make your way toward him, steps slow, letting the hem of his shirt brush against the tops of your thighs as you move. His fingers flex against the page.

You settle against the edge of his desk, bracing yourself on your elbows, making a very intentional point of pressing your tits together. It's the kind of thing that should be subtle, just a natural consequence of your posture.

Months of Aaron have taught you more than just the way he takes his coffee or how he organizes his files. You've studied him, memorized him even. And one thing has become crystal clear:

He's absolutely a boob man.

You realized it gradually, the subtle stiffening of his posture whenever you leaned a little too close in the office, the way his fingers flexed when your blouse had just a bit too much give.

Then, when you started dating, it became even clearer. His hands never just grabbed, they claimed, like he was making up for all the times he couldn't touch.

His voice would go low, reverent, when he murmured, so pretty, sweetheart, his thumb brushing over your skin like he needed to feel it. And your bras, he had thoughts about those, much to your surprise. Which ones were his favorite. Which ones he hated because they got in the way.

But it wasn't until months later, when he had you spread out beneath him, his mouth hot and urgent against your skin, that he admitted it. His voice was rough, breathless, his grip tightening as he groaned, been trying so fucking hard not to look at these for years. And then, just to prove it, his mouth sealed over you like he had years to make up for.

"Do you need anything? Water? Coffee? Maybe lunch?"

His eyes lift — quick, practiced, almost indifferent.

Almost.

Because before they settle back down, they pause, just for a fraction of a second, right there. Right at the collar of his button-down, where the top buttons are hanging loose, where your skin is warm and soft and practically begging for attention.

But then, before you can revel in it, he's already looking back down. "No, I'm fine, sweetheart."

You bite your lip, actually contemplating throwing his stupid case file out the window. He's either knows what you're trying to accomplish and ignoring you on purpose or he's just that focused. You weren't sure which was worse.

You shove off the desk, but you don't step away. Instead, you step closer. Your hands find his shoulders first, sliding down to his chest as you lean into him, pressing against his back. The shift is immediate. He goes still, his spine going ramrod straight, like his brain has just caught up to what's happening.

Your shirt is paper-thin, your nipples are pressed right against him, and unless he's suddenly gone completely numb, he feels it.

You sink against him, letting your chin rest on his shoulder, breathing him in. Gods, he smells good. Clean, sharp, like something expensive.

You recognized it as the cologne you bought him. The one you picked, the one you dabbed on his wrist in the middle of a department store and grinned, telling him, This. This smells like you. This is the one.

Your fingers skim over his collar, your nails just barely catching against the heat of his skin.

"What are you working on?" You let the question drip from your lips, your voice all honey, sweet, but not innocent.

Aaron hums low in his throat. "Case notes."

"That's boring. Is there anything I can do to help? Your assistant is very willing to be of service."

His fingers pause and your stomach flips. But then, before you can savor it, he moves. His hand finds yours, lifting it with patience. He presses a kiss to your knuckles, featherlight, frustratingly  chaste, before setting your hand back down like you're some good little thing that's been successfully pacified. And then you catch it, the tiniest twitch of his lips.

"Thank you, honey, but I've got it under control."

You make a noise, half scoff, half petulant whine, and shift your chin against his shoulder, angling yourself just enough to shoot him a pointed glare.

"You always say that. What's the point of having such a capable assistant if you're not going to use her?"

"Hmm. So that's what you want? For me to use you?"

"I don't know. Is that an option?"

Aaron's laugh is low, the kind that rumbles through his chest without much warning. It's never loud, it doesn't have to be, but it still manages to send your stomach into a ridiculous free-fall.

"There's just some stuff I need to finish up."

You groan, letting your forehead drop to his shoulder, arms squeezing around him like you can physically hold his attention. Like you can will it away from the pages in front of him and back to you where it belongs.

"Is that your way of telling me I just have to sit here and be patient?"

Aaron's pen doesn't pause. "Mhm."

You huff. "And you think I'll be able to do that?"

His answer is immediate. Too immediate.

"You've survived this long," he says, and you swear you can hear the smirk in his voice. "I think you'll manage."

"Fine," you say after a moment, stepping around the chair before sinking into his lap, giving him plenty of time to stop you, but he doesn't. He never does.

You shift until you're settled, one leg draped over his, chest brushing his. His breath stutters — just a little, just enough to tell you that he feels you. His fingers flex against the desk, pressing harder into the wood, tension rolling through his back as he goes perfectly still beneath you, like he's waiting to see what you'll do next.

"What are you doing?"

"Nothing," you hum, arms draping easily over his shoulders as you sink against him. Your cheek brushes his, lips just close enough that if he turned his head, just a little, you'd be right there. "You said you had to finish working. Don't let me stop you."

A slow inhale, a slight tilt of his head, then his pen moves again, like nothing's changed. Like you haven't changed anything.

You exhale against his skin, hiding your smirk in the crook of his neck, fingers idly tracing slow, featherlight circles along the nape of it.

He's humoring you, and that's fine.

You let him pretend for a while, content to exist in the space between distraction and indulgence. You shift in his lap, weight pressing into his just enough.

His body reacts before he does, muscles tightening, his breath slowing like he's thinking too hard about not reacting.

"Sit still."

"I am still," you reply, the words light on your tongue, but the slow curve of your hips tells another story.

"Sweetheart."

You lean in, close enough that your noses brush, your forehead pressing to his as your lips part ever so slightly. "What? I'm not doing anything."

Aaron's breath comes out sharp, ragged, the sound scraping its way from his throat like he's been holding onto it for too long.

His chest pushes against yours, every inhale pressing you closer, every exhale heating the space between you. He leans back, just enough to create the smallest sliver of distance.

You roll your hips again, slower this time, savoring the friction that sends a shudder through you, tightening every muscle in your body with anticipation. The feeling sparks through you, sharp and intoxicating, sending heat pooling in your stomach.

His gaze drops, heavy-lidded, to where your bodies fit together, the rise and fall of your breath syncing with his.

His hands land on your hips, thumbs pressing in, not enough to stop you, just enough to remind you he could if he wanted to. When his eyes meet yours again, there's no rush, no immediate reaction. You knew exactly what it meant and what usually followed, he was just waiting for the moment you tip the scales too far.

"Do you want to tell me what exactly it is you're trying to do?" he asks, his voice low, the kind of tone that makes you forget your own name for a second.

You push against him again, grinding just enough to feel the press of him, the heat of him, and god. Your fingers curl into his shirt, and suddenly, you can't remember what your original plan was.

You shift forward, your body molding to his, your breath fanning against his skin as your lips brush his ear.

"I'm just feel a little... overlooked." Your fingers tighten where they rest, nails digging in to make sure he feels it. "Is it so bad that I want your attention?"

His grip tightens, harder this time, his fingers digging into your hips with a kind of warning you'd be stupid to ignore. The heat of his palms seeps through the thin fabric of his shirt, scorching into your skin like a brand.

"You have my attention." You don't believe him. Not really. You press your lips into a pout, brow furrowing just slightly. "But if you keep moving like that, I might now be so nice about it."

Your hips shift, an instinctive little squirm, testing to see if you can push past his hold. You can't. "I can't help it."

"You can't help it?" he repeats, almost thoughtful, like he's turning the idea over in his mind. "I think you can. You just don't want to."

You want to argue, you really do, but nothing comes out, only a sharp inhale that never quite makes it into words. Because he's right. He knows he's right.

The little noise that escapes your throat is purely instinctual, frustrated but breathy, like your body is already conceding before your mind catches up.

"I told you to stop," he murmurs. He mirrors you, crowding in, his breath skimming your ear. His palm presses into the small of your back, slotting you back into place. "But you don't listen, do you?"

You shake your head without even meaning to, the deafening roar of your pulse making it impossible to think clearly.

"No, you don't," he murmurs, his tone dipping lower, turning darker, more intimate. His hands flex as if to remind you of the control he holds. Then his lips graze your jaw, his breath fanning over your skin. "You push. You test the boundaries. And then you pretend to be shocked when I hold you to them."

His fingers slide down, dragging over your thigh with an almost excruciating slowness. He pauses to squeeze there.

"First, you sprawled out on the couch —" his thumb sweeps over your skin, "like you didn't know exactly how that would look."

Your breath stutters, catches, knots itself into something tangled and messy as his hand moves, sliding higher, pressing firmer, stopping just shy of where the ache blooms.

His eyes darken, the heat behind them smoldering with something deep, something that settles like fire in the pit of your stomach.

"Then you leaned over my desk, practically shoving these —" His hand moves before the words fully land, cupping the curve of your breast. His thumb rolls over your nipple. "— right in my face."

Your breath catches, your hips lifting, your thighs parting like you're meant to be touched. Like you need him there. But he doesn't give in. He just moves lower, slow and taunting, until his palm covers the heat between your legs, pressing lightly over the thin fabric of your panties.

His fingers flex, testing. Feeling.

"And now this," he murmurs, and gods, his voice, his voice, is like a razor wrapped in velvet, smooth and cutting all at once. "You squirm and pout like you don't know exactly what you're doing. But I know better, don't I?"

Suddenly, you don't feel like you know what you're doing. Like you're the one pulling at a thread you don't quite understand, but it's already too late to stop.

A shiver rolls through you, bone-deep, leaving your muscles lax, your body melting into his like you were always meant to be here.

"I'm sorry," you murmur so quietly, you're not even sure if he hears it. "I just... I wanted you to notice me."

Aaron's hum is low, deep, almost amused. His thumb finds your jaw, sweeping along the curve of it as he tilts your chin up, forcing you to meet his eyes.

"Oh, I noticed you. I always notice you. In fact, you're all I ever notice." His hand slips away from where you want it most. "But if this is the only way you know how to ask for my attention, sweetheart, then I think we have a problem."

His hands settle on your hips, demanding, guiding you over the hard line of his cock, forcing you to take the friction, to feel every inch of him through the layers still between you.

The friction is blinding, sending heat licking up your spine, setting every nerve in your body on fire. Your legs tremble, a sharp, choked sound escaping before you can stop it, and you clutch at his shoulders, nails sinking deep into muscle as pleasure coils tight and insistent in your belly.

"Aaron," his name slips from your lips, high and uneven, like it costs something to say it. Your head bows, forehead pressing into his shoulder, hands trembling against his chest. "I wasn't trying to be bad. I just... I didn't know what else to do."

"No, sweetheart," he murmurs. "You didn't think, did you? And now look where that's gotten you."

His words should sting, but they don't, not when his hands are so gentle, smoothing down your spine like he's soothing something raw inside you. And then his voice, warm and promising, settles over you, "But I'll take care of you now."

