#instead of ridiculing speakers

[littlemizzlinguistics]

Studying linguistics is actually so wonderful because when you explain youth slang to older professors, instead of complaining about how "your generation can't speak right/ you're butchering the language" they light up and go “really? That’s so wonderful! What an innovative construction! Isn't language wonderful?"

[strawberry-nugget]

Katsuki does his own Calvin Klein ad and the comments you see all over TikTok make you jealous!

Pairing: Bakugo x fem!reader

Tags // Warnings: NSFW, MDNI, smut, top! reader, oral (m receiving), cumflation(?), jealousy, a little fighting, LOADS of comfort, Jungkook mentioned ig? All characters are 20+

You're mad.

Extremely mad.

Ac/dc’s TNT plays on repeat from the speaker of your phone, your laptop, your TV, the Main Street screen from the building across your apartment a few stories below. And truly, every single time a replay goes on and on, each screen unsynced, your anger grows even worse inside your already too tight chest.

The reason?

Your boyfriend’s Calvin Klein ad has actually broke the internet.

It’s fucking ridiculous—The whole thing is worse than what happened with Bad Bunny a few months ago.

The comments are all over the place. Messy. Too messy. Too thirsty. Too delirious. Too fucking disrespectful.

You've scrolled through way too many edits. No scratch that. You've only scrolled through edits. With millions of likes, hundreds thousands of comments—that you've spent hours reading to their entirety. The actual video from the official Calvin Klein account has thirty, no forty million likes. Almost as many saves and shares too.

You’re naturally jealous. You knew you were bound to be even if you were the one who practically begged him to say yes to the offer and you definitely knew your boyfriend was the cause of thirst for many people worldwide.

It’s never been a problem until now. You've usually encountered the occasional ‘congratulations to whoever is bouncing on it’ edit, hell you’ve even smiled like an idiot at it, but now? After digging through comments that explicitly say ‘his girlfriend aint even deserve all that’ and ‘damn Dynamight’s gf i said LET GO’ you want to scream. Yell. Get back at him.

You can’t even bear to witness the video anymore. Only because when looking at it out of context, you feel like you can forgive him because of how hot he just looks!

It’s all over your screen; Katsuki flexing his muscles, biceps, forearms, back, thighs, torso. Letting off explosions, pulling the waistband of his boxers down just enough to tease, stomping his hero boots before he kneels completely. All while being extremely sweaty.

Seriously, fuck him and that hero work durability underwear line.

You’ve now unliked the original post out of pure spite. Then re-liked it. Then unliked it again because it felt like you were feeding the beast that's unleashing negativity and pumps jealousy throughout your whole body

You’ve closed the app, deleted it, redownloaded it, and then ended up stalking your own boyfriend like you were a crazed fan girl and not the person who literally shares a bathroom with him, only to be met with the same ten posts on TikTok—yes the one where he does push ups with you on his back and the other edit he has posted of you, even the one and only repost he has that’s of your ‘somebody point me to the best ass eater’ TikTok, where he acted like a feral beast and actually tried to bend you over. 

And then his instagram, where there are only a few yearly hero chart posts that have him as a co creator and like, three actual posts that he made himself. One from his agency, one from a school reunion and one with you smiling next to him, both bloody and bruised after a villain attack with the caption ‘you should see the other guy’.

Back to TikTok now, you take one last look at the ad before you ultimately close it, yes, for real this time, fists clenched like you’re about to march straight to Calvin Klein Japan HQ and file a formal complaint about emotional damages.

Instead, you exhale sharp through your nose and storm into the kitchen like a woman on a mission.

Fine.

If the internet wants to thirst over your man like they’ve never seen shoulders before, then so be it. You’re not threatened.

Not really. Not even a little.

You’re the one he comes home to. You’re the one who knows the exact way he likes his coffee in the morning, the brand of muscle balm he’ll pretend he doesn’t need, the scar on his side he never talks about. 

They don’t know him.

But you do.

And tonight, you’re going to prove it. Prove that you’re the most perfect girlfriend for him, that you won’t let go because someone on the internet begs you to. 

You slam the fridge door shut with the kind of force that makes the condiments rattle. Chicken breast. Garlic. Thyme. That expensive parmesan he rolls his eyes at but always eats the fastest. You’ve got all the ingredients for the dumb TikTok “marry me chicken” and honestly, yeah—maybe it’s manipulative. Maybe it’s desperate.

You don’t care. You've made it before and he adores it.

If the competition is public thirst, then your counterattack is a home-cooked seduction plan followed by a bath with that weird overpriced salt soak that smells like cedarwood, cocoa and sex. Let them drool behind screens—you’re setting the mood with candles and your favorite playlist and maybe even the nice satin robe with nothing underneath if it’s clean.

And it almost works.

It almost makes you feel better. Like maybe you’ve got the upper hand again. Like maybe you’re not going insane over a stupid fucking ad where he literally flexes his thighs and kneels and sweats on purpose. And flexes again.

Until you start chopping the garlic and realize your hands are shaking.

You stop abruptly.

You stare down at the cutting board, knife hovering mid-air, and realize your throat’s a little tight. Your chest’s a little too hollow.

Because the truth is—deep down, like deep deep deep down, where all the ugliest thoughts live—you’re not mad.

You’re scared that you’re not enough. Insecure. Like youve got any right to when you've literally grown up with him. When he’s never even bat an eye to anyone but you.

But you feel like a high school girl again. Standing in the hallway outside your class, so mad and sick of jealousy that fangirls from year one are swamping your boyfriend that you drag him by the ear into the classroom and shove your tongue down his throat. 

And damn, was that punishment from Aizawa worth it when he caught you.

No, now, it’s even worse. It’s not just the girls at school. Not just Japan. It’s the whole world.

And you're so scared that the world seeing him like that is going to remind him of what he could have. Of what else is out there. Of how easily people fall to their knees for him—not in ad campaigns, but in real life.

And what are you?

Somebody who gets overwhelmed easily. Somebody who overthinks. Somebody who can’t even watch a thirty-second ad without spiraling into a meltdown that tastes like garlic seeped deeply into fingernails and salt and the distinct flavor of not enough.

What if ‘animemencracker22’ could cook better for him or what if ‘Dynamightsleftbicep’ could massage his head better when they run him a bath? If ‘gymratgirl4life’ wanted to go out with him more and if ‘corrrrruptedlvr’ wasn’t throwing jealousy fits?

You’re not the girl in the comments. You’re not the fantasy.

You’re just you.

And even when you’re holding the knife and planning the perfect welcome-home meal and pretending like the bath you’re running later isn’t strategic—you still wonder if that’s going to be enough to keep a man like Katsuki Bakugou.

Worse, you wonder if he knows you’re trying this hard, because of your overwhelming need to feel like you deserve someone like him. 

You let the knife drop and suddenly, you’re not hungry anymore. You were never even hungry to begin with. Your fucking eyes are welling up with stupid tears that you dont want to shed. 

You’re not even a jealous person. Save for two or three times, you don’t feel like this over him. And it’s not because you’ve taken him for granted, but it’s been years that you two are together that have worked you into not thinking Katsuki could want anyone else other than you. You don’t want anyone else other than him.

But what if he’s tired. What if he feels youre the same old song stuck on repeat when he could have anyone. 30 million people in the world and you included.

The silence in the kitchen hums louder than any song on loop, only broken by the sound of your choking as you’re trying not to violently sob. The garlic’s sharp sting still clings to your fingers. The oven’s preheat light blinks like a mocking little eye. Your playlist, the one reserved for special nights, is halfway into some sultry R&B Aaliyah track that now feels like a joke.

Your arms go slack at your sides.

This was supposed to feel empowering. Sexy. A big middle finger to the comment section and the edited thirst traps and the “she doesn’t even deserve him” discourse that’s been hijacking your feed all damn day.

Instead, you feel small. Stupid. Still so embarrassingly in love.

You rub your eyes with the backs of your hands like that’ll somehow push the thoughts back in. Like that’ll make you forget the way your chest aches with that special kind of loneliness that only shows up when you’re still physically close to someone but emotionally spiraling into the trenches of your own insecurity.

You glance at the clock. Patrol should end in twenty minutes. Thirty, tops. And you push your lips together, scrunching the corners of your mouth in, pursing your lips and squint your eyes. 

You’ll push through, because even if you’re so extremely jealous, Katsuki still deserves a nice home cooked meal and a hot bath, even more often than every other day, when you stay home to handle the agency paperwork, because of your latest injury after a villain attack.

He really hasn’t done anything wrong, you tell yourself, other than being extremely hot.

So you end up cooking, with tears in your eyes and the most pouty expression and by the time you finish, setting the pan on a part of the stove that isn't hot and curl down in front of the fridge, dropping to your knees to cry your heart out—The door clicks open.

Oh. Shit.

Weighty boots make contact with the floor first. The heavy stomp of post-patrol exhaustion. Then the groan of his back hitting the door frame. You hear the soft rustle of his gloves coming off, his keys clinking in the ceramic dish by the entry.

You freeze—You can’t let him see you like this. You can’t let him be the one who finds you curled on the tile like some lovesick idiot who lost a battle to TikTok.

“Heyy I’m home” you hear and you grunt to yourself, trying not to let it be known you sniffle right after.

“…Smells fuckin’ good,” his voice calls out—gruff, like he’s trying not to yawn. “You cookin’ somethin’?”

You grunt again.

He doesn’t see you right away. But his voice gets closer. Each step across the hardwood is loud and certain and distinctly him. The kind of sound that always used to make you feel safe.

Now it just makes your stomach twist.

You force yourself to stand, too fast, too suddenly, brushing your hands on your thighs then your apron and you try to act normal when your chest is about to cave in again.

Katsuki rounds the corner, still in uniform, gauntlets off, sweat clinging to his hairline, a little dirt smudged near his jaw, where some blond scruff is starting to grow. His eyes find you instantly—and narrow.

“Babe? You okay? Say hi back”

You hate how quick he notices. How easy it is for him to read you. You’ve never been good at hiding from him, especially not when it comes to shit like this.

“Oh—uh, hey. I was,” you say, eyes glued to the counter. “Got distracted.” Still, you force a smile “im fine”

“You don’t look fine.”

You flinch. “Can we—can we not do this right now?”

The silence stretches.

Katsuki exhales through his nose, tilting his head like a puppy, eyes big with inquiry boring in yours as if he’s debating whether to let it go or push. You know which one he’ll pick. He’s never, ever been the let it go type.

“You saw the ad.”

It’s not a question. It’s not even said with guilt or amusement or defensiveness. Just certainty.

You look away. Embarrassed. “Everyone and their mama saw the ad Katsuki.”

A pause. Then a sigh. Then he rubs a tired hand over his jaw.

He walks over, slow and careful like you’re a spooked animal, and you hate it. You hate that he’s being gentle when all you want is to yell at him and fall into his arms and scream into his chest all at once.

His hand lands on your waist. Warm. Familiar. Real.

“You mad at me?” he murmurs, lips pouty in the way you just love.

You shake your head up and down. A silent yes.

“I’m mad at me too tho.”

His brows furrow. “The fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

“I shouldn’t care this much,” you mumble. “I shouldn’t be jealous of a bunch of people who don’t even know you. I shouldn’t be chopping garlic like it’s a last-ditch attempt to prove I deserve you, but I—I just—”

Your voice cracks.

Katsuki’s eyes soften, his lips too.

“You think I’d wanna be with anybody else?” he asks, so blunt it hits like a punch.

You don’t answer. You can’t.

He lifts your chin with two fingers, thumb softly brushing lines across your bottom lip— he makes you look him in the eye.

“I did that ad ‘cause you told me to. ‘Cause you said I should. And I ain’t think it’d piss you off—but even if it did, I’d still be comin’ home to you.”

You swallow hard.

“They can watch,” he adds. “They can comment. They can make all the stupid fuckin’ edits they want. But you think I give a shit about any of ‘em when I’ve got you runnin’ me a bath?”

You blink. “…You knew I was running you a bath?”

“You only play that playlist when you’re tryna seduce me.” He snorts.

Your face burns, but your chest still burns hotter, tighter. Tight-est. You’re not ready to let go of this just yet. A hug and no kiss yet are already making your head spin back to that awful insecure state. You hate overthinking every little thing, but you can’t help getting caught up in it.

“Chicken smells good,” he adds casually. “Wanna feed it to me naked?”

You shove his chest gently. Though when you look up at him, you realise you're still greatly mad at him. “Shut up. No”

“C’mere,” he mutters, dragging you into his arms again. You go willingly, burying your face in his neck, nuzzling your nose too deep into his skin. “I love you,” he says into your hair. “All of them can choke.”

“They’re your fans, Katsuki”

“Yeah yeah. They can choke on my dick”

Oh that—that makes you snap.

“Im sure they’d love to” you hiss, lurching back away from him, too mad at how willingly his arms let you go. 

You want to jab, hurt him just a little. Make him jealous just a tad. Make yourself look like you've got better options than plain old ‘_narutoswife’ in his IG comment section.

He doesn’t deserve it. No, not at all. He just came back home from work and you want to catch a toxic attitude instead of communicating. You just want to make him a little mad over you too.

“Fyi, if you remember, Jungkook did say in an interview that im his type! He called me a strong female hero! Choi San also follows me on instagram” you say, crossing your arms, your eyes shut closed and lips pursed.

Unfortunately, you end up making him mad at you. That was so foul. Especially when he was about to sue Jeon freaking Jungkook for what he said in that interview. When the fuck did you become his type even? And why would he say that on national TV about some other man’s girlfriend?

His eye twitches. Just barely. But it definitely twitches. Great!

“…The fuck did you just say? You wanna start somethin’ now?” Katsuki says, voice low, sharp, practically growling, mouth pushed to the side of his face, one brow raised in desbelief,

Your arms are crossed like a petty little shield but it’s not enough to protect you from the instant shift in the air—his energy changing the moment those names leave your mouth. You can see it, feel it, in the sudden tension between his brows and the twitch of his jaw, in the way he takes one step back just so he can plant his hands on his hips and fully absorb the ridiculous thing you just said.

“Well I am his type,” you mutter, fake-casual, even adding a dramatic upward move of your chin for flair. “He literally said so. On record.”

You double down when you shouldn’t. Because now you’ve committed, and if you take it back, it’ll only make you look desperate. You tilt your head, faux-casual, all sugar and venom.

Katsuki blinks once—slow. Like he’s buffering. Like you’ve just spoken a dialect of petty he never expected to hear from your mouth.

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice quiet in that scary way, “are we talkin’ about Jeon fucking Jungkook right now?”

“I mean, he’s not the worst,” you say, airily. “He’s cute. Built. Has manners and a Calvin Klein ad too! Like you”

“You are not fuckin’ doin this with me—” His voice spikes as he takes a step forward, fingers flexing at his sides like he’s physically restraining himself from hurling the rice cooker across the room. “You’re mad at me for a promo gig and now you’re bringin’ up some K-pop bastard—?!”

You bite your lip to stop the smirk. It’s immature. Childish. And so, so satisfying—ah the sweet feeling of getting your lick back.

His hands fly up and immediately start doing that panicked, half-feral gesture thing he does when he’s so mad he doesn’t even know where to put his anger. “You think that’s cute? You think throwin’ other guys in my face is what’s gonna make this better? You want me to start listin’ all the bitches in my DMs right now? ‘Cause I will. I fuckin’ will—”

“Oh so now it’s bitches plural—”

“They don’t matter!” he barks. But you don’t seem like you believe him. “You’re just mad and you’re not telling me the actual reason”

Your face goes hot, tears rising again. “I’m mad because you don’t get it!”

“Then tell me! Tell me what I’m not gettin’!”

“I want you to care!” you explode. “I want you to see that this hurts! That I don’t feel good enough half the damn time, and now I’ve got people with 800k followers stitching your photos sayin’ how they’d treat you right while I’m in our kitchen  trying to figure out if I’m even the one you’d want anymore if you realise there’s someone better out th—”

“Don’t you fuckin’ finish that sentence.”

His voice goes deadly low.

You glare at him, eyes blazing. “Why not? Afraid I’m gonna be right?”

“No. Because you’re not.”

His chest is rising now, jaw clenched tight. You’ve both crossed the line, bleeding all over the tile floor with your words.

“None of them matter. Just like Jungkook doesn’t matter. I don’t care about anyone else on TikTok and I definitely don’t give a shit if he writes you a song and a marriage proposal and names his next album ‘Strong Female Hero I Wanna Wife’—you’re mine. You hear me?”