And gods, you need him to. He's so hard, the thick length of him pressing against you through denim and cotton, teasing, tormenting. Everything burns — your skin, your stomach, that deep, pulsing ache between your thighs. Your head swims, feverish, your mind caught between more and please and I can't take this. But he knows. Of course, he knows.

"Do you feel that?"

"Yes."

"Good. If you want to keep going, you'll take care of it. Go ahead."

Your hands move with the kind of urgency that betrays just how badly you need this, need him. Your fingers trail down, brushing over the tight muscles of his stomach, and it's almost enough to make you dizzy, just touching him, just knowing what's waiting for you beneath layers of fabric.

The button of his jeans fumbles beneath your fingers before finally popping open. And then you're pulling him free. He's thick in your hand, burning hot against your palm, and something about that, about feeling him like this, for you, makes something feral sink its teeth into you.

And then he finds you.

His fingers slip under your panties, gliding through the obscene slickness there, and you don't mean to react so violently, don't mean to moan so loud, but it rips out of you before you can stop it.

"Oh, honey," Aaron murmurs, almost thoughtful, like he's just now realizing the full extent of your undoing. "I didn't realize you'd gotten this worked up."

Like it's an observation. Like it's fascinating.

His fingers push, stretching you open, teasing just the right spot, and you jerk against him with a sharp, strangled moan. Your grip around him tightens, your strokes turning sloppy, uneven, desperate.

"Aaron —" His name tumbles out high and needy, your head tipping back, eyes fluttering shut.

"I didn't mean to —" Your voice shakes, a hitched little gasp tangled between syllables. "I just —" Your breath stutters, heat climbing, overwhelming. "I didn't know what to do."

"You don't have to know what to do." His fingers slow just enough to let you catch his breath as he murmurs. "You just have to let me take over. That's what you wanted, wasn't it?"

Your nod is frantic, almost mindless, as his words echo in your ears.

"Please."

His fingers thrust deeper, and the shock of it rips a gasp from your lips, straight into his kiss. It's messy, frantic, all clashing mouths and stolen air, your breaths coming too fast to match his, like you're afraid if you let him go for even a second, he'll pull away.

Your grip on him tightens without thinking, your fingers flexing around his cock, but the sensation barely registers now, drowned out by the wetness pooling between your thighs, the slick drag of his fingers against your walls.

You can't keep up. You're chasing something that feels just out of reach, your hands leaving his cock, fumbling for something solid, something real. They find his face, fingertips brushing over the rough stubble of his jaw, trying to find yourself in him, in the way he's ruining you.

You kiss him like you can tell him everything that way, like he might understand the ache better through lips and tongues and the way your body trembles under his hands.

And then — he stops. His fingers slip free, and the sound you make is a whine, a protest, your hips tilting, seeking, trying to drag him back in. But he doesn't move, doesn't give you what you need, just smirks against your lips like he enjoys watching you squirm.

"You're so impatient," he murmurs against your lips.

But before you can protest, before you can tell him that yes, yes, you am impatient, please just give it to me, his hands tighten on your hips. And then — oh.

He lifts you, positioning you just right, and then, lowers you down.

The head of his cock pushes inside, and your breath catches, lips parting in a broken gasp. The stretch is devastating, inch by inch forcing your body to open, to yield to him. He's so deep, impossibly deep, and for a second, you forget how to breathe, how to think, your only thought being how does he even fit?

It feels endless, your thighs shaking against his as he takes his time, forcing you to feel every slow, torturous inch. Your body clenches around him, your nails dragging over his scalp as you bury your face against his neck.

"Breathe," he murmurs, voice thick, lips grazing your temple. "That's it. Let me take care of you. You just have to let me in, sweetheart."

"Okay, okay," you whisper, voice shaky as you bury your face against his neck, arms wrapping tighter around him.

His other hand moves, dragging up your spine before wrapping around your waist. And then — he presses deeper.

The air leaves your lungs in a sharp, punched-out gasp. He doesn't stop, doesn't let you breathe, just sinks in, stretching you open until he's fully seated inside you. Until there's nowhere left to go.

"That's it," he groans, voice tight, his mouth ghosting along your jaw. "So tight. So warm. Fuck, sweetheart, you know this is what you were made for, don't you?"

You try to think of something, something teasing, something bratty, something that might tip him over the edge, but your body betrays you, trembling around him, squeezing down so tight you feel him shudder.

"God, you're tight," he mutters, his fingers pressing into your hips, hard enough to leave bruises. "I can feel every little tremble, every squeeze. You feel that, sweetheart? How perfectly you fit around me?"

"It's like you don't want to let me go. Is that what you want, honey? To keep me right here?"

Your body clenches down instinctively, like you're answering him without meaning to, and his breath catches for just a second before his lips curve against your skin. You nod, frantic, a little dazed, a little wrecked, and his chuckle is pure sin.

"Good. Because I'm not going anywhere."

He pulls back just enough to create the kind of unbearable friction that makes your breath catch, your body tightening like a bowstring.

"Every little sound you make drives me insane." His breath drags over your cheek, his lips just shy of touching, like he's teasing himself as much as he is you. "Do you even realize what you do to me?"

You try to answer, you really do, but your lungs don't work properly anymore, your body focused on the pleasure threatening to snap at any second. Your fingertips tremble against his shoulders, your thighs quiver, and Aaron knows exactly what that means.

"That's it. I can feel you trembling, sweetheart. You're so close, aren't you?"

His words strike something deep, something primal, and the fire curling between your thighs roars in response. Your head tips back, your breath breaking apart as your hands scramble for purchase, fingers sliding to his face, thumbs brushing over the roughness of his jaw. You pull him into a kiss that's all hunger, all desperation, your lips parting to let him devour you.

He groans into your mouth, a sound that vibrates through your chest, and then his hips snap up into you. The stretch is suffocating, the sheer fullness of him sending sharp pulses of pleasure up your body with every deep thrust.

"I've got you," he murmurs against your lips. "You don't have to hold back. Just let go for me, sweetheart."

It crashes into you harder than you expected, knocking the breath straight from your lungs. Your moan catches halfway, tumbling out in pieces as your body convulses, clenches tight, gripping him in a way that makes him hiss through his teeth.

He thrusts deep, brutal, final, and then he's gone, his head dropping back as a groan tears from his chest.

He fills you in thick, pulsing waves, each pulse making your thighs tighten around him, making you gasp at how deep it settles. The feeling is overwhelming — the heat of him, the weight, the way his cock still twitches inside you, like he’s unwilling to let a single drop go to waste.

You're not sure where your body ends and his begins, your limbs heavy, useless, boneless as you slump against him. Your breath stutters, still uneven, every exhale pushing against his chest as the last waves of pleasure roll through you.

"You take every drop so fucking well," he murmurs. "Meant to keep you full."

His fingers press into your hips, just a little tighter, just enough to make you feel how deep he still is.

"Don’t move yet."

Your breath stutters, the words landing deep, something fluttering tight in your stomach.

"Just a little longer," he murmurs, his hands absently smoothing up and down your spine. His voice drops, lower, rougher — "I want to make sure it sticks."

You shudder, pressing closer, your face tucking against his neck as everything —the fullness, every drop of his cum —settles in.

Aaron exhales, his chest rising beneath you, and suddenly, he shifts. His grip on your hips soften and slide up, like he can feel the way you're trembling against him. 

"Breathe, sweetheart," he murmurs. "You can do that for me, can't you?"

You try, you really do, but when you inhale, it's a stuttering, gasping thing, barely controlled. Your thighs still shake, your body still throbs around him, and you can feel the way he exhales, like he enjoys this, enjoys feeling you like this, soft and trembling in his arms.

"Easy," he murmurs. One hand slides up your spine, cupping the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair. "That was a lot."

You nod, or, at least, you think you do. Everything feels floaty, light, warm. Your head feels like it's filled with pink clouds. Your limbs feel soft, useless, like you're some well-loved doll that's been played with for hours.

He tilts your chin up, catching your gaze.

"You okay?" His brow furrows slightly, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone.

You blink slowly at him, lips parting, trying to focus.

"Mhm," you hum, then pause, frowning just slightly. "Wait, no — hold on."

His jaw tenses immediately, but you reach up, poking his cheek with a weak, clumsy finger.

"You didn't kiss me," you mumble, like it's the most important fact in the universe. "You're supposed to kiss me after, 'cause, like, you love me and all that."

His head tilts, just barely shaking, like he's in mild disbelief of you. And okay, fine, maybe you do say a lot of dumb things. But this wasn't dumb. It was valid. It was scientifically proven that post-sex cuddles should include at least one (1) I love you and one (1) kiss, and you were simply holding him accountable.

"Of course I love you," he murmurs, like the answer is so obvious, so unquestionable, that it almost makes you feel silly for asking. And then he kisses you.

It's deep, drawn-out, the kind of kiss that makes you forget where you are. 

You're still in his lap, still tangled in the ridiculous, oversized leather chair, but you don't feel like you're anywhere. Not in his apartment, not even in your own body. Just floating, existing in between his lips and yours.

When you finally pull back, it's not even voluntary — just the sad, unfortunate reality of needing air.

"Wow," you murmur, your fingers lazily brushing over his jaw.

"Wow?"

"Mhm." Your tongue darts out, sweeping over the kiss-swollen curve of your bottom lip, like you're trying to catch what's left of him there, trying to savor it. "Like... I feel very wow."

A smirk tugs at his lips, but his hands don't stop moving, don't stop tracing, don't stop feeling. His fingers smoothed absently over your hips, up your spine, his palms blending into your skin. Like he's checking for something. Like he's making sure you're here with him.

And for a second, you think he's about to kiss you again. He looks like he wants to, his gaze flickers to your lips, his hands flex just slightly, his body leans in just a hair. But then his gaze flickers, his lips part slightly as if he'd just remembered something.

"You said something earlier."

You blink again, brain lagging behind slightly as reality creeps back in, still floating somewhere in bliss. Which you felt was a more pressing topic than whatever he's about to say.

Your face scrunches up immediately, like maybe if you look cute enough, he'd drop it. 

"I said a lot of things earlier," you rush out, voice a little too high, a little too hasty, your hand flapping vaguely in the air. "So many things. A real stream of nonsense, actually. I was just saying words, you know, as one does —"

You shift slightly, suddenly painfully  aware of the position you're in, and he doesn't even blink.

"Aaron," you say, narrowing your eyes. "You're literally still inside me and you want to have a conversation right now?"

"Yes," he says simply, like of course he does, like this is completely reasonable, like you aren't still wrapped around him, skin warm and sticky from what you just did.