You’re stunned into silence. Half because of the outburst. Half because of the fact he just said you’re his with the kind of conviction that makes your skin burn and tingles run up your back.

“…You gonna tattoo that somewhere?” you murmur, trying to deflect your way out of being completely swept off your feet. 

He steps closer, wraps a hand around your waist, nose nearly brushing yours, eyes blazing. “Gonna put a ring on it. Don’t tempt me.”

You blink at him, wide-eyed. His palm feels hot, too quirk charged against your clothed skin “What if I’m not joking?”

He narrows his eyes. “You are.”

You shrug, then whisper just slightly. “…Maybe.”

Next thing you know, Katsuki’s scooping you up like a caveman—no warning, no prep, just two strong arms under your ass, your back colliding with his chest, and your feet dangling uselessly as he stalks toward the bathroom.

“Put me down! I haven’t even plated the chicken!”

“We’ll eat it later.”

“I— but—”

“You’re so mine, and I’m about to prove it.”

He kicks the door open like a man on a mission. Your bathwater is already perfectly hot and steamy, the playlist still humming from the speaker in the corner. You barely notice it because you’re too busy clinging to his shoulders like you’re about to be ravished.

“I can’t believe you got mad at me over a Calvin Klein ad,” he mutters against your neck, lips hot and dragging lower as he sets you down only to start untying your apron, aggressive and purposeful.

“It was a very public ad, and you were nearly naked” you argue, squirming, trying to twist out of his grasp—but he’s already unlooping the neck strap, already tossing the apron somewhere over his shoulder, not even watching where it lands on the bathroom floor “Katsuki, no—”

“Sex isn’t gonna fix everything, you know,” you say, breath hitching when his mouth finds that spot just below your jaw, the one he knows makes your knees buckle. He’s too fast to start pressing hot open mouthed kisses on your neck. 

“Then let’s talk about it” he says, calm as hell. He sinks onto the edge of the bathtub like a menace, eyes smoldering, hands still locked around your waist like you might run. “You said you don’t feel enough, why’s that? What part of us did I neglect that made you feel like this?”

You blink, thinking. Well he didn’t really do anything wrong, he just. Exists. And he’s gorgeous and amazing at everything he does.

Oh god? Do you resent him for being good at everything?

“You’re deranged.” You finally respond, pouting but refusing to look at him while you say it.

“I’m in love with you.”

Katsuki’s palms rub soothingly up and down your thighs, head tilted back to look up at you ever so slightly. He's trying to pull you in closer, get you loose, comfortable. He wants you to drop this ‘being difficult’ act you've got on right now.

You follow his lead, come in closer, until your knees scrape the edge of the bathtub and your thighs the inside of his.

“Yeah but,” you pause for a second, debating on whether this is the right thing to say. “why me”

Finally, you kneel between his legs. Your eyes are locked into his, trying to study him, his expression, trying to find a glimpse of hesitation behind his gaze, even if there’s none. 

Katsuki catches the insecurity in your head, with a simple bore of his eyes into yours. And it’s bad. How he can read you so well, like he isn't confused and insecure at times too.

“Is it cause we grew up together?”

“Well that’s why your dear to me, but no” 

“Then why?”

“Cause you’re you. Simply. You’re kind and fair. Too smart and you’re too pretty. You stand your ground and stand up for what’s right. I knew damn well who I hunched on my back and tried to set off with explosions at five years old”

He catches your chin between his thumb and forefinger, tips your face toward him until you’re locked in his orbit again.

You want to cry again. Be it the memory, or the fact that you've pushed him to say this much about why he’s in love with you. You've got no reason to get jealous over people on the internet. They don’t know Katsuki like you do. They never could. Fate chose you to be the one to grow up a few blocks away from him. All your shared memories together, no one on TikTok could live them out.

No matter any Vogue cover, any Calvin Klein ad, or late night show interview, you and Katsuki are two human beings who grew up together, beat the odds of death together. Fell in love with each other to top it. So many humans in history have had this storyline, they’ve shared their first time with each other the night before setting off to war, kissed for the first time behind the bleachers in middle school. 

“I was so scared back then” you sob. Just one violent sob after another “‘m sorry babe. I'm so sorry for how I acted right now. You're just so hot that I can’t handle it. Can you like, be that bratty little five year old again?”

Katsuki huffs a breath, mouth twitching like he wants to smirk but knows better. His hands stay firm around your waist, grounding you while leaning towards you.

“Well I can’t be five again,” he says, voice rough but fond, lips already pursing as his forehead sticks to yours “but I can give you a small brand new Bakugo”

You let out a choked, watery laugh, but he’s already shifting closer, his thighs spreading so you fit better between them. One of his hands, followed by his eyes, slides up to your chest, and with exaggerated slowness, he taps a finger just above your sternum.

Tap. Then a little higher. Tap.

Then again—until two fingers are softly “walking” their way up, up, up your chest like little boots. You blink at him.

“Katsukiiii”

Tap.

The pads of his fingers rest at the hollow of your throat for a beat before lifting to your chin, tipping your face toward him like you’re fragile glass he’s been carrying his whole life.

He’s pouting. You can see it clearly now—the petulant pull of his mouth, the faint crease between his brows, like he’s upset you made him feel things and doesn’t know how to ask for reassurance without being difficult.

“You sayin’ shit like that,” he mutters, eyes flickering down to your mouth, then back up, “makes me feel like I’m not doin’ enough. Like I ain’t sayin’ it right. And I already suck at this.”

You open your mouth to protest, say you didn’t really mean it when you said that you don’t feel enough, that it was a moment of weakness, just like when you tried to tell him you’ve got options, but he presses his thumb gently against your bottom lip, quieting you, you’ve already apologised. He hasn’t.

“Lemme show you instead,” he says.

His voice isn’t cocky. Not quite. It’s soft—almost shy. Like how it was when you asked him to walk you home a week into UA, like he knows now, sex won’t fix anything, for sure, but the humanity of it, the lack of personal space between you as you groan in each other's open mouths, will help, just a little to ease the pain of your words.

“You’re my soft spot,” he adds under his breath, kissing the corner of your mouth like he’s afraid you’ll vanish off to some hot idol that does fanservice for a living, before he finishes the sentence. “Always been. N’ I don’t want you forgettin’ it. I ain’t leaving you for no one”

His fingers trace the line of your jaw now, slow and reverent. The pout still hasn’t left. You’re not sure it ever will. But now it’s paired with heat, and a pull between your legs that starts low and deep as he finally—finally—brushes his mouth against yours.

Just a whisper of a kiss. All pout. All need. All Katsuki.

You wouldn’t really trade him for anyone, either.

You can feel how badly he wants to be touched back. He always wants to be physical and touchy after an argument. You know how grounded and real it makes him feel, how reassuring it is to him to know he is still loved enough to be touched, despite words that are meant to sting.

You make a move to peck him, only right as this was your fault, and he slowly moves his lips against your own, soft, smooth. Slipping between every hollow space until you can't pull away. Seems like the chapstick you got for him last week has done wonders to make his lips so soft and plump, when they’re usually so chapped; his mouth glides against yours with practiced ease.

“M sorry” he whispers, so faint against your lips, but you still catch it.

His voice stays in your skin long after it’s said, like steam caught between your ribs, not ready to evaporate just yet.

You don’t say anything at first—just lift your hand to cradle the back of his neck, drawing tiny circles at his nape with your thumb. His eyes flutter a little at the touch, and it’s so Katsuki the way he tries not to lean into it. Still pouting, still pretending he’s not craving softness like it’s the only thing that could save him, but you know him better.

You let your other hand wander, trailing along the hem of his work top, your fingertips skating just beneath the fabric—slow, just the way he likes it. And when your hands drift to the button of his pants, you catch that tiny hitch in his breath. Barely audible. But it’s there. His lashes drop, golden. Sun-kissed. His grip on your waist tightens, not to stop you, just to hold on.

“You said you’d show me,” you murmur, your voice dipping low, warm against the shell of his ear. “But maybe I show you first.”

He doesn’t answer. Just swallows hard. And you skip the rest of the sentence ‘how much better I am than those TikTok bitches who want you’.

The button of his work cargos clicks open beneath your fingers.

It’s intimate, the quiet that settles between you. Not awkward. Not even heated yet. Just close. Bathwater is still steaming behind him. The scent of your shared home in the air—sandalwood, white musk soap, the thick smell of chicken being cooked—him. 

His cologne, faded but still clinging to the collar of his shirt. The playlist hums something slow and familiar in the background—Hot like fire, because maybe Aaliyah wasn’t mocking you a while ago—like this moment has its own soundtrack and the world outside doesn’t exist.

Your fingers fiddle with his zipper, slow and smooth. He looks down at you—heavy-lidded, and all vermillion, lips slightly parted, like he’s already halfway gone from just being touched with intention for pleasure.

“You looked so confident in the ad” you whisper as your fingers brush just below his waistband, teasing. “But this is better. This right here. When you’re a little shy for me.”

He exhales shakily, like you cracked something open inside him. And you feel it—something primal and possessive bloom in your chest.

“No one gets to see you like this but me”

“You’re tryin’ to kill me” he mutters.

You smile up at him, biting your lower lip. “No, Katsuki. I’m just trying to blow you away with my insane head skills”

He laughs, a breathy little sound, as his hands move to take off his shirt, softly ungluing his eyes from yours for only a second. You lick your lips at the way his muscles flex, so thick and bulky and by all means yours.

Suddenly, the ad pops back into your head, every shot, every zoom in. You’re overtaken by lust driven jealousy again.

No one on fucking TikTok gets to see the way his abs flex when he cums. You do.

So you work to lower his pants in fast movements, pushing the heavy fabric down until it hits the floor in shuffling sounds. 

Your hands slide lower, palms flattening against his calves, then his hips as you stick your cheek to his thigh. He watches you like you’re a sunrise—warm and tender, grazing where his skin ends with where your skin begins, or running tender, teasing circles all over his tip through his boxers.

His fingers twitch against his thighs, unsure of where to go—if he should cup your cheek, fist your hair, or just hold on to the edge of the tub before he slides down into something desperate.

And when you look up at him from where you’re knelt, his breath catches. His hand finds the top of your head, like he needs the grounding contact, thumb brushing a gentle path through your hair, and his eyes are wide with something soft and so, so red and open.

“Yesssss” he says hoarsely, half-laughing, half-moan “im about to get the best head of my life”

You quirk your brow and pucker your lips as if it’s your turn to pout now, then, you jab “Was it bad before?”

He shakes his head, cheeks already pink. “It’s always damn perfect”

His breathing catches in his chest but by now, your lips catch onto the skin of his thigh, placing a kiss there while still looking at him. It makes him go completely red now, face ears and chest flustered.

You kiss higher on his inner thigh, barely missing where he’s straining against the fabric of his boxers. Katsuki’s knuckles press into the edge of the tub now, trying to keep himself grounded, but his hips twitch when your lips ghost just beneath the band of his boxers.

He looks like he might fall apart already. Lower lip caught between his teeth, lashes fluttering low, cheeks warm and pink in the bathroom light.

Your fingers tug at the elastic slowly—like a question. And he nods, fast, almost frantic.

You hum, and finally pull the waistband down, freeing him.

He’s already hard, tip flushed and leaking, twitching a little in the cool air. And the way he watches you—mouth parted, chest rising and falling quick—is nothing short of irrelevant. He looks at you with hunger, full blown everywhere on his face, like it burns just to feel it. His hand hovers near your cheek, and you guide it up into your hair with your own.

“Keep it here,” you murmur. “I want you to touch.”

Katsuki’s thumb brushes your scalp, tender, trembling.

His thumb twitches as it strokes your scalp.

You press your lips softly to the base of his cock. Not rushing. Just placing open mouthed kisses over his length. Letting the heat of your mouth register on every kiss before you move to the next one. Then again, higher this time. Then again—closer to the tip, where he shudders and grips your hair a little tighter. Your lips wrap tenderly around half of his tip, your tongue storming out for a circular lick before you give him a little suck.

His hips shift like he’s trying to stay still and failing. Then you kiss just beneath the tip, so close your breath makes him hiss.

“F-fuck,” he hisses, hips twitching once more. “You’re—baby, you’re—”

You wrap your hand around the base of him and drag your tongue along the underside, slow, teasing, drawing a whimper from him so small and raw that your thighs clench just hearing it.

“You gonna beg?” you ask softly, glancing up.

His head falls back against the tiled wall for a second, mouth parted, so red in the face. “Don’t make me—fuck—‘m already losin’ it.”

You take him into your mouth inch by inch, slow and careful, tongue flat underneath, eyes still locked on him. You feel his thighs shake.

He moans—a rough, broken sound—and his hand fists harder your hair. You pull back with a wet pop and stroke him slowly, thumb brushing over his leaking tip. “You’re so easy to ruin, Katsuki. One suck and you’re falling apart.”

“You—you're evil,” he pants, biting his knuckle. “You can’t say shit like that when your fuckin’ mouth is on me.”

You grin, licking your lips. “It’s on you again now.”

You take him deeper this time, hollowing your cheeks, letting your tongue drag in deliberate patterns. He groans, head tipping down again to watch, jaw slack. His voice is wrecked. Raw. Low in his throat.

“Katsuki–” you pause, you murmur, pulling off again, cupping him with both hands now. ogling your eyes into his “Tell me i'm the only one who’s ever gonna make you feel this good’

Every movement you make is intentional—little flicks of your tongue, your hand twisting at the base, your lips tight around him. You don’t let him cum yet. Every time you feel him start to twitch harder, you ease back, sucking gently on just the tip.

“Babe,’s all you—” he chokes out, voice ragged. “Never gonna be anyone else but you”

“Yeah?” you breathe. “No thirsty fangirl, no fantasy, no fuckin’ ad? Just me?”

His eyes lock on yours—glassy, wild. He nods hard. “Just you.”

You glance up again. His eyes are glassy, pupils blown. He looks desperate. Like he’s holding onto the last threads of sanity. But this moment is bathed in vulnerability, raw love that makes you want to claim again and again. Katsuki’s had his moments like this, way more than you. He lets you go through with it, he even likes how jealous you are right now, but this doesn’t mean he’s not utterly and completely ruined and under your spell right now.

You kiss his head again, so sweet, and finally wrap your mouth around him once more—this time faster, deeper, your hand working in tandem. He lets out a strangled cry, almost panicked with how hard he’s trying to hold on.

“You’re mine, Katsuki. You know that, right? Doesn’t matter how many people thirst over you online.” You press your lips around him again, drag your mouth up slow, just to the tip. “They don’t get this. They don’t get you like I do.”

He looks down at you again, eyes still glassy. So red. So wrecked.

You take him deeper, your cheeks hollowed, your tongue gliding in slow circles, teasing him at every sensitive spot. The veins on the underside of his cock, the base, as he hits the back of your throat. Katsuki moans, raw and shaky and his hips stutter forward before he forces himself still. The inside of your mouth is so slippery, so warm, he’s literally going crazy with each movement.

“Don’t even fuckin’ want anyone else.” He sounds destroyed now, ruined into a slurring mess as your hand is sliding along his thigh. 

“Let me—let me cum, shit—please, let me—”

His tip kisses the back of your throat, and you gag around him, just a little—just enough for him to choke on a moan that sounds like he’s dying.

You don’t let up. You feel the way he twitches, the way his thighs tense, the way his grip in your hair tightens. He’s close. So close. You hum against him, nodding just a little, eyes locked into his in such an intimate, tender way. You take him all the way in one last time, his tip hitting the back of your throat, eliciting just a small choking sound from you, letting him fall apart in your mouth, with every soft roll of his hips into you.

He grunts. Head lolling back again, so hard that is adam’s apple protrudes enough even for you to see. His hips stutter, and he tries to hold back—but his thighs are trembling, breath breaking. He snaps his head again, desperate to look at you and he swallows now, bites his lower lip in concentration before he clenches his legs, to buck his hips into your mouth.

His hands come to cradle your head, your cheeks, like he’s afraid to let go, like you’re the one keeping him from falling through the floor. And the way you keep eye contact with him while swallowing him down your pretty little throat–It’s a killer.

You back up, worrying his tip between your soft, plump lips and that's it–He shatters. Violently and way faster than he thought he would. Clawing at your face to make you take him in once again; he bottoms out, and you… you take him in easily, like a champ.

Katsuki falls apart in your mouth with a raw, choked moan, hips bucking just once as you hold him steady, taking every twitch, every pulse, every broken sound he makes as his cum spills in ropes down your throat. You try to swallow as much as you can, eyes tearing up at the amount of cum that’s making you choke– Katsuki’s favorite sounds when you’re giving him a blowjob. He’s only urged to spill more, but this time you back up a little, letting him fill your mouth until it spills down the sides of your lips.

“F-fuck. Baby. Fuck.” He gasps like you’ve already stolen the air from his lungs, and he spasms. His hips jerk forward once, like instinct takes over.

Your eyes well up again, tears beading on your lashes from the stretch, from the pressure, from the sheer force of him.

He groans again at the sight—his cock buried in your mouth, cum spilling out the corners of your lips, glistening. His hands cradle your cheeks like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your mouth, the feel of your skin under his thumbs.

You swallow again, letting him ride it out with one last soft suck, and he moans like he’s unraveling from the inside out. His knees almost buckle.

And still, you don’t stop touching him. Your hand strokes slow at his base as you pull back with the loudest pop, letting some of the mess trail down lower at your chin, your lips swollen and glistening as you tilt your head up.

“You came so much,” you murmur, licking a drop from your bottom lip. “Were you that needy for me, baby?”

He groans as he’s still recovering, hips twitching slightly as your breath ghosts over him. His hands finally leave your cheeks, fumbling around, still shaky, down to where his pants are.

“Where the fuck’s my phone?” he rasps, breath catching on the tail end.

You blink up at him, mock-innocent. “Why do you want it, hmm?”

His gaze drops back to you, pupils blown wide, chest heaving as he glares like you’ve just personally offended him by being too hot to handle yourself.

“First, I’m taking a fuckin’ photo of you like this,” he grits out, voice still rough and low, “with your mouth all messy, lookin’ proud of yourself like that.”

You smirk, tilting your head as cum still drips slowly down your chin, your fingers catching it just to suck them clean. “So you can jerk off to it later?”

“So I can frame it,” he mutters darkly, eyes dragging over every inch of your face. “And then you’re watchin’ the ad again. Every second of it.”

You blink slowly. “But it makes me mad”

He nods. “Yeah exactly. Youre watching it.‘Til you get so fuckin’ riled up you suck me off meaner than this.”

Your lips curl. “Meaner? Baby… I was being sweet to you.”

“Exactly,” he pants, reaching for your wrist to drag you up into his lap. “I wanna see you do it when you're pissed.”

You climb into his space, knees bracketing his thighs, grinning into his mouth as you kiss him—messy, deep, still tasting like him. “Careful what you wish for, Katsuki. I might make your dick fall off”

His voice is just a whisper now and wrecked against your lips.

“Fuck yes”

Yeah… maybe the Calvin Klein ad was a good idea.

______

The water’s somehow still warm, barely steaming, and smells like cocoa and the shea butter soap he always pretends he doesn’t use until you catch him stealing it.

You’re settled between his legs, your back against his chest, and he’s folded around you—arms over your middle, face buried in the crook of your neck, breath soft and steady against your skin. You sink into him, muscles loosening all at once.

The bathwater laps at your collarbones. His thumbs trace slow circles into your stomach. And for a while, the only sound is your breathing, synced. The occasional soft swish of water when one of you shifts. The playlist outside still hums faintly, muffled through the bathroom door. Just gentle vocals and low drums. Like the score to this quiet little world you’ve made.

“Sorry I was a dick,” he mutters. His voice remains unsure of what to say in a situation like this, yet muffled against your neck. “I just—y’know…”

“Yeah. Me too. I should not have mentioned Jungkook because people online are asking how I handle all of that” you chuckle, tenderly placing a kiss at the back of Katsuki’s hands when you lift it from the water.

He frowns, letting off a sound of annoyance “asshole, he can shove that seven song up his ass”

“Oop— you listening to him now?”

“No, it’s all over the radio though” Katsuki kisses your shoulder in response. Then again, higher this time. “But I don’t care about nobody. Just you. Always you.”

You tilt your head and press a kiss into his damp hair from the side, catching just a little bit of his ear in the process. “I know, baby. I know.”

And you do. Deep in your bones. The same way you know how his eyes soften and he whines when he’s sleepy, how his jaw ticks to the right when he’s embarrassed, how his voice drops an octave when he wants to be taken seriously. You know him. Not the whored out Calvin Klein version the world sees.

You curl your hands around his forearm and let yourself melt back into him completely, the bathwater swaying at the peak of your chest now. Safe. Soothed. Held.

He squeezes you a little tighter and rests his chin on your shoulder, finally quiet. And if you listen close, you can feel it: the rise and fall of him. The warmth of his skin. The steady thrum of his heartbeat under your back. 

“So” you murmur “wanna talk about that little mini Bakugo you mentioned earlier?”

Katsuki mumbles something under his breath, eyes closed against your skin. He’s mellowed out in the split of a second, but you’re riled up at the thought when your mind returns to it. 

“‘S no use.” He whines, finally, like he’s annoyed “Our kid’s gonna look like you”

“So you'll get a mini me all over again and I won’t get the same? Un-faiiiir! Booooooo” you groan, leaning your head back against his shoulder dramatically. The water sloshes with the motion, and he huffs a tired laugh into your neck, chest vibrating behind you.

“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters, lips brushing your skin. “Like I wouldn’t be fuckin’ obsessed with either version.”

You smile. Small. Soft. Let your thumb glide along the scar on his wrist and then you swallow. Blink a few times. Then nod once, slowly, before you speak.

“Wouldn’t be so bad, would it? A little baby with your temper and my sweet tooth?”

He lets out a real laugh now, low and gruff and warm against your back. “Fuckin’ menace. Our apartment wouldn’t survive.”

“Your PR team wouldn’t survive.”

“Shit, you’re right.”

You both laugh, muffled and close, and when it quiets again, you let your fingers lace through his under the water. His grip tightens like a reflex.

And then, just above a whisper:

“You really think about it sometimes?”

“…Yeah.”

“Me too.”

He kisses your shoulder again. No jokes this time. Just silence and warm water and cocoa steam. The both of you holding that dream quietly, like something sacred. 

In his arms, now, today, midst June, after feeling threatened that strangers online will ever do better than you when it comes to him, you think of you and him, back in his childhood room, watching Spirited Away as Mitsuki would fetch you cookies and milk before Katsuki would try to shove her away and she’d pretend to be knocked over.

“Hey…We’re still naming the baby Chihiro like we promised back then, right?”

He goes still behind you. Like, dead quiet. Like you’d short-circuited something in his brain.

You almost think he didn’t hear you until you feel the deep inhale against your spine, his arms tightening just a little more around you like he’s trying to fuse your body to his.

“…You remember that?” His voice is hoarse now, barely more than a breath.

You smile, eyes still half-lidded, watching the water ripple at the edges of the tub. “Of course I do. You made me pinky swear on it, when Mitsuki said we’d get married and have kids too!”

“Shut up,” he mutters, but it’s soft, affectionate—almost embarrassed. His nose nudges your jaw like he’s trying to hide the warmth in his face. “Was a fuckin’ loser.”

“No,” you say gently. “You were just sweet. Always were.”

There’s a beat. He swallows. You feel it in his throat against your shoulder.

“…Chihiro, huh?” he murmurs, finally. “Still want that? Even now?”

You nod, and his hand floats up from beneath the water, trailing along your stomach, resting just under your ribs. Protective. Hopeful. Like something unspoken is blooming there.

“I always loved that promise,” you whisper, throat a little tight. He doesn’t answer. At least not with words.

Katsuki grins against your neck, and the sound of it, the way he breathes in like he’s grounding himself in the smell of your skin—it’s everything. It’s homely. Warm water. Summer steam. A shared name from a shared childhood.

Take that ‘tojissecondworm222’, not only do you handle all that, but everything the world’s fantasy driven Dynamight has to offer, is yours. 

Always has been.

Always will be.

~All rights reserved: @/strawberry-nugget, 2025. Please do not copy, over write or steal my work.

Likes, reblogs and comments are all appreciated equally

Dividers by @/saradika-graphics

[paz404]

City of Candles

Hanni Pham x male reader [15K words]

Day One: Apocalypse

You're on your couch, controller in hand, when the first rumble of thunder rolls across the city like God clearing his throat. The weather app on your phone has been screaming warnings all week - some massive storm system churning up from the Gulf, promising to turn the weekend into an apocalyptic light show. You're actually looking forward to it. There's something cool about being safely inside while nature throws a tantrum outside your windows. It’s as if, inside your apartment, nothing from the outside world can really get in, can really reach far enough to unravel the quiet you’ve built here.

Your phone buzzes with a text from Danielle: "Hey! Emergency favor? My friend needs a place to crash this weekend because of the storm. Her Airbnb got canceled last minute. Can she stay at your place?"

You pause your game and actually consider it for a moment. Your roommate Jake moved out two weeks ago to live with his girlfriend, leaving the spare room empty except for a bed and some boxes you haven't bothered to move yet. The place feels too quiet without his constant stream of terrible jokes and questionable cooking experiments.

"Who is it?" you text back.

"Hanni! I've mentioned her before. She's traveling around before starting her career. Super sweet, you'll love her."

You do vaguely remember Danielle talking about some friend who was taking a gap year to see the world. Something about learning languages and having adventures that make your Netflix-and-takeout lifestyle seem embarrassingly mundane.

"Sure, why not. When's she coming?"

"OMG thank you! She'll be there around 6. You're the best!"

It's 3 PM now. You look around your apartment with the critical eye of someone who's about to have a stranger judging their living space. It's not terrible - you're not one of those guys who lives like a feral college student - but it's definitely bachelor-pad basic. Clean enough, but lacking any personality beyond your gaming setup and the collection of empty beer bottles you keep meaning to recycle.

You spend the next hour doing a speed clean that mostly involves shoving random items into closets and running a vacuum over the visible carpet. The spare room gets fresh sheets that smell like the lavender detergent your mom bought you in a misguided attempt to civilize your domestic life.

By 5:30, you're showered and wearing actual pants instead of the basketball shorts that constitute your weekend uniform. You've even put on a t-shirt without any stains, which feels like formal wear at this point.

The building's ancient intercom crackles to life at exactly 6:03 PM.

"Hi! It's Hanni, Danielle's friend?"

Her voice has this musical quality even through the shitty speaker system. You buzz her up and find yourself actually nervous, which is ridiculous. It's just some girl who needs a place to crash during a storm. No big deal.

You open the door before she can knock, and—

Fuck.

Okay, let's pause here for a moment, because you need to process what you're seeing. Danielle definitely undersold this situation when she said "super sweet." Standing in your hallway is quite possibly the most beautiful girl you've ever seen in person, and that includes the time you accidentally ended up at a fashion week after-party and felt like an anthropologist studying a different species.

Hanni Pham is petite - maybe 5'3" in the sneakers she's wearing - with long dark hair that somehow looks perfect despite the humidity that's been building all day. Her skin has this natural glow that girls probably spend hundreds of dollars trying to achieve with makeup. She's wearing high-waisted jeans and an oversized cardigan that manages to be both cozy and effortlessly stylish.

But it's her smile that really hits you. When she grins (and she's grinning right now as she looks up at you) her whole face transforms. It's one of those smiles that makes you want to say something funny just to see it again.

"You must be the famous roommate.”

"Famous might be overselling it," you reply, stepping aside to let her in. "I prefer 'locally notorious' or 'generally adequate.'"

She laughs - actually laughs, not just that polite chuckle people give when they're being nice - and the sound does something weird to your chest.

"I'm Hanni," she says, extending her hand like you're meeting at a business conference instead of your apartment doorway.

"I know," you say, shaking her hand and immediately noticing how soft her skin is. "Danielle's mentioned you. I'm—"

"The mysterious roommate who apparently has his life together enough to have a spare room on short notice," she interrupts with a teasing smile. "Danielle was very impressed by your domestic capabilities."

"Danielle has clearly never seen me try to fold a fitted sheet," you say, grabbing her suitcase. "But I can order takeout with the best of them, so we won't starve."

She follows you into the apartment, and you watch her take it all in. Your place suddenly feels inadequate under her gaze - not messy, but definitely lacking in sophistication. She doesn't seem to mind, though. If anything, she looks comfortable immediately, like she's one of those people who can adapt to any environment.

"This is really nice," she says, and she sounds genuine. "Much better than the hostel I was staying at last week in Austin. There was this guy who brought his guitar to the common room every night and knew exactly one and a half songs."

"Let me guess—'Wonderwall' and half of 'Sweet Caroline'?"

"Close. 'Wonderwall' and the first verse of 'Hey There Delilah.'" She drops onto your couch like she belongs there. "It was painful. I started taking long walks just to avoid the evening concert."

You find yourself grinning as you set her suitcase by the hallway. There's something immediately easy about talking to her, like you've known each other longer than thirty seconds.

"So Danielle says you're traveling around before starting your career," you say, settling into the armchair across from her. "What's the master plan?"

"Oh, there's no master plan," she says with a laugh. "That's kind of the point. I graduated in May and realized I had spent four years studying business management and had no idea what I actually wanted to do with my life. So instead of jumping straight into the corporate grind, I decided to see the world for a while."

"Business management?" You raise an eyebrow. "Let me guess: parental expectations?"

"Bingo." She tucks her legs under her on the couch. "Asian parents, you know? They had my life planned out from birth. Good grades, good college, good job, good marriage, good grandchildren. The whole timeline."

"And you said 'thanks but no thanks'?"

"More like 'thanks but maybe later.'" She runs her hand through her hair, and you try not to notice how the movement makes her cardigan slip slightly off one shoulder. "I'm not rebelling exactly. I just want to figure out who I am when I'm not following someone else's script."

There's something refreshing about her honesty. Most people your age are either pretending they have everything figured out or wallowing in quarter-life crisis melodrama. Hanni seems genuinely comfortable with not knowing what comes next.

"So where have you been so far?" you ask.

Her face lights up. "God, everywhere. I started in California—spent a month in San Francisco, then drove down the coast. Did the whole Southwest thing, then back up to Colorado for a while. I was in New Orleans for two weeks, which was incredible but also nearly killed my liver."

"And now you're here because...?"

"I'm flying to Germany next month to start learning the language properly. And then this storm happened..." She gestures vaguely toward the window, where the sky is getting increasingly ominous.

"Germany, huh? Then what?"

"Portugal, maybe Brazil after that. I'm trying to learn German and Portuguese simultaneously, which my brain is not appreciating." She laughs. "But I figure if I'm going to wander around aimlessly, I might as well collect some languages while I do it."

You're impressed despite yourself. While you've been grinding through your marketing job and spending weekends recovering from the week, she's been living like a character in one of those indie movies about finding yourself.

"That's actually amazing," you say, and you mean it. "Most people just talk about doing something like that."

"Most people are smarter than me," she replies with that killer smile. "They understand things like 'financial security' and 'long-term planning.'"

"Overrated concepts," you say. "I've got both of those things and I still spend my Saturdays wondering if I'm wasting my life."

She tilts her head, studying you with those dark eyes. "Are you? Wasting your life?"

It's a more serious question than the conversation has been up to this point, and you find yourself actually thinking about it instead of deflecting with humor.

"I don't know," you admit. "I've got a decent job, this place, good friends. On paper it all looks fine. But sometimes I feel like I'm just going through the motions, you know? Like I'm waiting for my real life to start."

"And when do you think that happens?" she asks. "The real life part?"

"No idea. Maybe when I figure out what I actually want instead of just what I'm supposed to want."

She nods like this makes perfect sense. "That's exactly why I left. Everyone kept asking me what my five-year plan was, and I realized I couldn't even figure out what I wanted for lunch most days."

Another crack of thunder rolls overhead, closer this time. The light coming through your windows has taken on that weird greenish quality that means the storm is getting serious.

"Speaking of lunch," you say, standing up, "or dinner at this point—are you hungry? I was planning to order something before the weather gets too crazy for delivery."

"Starving," she admits. "I haven't eaten since this morning. What are the options?"

You grab your phone and start scrolling through delivery apps. "Thai, Chinese, pizza, Mexican, Indian... There's this Vietnamese place that's actually incredible if you're feeling adventurous."

"Vietnamese sounds perfect," she says immediately. "I haven't had good pho in weeks."

"You know pho?" You look up from your phone, surprised.

"I'm half Vietnamese," she says with an amused smile. "Did Danielle not mention that? Pham's my dad's name."

"She definitely left out some key details," you mutter while pulling up the Vietnamese restaurant's menu, feeling slightly embarrassed. Of course Hanni Pham is Vietnamese. You're usually more observant than this, but something about her presence is scrambling your normal social awareness.