His brows furrow slightly, and his head tilts in that very specific way that means he's already pulling apart the words, unraveling them like a thread, and working through them with that brain of his before you can even begin to take it back. 

"You said you felt overlooked," he states plainly, like a fact, which you guessed it was. "If that was something you just said in the moment, we can drop it."

His eyes narrow, studying you like he already knows the answer. "But if you meant it, then I want to understand why."

Your mouth parts, ready to push out something easy, something light, something that won't lead to the very real, very terrifying act of actually admitting things.

He was serious. Not angry or annoyed. Just serious. And concerned.

You exhale, suddenly very invested in dragging your nails lightly over his chest, watching the way they disappear into the fabric of his shirt, how his muscles shift slightly beneath your touch.

"I mean... it's not a thing," you mumble, barely glancing up. "More like a thing-adjacent."

"Sweetheart." The firmness in his voice made your stomach flip. It's not a scolding or a warning, just his way of making you hear him. "I'm not interested in whether you think it's a thing or not. I'm interested in whether it's true."

"I mean, I guess... maybe a little."

His fingers flex, like he's taking that in. He nods once, slowly. "That makes sense."

Your brows furrow. "It does?"

"Yes," he states plainly, like it's obvious. "You pick up on subtle changes, even the ones I don't intend to project. And when I get hyper focused on something, I shut everything else out. Not just you. Everyone."

"It's a defense mechanism. A way to compartmentalize. It doesn't mean I don't notice you. It means my brain assigns the highest level of urgency to the task at hand, and everything else, everything outside of that, is temporarily shut out. When I do that, it makes sense that you would feel like I'm not paying attention to you," he continues. "Because in those moments I'm not."

Your breath catches. He says it so matter-of-factly, so plainly, that it almost doesn't sting at first, it just lands.

His grip tightens ever so slightly where his hands rest on your like he already knows how you're taking it.

"But that doesn't mean I don't want to be paying attention," he murmurs, fingers brushing slow, absentminded circles against your skin. "It doesn't mean you don't exist in the back of my mind, even when I'm caught up in something else."

Aaron leans in a fraction, his eyes holding yours.

"Do you know what I did last night after you fell asleep?" he asks.

You blink. "Uh... sleep?"

He smirks. "Eventually. But first, I checked the thermostat. You always get cold at night, even when you say you won't."

Your face warms. "That's just —,"

"And before I left for work last week, I moved your car closer to the building because I saw you left your umbrella at my place."

"I —,"

"And when I'm out of town, do you know what I do every morning?"

You swallow.

"No."

"I think about what you're having for breakfast," he murmurs. "Not consciously. It's not something I try to do. It just... happens."

"You always eat something sweet," he continues, his thumb brushing over your jaw. "It's usually a pastry or something covered in chocolate. Sometimes cake, if we're being honest."

Your scrunch your nose again and he smiles.

"So, tell me," he murmurs, tilting your chin up. "Does that sound like someone who overlooks you?"

Your lips part but nothing comes out. Your heart aches, not the bad kind, but the kind that makes your chest feel too small for everything inside it. Because he's right. He notices everything. Not in the big, showy romance-movie ways but in the little things. In ways that matter.

You inhale a little too hard, blinking quickly, but the stinging in your eyes isn't going anywhere.

Aaron sees it immediately. "Sweetheart."

You shake your head quickly, sniffling.

"I'm not crying," you announce, even though your voice cracks on the last word, which kind of ruins the effect.

He smirks. "Are you sure?"

"Yes," you say firmly, poking his chest. "I just, I feel very loved and now I have to process that."

"Okay," he murmured, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "Do you need time to process, or should I just assume you're going to be attached to me for the foreseeable future?"

"Oh no, you're definitely stuck with me," you declare. "Like, you might need to call someone if you ever actually want me to let go."

His smirk is instant. "You're saying I should alert the authorities?"

You nod sagely. "I mean, that would be the responsible thing to do. But by the time they arrive, I'll have already made a compelling argument about how you should just let it happen."

Aaron huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "I'm sure you would."

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[apollabarnes]

transfers are(n't) for kids

it was hard to stop a train once it got started. buck still wasn't sure he wanted to. 8x18 coda. canon compliant? pardon the terrible trix joke, it amused me.

"Han!" The bellow shook the station. "Get your scrawny ass down here right now."

Chimney put his coffee cup down slowly, dusting off his pants. "'Scuse me, everybody," he said calmly. "I heard my name."

Hen snorted into her drink. "Bakersfield heard your name," she said, abandoning the table and heading for the railing. "This should be good."

Buck hesitated for a beat longer than everyone else, only moving when Ravi knocked his hand against Buck's shoulder. He hovered a step behind Ravi, worried that if he got too close to the front the two of them would notice him and the argument would escalate.

"So," the enormous man on the apparatus floor said, crossing his arms over his chest. "You want to explain why, on the day my new transfer's supposed to be starting, I get a call from the Chief saying whoopsie?"

"I was short a guy, turns out. Buck agreed to cancel the transfer," Chim said easily, tipping his chin up and meeting the other man's stare.

Ravi turned to Buck, his eyebrows jumping up. "That's you," he mouthed, pointing at the showdown. Buck elbowed Ravi cautiously, grinning when he shoved back at him.

"Bullshit, Howie. We both know you're not good at keeping yourself on the sidelines. And I'm down two guys — or gals, Wilson — so you can get yourself to the back of the line."

"Today was supposed to be your last day?" Ravi whispered, not looking away from the floor.

Buck shrugged. When Chim had asked for, and gotten, the captaincy it just seemed easier to give him time to grow into the role without having to train someone new at the same time. Besides, if the station was just a number now, it wasn't like going somewhere else was going to mean he'd be somewhere more like Bobby's station. At least here he had Ravi to partner up with.

"Who's that?" Buck asked Ravi, leaning in close. He hadn't paid much attention, or asked too many questions, when he'd handed in his transfer paperwork. The Chief had told him he'd send the assignment along when it was figured out, but then Buck had pulled his name from consideration and… well, it hadn't mattered then.

"Deluca, 122. You really don't do the whole firehouse gossip thing, do you?" Ravi asked him, amused.

"I mean the fun stuff, sure. Rodriguez over at the 126 ended up going to a furry convention by 'accident'," Buck told Ravi, waggling his eyebrows.

"He used to work with Chimney and Hen back in the day," Ravi continued, making a face at him.

"Huh." Buck inched closer to the railing, peering over it. Deluca wasn't menacing Chim, exactly, but he did have enough height on him that there was some looming going on. He might even have a little height on Buck. "He looks… tall."

"Chim's compact," Hen said easily, knocking her arm against Buck's gently. "But he's scrappy. He's got this."

Deluca lowered his voice and kept going, gesticulating wildly at Chim's equally quiet response. Buck found himself wishing they were still bellowing. He couldn't help but feel a little invested in what appeared to be a fight over himself. He wasn't sure who he wanted to win.

"Do not make me arm wrestle—" Deluca's voice rose, amused, before dipping low again.

"Don't do it, Chim!" Hen hollered.

Sal and Chimney both glanced up at that, seemingly realizing that everyone on shift was paying rapt attention to what was going on. Buck was pretty sure the only thing that would break their concentration was the bell or a knock down drag out argument in the loft. He found himself glancing over at Eddie, sighing when he kept his eyes focused forwards.

"That doesn't seem very ride or die," Ravi said smugly, shuffling closer to Buck. He knocked their shoulders together and Buck grinned tiredly at him.

"Sal held the station record for almost a decade," Hen shot back. "It's very ride or die to make sure Chim doesn't embarrass himself."

Chimney stepped towards Sal, making him take a step back. Buck held his breath, looking between them as they kept talking, volleying back and forth. "Does this feel like a tennis game to anyone else?" Buck wondered quietly.

"Fine," Chim snapped his gum, irritated. "But only until your chicken pox epidemic clears up."

"Pleasure doing business," Sal drawled, draping an arm over Howie's shoulders. "Buckley, grab your gear. We're headed out." He looked up to the loft, finding Buck immediately. Buck blinked, taking half a step back before he stopped. Obviously he would have gotten Buck's file from the chief, it wasn't weird that he could pick Buck out of a crowd.

Hen squeezed Buck's hand, her mouth pursed in a frown. "Hang in there, Buck. He's not as cranky as he sounds. Promise."

"The rest of you, what are you, new? No one taught you how to eavesdrop stealthily? Come on, that's embarrassing."

The bell went off.

Sal gestured to Buck, loping up the loft stairs after everyone had cleared out. The silence hung between them, muffling the sound of the disappearing sirens. Sal caved first, taking a deep breath. Buck smirked, just a little.

"Who really cancelled the transfer?" Sal asked, eyeing him up and down.

Buck shrugged. It wasn't as if it mattered. He was here at the 118 with everyone else.

"Your brother-in-law got captain and asked you to stay, so you did. Noble, but," Sal headed into the kitchen, picking through one of the boxes of doughnuts that Ravi had brought in, grabbing one for himself. "Howie can handle himself. I, however, need someone to hold my hand," Sal continued, taking an enormous bite out of it. Buck stared at the smear of powdered sugar on his cheek.

"Uh, you have a little something just… yeah." Buck nodded, watching Sal grab a napkin. "This the kind of hand holding you're looking for?"

"Okay, not into metaphors. I didn't mean literally, but I had a guy leave and then three of my squad go down with the pox in rapid succession. So. Arm Wrestle Mania 25 commenced."

"You didn't arm wrestle Chim," Buck said, feeling off-kilter. He wasn't sure what Captain Sal Deluca, 122, wanted from him, but he was pretty sure he wasn't going to be able to make it happen.

"Hell no, I'd probably break his wrist and he's got a baby to hold. Nah, Wrestle Mania was with the other stations that needed staffing."

"Multiple stations arm wrestled. Over avoiding having to take me," Buck said flatly. "I'm honoured."

"Oh, you misunderstand. Everyone wanted you." Sal finished off his doughnut, looking back in the box. "What the hell." He took another. "You got a car here?"

Buck shook his head. "Yearly service. I got a ride."

"Perfect. Grab your shit, let's blow this pop stand."

Buck trailed him back down the stairs, emptying his locker out on autopilot. "Wait — multiple stations wanted me?"

"Yeah, but I'm bigger and scarier so I won." Sal looked over his shoulder, frowning at the expression on Buck's face. "You're surprised."

"The, uh, the lawsuit, I thought…" Buck shrugged. "Kind of a liability."

"Once in nine years? Hell, Buckley, if you were gonna be a pest about it, there'd be more than one. Personally, I would have sued a few times — the hell was that heist accusation about? Or the lightning? Or hey, leaving your captain to rot at the bottom of the ocean because there wasn't enough proof they were out there." That last one came with air quotes and startled a laugh out of Buck.