"It's okay," she says, clearly picking up on your embarrassment. "I get it all the time.” She leans forward to look at your phone screen. "Oh my god, they have bun bo hue. Order that for me, please. I've been craving it for months."

"You got it." You add it to the cart, then look up at her. "Well, the dual nationality thing must be cool, I guess.”

"Sometimes. I got really good at code-switching depending on which side of the family I was with." She grins.

"And? Which one is actually you?"

She's quiet for a moment, considering. "Both, I think. Neither. Someone new." She looks at you directly. "That's part of why I'm doing this whole travel thing. Trying to figure out who I am when I'm not performing for anyone."

There's something vulnerable in the admission, and you feel a unexpected urge to tell her that whoever she is right now, sitting on your couch talking about identity and soup preferences, she's pretty fucking great.

Instead, you finish placing the food order and set your phone aside. "Well, for what it's worth, the version of you that's here right now seems pretty authentic to me."

She gives you a look that's hard to read - surprised, maybe? Like she wasn't expecting you to say something that direct.

"Thanks," she says softly. "That's... actually really nice to hear."

The moment hangs between you for a few seconds before another rumble of thunder breaks it. This one's close enough to rattle the windows.

"Jesus," you mutter, walking over to look outside. The sky has gone full apocalypse mode - dark green-black clouds rolling in like something out of a disaster movie. "This is going to be intense."

Hanni joins you at the window, standing close enough that you can smell her perfume - light and citrusy that makes you want to lean closer.

"I've never been in a real storm like this," she admits.

"You're in for a treat," you say. "We'll probably lose power at some point."

"Seriously?"

"Oh yeah. When storms like this hit, the grid just gives up." You glance at her. "You're not scared of storms, are you?"

"No, just... inexperienced." She looks up at you with a grin. "You'll have to teach me how to survive a proper thunderstorm."

There's something in the way she says it that makes your pulse quicken. Maybe it's the proximity, or the intimate lighting as the sky darkens, or just the general chemistry that's been building since she walked in. But suddenly the idea of being trapped in your apartment with Hanni Pham for three days doesn't seem like an inconvenience at all.

"First lesson," you say, forcing yourself to focus on the conversation instead of how close she's standing, "stock up on essentials before the power goes out."

"Which are?"

"Candles, flashlights, batteries, booze." You tick them off on your fingers. "I've got the first three covered, but we might need to make a liquor store run."

"What kind of booze?" she asks, clearly amused by your priorities.

"Wine for sophisticated storm watching, whiskey for if things get really bad, beer for everything else."

"You've really thought this through."

"I've lived here for three years. You learn to prepare for these things."

She's still standing close, looking up at you with those dark eyes, and you're starting to realize that the storm outside might not be the only dangerous weather system you need to worry about this weekend.

Your phone buzzes with a delivery notification, breaking the moment.

"Food's here," you announce, probably more loudly than necessary.

"Perfect timing," she says, but she doesn't immediately move away from the window. "Before we eat, should we make that liquor store run? It's only going to get worse out there."

You check the time on your phone. 7:15 PM. "Good call. There's a place around the corner that stays open late."

"Let me grab my jacket," she says, heading for her suitcase.

Five minutes later you're both hurrying down the sidewalk as the wind picks up. Leaves and debris are starting to swirl around, and the air has that electric feeling that comes right before a big storm hits.

———

The liquor store is busy (apparently you're not the only ones with the idea to stock up before the weather gets nasty). Hanni gravitates toward the wine section while you grab a bottle of decent whiskey and a twelve-pack of beer.

"What do you think?" she asks, holding up a bottle of red wine. "I don't know much about wine, but this one has a pretty label."

You look at the bottle - some mid-range Cabernet that's probably perfectly fine. "Pretty label is a valid selection criterion," you say. "But if we're going to be storm-bound for three days, we might want something a little more special."

You lead her over to a section with slightly better wines and pick up a bottle of Spanish Tempranillo. "This one's got character. Good for drinking while watching the world end outside your window."

"You really know wine?" she asks, looking impressed.

"I know just enough to sound like I do," you admit. "My ex was into wine, so I picked up some basics through osmosis."

"Ah, the ex." Her tone is light, but you catch something in her expression. "Recent?"

"Few months ago. Nothing dramatic, just... ran out of steam." You realize you probably shouldn't be talking about your ex-girlfriend to the beautiful girl you just met, but Hanni seems genuinely curious rather than uncomfortable.

"That's the worst kind of breakup," she says sympathetically. "When there's no big fight or betrayal, just the slow realization that you're not right for each other."

"Exactly." You're surprised by how well she gets it. "How about you? Leaving a trail of broken hearts across America?"

She laughs. "Hardly. I was dating someone senior year, but that ended when I decided to do this whole travel thing. He wasn't exactly supportive of the idea."

"His loss," you say, and immediately regret how that sounds. Too forward, too obvious.

But Hanni just smiles. "Thanks. I think so too."

You grab the wine and head to the checkout, where the cashier is grumbling about having to stay open during the storm.

"Y'all better get home quick," he says as he rings you up. "Weather service just issued a severe thunderstorm warning. Gonna be nasty out there."

As if to emphasize his point, a flash of lightning illuminates the store windows, followed immediately by a boom of thunder that makes everyone jump.

"Shit," you mutter, grabbing the bag. "We need to move."

The walk back to your apartment is like something out of a movie. The wind is whipping hard enough to make walking difficult, and the first fat raindrops are starting to fall. By the time you reach your building, you're both laughing breathlessly at the absurdity of racing a storm.

"That was exhilarating," Hanni says as you climb the stairs to your floor, her cheeks flushed from the wind and exercise.

"That was just the warm-up," you tell her, unlocking your door. "The real show hasn't started yet."

Inside, your apartment feels like a sanctuary. The food delivery is waiting outside your door (the delivery guy apparently decided not to stick around for a tip in this weather) and you bring everything inside just as the rain really starts coming down.

"Perfect timing," Hanni says, already unpacking the Vietnamese food on your coffee table.

You open the bottle of wine while she sets up the food, and within minutes you're both settled on the couch with steaming bowls of soup and glasses of the Tempranillo.

"Oh my god," Hanni moans after her first spoonful of bun bo hue. "This is exactly what I needed. I don't know how they get the broth so perfect."

"Good choice?" you ask, settling back with your own bowl.

"Amazing choice. You clearly know your Vietnamese food."

"I know good food in general," you say. "It's one of my few useful skills."

Outside, the storm is really starting to intensify. Rain is hammering against the windows, and the lightning is getting more frequent. The thunder is almost constant now, a low rumble punctuated by sharp cracks that make the building shake slightly.

"Jesus," Hanni says, looking toward the windows. "Is it supposed to sound like that?"

"That's normal for a storm this size," you tell her, but privately you're a little impressed by how intense it's getting. "We're safe in here. These old buildings are built to last."

She doesn't look entirely convinced, but she's trying to play it cool. You notice her flinch slightly at a particularly loud thunder clap.

"First real storm nerves?" you ask gently.

"Maybe a little," she admits. "I know it's silly, but I keep expecting something to fall on the building."

"Not silly at all. The first time I experienced a storm like this, I spent the whole night awake thinking the roof was going to cave in."

"Really?"

"Really. I was convinced every lightning flash was going to fry the building's electrical system and trap me in a powerless hellscape."

"And did it?"

"Well, the power did go out around midnight, but the hellscape part was mostly in my imagination."

She laughs, relaxing slightly. "Okay, so what actually happens when the power goes out?"

"Candles, flashlights, and a lot of sitting around in the dark talking. It's actually kind of nice once you get used to it. Very... primitive."

"Primitive how?"

You consider how to explain it. "Like, suddenly all the modern distractions disappear. No TV, no internet, no phone charging. You're just stuck with whoever you're with and whatever conversation you can make."

"That doesn't sound so bad," she says, taking a sip of wine. "Especially with good company."

There's something in the way she says it that makes you look at her more carefully. She's got this slight smile playing around her lips, and she's holding your gaze in a way that feels deliberate.

Okay, you think. So that's definitely flirting.

"The company seems pretty good so far," you agree, matching her tone.

"Just pretty good?" She raises an eyebrow. "I'll have to work on that."

Before you can respond, there's a brilliant flash of lightning followed immediately by a crack of thunder so loud it feels like it's inside the apartment. Both of you jump, and then you're laughing at your own reactions.

"Okay, that one was close," you admit.

"How close is close?" Hanni asks, moving slightly closer to you on the couch.

"Close enough that we're probably going to lose power soon," you say, acutely aware of the warmth of her leg against yours.

As if summoned by your words, the lights flicker.

"Shit," you mutter.

They flicker again, holding for a moment, then go out completely.

The apartment plunges into darkness so complete you can't see your hand in front of your face. The only illumination comes from the occasional lightning flashes outside.

"Well," Hanni's voice comes from beside you, sounding remarkably calm, "I guess this is where the primitive part starts."

You fumble for your phone's flashlight and use it to navigate to the kitchen, where you keep the emergency candles. Within a few minutes, you've got several candles lit around the living room, casting everything in warm, flickering light.

"Better?" you ask, settling back onto the couch.

"Much," she says. "This is actually kind of romantic."

She says it casually, but there's something underneath the words that makes your pulse quicken.

"Romantic disaster preparedness," you say. "I should put that on my dating profile."

"You'd get a lot of matches during storm season."

"Is that your type? Guys who are prepared for natural disasters?"

She pretends to consider this seriously. "I don't know. I'm still figuring out what my type is."

“You've really never figured out your type?"

"I mean, I thought I had. But then I realized all my previous relationships were based on what I thought I was supposed to want, not what I actually wanted."

"What did you think you were supposed to want?"

"You know, the whole package. Ambitious guy, stable career, five-year plan, ready to settle down and start checking off life milestones." She takes a sip of wine. "Turns out that bores me to tears."

"And what do you actually want?"

She's quiet for a moment, looking at you in the candlelight. "I'm still figuring that out. But I think I want someone who doesn't have it all figured out either. Someone who's okay with not knowing what comes next."

There's something charged in the way she's looking at you, like she's not just talking in hypotheticals anymore.

"That sounds terrifying and appealing in equal measure," you say.

"The best things usually are."

The storm outside is reaching its peak now. The rain is coming down so hard it sounds like static, and the lightning is almost continuous. But inside your apartment, with the candles flickering and the wine starting to warm your blood, it feels incredibly intimate.

"Can I ask you something?" Hanni says, shifting to face you more directly on the couch.

"Shoot."

"When Danielle asked if I could stay here, did she mention anything about... me? Specifically?"

"Just that you were sweet and I'd like you," you say. "Why?"

"Nothing, just..." She trails off, looking suddenly unsure of herself.

"Just what?"

"I think she might have been matchmaking," she admits with a slightly embarrassed laugh. "She's been trying to set me up with people for months, saying I need to stop being so picky and give nice guys a chance."

"And you think I'm the latest nice guy she's throwing at you?"

"Are you? A nice guy?"

You consider the question. "I try to be. Though I'm starting to think 'nice' might not be what you're looking for."

"What makes you say that?"

"Just a feeling," you say, holding her gaze. "You don't strike me as someone who wants safe and predictable."

"You're right," she says quietly. "I don't."

The admission hangs between you in the candlelit air. You're both aware that the conversation has shifted into more dangerous territory, but neither of you seems inclined to back away from it.

"So what do you want?" you ask.

She's quiet for a long moment, looking down at her wine glass. When she looks back up, there's something different in her expression: more open, more vulnerable.

"I want to feel something," she says simply. "I've spent so much time doing what I was supposed to do, being who I was supposed to be. I want to know what it feels like to just... follow my instincts for once."

"And what are your instincts telling you right now?"

She sets her wine glass down on the coffee table and turns to face you fully. "That this is probably a terrible idea, but I don't care."

"What's a terrible idea?"

Instead of answering, she reaches out and traces her finger along your jawline. Her touch is soft but deliberate.

"This," she whispers.

You catch her hand in yours, holding it against your cheek. "Hanni..."

"I know," she says. "We just met. This is crazy. I'm leaving in three days. There are probably a dozen reasons why we shouldn't."

"Probably more than a dozen."

"So why does it feel like the most natural thing in the world?"

You don't have an answer for that, because she's right. Despite having known her for less than three hours, this feels inevitable somehow. Like you've been moving toward this moment since she first smiled at you in the hallway.

"Maybe," you say carefully, "we don't overthink it. Maybe we just see what happens."

"What happens if what happens is that I fall for you and then have to leave?"

"What happens if we spend the next three days being careful and polite and miss out on something amazing?"

She considers this, her thumb stroking across your cheek where she's still touching you.

"You make a good point," she says.

"I have my moments."

"So what are you suggesting? That we just... go with it?"

"I'm suggesting that we're two adults who are clearly attracted to each other, trapped in an apartment during the storm of the century, with excellent wine and nowhere else to be." You turn your head slightly to press a kiss to her palm. "I'm suggesting that three days can be a lifetime if you let them be."

Her breath catches at the kiss, and you feel something shift in the air between you.

"Three days," she repeats.

"Three days."

"And then I leave."

"And then you leave."

"And we don't make any promises or plans or expectations."

"None."

She's quiet for another moment, studying your face in the candlelight. Then she smiles - that incredible smile that made you forget how to think when you first saw it.

"Okay," she says. "Three days."

And then she's kissing you.

It starts soft, tentative, like she's testing the waters. But when you respond, pulling her closer and deepening the kiss, she melts into you with a little sigh that makes your heart race.

She tastes like wine and something uniquely her, and when she runs her tongue along your lower lip, you actually groan against her mouth.

"Fuck," you breathe when you finally break apart.

"Good fuck or bad fuck?" she asks, her forehead resting against yours.

"Very, very good fuck."

She grins and kisses you again, harder this time, her hands tangling in your hair. You pull her closer until she's practically in your lap, and the feel of her body against yours is intoxicating.

Outside, the storm rages on, but you're barely aware of it anymore. All your attention is focused on the girl in your arms, the way she kisses like she's hungry for it, the little sounds she makes when you trace your lips along her neck.

"This is crazy," she murmurs against your ear, but her hands are already working at the buttons of your shirt.

"Completely insane," you agree, sliding your hands under her cardigan to find the soft skin of her waist.

"We should probably slow down," she says, even as she's pushing your shirt off your shoulders.

"Absolutely," you say, lifting her cardigan over her head. "Very sensible."

She's wearing a simple black bra underneath, and the sight of her in the candlelight makes your mouth go dry. She's even more beautiful than you imagined, all soft curves and smooth skin.

"Fuck, Hanni," you breathe, running your hands over her shoulders, her collarbones, the tops of her breasts.

She arches into your touch, her head falling back as you trail kisses down her throat. "This is definitely not slowing down," she gasps.

"Do you want to stop?" you ask, pulling back to look at her.

Her eyes are dark with desire, her lips swollen from kissing. "God, no," she whispers. "I want... I want you to touch me everywhere."

The raw honesty in her voice undoes something in your chest. You cup her face in your hands and kiss her deeply, pouring all your want and wonder into it.

When you break apart, you're both breathing hard.

"Bedroom?" you suggest.

"Bedroom," she agrees.

You blow out most of the candles, leaving just one to light your way, and lead her down the hallway to your room. In the doorway, she stops and looks around.

"This is very you," she says with a smile.

"Is that good or bad?"

"It's perfect," she says, and then she's kissing you again, walking you backward toward the bed.

You sit on the edge and pull her between your legs, your hands settling on her hips. She runs her fingers through your hair, scratching lightly at your scalp in a way that makes you shiver.

"I can't believe this is happening," she says softly.

"Having second thoughts?"

"No. It's just... I don't usually do this. Sleep with someone I just met."

"We don't have to—"

"I want to," she interrupts. "God, I really want to. It's just new for me."

"What's new? The one-night stand thing?"

"The following-my-instincts thing," she says. "I've never just... acted on attraction like this before."

You smooth your hands up her sides, feeling the warmth of her skin through the thin fabric of her bra. "How does it feel so far?"

"Terrifying," she admits. "And incredible."

"Good terrifying or bad terrifying?"

"The best kind of terrifying," she says, and then she's pushing you back on the bed and climbing on top of you.

The feeling of her straddling your hips, her hair falling around her face as she looks down at you, is almost overwhelming. You reach up to trace the line of her jaw, and she turns her head to kiss your palm just like you did to her earlier.

"You're so beautiful," you tell her, because it's true and because she needs to hear it.