"It wasn't a nuisance lawsuit, and honestly, a bunch of us tore a strip off the union for not taking care of it before it got that far," Sal continued, opening the trunk of the captain's truck. "In here. You've got one of the best records from both trips through the academy, you've pulled off some crazy ass rescues, and you're basically fearless. Seeing your name on the transfer list had me racing Mehta to the Chief's office."

"Oh. Uh. Thanks, I guess?" Buck said, trailing behind him. He dumped his bags, sliding into the passenger seat when Sal went for the driver's.

"Yeah, no problem. Like I said, not a hardship." Sal waited until Buck was settled before flipping his phone into Buck's lap. "Can you type a reply to that? We public servants should be safe drivers, and all," he added, winking at Buck.

"Sure, uh — the contact name is a donkey emoji?" Buck squinted at the phone. "Are you sure you want to give me your lock code five minutes after we met?"

"There isn't one; I do this a lot. Just open and start typing what I say. The donkey is because he's being a jackass. He can get his contact information back when he gets his head screwed on straight — I do want you typing that, Buckley."

"Oh, right, got it." Buck quirked an eyebrow, typing quickly.

"Had to steal my new transfer back, on the road, Gina says you need to come for dinner soon, uh," Sal tapped his fingers against the wheel, coming to a stop at the red light. "What was his question, again?"

"If you wanted to go to the game tomorrow? What game?"

Sal looked sideways at him. "Angels. Jackass and I split a couple seats with a group, but since we organized it we get to dibs the good games. Not that there are many, because they're the fucking Angels. But it's that or the National League and fuck that," He paused. "What do you prefer, by the way? Buckley? Buck? It's Evan, yeah?"

Buck shrugged. Maybe it was time to try out a new one. New house, new name, new… attitude? Maybe. Bobby had thought his attitude was good, it was just everyone else that seemed to have a problem with it these days. "Really not picky. I'll answer to anything."

"Okay, we'll let Ferb at ya when we get there. Not his actual name, he just likes the cartoon. —Can't make the game, covering for B shift, fucking pox, Stella is in her sports phase again — that's my kid, jackass is her godfather, or would be if either of us were into that kind of crap — if he wants to take her for some quality bonding time."

"He's asking who the transfer is."

Sal snorted. "You can probably answer that one without my help."

Buck cracked a grin at that, typing out his name and station. The response came back immediately and Buck frowned down at the phone. "He says sure and he's gotta go."

"Yeah, he hates when I dictate to someone else." Sal shrugged. "Dickhead. It's not like I'm sharing private information out loud."

"Well, so far I know that he's a jackass and he's your daughter's uncle, so. How private does he think that information is?"

"Sometimes I think he hates it when folks know his last name," Sal cackled. He pulled into the station parking lit, popping the trunk. "We can get you set up at Jonesy's locker for now — he's the one that left." He paused. "They're gonna be loud."

Sal hopped out of the truck and hoisted both of Buck's bags over his shoulder before Buck could get out of his seat. He waved Buck off when he tried to take one. "I got this, relax kid. Buckle up."

They walked into whoops and cheers from the loft, the entire shift hanging over the railing. One of the younger firefighters climbed onto the bottom rung of the railing and leaned forward, warbling "All hail the conquering hero!" as they passed the back of the engine. He got yanked back before he could fall by a guy Buck's age, laughing.

"All right, all right, shut up," Sal called, pointing up at the loft. "This is Buckley, nickname to be determined. I had to arm wrestle my way to the front of the line for him, unlike you jokers, so if anyone scares him off…" Sal trailed off threateningly.

"You like hash brown casserole?"

"I've got a fifty-point nickname survey!"

"Ferb, Sal just said don't scare him away!"

"Nerds," Sal said to Buck, his voice fond. "Give him a minute to get settled! Then you can all start asking him about himself. We've got a month, so pace yourselves."

[missmadella]

"How they react when you come back from a Terrible Date" (They're Secretly in Love With You) // Tokyo revengers

Charakters: Mikey, Mitsuya, Chifuyu, Ran, Rindou, Draken, Hanma, Shinichiro, Kazutora, Sanzu

Synopsis: You come home from yet another awful date — frustrated, humiliated, and swearing off dating for good. He’s waiting. Always is. The one who never says it, but watches you like he could burn the world down for you. You start ranting, words sharp and bitter... but before you can finish, he’s already in front of you. Close. Too close. One look. One kiss. And it all snaps.

“Shut up,” he breathes. “You’re mine.”

And maybe you always have been.

Mikey (Sano Manjiro):

You slam the front door a little harder than necessary.

Shoes off. Purse on the floor. Frustration clinging to you like a second skin.

“Unbelievable,” you mutter to yourself.

Mikey’s sitting exactly where you left him—on your couch, legs crossed, eating Pocky like it’s the most interesting thing in the world. He doesn’t say anything yet. Just watches you from the corner of his eye, tracking your every movement like a cat waiting to pounce.

You’re too annoyed to notice.

“Literally the worst date I’ve ever been on,” you grumble, heading to the kitchen to put your keys in the dish.

Mikey leans his head back. “Didn’t think anyone could top last week’s guy.”

“Oh, this one did,” you say, raising your voice from the other room. “First, he shows up late. No apology. Then spends half the dinner talking about himself—nonstop. Doesn’t ask me a single question.”

Your voice grows sharper, more animated, as you stalk back and forth, venting.

“I mention I like manga, he says ‘Oh, that nerd stuff?’ Like, excuse me?” You scoff, grabbing a glass from the cabinet and slamming it down. “Then he tries to guilt-trip me into inviting him up to my place. Said I was leading him on because I smiled too much.”

Mikey’s body shifts slightly. His eyes are locked on you now, and he’s not blinking. Still silent.

“And the worst part?” You huff. “I actually tried. I tried to be interesting, polite, charming. I laughed at his terrible jokes. I wore the dress I wasn’t sure about because I thought maybe it’d make me feel confident.”

You open the fridge, grab a bottle of water, ramble on.

“I just—God, why do I even bother? Every time, I end up with these walking red flags in human skin. Like I’m cursed or something.”

You twist the cap off and lean down to shove some leftovers back into the fridge, muttering to yourself.

“What’s so hard about finding someone who just... sees me for who I am?”

And that’s when it happens.

You turn around and nearly bump into him.

You didn’t hear him move. Didn’t hear a single step.

But Mikey is suddenly right there, only inches away. His expression unreadable. Shoulders tense. Eyes locked on you like he’s barely holding something back.

Your mouth opens, confused. “Mikey—”

His hands grip your waist.

And then you feel your back hit the wall behind you with a gentle thud as he presses you there, body close, leaving you no room to retreat. The bottle of water slips from your fingers and rolls away.

“Mikey, what are you—?”

You don’t finish.

Because he kisses you.

Hard.

It’s not a question. It’s not careful or delicate. It’s the kind of kiss that steals the breath from your lungs, the kind that tastes like every unsaid word he’s ever swallowed. His mouth claims yours like he’s starved for it, like he’s furious with how long he’s waited.

Your hands go to his chest out of instinct, half in shock, half because your legs are suddenly jelly.

When he finally pulls away, just barely, his voice is low and trembling.

“I’ve been in love with you since forever.”

You stare up at him, stunned, lips parted, your heart slamming in your chest.

He breathes out a shaky laugh. “Since the first time you called me out on my shit. Since you patched me up after a fight without asking questions. Since you sat next to me in silence when I didn’t know how to talk.”

His forehead presses against yours.

“And every time you told me about those stupid dates... every time you came home looking sad and tired... I wanted to be the one you came home from a date with. I wanted it to be me.”

You’re still breathless.

Still pressed to the wall by the only person who’s ever made you feel this seen—like your words, your fire, your rants aren’t too much.

You swallow, still stunned. “Why didn’t you ever say anything?”

His hand cradles the side of your face gently now, his thumb brushing your cheek.

“Because I was scared,” he whispers. “That if I kissed you, I wouldn’t be able to stop.”

There’s a moment — one long, charged heartbeat — where the world seems to go quiet.

And then you say it.

Soft. Barely a breath between you.

“Then don’t.”

His eyes flicker.

And that’s all it takes.

He doesn’t ask. Doesn’t hesitate.

Mikey dives back in like a man who’s drowning and you’re the only air left on Earth. His mouth crashes onto yours again — rougher this time, messier, needier. His hand cradles the back of your head, angling you just right, while the other grips your waist with something between desperation and relief.

You gasp into the kiss, and he takes advantage, deepening it until you’re practically melting against the wall. Your fingers twist into the soft fabric of his hoodie, pulling him impossibly closer as he kisses you like he’s making up for every second he’s kept this to himself.

Teeth clash. Lips bruise. Tongues slide.

It's not pretty. It's not polite.

It’s raw, breathless, real.

He presses his body against yours fully now, like he wants to sink into you, like this is the only place he’s ever wanted to be. You can feel his heart racing against your own — fast, erratic, like he’s on the edge of completely losing control.

He breaks the kiss for just a second to breathe, but your lips chase his, and he lets out a low, broken sound that sounds almost like your name before he kisses you again — slower this time, but no less intense. He tastes like sugar and fire and something you can’t name, but know you’ll never forget.

You barely register that your back is still pressed to the wall, that the water bottle rolled across the floor. The only thing that exists now is him — Mikey, here, holding you like he’ll never let go.

And you kiss him back like you feel exactly the same.

Because maybe you do.

Maybe you always have.

___________________________________________________________________________

Mitsuya Takashi:

The door clicks behind you with a sigh as you step into your apartment, emotionally wrung out and physically exhausted.

You’re already shrugging off your jacket, toeing off your shoes, when you hear him.

“Hey,” Mitsuya’s voice comes from the kitchen. “Welcome back.”

You hadn’t even remembered he was coming over. But there he is — sleeves rolled up, a gentle expression on his face, stirring something warm on the stove. It smells like curry. The good kind. His kind.

Your lips tremble before you even realize they are.

He glances at you and pauses.

“Bad date?”

You let out a sharp laugh. “You could say that.”

You step further in and drop your bag onto a chair. He doesn’t ask. He doesn’t push. He just keeps stirring, calm and steady, waiting.

You lean against the counter and start talking.

“I don’t even know why I bothered. He was fifteen minutes late, spent most of dinner checking his phone. Said something like, ‘I don’t usually go for girls like you’—whatever the hell that means.”

Mitsuya’s jaw twitches subtly. But he doesn’t interrupt.

“He laughed when I said I liked sewing. Said it was ‘a grandma hobby.’ Then asked if I had a backup plan, because he didn’t think people ‘like me’ could make a real living out of it.”

That’s when Mitsuya puts the spoon down.

You keep going, frustrated and trying not to let it show how hurt you really are.

“And I just sat there. Smiling. Nodding. Pretending I wasn’t sinking. I don’t know why I do that—I just keep giving these guys chances, hoping one of them will… I don’t know. See me. Actually see me.”

When you look up again, Mitsuya’s closer.

You blink, startled. He was on the other side of the kitchen just a second ago.

“I see you,” he says softly, and the words land so gently it takes a second to register how much they mean.

You smile, trying to brush it off, even as your chest tightens. “Thanks, Mitsuya. But—”

“I mean it.”

He’s closer now. Only a few feet away.

You can see the tension in his shoulders, how carefully he’s holding himself back. He takes another step, slowly, like he’s giving you time to stop him. You don’t.

“I see how hard you try, even when people don’t deserve it. I see how you light up when you talk about the things you love. You’re not too loud, or too much, or ‘intimidating.’ You’re just… real.”

Your breath hitches. He’s right in front of you now.

“And that’s what makes you so damn beautiful.”

You don’t move. Can’t move. The air between you is thick with something unspoken, and finally, finally, Mitsuya reaches out and brushes his fingers across your cheek.

He watches your reaction, searching your eyes. “Can I?”

You nod.

And when he kisses you, it’s soft — like he’s afraid you’ll break. Like you matter. It’s not rushed. It’s warm and reverent, like he’s memorizing the shape of your mouth, the taste of this moment.

But then your hands curl into his shirt, and you kiss him back — harder. Hungrier.

That’s when the dam breaks.

His hand moves to your lower back, pulling you against him, the other curling into your hair as he deepens the kiss. He still holds you like you’re something precious, but it’s laced with years of held-in emotion.

When he finally pulls back, both of you breathless, he presses his forehead to yours.

“I’ve been in love with you for longer than I’ll ever admit,” he murmurs. “Just say the word, and I’ll show you every single day.”

You smile, tears prickling behind your eyes — not from sadness this time, but relief.

“I think I just did.”

He lets out the softest breath of a laugh — almost disbelieving, like he’s been dreaming about this moment for too long to trust it’s real.

And then he kisses you again.

This time, there’s no holding back.

It starts slow, sweet — but as soon as your fingers tug gently on the fabric at his waist, something shifts. He moves in closer, kisses deepening, mouth pressing harder against yours. His hand finds your lower back again, guiding you gently until the edge of the kitchen counter is right behind you.

You feel him pause for a second — lips still brushing yours — giving you one last moment to stop it.

But you don’t.

Instead, you murmur, “Come here,” and that’s all it takes.

He lifts you effortlessly onto the counter, settling himself between your legs like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His palms brace your thighs, thumbs dragging slowly, possessively along your skin as he leans in to capture your mouth again.

This time it’s urgent. Hungry.

Your fingers slide up into his hair, tugging just enough to draw out the low, rough sound he makes into your mouth — half groan, half sigh.

“Mitsuya—” you whisper between kisses, your head tilting as his mouth moves to your jaw, your neck, leaving warm, lingering kisses that make your skin burn.

“I’ve wanted this,” he says into your skin, voice husky and low, “for so long.”

You shiver at the way his hands explore — not rushed, not greedy, but purposeful. One hand behind your back, supporting you as he leans you slightly into him, the other trailing up under your shirt, fingertips tracing the warm skin at your waist.

You wrap your legs around his hips, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss until there’s barely room to breathe between you. It’s messy now — all teeth and tongue and heat and longing, years of tension finally snapping like thread pulled too tight.

He kisses you like you’re the answer to every quiet ache he’s ever stitched into the seams of his silence.

And when he pulls back for just a second to look at you — cheeks flushed, lips kissed red, hair slightly tousled from your hands — he just says softly:

“Tell me this is real.”

You lean forward, press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, and whisper against his lips:

“As real as it gets.”

___________________________________________________________________________

Chifuyu Matsuno:

The bell over the pet shop door jingles as you push it open.

It smells exactly the same as always — soft sawdust, warm fur, hay, and something lightly sweet from the hand-poured candles he insists on keeping near the register. It's cozy. Familiar. Safe.

There’s no one else inside, just the usual sounds — a soft chirp from the birds, a few mews from the kitten enclosure, water gurgling in the turtle tank. You don’t say a word.

You don’t have to.

You walk past the aisles with barely a glance, past the register, past the puppy sleeping in its pen. Straight to the back door — the one that leads into the supply room where Chifuyu’s probably doing inventory or feeding the animals.

Your heart’s still pounding from the rage, the disappointment, the stupid date that went wrong in a hundred tiny ways. You don’t want to vent. You don’t want pity.

You just want him.

You push open the door, and there he is.

Chifuyu’s crouched down next to a big bag of kibble, scooping some into a bin, a soft smudge of something on his cheek. He looks up, eyes lighting up with that instinctive smile he only gives you.

“Hey,” he says, brushing his hands off on his jeans. “How’d it—”

You don’t let him finish.

You step straight into his space, grab the front of his worn black T-shirt, and pull him down into a kiss.

It stuns him at first — a quiet gasp against your mouth — but he doesn’t hesitate long. His hands find your waist, anchoring you, as the kiss deepens quickly. Years of tension. Months of watching you go on dates with guys who didn’t deserve to say your name. All of it explodes in the quiet little back room of his shop.

Your fingers tangle into his hair as he walks you slowly backward until your back hits the old wooden counter. His lips are warm, urgent — like he’s been waiting for this moment so long he’s afraid he’ll wake up and it’ll be gone.

He only pulls back long enough to breathe your name.

“Wait—what happened?”

You don’t answer. You just look at him for a second — really look at him — and whisper, “Don’t ask me about him. I don’t want to waste another second thinking about anyone who isn’t you.”

His throat bobs.

And then he's kissing you again — harder this time, like he finally understands that this isn’t just a moment. It’s you. It’s real.

His hands roam — not impatiently, but like he’s trying to memorize you. One slides up your back, the other resting warm at your waist, pulling you in. You lean into him, your hands never leaving him, your mouths tangled in something that feels so far from temporary it makes your chest ache.

Chifuyu kisses you like he’s spent years holding this back.

Because he has.

You don’t stop until both of you are breathless, flushed, your heartbeats pounding in sync like they’ve finally caught up to the truth.

When he finally rests his forehead against yours, he whispers, “You don’t have to say it yet. But I’ve been yours for a long time.”

You smile — the first real one today — and kiss him again, slower this time.

“I know,” you whisper. “And I think I’ve been yours too.”

Chifuyu blinks, stunned still for a second — then his smile curves slow and real, soft at the edges but burning in the center.

“Stay,” he breathes. “Let me close up.”

You nod, eyes never leaving his. He steals another quick kiss — like he can’t help it — then pulls away just long enough to flip the front sign to CLOSED, twist the lock, and dim the overhead lights until the entire shop feels like a quiet little secret.

He’s barely stepped back into the room when your back hits the counter again and he’s kissing you like it’s the last ten minutes before a goodbye he’ll never recover from.

Your fingers tangle into his shirt, pulling him closer, and he lets out a soft sound low in his throat as he slots his mouth over yours again. This kiss is deeper — less hesitant, more claiming — the kind of kiss that says, we’re doing this now, and I’m not pretending anymore.

His hands settle at your waist, thumbs brushing under your shirt, and your legs part slightly to let him closer between them. The world outside disappears: just the quiet hum of the fish tank, the rustle of small paws, and the warm, breathless press of his body against yours.

You break apart just long enough to whisper, “That bad date might’ve been the best thing to happen to me.”

He laughs, breathless, then leans back in to kiss you again.

“Same,” he murmurs against your lips. “About time.”

___________________________________________________________________________

Ran Haitani:

You don’t knock.

You never do with Ran — not when he’s told you a hundred times, “Door’s open, baby. Just come in.” And tonight? You don’t have the patience for polite.

You step into his apartment, heels clicking on marble tile, barely holding it together.

“Whoa.” His voice slides in from the living room, low and lazy like smoke. “Now that’s an entrance.”

You turn the corner, and there he is — draped across the couch like a damn prince, one long arm over the backrest, shirt half-unbuttoned, gold chain catching the city light pouring in through the windows. He looks you over, head tilting slowly.

“You’re dressed up,” he says. Then, with a smirk, “Let me guess. Bad date?”

You toss your bag down harder than necessary. “Bad would’ve been generous.”

“Oof.” He whistles, sitting up. “Let me get the popcorn. You about to tell me how he cried at the bill or started quoting Jordan Peterson halfway through dinner?”

You shoot him a glare. “He said I was too much.”

Ran blinks.

Then he says, too casually, “...Too much of what, exactly?”

“Too opinionated. Too loud. Too passionate. Too everything.” You pace now, hands gesturing wildly. “Like I should just smile and nod and be one of those girls who only talks in curated Pinterest quotes. He said I needed to be more 'contained.' Can you believe that?”

Ran’s on his feet now, slower than you, predatory and precise. He stalks forward while you rant, hands in his pockets, head tilted.

“I mean—who says that to someone’s face? I should’ve left mid-dinner but I thought, No, be civil. Be mature. But then he had the audacity to—”

You don’t even see him move.

One second you’re pacing.

The next — your back hits the door and Ran’s mouth crashes into yours.

The kiss is sudden, deep, devastating. He kisses you like you’ve been pissing him off for years without realizing it — like every word you just said flipped some hidden switch.

Your gasp is swallowed by his mouth, and his hand comes up to cup your jaw as he tilts your face to deepen the kiss. His other hand braces against the door beside your head, boxing you in.

He pulls back just barely — lips brushing yours, voice low and wrecked.

“You are too much. And I’ve been going crazy over it for years.”

You’re breathless, stunned. “Ran—”

“I’m serious,” he growls, eyes locked on yours. “Too smart, too stubborn, too sharp for those boring little bastards you keep giving chances to. I wanted to kiss you the first time you told me to shut up.”

Your fingers twist in the fabric of his shirt, grounding yourself. “Then why didn’t you?”

He smirks — but this time, there’s heat behind it. Honesty.

“’Cause once I start with you… I won’t be able to stop.”

Your breath catches. And this time, it’s you who pulls him down — crashing into another kiss, rougher, messier, full of everything you’ve both been avoiding.

Ran groans into your mouth as your hands slide up into his hair, tugging slightly, and he presses his body fully against yours, trapping you between him and the door like he owns the air you breathe.

He doesn’t stop kissing you for a long time.