She ducks her head, suddenly shy. "You don't have to say that."

"I'm not saying it because I have to," you say, sitting up so you're face to face with her. "I'm saying it because it's true. You're the most beautiful girl I've ever seen."

She looks at you like she's trying to decide whether to believe you. "Really?"

"Really."

"Even with my hair all messy from the storm?"

"Especially with your hair all messy from the storm."

She smiles and kisses you again, and this time there's something different in it; less desperate, more tender.

"I like you," she whispers against your lips. "I really, really like you."

"I like you too," you whisper back.

"Even though I'm leaving in three days?"

"Especially because you're leaving in three days."

She pulls back to look at you. "What do you mean?"

"It means we don't have time to overthink this or talk ourselves out of it," you say. "It means we can just be here, right now, with each other."

"No expectations."

"No expectations."

"No promises."

"No promises."

"Just this."

"Just this."

She nods, and then she's kissing you again, and her hands are everywhere - your chest, your shoulders, your arms. You let your own hands explore her body, mapping the curve of her waist, the softness of her skin, the way she shivers when you trace patterns on her back.

Time seems to slow down and speed up simultaneously. One moment you're kissing slowly, savoring each other, and the next you're pulling at clothes with urgent need. But there's no rush, no pressure. Just two people discovering each other by candlelight while the storm provides the soundtrack.

When you finally reach for the clasp of her bra, she covers your hands with hers.

"Wait," she says softly.

Your heart sinks. "Are you sure? We can stop—"

"No, it's not that," she says quickly. "I just... can we talk for a minute first?"

"Of course." You settle back against the headboard, pulling her with you so she's curled against your side.

"This is going to sound weird," she says, tracing patterns on your chest with her finger. "But I've never done anything like this before. I've had sex, obviously, but never like this. Never just because I wanted to, without it meaning something specific."

"What did it usually mean?"

"That we were in a relationship. That it was leading somewhere. That it was part of a plan." She looks up at you. "This doesn't mean any of those things, and that's scary but also... liberating?"

"You don't have to justify it," you tell her. "We can do whatever feels right."

"What feels right is being here with you," she says. "But I'm nervous."

"About the sex?"

"About being vulnerable with someone I barely know. About letting myself feel something for someone I'm going to leave."

You stroke her hair, thinking about how to respond. "You know what I think?"

"What?"

"I think vulnerability is brave, not scary. And I think feeling something - even if it's temporary - is better than feeling nothing at all."

She's quiet for a moment. "You're very wise for someone I met three hours ago."

"If I had a nickel for every time I heard that..."

"And what about you? Are you nervous?"

You consider lying, playing it cool, but something about her honesty deserves the same in return.

"Terrified," you admit. "But not for the reasons you'd think."

"What reasons?"

"Because I like you. Like, really like you. And I'm scared that three days with you is going to ruin me for everyone else."

She lifts her head to look at you. "Would that be so bad?"

"Ask me in three days."

She smiles and settles back against your chest. "So what do we do with all this nervousness?"

"We take it slow," you say. "We don't do anything that doesn't feel completely right. And we remember that this is supposed to be fun."

"Fun," she repeats. "I like fun."

"Good, because I'm planning to show you the time of your life."

"Big talk," she says with a grin. "Can you back it up?"

"Give me three days and find out."

She laughs and tilts her head up to kiss you. "Okay," she says against your lips. "Show me."

The next hour unfolds like a dream. You take your time with each other, talking and laughing between kisses, learning what makes each other sigh and gasp. There's something magical about discovering someone new, about the way unfamiliar touches can make your body shiver.

When you finally do remove her bra, it's with reverent slowness, your eyes locked on hers as you reveal more of her beautiful body. She's perfect - small, firm breasts with dusky nipples that harden under your gaze.

"Fuck," you breathe, and she blushes prettily.

"Is that good?" she asks, suddenly self-conscious.

Instead of answering with words, you lean down and take one nipple into your mouth, swirling your tongue around it until she arches off the bed with a gasp.

"Oh god," she moans, her hands fisting in your hair. "That's... that's really good."

You spend long minutes worshipping her breasts, alternating between gentle licks and firmer suction, learning what makes her writhe beneath you. She's incredibly responsive, her back arching and her breath coming in short gasps as you discover all her sensitive spots.

"My turn," she pants, pushing at your shoulders until you're on your back.

She straddles your hips again, and the feeling of her bare breasts pressed against your chest as she kisses you is almost overwhelming. Her hands explore your body with growing confidence, tracing the lines of your muscles, finding the places that make you groan.

When she works her way down your chest with kisses and gentle bites, you think you might lose your mind. She's thorough and deliberate, paying attention to your reactions and filing away everything that makes you respond.

“Hanni," you gasp when she reaches the waistband of your jeans.

"Hmm?" she hums against your skin.

"You don't have to—"

"I want to," she says, looking up at you with dark eyes. "I want to taste you."

She won. "Fuck, yes. Please."

She smiles and makes quick work of your jeans and boxers, leaving you completely naked in the candlelight. For a moment she just looks at you, taking in your body with obvious appreciation.

"You're beautiful too," she says softly, running her hands up your thighs.

"Guys aren't beautiful," you protest.

"You are," she insists. "You're perfect."

And then she's touching you, wrapping her small hand around your length, and coherent thought becomes impossible. She starts slow, just exploring, learning the shape and feel of you. When she finally takes you into her mouth, you literally see stars.

"Jesus Christ," you groan, your hands fisting in the sheets.

She's clearly not super experienced, but what she lacks in technique she makes up for in enthusiasm. She's paying attention to your reactions, adjusting her rhythm and pressure based on your moans and gasps.

"Hanni, fuck, that's incredible," you manage to say.

She hums around you, the vibration making you jerk beneath her. When she pulls off your cock to catch her breath, her lips are swollen and slick.

"Good?" she asks with a satisfied smile.

"So fucking good," you tell her. "Come here."

You pull her up to kiss her, tasting yourself on her lips. The storm outside seems to have calmed slightly, but you barely notice. All your attention is focused on the girl in your arms.

"I want to touch you," you murmur against her neck.

"Please," she breathes.

You roll her onto her back and trail kisses down her body, taking time to appreciate every inch of soft skin. When you reach the waistband of her jeans, you look up at her for permission.

"Yes," she says without hesitation. "Please, yes."

You remove her jeans and panties slowly, savoring the reveal of her body. She's perfect everywhere – thick, smooth legs hiding the paradise you are about to discover.

"My turn to explore," you say, settling between her legs.

The first touch of your tongue makes her cry out and arch off the bed. She's already wet, and she tastes incredible; so sweet and musky and uniquely her.

"Oh god, oh fuck," she gasps as you find a rhythm that makes her thighs shake. "That's so good, don't stop, please don't stop."

You have no intention of stopping. You lose yourself in the task of learning her body, finding the spots that make her writhe and the pressure that makes her moan. She's incredibly responsive, her hips rolling against your mouth as she gets closer to the edge.

"I'm gonna come," she warns. "Fuck, I'm gonna come so hard."

You double your efforts, and within seconds she's falling apart beneath you, her back arching as waves of pleasure crash over her. You work her through it, gentling your touch as she comes down from the high.

When you finally lift your head, she's looking at you with wonder.

"Holy shit," she breathes. "That was... I've never... holy shit."

"Good?" you ask, pressing kisses to her inner thighs.

"Incredible. Amazing. Life-changing." She pulls you up to kiss her deeply. "I need you inside me. Right now."

"Condom," she manages to say.

"Nightstand," you say, reaching over you to fumble in the drawer.

The practicalities of protection handled, you position yourself at her entrance and look into her eyes.

"You sure?" you ask one more time.

"I've never been more sure of anything," she says, pulling you down for a kiss.

You enter her cunt slowly, both of you gasping at the sensation. She's incredibly tight and warm, and it takes all your self-control not to lose it immediately.

"Fuck," you groan against her neck. "You feel amazing."

"So do you," she pants, her nails digging into your shoulders. "Move, please move."

You start slowly, finding a rhythm that has both of you moaning. There's something perfect about the way your bodies fit together, like you were made for this.

"Harder," she gasps after a few minutes. "I need more."

You pick up the pace, driving into her with more force. The sound of skin against skin mingles with your gasps and moans, creating a symphony of pleasure that drowns out the storm outside.

"Yes, fuck, yes," she cries, her legs wrapping around your waist to pull you deeper. "Just like that, don't stop."

You can feel her getting close again, her inner walls starting to flutter around you and you're not far behind: the combination of her tight heat and the sounds she's making is pushing you rapidly toward the edge.

"Come with me," you gasp, reaching between your bodies to find her clit.

The added stimulation is all she needs. She cries out your name as she comes, her body clamping down around you in rhythmic pulses that trigger your own release.

You collapse on top of her, both of you breathing hard and trembling from the intensity. For a long moment, you just lie there wrapped in each other's arms, coming back to earth.

"Wow," Hanni finally whispers.

"Yeah," you agree, pressing a kiss to her shoulder. "Wow."

You clean up quickly and settle back into bed, pulling her against your side. The candle has burned low, casting dancing shadows on the walls.

"The storm's getting quieter," she observes, her head on your chest.

"Mmm," you hum, too content to care much about the weather.

"So this is what it's like," she says softly.

"What what's like?"

"Following your instincts. Doing something just because it feels right." She tilts her head to look at you. "I can see why people get addicted to it."

"Addicted to what? Good sex?"

"Addicted to feeling alive," she corrects. "I haven't felt this... present... in years."

You stroke her hair, understanding exactly what she means. "It's the storm," you say. "It strips away all the normal distractions and forces you to just be where you are."

"Is that what this is? Storm madness?"

"Maybe. Does it matter?"

She considers this. "No," she says finally. "I don't think it does."

You're both quiet for a while, listening to the rain that's finally starting to ease up outside. The thunder is more distant now, rolling away toward the east.

"Can I ask you something?" Hanni says eventually.

"Anything."

"What are you thinking right now? Really thinking, not just the polite answer."

You're quiet for a moment, trying to articulate the complex mix of emotions churning in your chest.

"I'm thinking that this is the best first day of anything I've ever had," you say finally. "And I'm thinking that two more days isn't nearly enough."

"And?"

"And I'm trying not to think about what happens after that."

She nods against your chest. "I'm thinking the same thing."

"What else are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking that I could get used to this very quickly," she admits. "Being with someone who makes me feel like this."

"Like what?"

"Like myself. Like the person I am when nobody else is watching."

You tip her chin up so you can see her face in the dim candlelight. "That person is pretty incredible."

"You think so?"

"I know so."

She smiles and settles back against you. "Two more days," she murmurs, half to herself.

"Two more days," you agree.

But as you lie there holding her, listening to her breathing even out as she drifts toward sleep, you're already dreading the moment when you'll have to let her go.

Day Two: Dreaming

You wake up to silence.

Not just quiet; actual silence. No hum of the air conditioning, no soft whir of the refrigerator, no digital clocks glowing in the darkness. Just the gentle sound of rain still pattering against the windows and the warm weight of Hanni curled against your side.

The power is definitely out.

You check your phone: 7:23 AM, and the battery is at sixty percent. Outside, the world looks washed clean. The storm has passed, leaving behind a gray morning and the kind of pristine air that only comes after nature has thrown a proper tantrum.

Hanni stirs beside you, making a soft sound of contentment as she presses closer to your warmth. She's wearing one of your shirts. Now you can't help but think that you'd like to see her wearing every single one of your shirts throughout the nights.

"Morning," you murmur into her hair.

"Mmm," she hums without opening her eyes. "What time is it?"

"About seven-thirty."

"Too early," she decides, nuzzling into your neck. "Let's stay in bed forever."

"I like that plan," you say, tightening your arms around her. "Unfortunately, without power, it's going to get pretty cold in here eventually."

That gets her attention. She lifts her head, blinking in the dim light. "Still no electricity?"

"Nope. Welcome to day two of our primitive survival experience."

She stretches like a cat, and you can't help but admire the way the movement makes her back arch. Even first thing in the morning, with her hair messy and her makeup long gone, she's breathtakingly beautiful.

"How do you feel?" you ask, suddenly worried that she might regret last night in the clear light of morning.

She settles back against you with a smile that erases all your concerns. "Like I slept better than I have in months," she says. "How do you feel?"

"Like I don't want to get out of this bed."

"Then don't," she says simply, trailing her fingers across your chest. "What's the worst that could happen?"

"We could starve to death."

"Romantic starvation," she muses. "There are worse ways to go."

"Very romantic. We could become one of those tragic love stories people write songs about."

"The Storm Weekend Lovers," she suggests dramatically. "Found months later, still in each other's arms, beautiful corpses who chose love over sustenance."

"That's morbid as hell," you laugh.

"But romantic," she insists, grinning at you.

You kiss her forehead, marveling again at how easy everything feels with her. "Okay, before we commit to romantic death by starvation, let me see what the food situation actually looks like."

"Fine," she sighs dramatically. "Abandon me for practical concerns."

"I'll make it up to you with breakfast."

"What kind of breakfast can you make without power?"

"You'll see. Trust me."

You reluctantly extract yourself from the warm cocoon of blankets and Hanni's arms. The apartment is noticeably cooler without the heating system running, and you can see your breath slightly in the dim light.

"Jesus, it's cold," you mutter, pulling on boxers and a t-shirt.

"Come back," Hanni calls from the bed, having stolen all the blankets the moment you left. "I'm freezing without my personal heater."

"Give me ten minutes to survey our survival options," you tell her. "Then I'll come warm you up properly."

"Promise?"

"Cross my heart."

In the kitchen, you assess your options by phone flashlight. The gas stove still works (one advantage of having an older apartment with gas appliances). You've got eggs, bread, coffee that you can make in your French press, and some fruit that doesn't need refrigeration.

More importantly, you've got camping gear in the closet from a phase last year where you thought you might become an outdoorsy person. That means a battery-powered radio, a camp stove with fuel canisters, and some warm clothing.

You get the coffee started first (because priorities) then set up the camp stove on the balcony to supplement the gas range. The morning air is crisp and clean, washed fresh by the storm.

By the time you return to the bedroom with a tray of coffee, scrambled eggs, and toast, Hanni has managed to make herself even more beautiful despite (or maybe because of) being wrapped in blankets like a burrito.

"You actually made breakfast," she says, sounding impressed.

"I told you to trust me." You set the tray on the nightstand and climb back into bed. "Coffee, eggs, toast, and..." You produce a small container from your back pocket. "Strawberry jam from that fancy place downtown."

"You had fancy jam just lying around?"

"I bought it for my ex and never used it," you admit. "Seemed like a waste to throw it out."

"Well, her loss is my gain," Hanni says, unwrapping herself enough to reach for the coffee. "Oh my god, this smells amazing."

You settle back against the headboard and watch her take her first sip. The way she closes her eyes and makes a little sound of pleasure makes you think about last night, which makes you think about things you definitely shouldn't be thinking about while trying to eat breakfast.

"So what's the plan for today?" she asks, curling up next to you with her coffee.

"Depends how long the power stays out. If it comes back on in a few hours, we can pretty much do whatever we want. If not..." You shrug. "We get creative."

"I vote for not," she says immediately.

"You want the power to stay out?"

"I want an excuse to spend the whole day in bed with you," she says with that direct honesty that keeps catching you off guard.

"We don't need an excuse for that."

"Don't we?" She looks at you over her coffee cup. "I mean, what would we normally do on a Saturday? If we were dating, I mean, or if this was... normal somehow."

It's a good question. What would you normally do? Probably sleep in, maybe grab brunch somewhere, do some shopping or see a movie. The kind of casual weekend activities that couples do when they're still figuring each other out.

"Honestly?" you say. "I'd probably be overthinking everything. Wondering if you were having a good time, whether I should hold your hand, when would be the right time to kiss you."

"And instead?"

"Instead I already know you taste like strawberry jam and make the most incredible sounds when you come."

She nearly chokes on her coffee, laughing. "Jesus, you can't just say things like that."

"Why not?"

"Because it makes me want to do things that aren't compatible with eating breakfast."

"What kind of things?"

She sets down her coffee and moves closer, her hand sliding under your shirt to rest on your chest. "Things that involve significantly less clothing and significantly more of those sounds you mentioned."

Your pulse kicks up immediately. "We should probably finish eating first."

"Should we?" she asks, her fingers tracing patterns on your skin.

"Food is important for maintaining energy levels."

"I can think of other ways to work up an appetite," she murmurs, leaning in to press a kiss to your neck.