And when he finally pulls away, lips swollen, voice hoarse, he rests his forehead against yours and says,

“Told you I’m not the civil type, baby.”

You barely have time to catch your breath before Ran’s hands are under your arms, lifting you up effortlessly.

“Come on,” he says, voice low and husky, “Let’s get you off your feet.”

Before you can protest, he’s carrying you like you weigh nothing, pressing you close enough you can feel the heat radiating from his chest.

The couch is right there, and he sets you down gently, but his hands don’t leave you — one resting possessively on your hip, the other trailing slow and teasing up your thigh.

You look up at him — all sharp angles and smirking lips — and realize the room feels too small for just the two of you.

Ran leans down, capturing your mouth again, kiss deep and demanding, like he’s staking his claim.

Your fingers find the collar of his shirt, pulling him closer, and he groans — low and rough — into the kiss.

This time, it’s slower, more intimate, like the world around you has finally faded out, leaving just the two of you tangled up on the couch in a heated, breathless embrace.

___________________________________________________________________________

Rindou Haitani:

You showed up at the diner without warning — damp from a light drizzle, hair messy, eyeliner smudged. You didn’t even text him you were coming, but Rindou didn’t seem surprised when the bell over the door rang and you walked in like you’d just run out of a dream and straight into his world.

He looked up from his coffee, eyes locking on you like gravity.

You dropped into the booth across from him, exhaling like you’d been holding your breath the entire night.

There was a pause — thick and full of tension — before you finally spoke.

“He was nice,” you said flatly, folding your arms over your chest. “Too nice.”

Rindou tilted his head slightly, but didn’t speak. He knew you well enough by now to let you get it out.

“He asked all the right questions. Laughed at everything I said. Held the door open. Didn’t check his phone once.” You paused, eyes narrowing. “But it felt like I was sitting across from cardboard.”

Your fingers traced a drop of condensation down the side of your water glass. “He had no edge. No bite. No soul. Just… safe. Like he’d read a script on how to date someone like me and followed it word for word.”

Rindou’s lips twitched. Just a little. But he stayed quiet.

“And the worst part?” you said, looking at him now, really looking. “For one second, I thought—maybe this is what I’m supposed to want. Someone easy. Predictable. Someone who won’t ever argue with me or make things complicated.”

You let the silence hang, then said the part that hurt most.

“But I don’t want easy. I don’t want to settle just to say I have someone.”

That’s when Rindou moved.

Not fast, not dramatic — just that slow, smooth kind of motion that makes your pulse skip. He slid out of his side of the booth and into yours, his body close, knee brushing yours under the table.

You turned slightly, but before you could speak—

His hand was on your chin, tilting your face toward him.

“Good,” he murmured, voice low and edged with something darker. “Because I’m not easy. I’m not safe. And I’ve never been the kind of guy who plays by the rules.”

Your breath caught.

And then he kissed you.

It was slow at first — not because he was hesitant, but because he wanted you to feel it. Every inch of it. Every second of tension he’d been storing, every stare that lingered too long, every moment he almost touched you and didn’t.

Then it deepened — fast, rough, possessive. The kind of kiss that said, I’ve thought about this a hundred times, and now that I have you, I’m not holding back.

You melted into him, fingers gripping the front of his hoodie, gasping into his mouth as he shifted closer, his thigh pressing against yours and his arm sliding behind your back.

When he finally pulled away, both of you were breathing hard.

He looked at you like you were the only person who’d ever made sense to him.

“You don’t need someone who fits into a box,” he said, voice gravel-low. “You need someone who’ll burn it down with you.”

You stared at him, stunned and trembling in the best way.

And when you whispered, “Then what are we waiting for?”

He didn’t answer.

He just kissed you again — harder, deeper — like that was the only answer you’d ever need.

The second kiss ended, your breaths tangled between you, and Rindou didn’t even hesitate.

“Come on,” he muttered against your lips, his hand already sliding down your back. “Let’s get out of here.”

You didn’t ask where. You didn’t need to.

The night air outside was thick with summer humidity and leftover rain, the world quiet except for the soft buzz of streetlights and the distant echo of traffic. Rindou’s car was parked down the street, black and sleek, half in shadow.

He opened the passenger door for you like it was muscle memory — not gentlemanly, but instinctive, like keeping you close and protected was just wired into him.

By the time you were both inside, the air felt electric.

He was in the driver’s seat, fingers gripping the steering wheel like it was the only thing grounding him, jaw clenched, breath shallow.

You stared straight ahead, lips still swollen from his kiss, heart beating so loud you were sure he could hear it.

Then you turned to him — and the look in his eyes told you everything.

No words.

Just heat. Need. That tightly coiled restraint he was so damn close to losing.

And you wanted him to lose it.

So you moved.

Without a word, you slipped off your seatbelt and climbed into his lap.

He sucked in a sharp breath, his hands instantly grabbing your waist — firm, hot, trembling just slightly.

“You sure?” he muttered, voice like smoke.

You leaned in, your lips brushing his ear.

“I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

That’s all it took.

His mouth crashed into yours again, this time with no restraint. His kiss was rough, all-consuming, tongue sliding against yours with a hunger that left you dizzy. Your hands tangled in his hair, nails scraping gently against his scalp as his hands roamed your back, your thighs, like he couldn’t decide where to touch first.

The windows fogged instantly, the air thick with heat and breath and that soft, desperate sound of lips crashing and parting.

His teeth grazed your bottom lip, tugging it before he murmured, “Been dreaming of this. You. Just like this.”

You gasped when his mouth trailed down your neck, kissing, biting, breathing you in like you were oxygen and he’d been suffocating for years.

Your hips shifted instinctively, grinding against him, and he groaned low — dark, guttural, head falling back against the seat for a second.

“Fuck,” he breathed, voice wrecked. “You feel like trouble.”

You smirked against his jaw, kissing along it. “You like trouble.”

He chuckled, one hand sliding up your back and fisting in your hair to pull you into another kiss. “Damn right I do.”

You stayed there, tangled in heat and want, the car your whole world — just lips, breath, skin, and the dangerous promise of what came next.

And when he whispered, “You’re mine now,”

You didn’t argue.

You kissed him harder.

___________________________________________________________________________

Draken (Ken Ryuguji):

The garage light was still on, low and golden, humming faintly like it always did when he was finishing up work late. You let yourself in through the side door, your jacket clutched tightly in one hand and your heels dangling from the other.

Draken looked up from under the hood of a bike, grease on his forearms and a black bandana tied around his head, like something out of a photo you didn’t have the heart to frame yet.

The second he saw your face — tired, frustrated, lips pressed into a thin line — he straightened immediately.

“Hey,” he said softly. “That bad?”

You dropped your shoes on the ground and ran a hand through your hair.

“He talked about himself the entire time,” you muttered, walking past him and flopping onto the old couch tucked against the wall. “Didn’t ask me a single thing. Then called me emotional because I said I didn’t find cheating ‘complicated.’”

You scoffed bitterly, arms crossed. “Like, sorry I’m not morally flexible enough for your gray-area bullsh—”

You didn’t even see him move.

One second you were rambling, venting, trying not to scream into the nearest cushion — the next, Draken was standing right in front of you, tall and solid, a shadow cast over your curled form on the couch.

You blinked up at him. “What—?”

“Get up.”

You frowned. “Excuse me?”

“I said get up,” he repeated, voice low, rough — but not angry. It sounded more like… restraint.

You rose slowly, confused, until you were standing toe to toe with him. He looked down at you, jaw tight, chest rising and falling faster than before.

“You really think you need guys like that?” he asked, voice suddenly softer — but more intense. “Guys who talk at you? Who don’t see you?”

You opened your mouth, but the lump in your throat stopped your words.

Draken stepped forward, so close now you had to tilt your head back to keep eye contact. His hand rose — big, calloused — and brushed a damp strand of hair from your cheek.

“You deserve someone who shuts up and listens. Who fights for you. Who’s scared to lose you. Not some weak-ass punk who treats you like you’re disposable.”

You felt your breath hitch.

And then—

“You know I’ve been in love with you for years, right?”

It was barely a whisper, like he was scared the truth might break the room in half.

Your heart stopped.

And then he leaned in and kissed you.

Hard.

Like he couldn’t take another second of pretending he didn’t want to. His hands cupped your face, big and warm and a little greasy from the bike, but you didn’t care — not when his lips crushed into yours like he was finally claiming what had always been his.

You gasped against his mouth, your hands fisting in the front of his work shirt, and he kissed you again — slower this time, deeper, like he was memorizing how you tasted.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead pressed to yours, his hands still wrapped around your waist.

You stared up at him, dazed. “Draken…”

He gave a soft breath of a laugh, rough and raw. “That’s my line, you know.”

You blinked. “What is?”

“‘He was awful. He didn’t see me.’ I’ve said that about every guy you’ve dated for the last three years.”

A pause.

Then, without even thinking—

“Then don’t let me date the wrong ones anymore.”

He smirked, and you swore it sent heat down your spine.

He kissed you again — slow and firm — before gently walking you back until your knees hit the couch. You fell with a soft laugh, and he followed, hovering over you like the quiet storm he always was.

“Guess I’m gonna have to make up for a lot of lost time,” he murmured, lips brushing your jaw.

You smiled against him.

“Good. I’m not going anywhere.”

Draken’s hands were warm on your waist, steadying you like he still wasn’t sure if you were real — if this was actually happening.

You could feel the way his breath caught every time your fingers traced the edge of his jaw, the way his body tensed when your thighs parted slightly beneath him. He was big, solid, a wall of quiet heat caging you in, but not once did you feel trapped.

You felt wanted.

The kiss deepened fast — no more hesitation, no more holding back.

His lips moved against yours like he was making up for every second he’d stayed silent, every time he’d watched you smile at the wrong guy. Your hands slid under the hem of his shirt, fingertips brushing bare skin, and he groaned softly into your mouth — low, raspy, like you’d knocked the air out of him.

You shifted underneath him, angling your hips just right, and his mouth broke from yours for a heartbeat — his eyes dark and wild and locked on you.

“You keep moving like that,” he said roughly, “and this make-out session’s gonna get real complicated, real fast.”

You grinned, breathless. “You complaining?”

He smirked — crooked and devastating — and leaned in again, kissing you until your lungs burned and your fingers trembled.

The couch creaked beneath you, his knee pressing between your thighs as he held himself above you with one arm, the other hand running up your side, your ribs, tracing the shape of you like he was trying to memorize everything in the dark.

When he kissed down your neck, biting gently before soothing the spot with his tongue, you gasped and tugged him closer.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this,” he murmured against your skin.

“Try me,” you whispered back, eyes fluttering shut.

He kissed you again — deep, bruising, claiming — and then pulled back just enough to look at you. His voice was rough with something more than lust.

“Mine now,” he said. “You get that, right?”

You pulled him down by the collar and kissed him hard.

“I’ve always been yours.”

___________________________________________________________________________

Hanma Shuji:

You were already regretting this date ten minutes in.

He was… fine. Nice enough. Well-dressed. Kept talking about his job in finance like it was the most fascinating thing in the world. You nodded along, smiled politely, sipped your drink — counting the minutes until you could fake a headache and bolt.

And then the bar door opened.

And in walked Hanma Shuji — tall, cocky, every inch of him oozing trouble in that long black coat and lazy grin. He scanned the room like he already owned it, like he was looking for someone.

And his eyes locked on you.

Your heart skipped a beat. You barely had time to process the slow, smug grin that curled on his lips before he was moving toward you with all the calm, deliberate confidence of a man who had no business being there — and didn’t give a damn.

Your date turned slightly, confused. “Uh… do you know that guy?”

Before you could even answer, Hanma was there — towering over the table, one hand casually stuffed in his pocket, the other lifting to brush a knuckle down your cheek like he owned you.

“You ready to go, babe?”

You blinked. “What—Hanma, what are you doing?”

He leaned in closer, his grin never wavering — but his eyes were burning now, dark and focused on you like you were the only one in the room.

“Your date’s not over yet.”

Before you could ask what the hell that meant — he grabbed you.

Not rough, not forceful — just desperate. Like he couldn’t wait one more second.

His hand curled around the back of your neck and he kissed you — right there in front of everyone — a hungry, unrestrained claim. Lips crashing into yours, mouth moving like he’d thought about this every night and finally snapped.

You gasped against him, hands gripping the front of his coat, torn between shock and heat and the dizzying swirl of oh my god, this is happening.

When he finally pulled back, your lips were swollen, your pulse racing, and your date was staring at the both of you with wide eyes and a half-open mouth.

Hanma didn’t even glance at him. His focus was locked on you.

“That guy?” he said, breathless but sharp, his voice low and curling with something jealous and smug. “He’s not even your type. He’s awful just to look at.”

You huffed out a breathless laugh, dazed. “Says the man who just hijacked my date.”

Hanma leaned in again, brushing his mouth over yours with maddening softness this time.

“Says the man who’s been in love with you for years and is done watching you waste time on walking cardboard.”

You stared at him, heat flooding your chest. “And if I say I wasn’t done with the date?”

He smirked against your lips, hand sliding to your hip, tugging you closer.

“Too bad. I’ve already decided we’re leaving.”

He kissed you again — slower this time, deeper — and when you finally broke apart, your date was already standing awkwardly, grabbing his coat.

You didn’t stop him.

Because Hanma’s arm was already around your waist, leading you out of the bar like he’d just pulled off the greatest heist of his life.

And maybe he had.

You.

__________________________________________________________________________

The car ride was silent for exactly twelve seconds.

Twelve seconds of thick tension, of his hand gripping the wheel so hard you could see the veins pop, of your thighs pressed together as the echo of his kiss still tingled on your lips.

You glanced over.

His jaw was clenched. His tongue dragged across his bottom lip like he was trying to stay calm. He didn’t look at you — not yet. Just stared at the road like it had personally insulted him.

“You gonna say something?” you asked softly.

That did it.

He yanked the car into a back alley near the edge of town, tires crunching on gravel, engine still humming low. Then he put it in park, ripped his seatbelt off, and turned toward you — eyes wild with everything he hadn’t said in years.

“Yeah,” he said, voice gravel and fire. “Get in the back.”

You stared. “What—”

“Backseat. Now. Unless you want me climbing over this console.”

You didn’t even think — just unbuckled and slipped into the back, heart pounding, skin already burning before he even touched you.

Hanma was on you in a heartbeat.

He closed the door behind him, and then his hands were on your face, in your hair, his mouth crashing into yours with zero hesitation. The kiss was desperate, tongue tangling with yours, his body already pushing you back into the seat like he wanted to melt into you.

You moaned against his mouth as he climbed between your thighs, one hand sliding down your waist, gripping your hip tight enough to leave a mark. His other hand cupped your jaw, tilting your face to kiss you deeper — wetter — filthier.

“You don’t even know,” he murmured against your lips, voice wrecked, “how long I’ve wanted to do this. Every damn time you went on one of those dates with some loser…”

He kissed down your neck, teeth dragging, making you shiver. “I should’ve done this years ago. Should’ve just dragged you into my lap and made you forget every guy before me.”

You didn’t care anymore. Your fingers were in his hair, pulling him closer, thighs clenching around his hips as you arched into him.

“Then do it now,” you whispered. “Make me forget.”

Hanma groaned — full and low — and kissed you so hard you forgot your name for a second. He pulled you flush into his lap, grinding up into you with slow, aching precision. The entire car rocked with every movement, every desperate shift of your bodies.

Breathless, messy, hot.

Fog steamed up the windows, your back arching off the seat as he mouthed down your throat, hips rocking, teeth biting your shoulder just enough to make you gasp.

“You’re mine now,” he muttered, voice husky against your skin. “You get that?”

You nodded, head tipping back, chest heaving.

“Say it.”

You grabbed his face, lips brushing his.

“I’m yours, Shuji.”

That was it.

He kissed you again — hard enough to bruise — as his hands roamed your body like he had no plans of stopping until the sun came up.

And honestly?

You didn’t want him to.

___________________________________________________________________________

Shinichiro Sano:

The scent of oil, metal, and something warm always lingered in his bike shop — like nostalgia and comfort wrapped into one. The sign outside said closed, but the lights were still on when you showed up, heels in one hand, bag slung over your shoulder.

You pushed the door open, the little bell chiming softly.

From behind the counter, Shinichiro looked up — a rag slung over his shoulder, grease smudged on his cheek, black tee hugging his frame. His eyes lit up for a second at the sight of you… then dimmed a little when he saw your expression.

“Bad night?” he asked gently, setting a wrench down.

You sighed. “Can I just sit here for a second before I burn the memory of that date off the face of the earth?”

He chuckled, voice warm and laced with concern. “That bad?”

You kicked off your shoes and dropped onto the old couch in the corner, groaning as you rubbed your temples. “Worse. He kept calling me babe like we were already married. And then — get this — he tried to explain how motorcycles ‘aren’t practical’ and that I should consider dating someone with a Tesla instead.”

That made Shinichiro pause.

You looked over just in time to see the slow twitch in his jaw, the restrained look of pure disbelief.

“…He said that to you?” he asked, dry.

You nodded, sighing again. “Yes can you believe it? He was such a dick.”

Shinichiro walked out from behind the counter and leaned against the wall across from you, arms crossed.

His gaze was on you now — not soft. Focused. Intense.

“You just keep looking at all the wrong ones.”

You frowned. “Then who’s the right one, Shin? Because so far all I’m finding are emotionally constipated tech bros who think passion is a red flag.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then he pushed off the wall and stepped toward you — slow, deliberate.

“The right one’s been here the whole damn time.”

You blinked. “Wait—what?”

Shinichiro didn’t stop until he was standing right in front of you, close enough that you could see the flecks of brown in his dark eyes, the scar at the corner of his lip twitching slightly.

He swallowed hard. “You think I enjoy hearing about your dates? Sitting here fixing engines while some idiot gets to sit across from you, wasting your time, making you feel small?”

You opened your mouth, stunned, but he kept going — voice low, raw.

“It should’ve been me. It should’ve always been me.”

You barely had time to whisper, “Then why—”

Before you could finish, he kissed you.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t wild. It was desperate in the softest way — like he’d been holding his breath for years and finally exhaled. His hand cupped your cheek, thumb stroking gently as his lips moved against yours, slow and deep and aching.

You melted into him instantly, grabbing the hem of his shirt and pulling him down with you until you were both sitting on the couch — tangled, breathless, starving.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his forehead resting against yours.

“You’re everything I ever wanted,” he whispered. “I just didn’t think I could have you.”

You smiled, touching his face with both hands, eyes shining.

“You’ve had me this whole time, Shin.”

And this time, you kissed him — slow, intentional, pouring every unspoken thing into it. His arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you into his lap as the make-out deepened, your bodies pressing close on that worn leather couch that suddenly felt more like home than anything else ever had.

The shop was quiet, the world forgotten outside those metal doors.

Because tonight? You finally found the right one.

And he wasn’t going to let you go.

The kiss turned hot fast.

You didn’t know who moved first, but suddenly you were both standing — mouths never parting — and Shinichiro’s hands were on your waist, your back, your thighs, gripping you like he didn’t know where to touch first and couldn’t choose. You moaned against his lips when he picked you up effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist like it was second nature.

“Shin…” you breathed, dazed.

“Shhh,” he whispered back, forehead pressing to yours, voice tight with restraint. “Just—just let me have this. I’ve waited so damn long.”

He carried you through the shop — past half-finished bikes, scattered tools, and dusty helmets — deeper into the back, where the lights were dimmer and the only sound was the echo of your shared breath and the thudding of your heart in your chest.

And then he laid you down gently on one of the old worktables — solid, flat, clutter pushed aside in a single sweep of his arm. His hands never left your body, never stopped roaming, like he was trying to commit every curve to memory.

You pulled him down with you, your fingers twisting into his shirt, tugging him close until your mouths met again — this time harder. More urgent. Teeth clashing. Tongues tangled. Years of repressed desire unraveling in a matter of seconds.

He kissed down your jaw, your neck, pausing at your collarbone to leave a mark — a soft bite, followed by a kiss — like he wanted you to remember this tomorrow. And the day after. And the day after that.

“You don’t know,” he whispered against your skin, “how many times I watched you walk out that door and wondered if I’d ever get a chance like this.”

Your hands cupped his face, tilting it back to yours.

“You have me now,” you said, voice thick with heat. “What are you gonna do about it?”

He growled low in his throat — the sound wrecked, surprised by how fast he was losing control. “Everything,” he promised.

His mouth crashed into yours again — this time with no more hesitation, no more restraint.

One hand fisted the back of your shirt while the other braced on the table beside your head, holding himself just above you, his hips pressing between your legs, grinding into you with delicious pressure that made your back arch off the cold metal.

The worktable creaked with every movement, your name tumbling from his lips between kisses like a prayer he was only just allowed to say out loud.

You pulled him closer, breathless. “Shin—someone could come in…”

He looked at you, lips red, breathing heavy, eyes blown wide.

“Then let them see who you belong to.”

And just like that, he kissed you again — messier, hotter, slower — as the night deepened around you and the bike shop faded away until it was just you and him and everything you’d both kept buried for far too long.