The combination of her lips on your skin and her hand moving lower makes it very difficult to remember why breakfast was important.

"Hanni," you start, but she silences you by biting gently at your earlobe.

"I've been thinking," she whispers against your ear, "about last night. About how you felt inside me."

All coherent thought evaporates. "Yeah?"

"Mmm. And I've been wondering what it would feel like to wake up with you inside me. To start the day connected like that."

"Fuck," you breathe, your body responding immediately to the image she's painting.

"Is that a yes?" she asks, pulling back to look at you with a smile that's equal parts innocent and wicked.

"That's a definitely yes," you manage to say.

She grins and starts pushing the breakfast tray toward the nightstand. "Then breakfast can wait."

What follows is slow and lazy and perfect. Morning sex with soft gray light filtering through the windows and no urgency except the desire to be close to each other. You take your time exploring her body again, relearning all the places that make her sigh and arch beneath you.

"I love how you touch me," she whispers as you trace patterns on her inner thigh. "Like you're memorizing me."

"I am memorizing you," you admit, pressing kisses along her hipbone. "Every inch."

When you finally slide your cock inside her, it's with a sense of rightness that goes beyond the physical. She wraps her legs around your waist and pulls you close, and for a moment you just stay like that, connected and still.

"This is what I wanted," she says softly, her hands framing your face. "To start the day with you."

You move together slowly, building pleasure with deliberate care rather than desperate need. It's intimate in a way that goes beyond just sex: it's tender and vulnerable and real.

When you both finally fall apart, it's with quiet gasps and whispered names rather than the loud cries of the night before. Afterward, you stay connected, neither of you wanting to break the spell.

"Now I'm hungry," Hanni announces eventually, making you laugh.

"Good thing I made breakfast."

"You're very practical for someone who just rocked my world."

"I'm a man of many talents."

She stretches beneath you, catlike and satisfied. "I'm beginning to notice that."

You finally separate and resettle with the breakfast tray between you. The coffee has gone lukewarm, but neither of you seems to care.

"So," Hanni says around a bite of toast, "what's the rest of our survival plan?"

"Well, assuming the power doesn't come back soon, we'll need to think about staying warm. The temperature's supposed to drop tonight."

"How much colder?"

"Forties, maybe high thirties."

"That's actually cold," she says, looking concerned. "I don't do well in cold weather."

"Don't worry," you tell her. "I've got camping gear, and worst case scenario, we can always share body heat."

"I like that plan."

"I thought you might."

You finish breakfast and decide to venture out to assess the neighborhood situation. Most of the power lines in the area are down, and you can see utility crews already working to restore service. The convenience store on the corner is closed, but the coffee shop two blocks away has a generator and is serving as an unofficial community center for people without power.

"This is kind of amazing," Hanni says as you walk through the neighborhood. "Look how everyone's just... helping each other."

She's right. Neighbors who probably barely speak normally are sharing generators and hot coffee. Someone has set up a grill in the parking lot behind the coffee shop and is cooking food for anyone who needs it.

"Crisis brings out the best in people sometimes," you say.

"Or the worst," she points out. "But this is definitely the best."

You grab some extra ice and batteries from the coffee shop, then head back to your apartment. By the time you return, it's almost noon and the temperature is starting to drop noticeably.

"Okay," you say, setting your supplies on the kitchen counter. "Time to implement phase two of the survival plan."

"Which is?"

"We build a fort."

"A fort?" She looks at you like you've lost your mind.

"A blanket fort," you clarify. "In the living room. We bring all the blankets and pillows from the bedroom, set up the camping gear, and create a warm, cozy space to wait out the power outage."

"That's..." She pauses, considering. "Actually brilliant."

"I told you I was practical."

The next hour is spent transforming your living room into what can only be described as the ultimate adult blanket fort. You use chairs and the coffee table to create a framework, then drape every blanket and sheet you own over it to create an enclosed space. Inside, you spread out camping mattresses and sleeping bags, set up battery-powered lanterns, and arrange pillows for maximum comfort.

"This is ridiculous," Hanni says, crawling inside the finished fort. "And I absolutely love it."

"Welcome to Fort Blackout," you announce, settling beside her. "Population: two."

"It's perfect," she says, snuggling against your side. "Like being kids again, but with the possibility of sex."

"The best kind of fort."

You spend the afternoon in your blanket sanctuary, talking and laughing and learning more about each other. Hanni tells you about growing up between two cultures, never quite fitting perfectly in either one. You tell her about your job and your friends and your general quarter-life confusion about what you're supposed to be doing with your existence.

"Do you ever think about just leaving?" she asks. "Packing up and starting over somewhere else?"

"Sometimes," you admit. "But I've got a good life here. Friends, decent job, this place. It seems stupid to throw that away just because I'm restless."

"But what if staying is what's stupid?" she challenges. "What if the life you have is just... fine... but not actually what you want?"

"What if I don't know what I want?"

"Then you travel until you figure it out," she says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world.

"Not everyone can do what you're doing, Hanni. Some of us have responsibilities."

"What responsibilities?" she asks, genuinely curious rather than judgmental.

"I don't know... rent, career progression, not disappointing my parents..."

"Those aren't responsibilities," she says gently. "Those are expectations. Other people's expectations."

"What's the difference?"

"Responsibility is taking care of yourself and the people you love. Everything else is just pressure you're choosing to accept."

It's such a simple distinction, but it hits you hard. How much of your life is actually driven by what you want versus what you think you should want?

"You make it sound easy," you say.

"It's not easy," she admits. "It's terrifying. But it's also the most alive I've ever felt."

You're quiet for a moment, processing this. "Is that what last night was about? Feeling alive?"

"Partly," she says. "But not just that."

"What else?"

She turns to face you in the dim light of the fort. "Connection. Real connection with someone who sees me as I actually am, not as who they want me to be."

"And who are you actually?"

"I'm still figuring that out," she says with a smile. "But I know I'm someone who sleeps with beautiful strangers during storms and builds blanket forts and doesn't have a five-year plan."

"That sounds like a pretty good person to be."

"You think so?"

"I think so."

She kisses you then, soft and sweet, and you lose yourselves in each other again. There's something about the enclosed space of the fort that makes everything feel more intimate, more secret. Like you're the only two people in the world.

By evening, the temperature outside has dropped significantly, and you can feel the cold seeping into the apartment despite your fort construction. You've been keeping warm by staying close together, but it's clear you're going to need additional strategies for the night.

"I'm actually cold," Hanni admits, shivering slightly despite being wrapped in a sleeping bag.

"Time for phase three," you announce.

"Which is?"

"Hot food and alcohol."

You venture out of the fort to cook dinner on the camp stove - simple but warm soup and grilled cheese made on the gas stovetop. The bottle of wine from last night is joined by the whiskey you bought yesterday, and soon you're both warming up from the inside.

"This is actually fun," Hanni says, curled up next to you with a mug of soup. "Like camping, but with better amenities."

"Better company too," you say.

"You've done a lot of camping?"

"Some. I went through a phase where I thought I wanted to be outdoorsy. Bought all the gear, planned these elaborate trips, then realized I'm much more of an indoor person."

"What changed your mind?"

"Sleeping on the ground sucks," you say simply. "Also, I like showers and reliable wifi."

She laughs. "So you're a fake outdoorsman."

"Completely fake. I appreciate nature from a comfortable distance."

"Good thing I like fake outdoorsmen."

"Is that your type?"

"Apparently," she says, leaning over to kiss you.

The kiss tastes like wine and soup. When you break apart, she's looking at you with an expression you can't quite read.

"What?" you ask.

"Nothing, just... this is nice. Sitting here with you, talking about nothing important."

"As opposed to?"

"As opposed to the kind of conversations I usually have. About careers and goals and where do you see yourself in five years." She makes a face. "I'm so sick of those conversations."

"What would you rather talk about?"

"Anything else. Favorite books, worst fears, what you wanted to be when you were seven years old."

"A dinosaur," you say immediately.

"What?"

"When I was seven, I wanted to be a dinosaur. Specifically a T-Rex."

She stares at you for a moment, then bursts into laughter. "That's the best answer anyone's ever given to that question."

"What about you? What did seven-year-old Hanni want to be?"

"A translator," she says. "I wanted to be one of those people at the United Nations who wear headphones and translate speeches in real time."

"That's… very specific for a seven-year-old."

"I was fascinated by the idea that you could help people understand each other just by knowing multiple languages. It seemed like magic."

"It kind of is magic," you say. "Being able to communicate across cultures like that."

"Maybe that's part of why I'm learning German and Portuguese. Chasing that childhood dream in a roundabout way."

"Are you good at languages?"

"Pretty good. I'm fluent in Vietnamese and English, obviously, and my Spanish is solid. German is harder because the grammar is insane, but I love how precise it is."

"Say something in German," you request.

"Like what?"

"Anything. I just want to hear how it sounds."

She thinks for a moment, then says something in German that sounds both melodic and strong.

"What did that mean?" you ask.

"I said, 'This is the strangest and most wonderful weekend of my life.'"

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

You're both quiet for a moment, the weight of the sentiment settling between you.

"Can I ask you something?" Hanni says eventually.

"Always."

"What happens after tomorrow?"

It's the question you've both been avoiding, and hearing it out loud makes your chest tighten.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, do we exchange numbers and promise to keep in touch? Do we pretend this never happened? Do we..." She trails off, looking uncertain for the first time since you've known her.

"I don't know," you admit. "What do you want to happen?"

"I don't know either. That's the problem."

You set down your mug and turn to face her fully. "Why is it a problem?"

"Because I'm leaving," she says. "Because this was supposed to be simple and uncomplicated, and it's turning into something that feels... not simple."

"What does it feel like?"

She's quiet for a long moment, looking down at her hands. "It feels like the beginning of something important," she says finally. "And I don't know what to do with that."

Your heart does something complicated in your chest. "Hanni..."

"I know," she says quickly. "I know this wasn't supposed to be about feelings. But I can't help it. I really like you. Like, really really like you."

"I really like you too," you tell her, reaching out to take her hand. "More than I expected to. More than is probably smart."

"So what do we do?"

"I don't know," you say honestly. "But I know I don't want to spend our last day together worrying about what comes after."

"You're right," she says, squeezing your hand. "Whatever happens, happens. Right now is what matters."

"Right now is pretty great."

"It really is."

She leans over to kiss you, and this time there's something different in it; a tenderness that goes beyond just attraction or desire. It's the kind of kiss that means something, whether you want it to or not.

"So," she says when you break apart, "how exactly are we going to stay warm tonight?"

"I have some ideas," you say with a grin.

"Involving the sleeping bags?"

"Definitely involving the sleeping bags."

"And shared body heat?"

"Lots of shared body heat."

"Show me," she says, and there's something in her voice that makes your pulse quicken.

You spend the next few minutes rearranging the fort, zipping two sleeping bags together to create one larger sleeping space. The battery-powered lanterns cast warm, golden light over everything, creating an atmosphere that's both cozy and intimate.

"Come here," you say, settling into the makeshift bed.

She crawls over to you, and in the confined space of the fort, everything feels closer, more intense. When you kiss her this time, it's with the knowledge that your time together is limited, which makes every touch more precious.

"I want you," she whispers against your lips.

"You have me," you whisper back.

What follows is slow and thorough and incredibly intimate. In the warm cocoon of the fort, with the cold wind whistling outside, you take your time worshipping each other's bodies. Every kiss, every touch, every whispered endearment feels like something to be treasured.

When Hanni straddles your hips and slowly sinks down onto you, the look in her eyes is so intense it takes your breath away.

"God," she gasps, her head falling back as she adjusts to the feeling of your cock inside her.

"Look at me," you say softly, reaching up to cup her face.

She meets your eyes, and the connection is electric. There's something vulnerable and open in her expression that makes your chest tight with emotion.

"You're so beautiful," you tell her, because it's true and because she needs to hear it.

"So are you," she whispers, beginning to move slowly.

The rhythm you find together is unhurried and perfect. In the golden light of the lanterns, with the storm sounds providing a soundtrack, everything feels dreamlike and magical.

"I don't want this to end," she gasps as you hit a particularly good angle.

"Then don't let it," you say, sitting up to wrap your arms around her.

The new position brings you even closer together, and she makes a sound of pleasure that goes straight to your soul.

"Like this," she breathes, moving against you in a way that makes you see stars. "I want to feel all of you."

You lose track of time after that, lost in the rhythm of her body and the sounds she makes and the way she looks in the flickering light. When she finally falls apart around you, crying out your name, it triggers your own release with an intensity that leaves you shaking.

Afterward, you hold each other close in the warmth of the sleeping bags, listening to the wind outside.

"That was..." Hanni starts, then trails off.

"Yeah," you agree, understanding perfectly.

"Is it weird that I'm already sad about leaving?" she asks quietly.

"Is it weird that I'm already planning ways to convince you to stay?" you counter.

She lifts her head to look at you. "What kind of ways?"

"I don't know. Bribery, maybe. Really good coffee and homemade breakfast every morning."

"That's a compelling offer."

"I could throw in backrubs and excellent fort-building skills."

"You do build an excellent fort," she concedes.

"Plus, think of all the storms we could survive together."

She's quiet for a moment, and you can see her thinking.

"It's tempting," she says finally. "But you know I can't."

"I know," you say, even though part of you was hoping she might say yes. "Doesn't stop me from wanting to ask."

"What if..." She hesitates, then seems to make a decision. "What if distance doesn't have to mean the end?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, what if we see what happens? Stay in touch, see where you are when I'm done traveling."

Your heart jumps at the possibility. "You'd want that?"

"I don't know what I want long-term," she says honestly. "But I know I don't want to just forget about you when I leave tomorrow."

"I don't want to forget about you either."

"So maybe we don't have to figure it all out right now. Maybe we just... see what happens."

"No pressure, no expectations," you say, echoing the conversation from the night before.

"Just... possibility."

"I like possibility."

"Good," she says, settling back against your chest. "Because I think you might be worth waiting for."

The words hit you harder than they should, given that you've known her for less than two days. But lying there in your blanket fort, holding this incredible girl who's managed to turn your entire world upside down in the span of a weekend, waiting doesn't seem like such a terrible thing.

Outside, the wind is still howling, but inside your makeshift sanctuary, everything feels perfect. You're warm and safe and holding someone who makes you want to be braver than you've ever been.

"Hanni?" you say softly.

"Mmm?"

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"For making me feel alive."

She tilts her head up to kiss your jaw. "Thank you for making me feel like myself."

You fall asleep like that, wrapped around each other in a pile of blankets and sleeping bags, with the storm providing a lullaby and the promise of one more day together when you wake up.

Day Three: Departure

Sunday morning arrives with cruel sunshine.

You wake to Hanni tracing patterns on your chest, her finger following the lines of your muscles in the golden light streaming through the apartment windows. Sometime during the night, the power came back on - you can hear the quiet hum of the refrigerator and see the digital clock on the microwave blinking 12:00 in the kitchen.

"The storm's over," she says softly, not looking up from her artwork on your skin.

"Yeah," you agree, though you're not sure if she's talking about the weather or the weekend.

"I checked my phone. My flight's still on schedule for tonight."

"What time?"

"Eight-thirty. I should probably leave here around five to get to the airport and check in."

You do the math automatically. It's 9:15 now. Less than eight hours left.

"We should make them count," you say, tightening your arms around her.

"What do you want to do?"

The question hangs in the air between you. What do you do on the last day with someone who's about to walk out of your life? How do you fit a lifetime of experiences into eight hours?

"Everything," you say finally. "I want to do everything with you."

She smiles and looks up at you. "Everything's a pretty big list."

"Then we better get started."

What follows is the kind of day you'll remember for the rest of your life. Not because anything particularly extraordinary happens, but because of the weight of knowing it's all temporary. Every moment feels heightened, more vivid, like you're seeing everything in higher definition.

You start with breakfast in bed; real breakfast this time, with the coffee maker working and eggs that don't require camping equipment. Hanni steals bites of your toast and gets jam on her chin, and when you lean over to kiss it off, she tastes like strawberries.

"So what's the plan?" she asks, curled up next to you with her coffee.

"First, shower," you say. "A real shower, with hot water and actual water pressure."

"Together?" she asks with a grin that makes your pulse quicken.

"Definitely together."

The shower turns into an extended exploration of what it feels like to worship someone's body under hot water. You take turns washing each other with deliberate care, learning the geography of skin and muscle and the places that make each other gasp. When Hanni drops to her knees and takes you in her mouth under the spray of water, you have to brace yourself against the tile wall to keep from collapsing.