__________________________________________________________________________

Kazutora Hanemiya:

The moment your trembling fingers dialed Kazutora’s number, your chest felt like it might cave in. Every breath was sharp, every sound around you a threat. You ducked into the public restroom near the station, your heart pounding so loud you were sure it echoed off the cold tiles.

“Kazutora…” your voice was barely a whisper, trembling. “He’s… he’s following me. The guy from my date. I don’t know what to do. I’m in the bathroom. I’m scared.”

You heard his intake of breath through the phone, sharp and quick. His voice came low and steady.

“Where exactly are you? I’m coming.”

Before you could say anything else, the door creaked open.

Your breath hitched. Was it him? Or the other guy?

“(Y/N), it’s me,” Kazutora said, voice calm but with an edge that told you he meant business.

You unlocked your stall and stepped out, your legs weak but steady. Your eyes met his — hoodie pulled low, jaw clenched, fists tight at his sides. The golden flecks in his eyes shimmered with something fierce.

You whispered, “Kazu…”

But he didn’t stop.

His stride took him right past you and out the door — like a storm ready to explode.

You froze, ears straining.

Then came the sound you feared but couldn’t tear your ears away from — the sudden crash of flesh meeting fist, the grunt of someone caught off-guard, the curse muttered through clenched teeth.

You covered your mouth with your hands, heart thudding as the fight unfolded just outside the door.

Moments later, Kazutora returned, breath ragged, hair falling over his forehead, knuckles red and swollen.

“Let’s get you out of here,” he said softly, voice a contrast to the rage he’d just unleashed.

On the way back to his place, you kept close, your fingers entwined with his. No words. Just the steady beat of his hand holding yours — grounding you.

Once inside his apartment, the warmth felt suffocating after the cold chaos outside.

You leaned against the door, your breath shaky but steady.

Kazutora stood across from you, eyes fixed on the ground, the bruises on his knuckles visible in the dim light.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, voice thick. “You shouldn’t have had to see that side of me.”

You stepped forward, reaching out to tilt his face up gently.

“Kazutora,” you said softly, “that’s not the side of you I’m scared of.”

He swallowed hard, jaw tightening.

“But you were scared, right? After what I did… after the fight?”

You shook your head, voice firm but kind.

“No. I was scared before you showed up — scared of being alone with him. Scared of what he might do. But the moment you appeared… I felt safe.”

His eyes searched yours, disbelief flashing across his face like a storm breaking.

“You’re not afraid of me?”

You cupped his cheek, your thumb brushing lightly across the bruises.

“No. I’m not. I’m safe with you.”

For the first time in what felt like forever, Kazutora’s defenses crumbled. His shoulders sagged, his hands dropping to your waist as if anchoring himself to reality.

You pulled him close, lips meeting in a kiss that was both tentative and fierce — a wordless promise of healing and trust.

His hands tangled in your hair, pulling you closer as if afraid you’d disappear.

When you finally parted, your foreheads rested together, breaths mingling.

“You’re mine,” he whispered, voice raw and steady.

You smiled, tracing the line of his jaw.

“And I’m yours. Always.”

The dim light of Kazutora’s room was soft, almost forgiving. The hum of the city outside was distant, muffled by the closed windows and thick curtains. Here, the chaos of the night seemed to dissolve.

You and Kazutora stood close, still breathless from the adrenaline and the stolen kiss by the door.

His hands were tentative at first, fingers tracing the sides of your face like he was afraid you’d vanish if he didn’t hold you just right.

Your hands slid around his neck, pulling him in deeper. Your lips met again—this time slower, more deliberate, savoring every touch.

Kazutora’s breath hitched when you let your tongue brush his lips, silently asking for entry.

He responded immediately, tongue sliding against yours, warm and searching. The kiss grew urgent, needy, as if he wanted to make up for every second he’d spent holding back.

His hands moved down your back, pulling you flush against him, your body melting into his like you were the missing piece he’d been chasing all this time.

You could feel his heartbeat against your chest — uneven, pounding, desperate.

He broke the kiss just long enough to murmur, “I don’t want you to be scared ever again.”

You smiled softly, your fingers threading through his hair.

“With you, I’m not scared.”

He smiled back, a fragile but real curve of his lips, before capturing your mouth again.

Slowly, carefully, he guided you toward his bed, never breaking contact.

You sank down, Kazutora following, his hands exploring your body with a mix of reverence and hunger.

Every touch was an apology and a promise all at once.

The night stretched on with whispered confessions, trembling hands, and the quiet discovery of each other’s scars — both visible and hidden.

In his arms, you felt safe.

In your warmth, Kazutora found peace.

And as the city slept outside, two broken souls finally began to heal — together.

__________________________________________________________________________

Sanzu Haruchiyo:

You burst through the door, cheeks flushed, words spilling out in a rush.

“It was awful. Absolutely horrible. He wouldn’t stop talking about himself like he was the center of the universe, the food was disgusting, and then—” You paused, exasperated, “—he asked if I was seeing anyone. Like, who does that on a first date?”

Sanzu leaned lazily against the wall, watching you rant with a half-smile tugging at his lips, those sharp eyes glittering with something dark and amused.

“Sounds like you had a real catch,” he murmured, voice low and teasing.

You shot him a glare, about to launch into another tirade, but he stepped closer, closing the space between you with deliberate slowness.

His hand came up to cup your cheek — fingers warm and firm, thumb stroking gently across your skin. Your breath hitched, caught off guard by the sudden intimacy.

“Shut up,” he said, voice thick with quiet command.

You blinked, stunned by the unexpected order.

“What?” you whispered, your voice trembling slightly as his gaze bore into yours.

“You don’t get to complain when you look like that,” he murmured, his breath hot and intoxicating against your cheek.

Before you could protest, his lips crashed onto yours, fierce and demanding.

Your hands flew up to grip his chest, fingers clutching the fabric as his tongue slipped between your lips, exploring, claiming.

Every frustrated word you’d been holding inside dissolved into the heat of his mouth, your body arching into his touch.

He deepened the kiss, one hand sliding down to your waist, pulling you flush against him, the other threading through your hair and tugging gently.

When he finally broke away, chest rising and falling rapidly, his eyes were dark, wild, and glittering with mischief.

“If that date was so terrible,” he whispered huskily, “then don’t bother with anyone else.”

You tried to speak, but he silenced you with another searing kiss — harder this time, like staking a claim.

His hand moved to press you back against the wall, fingers digging into your hip with a possessive grip.

“I’m the only one who gets to see this side of you,” he growled low, lips brushing your ear.

You shivered, heat blooming deep in your core as his breath mingled with yours.

“So, shut up. And look at me.”

His eyes held yours with a fierce intensity, leaving no room for argument.

You swallowed hard, heart pounding as your body responded to his every touch, every whisper.

The rest of the world fell away — the awful date, the frustration, the noise — until there was only you and him, tangled together in the quiet storm of desire

The moment Sanzu’s lips met yours again, it was like a spark ignited a wildfire inside you. His mouth was fierce, hungry—every kiss demanding, claiming. Your hands tangled in his dark hair, pulling him closer as his fingers dug into your waist, holding you like you were the only thing that mattered.

He pressed you back against the wall, the cold surface a sharp contrast to the heat radiating between you. His tongue traced yours, exploring, teasing, while his breath hitched with every deepening movement. Your heart thundered in your chest, caught in the storm of sensation he stirred.

Sanzu’s hands slid beneath your shirt, fingers brushing against your skin, sending shivers down your spine. He groaned softly against your lips, the sound vibrating through your whole body. You clung to him tighter, desperate for more, lost in the intensity of his touch.

Breaking the kiss just long enough to whisper against your mouth, his voice was low and rough, “You’re mine.” Then he claimed you again, devouring your lips with an insatiable hunger that left you breathless and trembling.

[chaoticshifter18]

My NON shifter friend shifted and she's in shock

I've openly talked to my friends about shifting for the 4 years I've been in the community, and they've always been skeptical but respectful about it, so it shocks me how my friend just told me she shifted the other day.

She says she woke up at 4 a.m and couldn't fall asleep back again, so she just went on tiktok and scrolled for hours, apparently listening to paranormal stories and that kind of stuff that only pops up on your fyp at 4 a.m (nothing about shifting btw). Without realizing it, she fell asleep, and she says she woke up in a place that looked nothing like her place.

She immediately thought "Am I in a sleepover?" "Whose house is this??", but the room she was in didn't look familiar AT ALL.

She says the walls were paper white, and there wasn't much furniture except for the bed she was in, a nightstand next to her, and a closet in front of her. The closet had a mirror, so she saw her reflection and noticed she was wearing her usual pijamas.

In that moment, she proceeded to touch everything and freak out about how unbelievably real everything felt. She touched her hands, her face, got on her feet and stomped on the floor... Every single thing she did just felt WAY. TOO. REAL. Her surroundings, her own body...

Guys she swears with her life it wasn't a dream.

The realization hit her, and she came by with the idea that she might have shifted. Out of her mind, she got out of the room and explored a little bit of the house. She says the house was huge and felt really modern and expensive.

As she was traveling through the corridors and getting down the stairs she couldn't help but freak out again and again. She couldn't believe it. And to make things worse, when she reached the ground floor, a group of people approached her and greeted her as if they knew her.

"Hey, did you sleep well?"

"Look who just woke up!!"

And she was like "Excuse me, who are you?". (She just thought it, she didn't say it)

Suddenly, a guy came by and KISSED HER, a guy she hadn't seen in her entire life, and he said:

"Darling, are you okay? What's wrong?"

That shocked her, but she just told him she was fine and says she got away from there as quick as possible.

In the living room, one of the walls was completely made out of glass, so she could perfectly see that they were in the middle of the forest and it was nighttime.

Since she didn't know where the hell she was and the situation was just TOO MUCH to handle, she proceeded to walk around the house in awe, and she says she did that for about FOUR HOURS.

Four freaking hours just staring at everything in denial and avoiding everyone.

At some point, she could't stand it anymore and layed in a couch with her eyes closed to try and shift back, but no matter how hard she tried to visualize her room and this reality, she kept opening her eyes to that damn house.

About to cry, se got up, went to the kitchen and sat down, she stayed there for a good hour just zoning out, and at some point, she says she heard her alarm (her CR alarm, cause she had to go to uni).

She claims she didn't even realize how or when it happened: in the blink of an eye, she was back at her CR, sitting down in her bed with her eyes WIDE OPEN and her heart racing.

And that's her storytime...

I feel sorry for the stress she went through, but this just proves to me everything that needed to be proved as my friend was the number one person to believe shifting's just lucid dreaming.

Thanks for reading and happy shifting!! <3