"Fuck, Hanni," you groan, your hands tangling in her wet hair.

She hums around you, the vibration making your knees weak. When you finally pull her up to kiss her, she's laughing and breathless and more beautiful than should be legal.

"My turn," you murmur against her lips, and proceed to return the favor until she's crying out your name and trembling against you.

By the time you finally make it out of the shower, it's almost noon and you're both wrinkled from the water and grinning like idiots.

"Best shower of my life," Hanni announces, wrapping herself in one of your towels.

"Just wait until you see what I can do with actual food and a working kitchen," you tell her.

"I've tried every kind of food in America. Do you think you can surprise me?"

"Watch me."

You spend the next hour cooking together - and you use the term "together" loosely, since Hanni's contribution mostly involves sitting on the counter distracting you with her legs and making unhelpful comments about your technique.

"You're supposed to flip it when the edges start to set," she says, watching you make pancakes.

"I know how to make pancakes," you say, though you're more focused on the way her towel is riding up her thighs than on the cooking.

"Are you sure? Because that one looks a little..."

"A little what?"

"Burned," she says with a laugh.

You look down at the pan and realize she's right. "That's your fault for being distracting."

"I'm just sitting here."

"You're sitting there being gorgeous and naked under that towel. It's very distracting."

"Poor baby," she says with mock sympathy. "Can't cook when there's a pretty girl in the kitchen."

"Not just any pretty girl," you correct, moving to stand between her legs. "You specifically. You're like kryptonite for my domestic skills."

"Kryptonite?" She wraps her arms around your neck. "I'm your weakness?"

"My greatest weakness," you confirm, leaning in to kiss her.

The pancakes burn.

You order takeout instead, laughing about your complete failure at domestic goddess status. While you wait for the food to arrive, Hanni gets dressed in clothes from her suitcase; jeans and a soft gray sweater that makes her skin glow.

"I need to do laundry when I get to Germany," she says, examining the contents of her suitcase. "I've been living out of this thing for months."

"What's Germany like?" you ask, settling on the bed to watch her pack and repack her things.

"I don't know yet. I fly into Munich, then I'm taking trains around to different cities. I want to see as much as possible before I settle somewhere to really focus on the language."

"How long will you be there?"

"Three months, maybe four. Depends on how quickly I pick up the German and whether I like it enough to stay longer."

"And then Portugal and Brazil?"

"That's the plan. Though plans have a way of changing when you're traveling." She looks at you. "I'm learning to be okay with not knowing what comes next."

"Must be liberating."

"It is. Terrifying, but liberating." She sits on the edge of the bed. "What about you? Any plans to escape your comfortable life?"

"Maybe," you say, surprising yourself. "I've been thinking about what you said yesterday. About the difference between responsibilities and expectations."

"And?"

"And maybe you're right. Maybe I've been living someone else's idea of what my life should look like."

"What would your idea look like?"

It's a good question, and one you've been afraid to ask yourself. "I don't know," you admit. "But I think I'd like to find out."

"That's the first step," she says softly. "Admitting you don't know."

The food arrives, interrupting the conversation, but her words stick with you. As you eat lunch together on your couch (Thai food this time, eaten straight from the containers) you find yourself looking at your apartment with different eyes. When did you stop thinking of this place as temporary and start thinking of it as permanent? When did you stop asking yourself what you wanted and start just accepting what you had?

"Penny for your thoughts," Hanni says, nudging you with her foot.

"Just thinking about what you said. About not knowing what comes next."

"Having second thoughts about your perfectly adequate life?"

"Maybe." You look at her. "Is that crazy?"

"The only crazy thing would be staying somewhere that doesn't make you happy just because it's safe."

"But what if I leave and it turns out this was as good as it gets? What if I'm throwing away something good for something that might not even exist?"

"What if you stay and spend the rest of your life wondering what might have been?"

She has a point. You've been so focused on not making the wrong choice that you've avoided making any choice at all.

"Besides," she continues, "who says you have to figure it all out at once? You could start small. Take a vacation somewhere you've always wanted to go. Apply for jobs in other cities. See what happens."

"Is that how you started? Small steps?"

"God, no," she laughs. "I went full nuclear option. Quit everything, bought a plane ticket, and hoped for the best."

"How's that working out for you?"

"Well, I'm sitting in an apartment eating Thai food with a guy I met two days ago who makes me feel like I can conquer the world," she says. "So I'd say it's working out pretty well."

"Even though you're leaving tonight?"

"Especially because I'm leaving tonight." She sets down her food and moves closer to you. "Don't you see? If I had stayed home, played it safe, followed the plan, I never would have met you. I never would have had this weekend."

"But you're still leaving."

"But I'm not forgetting." She cups your face in her hands. "Some experiences aren't meant to last forever. That doesn't make them less valuable."

"How do you know the difference? Between something that's meant to be temporary and something that's worth fighting for?"

"You don't," she says simply. "That's what makes it an adventure."

You're quiet for a moment, processing this. "You're very wise for someone who doesn't have a five-year plan."

"I'm very stupid for someone who's falling for a guy she can't keep," she counters.

"Are you? Falling?"

She's quiet for so long you think she's not going to answer.

"Yeah," she says. "I think I am."

"Hanni..."

"I know," she says quickly. "I know it's stupid and impractical and completely against the rules we set up. But I can't help it."

"The rules were stupid anyway," you say, pulling her closer. "Who makes rules about not having feelings?"

"Smart people who don't want to get hurt."

"Are we smart people?"

"Definitely not," she says with a laugh that sounds slightly watery.

"Good. Smart people are boring."

"Are you?" she asks, looking at you with those dark eyes that see too much. "Falling?"

You think about lying, about protecting yourself and her from the complications that come with admitting feelings. But looking at her face, open and vulnerable and beautiful, you can't bring yourself to do it.

"Yeah," you say. "I'm definitely falling."

She closes her eyes like the admission hurts. "This is a disaster."

"The best kind of disaster."

"We're going to end up heartbroken."

"Maybe. Or maybe we'll end up with something amazing."

"How can we have something amazing when I'm leaving?"

"I don't know," you admit. "But I know that what we have right now is amazing, and I don't want to waste it worrying about later."

She opens her eyes and looks at you. "You're right. We have..." She checks her phone. "Four hours. What do you want to do with four hours?"

"Make love to you," you say immediately, then feel yourself blush at the words. "I mean... fuck. I meant have sex. Make love sounds so..."

"Perfect," she interrupts softly. "It sounds perfect."

And it is perfect. You carry her to the bedroom and spend the next two hours learning each other's bodies with a tenderness that goes far beyond anything you've shared before. Every touch is deliberate, every kiss is meaningful, every moment feels like something to be treasured.

When Hanni arches beneath you, gasping your name as you move inside her, the look in her eyes is so full of emotion it takes your breath away.

"I love the way you feel," she whispers, her legs wrapped around your waist. "I love how we fit together."

"I love everything about you," you say, and immediately freeze. It's too much, too soon, too honest.

But instead of pulling away, she smiles. "Say it again."

"I love everything about you," you repeat, this time deliberately. "Your smile, your laugh, the way you think about the world. I love how brave you are and how honest you are and how you make me want to be braver too."

"I love you too," she says simply, and the words hang in the air between you like a gift.

You stop moving, overwhelmed by the magnitude of the moment. "Hanni..."

"I know it's crazy," she says, her hands framing your face. "I know we just met and I'm leaving and this is supposed to be casual. But I love you. I love you and I needed to say it."

"I love you too," you say, and saying it feels like jumping off a cliff. "God, I love you so much it scares me."

What happens next transcends anything you've experienced before. You move together with a desperation that comes from knowing this is precious and temporary. When you both finally fall apart, it's with tears in your eyes and each other's names on your lips.

Afterward, you hold each other in the afternoon sunlight streaming through your bedroom windows, both of you quiet and overwhelmed.

"So," Hanni says eventually, her voice slightly hoarse. "We're in love."

"Apparently."

"That complicates things."

"Just a little."

She's quiet for a moment, then starts laughing. "This is insane. I'm in love with someone I met three days ago."

"Two days," you correct. "It's only been two days."

"That makes it worse, not better."

"Or it makes it magic."

She lifts her head to look at you. "You really think so?"

"I think that falling in love isn't supposed to be logical or convenient or follow a timeline. I think it just happens when it happens."

"And it happened to us."

"It happened to us."

"In the middle of a storm."

"The best things happen during storms."

She smiles and settles back against your chest. "So what now?"

"Now we figure out what to do with it."

"I still have to leave."

"I know."

"And you still have your life here."

"I know."

"And long-distance relationships are hard and usually don't work."

"I know."

"But?"

"But I love you," you say simply. "And you love me. And maybe that's enough to figure out the rest."

"You'd really want to try? Even knowing how complicated it'll be?"

"Hanni, I've never felt about anyone the way I feel about you. If there's even a chance we could make this work, I want to take it."

"What if I'm traveling for a year? What if I decide to stay in Europe? What if—"

"What if you stop asking what-if questions and we just see what happens?" you interrupt gently.

She's quiet for a long moment. "You'd really wait for me? Even not knowing when or if I'll come back?"

"I'd really wait for you."

"Why?"

"Because some people are worth waiting for," you say, echoing her words from the night before. "And you're definitely one of them."

She turns to kiss you, and there's something different in this kiss - hope, maybe, or possibility.

"Okay," she says against your lips.

"Okay what?"

"Okay, let's try. Let's see what happens."

"Really?"

"Really. I can't promise anything, and I don't know how it'll work, but... I love you. I want to see where this goes."

The relief that floods through you is almost overwhelming. "I love you too. We'll figure it out."

"Together?"

"Together."

You spend the remaining time before she has to leave for the airport doing normal, domestic things that feel anything but normal. You help her pack, though mostly you just sit on the bed and watch her fold clothes while trying to memorize every detail about her. You make coffee and share a mug, taking turns sipping from it like you're sharing something sacred.

At 4:30, you call a car to take her to the airport.

"I should go wait downstairs," she says, shouldering her backpack.

"I'll come with you."

"You don't have to—"

"I want to."

The ride to the airport is quiet, both of you lost in your own thoughts. Hanni's hand is in yours, and you find yourself memorizing the feel of it: the softness of her skin, the way her fingers fit between yours, the small callus on her index finger from writing.

At the departure terminal, you help her get her bags from the trunk and then stand there facing each other, neither wanting to be the first to say goodbye.

"This is it," she says finally.

"This is it."

"I'll text you when I land in Munich."

"I'll be waiting."

"And we'll video chat when the time zones work out."

"Every day if you want."

"I want." She steps closer, looking up at you with eyes that are bright with unshed tears. "I'm going to miss you so much."

"I'm going to miss you too."

"Thank you," she says softly.

"For what?"

"For the best three days of my life. For making me feel like myself. For being brave enough to fall in love with me."

"Thank you for falling in love with me back."

She rises up on her toes to kiss you, and it's soft and sweet and tinged with the sadness of goodbye.

"I love you," she whispers against your lips.

"I love you too," you whisper back. "Now go have adventures. I'll be here when you're ready."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

You watch her walk into the terminal, turning back once to wave before she disappears into the crowd. You stand there for a long time after she's gone, watching planes take off through the windows and thinking about how much your life has changed in three days On the drive home, your apartment feels different, too quiet, too empty, like it's missing something essential. You walk through the rooms, touching things she touched, remembering the way she looked curled up on your couch or standing in your kitchen making coffee.

The blanket fort is still set up in your living room, and you find yourself crawling inside it, surrounded by the lingering scent of her perfume and the memory of everything you shared there.

Your phone buzzes with a text: "Boarding now. Thank you for everything. I love you."

You text back: "Fly safe. I love you too. This isn't goodbye, it's see you later."

"See you later," she responds, followed by a heart emoji.

You lie there in the fort, thinking about storms and timing and the way some people can walk into your life and change everything in the space of a weekend. Outside, the city is settling into Sunday evening normalcy, but inside your apartment, everything feels transformed.

Your phone rings. It's Jake, your former roommate.

"Hey man," he says when you answer. "How'd you survive the storm? Power's been out in half the city."

"It was... interesting," you say, which might be the understatement of the year.

"Just interesting? Dude, that was like a once-in-a-decade storm. Didn't you have Danielle's friend staying with you?"

"Yeah. Hanni."

"How was that? Awkward having a stranger crash during the apocalypse?"

You think about how to answer that. How do you explain that a stranger became the most important person in your world in the span of three days? How do you describe falling in love during a storm?

"Actually," you say, "it was perfect."

"Perfect? Really?"

"Really."

"Huh. Well, good for you, man. I was worried you'd be miserable stuck inside with some random girl."

"Definitely not miserable," you say, and you can't help but smile despite the ache in your chest.

After you hang up, you stay in the fort for a while longer, thinking about everything that's happened and everything that might happen next. Tomorrow you'll go back to work, back to your regular life, but something fundamental has shifted. Hanni was right: you can't go back to just going through the motions when you know what it feels like to be truly alive.

Your phone buzzes again. A photo this time - Hanni at her gate, giving a thumbs up with a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes.

"Gate 47. Thinking of our fort," she's written.

You take a picture of yourself inside the blanket fort and send it back. "Fort misses you already."

"Save it for when I get back?"

"It'll be here waiting."

"Good. I love you."

"I love you too. Safe travels, beautiful."

You stay in the fort until long after her plane has taken off, scrolling through the few photos you managed to take over the weekend and reading through your text conversation. Eventually, you clean up the living room, folding blankets and putting furniture back where it belongs. But you keep one of the sleeping bags on the couch, and you don't put away all the candles.

Some things are worth preserving.

That night, you lie in your bed (which feels too big and too empty now) and think about the future. For the first time in years, you don't know exactly what comes next, and instead of that feeling terrifying, it feels like possibility.

You think about Hanni somewhere over the Atlantic, probably asleep in her cramped airplane seat, flying toward her next adventure. You think about the conversations you'll have and the texts you'll exchange and the video calls that will have to substitute for being together.

It won't be easy. Long-distance relationships require work and patience and faith that what you have is worth the difficulty. But lying there in the dark, remembering the way she looked at you when she said she loved you, you know it will be worth it.

Your phone buzzes one last time. "Somewhere over the ocean. Can't sleep. Thinking about our storm."

"Think we'll have another one?" you text back, not sure if she's still awake to receive it.

The response comes immediately: "I'm counting on it."

You fall asleep smiling, and you dream of storms and girls who taste like adventure and the way some weekends can change your entire life.

Three days. It took three days for a stranger to become the most important person in your world. Three days to fall in love and decide to fight for something that should be impossible.

But as you've learned, the best things usually happen during storms.

[esote-rika]

lose some, win some | Spencer Reid Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!Reader Category: Hurt/Comfort, Smut 18+, MDNI Summary: COLLEGE AU! When your debate team loses the national championship, you and Spencer return to your shared room and find a productive way to take out your frustrations. Content: Waldorf!Reader is a sore loser, lots of dialogue in the beginning, Sassy!Spencer, some talk of misogyny, Spencer makes up for it by being a munch (so f receiving oral), virgin!Spencer but he’s also a little shit, they are both little shits but it’s cute I swear, handjob, raw p in v but reader mentions she is on the pill, creampies, multiple orgasms for both of them (they’re frustrated and horny give them a break) Word count: 4.8k (it's porn with a plot for once) A/N: Not really frenemies or rivals, they’re just really angry young adults. Idk what Spencer’s actual age was in college, but he studied several times so for this fic, he’s on his third degree and is 21. If the debate stuff is incorrect, I'm sorry. I did do some research but there's so many different rules and styles lmfao. My friend who competes says it’s fine and understandable so :) also massive thanks to @just-call-me-by-yn @mggslover and @notlongtolove for helping me brainstorm and @wheresmacoffee because she was there JK  ILY ANDY their banter during the filthy part is for you <3.

Spencer Reid doesn’t particularly care about the prestige that comes with winning. Most people crave it for the validation, or because it’s another impressive thing they can slap onto their resumes, but being a genius his entire life allows him not to worry about that. His academics speak for themselves. He doesn’t need to pad it with extracurriculars. Instead, he enjoys the skills that are honed from debate—learning to listen to arguments, finding the perfect way to rebut, memorization and reviewing with like minded individuals. The university team is a well oiled machine composed of four people— him on his third degree, two other male juniors, and you, the only woman.

Over the span of two semesters, he’s memorized the quirks of his teammates. It’s essential to building rapport, after all, and he’s eager to get something good out of this. Something less academic, and more social. Friends, perhaps. While he’s formed a bond with the other members, you have always been an enigma. Stoic and ambitious, you remind him of a statue. Cold and oh so beautiful. You’ve often kept to yourself. And after several rejected attempts at friendship, he’s learned to just observe from afar.

He knows from experience that observing allows you deep insight into people, and so he knows after two semesters that you’re perhaps the most competitive out of the entire team, the most hungry for a win. This drive, he suspects, comes from a deeply rooted desire to prove yourself, though he’s unsure why. What else do you have to prove? You have everything, as far as he’s concerned. Keenly intelligent, beautiful, with a circle of friends that adore you. You aren’t like him, who has to sink his claws deep into this debate team in order to get a dose of social interaction. No, you have a life, no matter how marblesque you may seem.

And yet, somehow it’s still not enough for you.

He thinks it’s utterly ridiculous, and absolutely fascinating.

The weekend of nationals is taxing. You’ve been fighting for the opener role since the semis, but it would require too much adjustment, which no one is willing to risk so close to nationals. Not only does he not want to give up his spot, he also knows how ruthless you can be as a rebuttal speaker. He's meek, and you have a tendency to be aggressive, it's why the original roles go so well. 

Your adviser agreed, and there’s been tension ever since. 

To make matters worse, hotel arrangements somehow have placed both of you in the same room. The force of your resentment is palpable even to a normally clueless guy like him. Distracting. Pages being turned in your exaggerated annoyance. He’d complain of dramatics, but he doesn’t want to start anything. 

The fact that you’re rooming together also doesn’t help him. Sure, there are different beds, small twin mattresses on either side of the room, but still. Proximity to a woman his age has him anxious for reasons entirely unrelated to nationals. 

So when you lose the championship, his concern for your reaction behind doors overwhelms the regret of losing. 

No one is happy with the results. It is obvious from the set of his jaw, the tenseness of your shoulders. Spencer tries to calm down, accept defeat with a modicum of grace, at least in front of other people. He can tell the rest of the team is trying too, but quite unconvincingly. Onstage, accepting the medals for second place—mockingly silver, and no trophies—the team’s smiles are forced, plastic. 

Back to the hotel rooms are a different story. When you slam the hotel door shut, it echoes down the hall and makes even your debate adviser flinch. It would have made Spencer flinch too, if he hadn't already expected it. He's grown accustomed to how bad of a loser you can be. Like a tornado, your anger spares no one from its destruction. It is in these moments that your stoic resolve crumbles, no longer unfeeling, but rather fully human. Hurtful. Ruthless Unfortunately for him, he's directly in your line of fire.

He catches bits and pieces of your muttered diatribes. He’s used to those too. Normally, he would have ignored them. Losing sucks the energy out of a person, regardless of how uncompetitive he is. Besides, your ranting is mostly harmless, until one sentence snags his attention.

“— knew I should have been the opening speaker —”

He is clawing at his tie, trying desperately to get it off, but the words make him stop immediately. He whirls around, brows furrowed, “What?”

You pause as well, “What?”

“What did you say about being the opening speaker?” He watches you roll your eyes. It does nothing to calm the bitterness in the back of his throat. The normal song and dance goes like this: he’d say a string of words in an attempt to soothe the fire burning in your nerves, and you'd say something so vitriolic he'd refuse to speak to you for the rest of your time together. 

But today, having just lost the biggest championship after working so hard, he's a short fuse and your words are incendiary.

“I said I should have done it, like I asked—”

“Ah, as usual, you're mad that you didn't get what you wanted.” 

An offended scoff. He's almost proud he managed to pull that out of you. “You take too long—”

“Nationals isn't the time to suddenly alter the roles,” he tells you, shaking his head. He manages to loosen the tie, finally, tossing it on his bed with so much aggression it misses the mattress and lands limply on the floor, “I've always been the opening speaker.”

“Yes, and one would think that after going through so many debate competitions,  you would learn to be more succinct,” you snap, shoes making harsh clacks against the tiled floor, “The goal isn't to let us know you're the smartest person in the room, Spencer, it's to set up the tone and groundwork of—”

“I don't need you to lecture me about being the opening,” he interrupts, “I know what my role requires of me.”

“Do you?” Eyes flashing, you walk to him until you're almost chest to chest, “Because we still lost.”

“And you blaming me?” he hisses, leaning down. He hates doing this, stooping to your level of pettiness. Normally, he would choose to be the bigger person, refusing your verbal sparring; he likes to focus his energy on the actual debate, the opposing team, not his own teammates. But your words cut deeper than normal; it isn't the fault the team lost, that's just a flat out lie, “We advised you multiple times to memorize the statistics—”

“Something you're better at!” You look physically pained to admit his superiority, but the words spill anyway, “You'd be so much better to do the rebuttals since you have your stupid photographic memory, and I can set the tone better, but nobody on this little boys club ever listens to me!”

He's surprised at the choked tone your voice has taken. In his mind, you're a complete equal—you made it to the team through hard work and impeccable skills, like the rest of them did, after all. It didn't matter that you are a woman to him, so of course his instinct is to deny. “That’s not true.” but even his voice sounds weak. 

How would he know if it’s not true? He’s never been in your shoes before, never had to reckon with what comes with being the only woman in a team of men.

“Isn’t it?” he flinches at the venom in your voice, “You all act like I'm an afterthought—I get the shittiest positions even when I know I can be more effective in a different one, no one ever asks me for strategy, hell, you never invite me to your stupid chess games.”

His mouth opens and closes foolishly, latching on to the one thing he has a full response to, “I thought you hate chess.”

A sharp laugh, petulant and bitter, “I do, but it would have been nice to be included.”

He doesn’t know what to say. You’ve turned around, yanking off your pristine maroon blazer so roughly he’s afraid it might rip. The silence that grows makes him itch, hands balling into fists as he tries to think of what to do. Social dynamics have always been a thing of mystery to him. 

He wonders if he is part of this problem. He’s no stranger to feeling different and on the outs, and it pains him to think that he inadvertently caused someone else to feel that same, unpleasant exclusion.

But, no. Quickly, he recalls every single time he’s tried to include you—a museum trip that you’d declined because you had a party you wanted to attend. His extra tickets to the Nutcracker.

“That’s not true,” his voice is firm now, following you until he’s standing right behind. Lavender hits his nose and his brain registers the scent of your shampoo. Definitely too close if he can smell that, but he refuses to back away, intent on getting his point across, “That’s not true, I’ve tried to— you were always too busy.”

“What, I’m a liar now?” you spin around, pretty features twisted to somehow express both anger and hurt. He almost falters. Almost. 

But he’s too worked up, even though he knows he should back off, to not trivialize your experiences in order to defend himself. He should know better than this, but the sting of your accusation spurs him on. So he pushes, eyes narrowing, “Last year, September 14, 21, and 29, I invited you to come with us for several casual chess tournaments, you declined all invitations because you claimed you hated chess. October 29th, I told you about the new exhibit they were displaying—”

“It was Halloween weekend, I already had plans—”

“December 19th, I offered you Nutcracker tickets and you said you’d already seen it—”

“I have,” your voice has grown quiet now, and if he stops speaking for a single moment to look, your features have relaxed into something gentler. But he’s on a roll, and you have always been right about things; his inability to be succinct is one of them.

“Even this year, I invited you to study multiple times, but you’ve always had prior plans,” the words are spoken with neutrality. He isn’t even angry anymore, just eager to list everything down and let you know how hard he’s tried with you. Even after the numerous rejections, he’s made an effort, but of course, you have other friends, other plans outside your nerdy debate team. He’s never held that against you, but if you wanted to point fingers, he has the means to defend himself. And sure, he wants to prove you wrong on some level too, but that’s the lesser point. “Maybe if you stopped acting like you’re better than me, and just accepted, you wouldn’t be feeling so excluded.”

“I don’t act like I’m better than you.”

“You just said you would have made a better opening speaker.”

You scoff, “Oh my god, you’re infuriating, I can’t believe I’m stuck with you!”

Spencer bristles at that, “I’m giving you the facts, it’s not my fault you can’t handle them.” he says, leaning closer, trying to make her see his point, “You’re always so closed off and the other guys have just given up trying. Maybe if you—”

“What? If I smiled more? Acted less like a bitch?” you sneer, eyes narrowed dangerously, “I thought a genius like you would know better than to use misogynistic language like that.”

“Wha— no! Don’t put words in my mouth.” Spencer replies, shaking his head. The conversation is devolving into something dangerous, the air crackling with something electric. He assumes it’s anger. They will never get anywhere, so he sighs, softening slightly, “I never said that. I’m just pointing out that you weren’t blameless in this, you know?”

You’re silent. He watches you, takes in how the resentment in your eyes have been dulled by something more contemplative.

He continues, “Listen, I’m sorry if we’ve made you feel like you were on the outs. I’m sure we have to do so much reflection as a team and as individuals about how we treat each other, but it’s unfair to say that we never include you when I have actively been making efforts to—”

Your lips are upon him. 

That’s inaccurate. 

You are upon him, arms flung around his neck, body pressed flush against his. He feels the entire world tilt, and he’s unsure if it’s because you’re pulling him down or because your lips are so pillowy he’s instantly eager for more. Wants it like a man starved. Needs it, needs more, but his body betrays him. Whether it’s his inexperience or surprise or a combination of both. He freezes, blinking rapidly at the sight of you. Eyes shut, and face so close to him; so, so close he can count each individual eyelash, see the tiny freckle on your eyelid that gets hidden if your eyes are open.

And then you're gone. The freckle disappears as you look at him with wide eyed mortification. 

“Shit, Spencer, I—”

It’s his lips that cut you off this time, seeking out the velvety warmth of your mouth. Your lips part under his, and he registers a sound, soft and whining. It takes him a moment to realize it came from him, from the back of his throat and muffled by your lips and tongue and oh you’re both falling.

Literally. He must have leaned too far into you; you’re suddenly collapsing, forcing him down because your arms have him in a vice grip and he’s too busy chasing after your lips. The next thing he knows is he’s on top of you and you’re sprawled on the bed beneath him. Time stands still; he’s painfully aware of how cliche that is, but every sense of eloquence seems to have been expelled from his brain as he takes you in; lips swollen and wet from his kisses, pupils blown wide. Every breath you take pushes your chest up against his, and he can feel your heart thrumming against his body. 

“Well, that was one way of shutting you up,” you chuckle with a cockiness that makes his heart speed up, though it isn’t borne out of embarrassment. Every single physiological effect of your body is evidence that you’re enjoying this, telling him you’re just as worked up as he is. The breathiness in your voice, the quickness of your heartbeat. 

The fact that you’re pulling him down again, legs hooking around his hips. He surrenders to it, lips meeting yours once again, deeper and more desperate this time.

He closes his eyes, relishing this, kissing you, touching you, an act he had believed is reserved for attractive jocks and charismatic art nerds. Not him, quiet and lanky, shifting to avoid his angular bones from digging into you, and to place himself more comfortably on the bed. Inexperienced, ungainly, and yet here he is, his tongue pushing into your mouth in his first forays into something that his peers have experienced years ago.

Spencer Reid isn’t used to being the one behind, doing the catching up. Child prodigy, genius, the words aren’t meaningless. He’s been ahead academically—which, up until this point, has been his whole life. But feeling warm lips beneath his own has him reconsidering some of his life choices. 

The kiss is messy. Sloppy from his clumsy attempts to keep up with your eagerness. You’re tugging at something, and he realizes it’s to untuck the rest of the crisp shirt you’ve donned for the debate tournament out from your skirt. His hands settle on your waist, finding smooth, heated skin from where your shirt has ridden up. Careful fingers help push it up, burying under the fabric until his palms are mapping out the slopes of your body. 

Soft. So damn soft. 

Not cold marble after all. He theorizes you must be soft everywhere, and he decides to test it out with his lips, laving kisses along your jaw, down the sweet, musky skin of your neck where your perfume still lingers. Instincts take over and he allows himself a taste, tongue darting out. You shudder, so he does it again, greedy for your pretty moans and gasps. 

He can’t help the smile that tugs at his lips, “Thought you were mad at me?” he mumbles, trailing his kisses down the column of your throat. 

You’re all mhms and ohhhs right now, so far from the usual image you present to the world, a preppy, manicured woman who wrestles for control over everything. You must hate this, he thinks, being beneath him physically, caged within his arms which are deceptively strong for how fragile he looks. 

“Shut up,” you grumble.

“Make me.” His grin is dopey when he lifts his head to meet her gaze.

Something brushes against his crotch, and now he’s the one gasping, jerking in surprise at the friction. You’ve slotted your thigh between his, and his traitorous body responds by grinding down on it shamelessly. The look on your face is smug, triumphant.

“Huh,” saccharine and mocking, you blink up at him innocently, “That was easier than I thought.”

His head drops to your neck again, but he isn’t kissing you anymore. Just open mouthed breathing as he rubs himself on your thigh, hands tightening on your sides, “Mhm.”

“Are you gonna come? Spencer, I haven’t even touched you yet.”

He sinks his teeth into your flesh to fight the needy whines because yes, he’s so embarrassingly close and you’re both still fully dressed. He hears a hiss, and he backs off immediately, murmuring apologies, “Didn’t mean to—”

“‘S okay,” you tilt your head back, give him more access to your neck, “Just don’t leave marks.”

Permission to bite. He gulps, heart beating wildly, before ducking back down. Chapped lips run over your neck, finding a soft spot to bite, forcing himself to soften the way his teeth sink into your skin. All the while rubbing himself on your thigh because it’s probably the closest thing to heaven a man such as him will ever experience. 

He hears your laughter, your mocking cooes of, “You’re so fucking needy” but he can’t bring himself to care.

You’re correct, he decides, as you usually are. He’s needy, desperately so, eagerly chasing the delicious pleasure of dry humping your thigh. 

“Hold on, Spencer.”

You push him back gently. A whine rips from his throat, “Mhm—why?”

He gets his answer soon enough. Your hands undo his belt and he swears this sets his whole body on fire. Nobody’s ever seen him like this. Never has another person touched him so intimately, seen him so out of control, so brainless. He’s babbling incoherently as your hand strokes up and down his length, his hips rutting into your hand. It’s out of sync. Two dancers on entirely different rhythms.

Your laughter rings in his ears, one hand tangled in his hair as the other does unspeakable, tantalizing things to his aching cock. 

“Mhm, can’t— I’m gonna—” and he’s spilling into your hand, hot, viscous liquid overflowing from your hand and staining your skirt, “Ah, shit.”

He collapses against you, head on the crook of your shoulder as he tries to catch his breath. “‘M sorry, I’ll– I’ll pay for your dry cleaning.”

Your chest shakes as you laugh, “Would you? I think you owe me more than that.” The heat in your voice makes his breath catch in his throat.

Soft kisses press upon your neck as he gathers his thoughts, willing his brain to work again. Anatomy, female anatomy. Female pleasure. What does he know about this? A lot, surprisingly, though mostly from books. Mostly in theory, but that’s a start. He can put them to practice right now. His hands drag down your sides until they catch the waistband of your skirt. “May I?”

“Okay.”

He pulls gently, exposing the rest of your thighs and legs. Honey brown eyes devour the expanse of your skin, hands clutching at the softness. He marvels at the way your flesh accepts his own, bright red splotches imprinted from his fingertips.   

He thinks of poetry, the uncountable amount of words and phrases written to immortalize women and love and sex, and he finds himself wishing he has the skill to compose something as beautiful, something worthy of you right now, radiant and half naked and somehow all his. 

But he is no poet, so he touches his lips upon your body instead. Pretty words will escape him, but his lips can speak even without them, he’ll make sure of it. He kisses down your abdomen, making sure to pay attention to every hidden freckle and birthmark he comes across. Your reactions make him feel drunk, to the point of affecting him physically. Messier kisses. Hands tugging and nearly ripping the lace of your panties because he’s unaware of his own strength. 

“So pretty,” he mumbles, “So pretty.” It’s all he can repeat, but then his tongue lands on your slick heat and suddenly words are forgotten in favor of vague groaning. Because how can he accurately describe the sensation of this? Tasting you. God how has he gone so long without this? Your nails scraping his scalp, his fingers sinking into your thighs as he keeps you still. He’s halfway off the bed, legs dangling off the edge, your thighs squeezing his face. 

There’s nowhere else he would rather be. 

He laps at your folds like a mad man, tongue pressed flat and dragging up slowly to get as much of you in his mouth as possible. His feet find the floor, allowing himself more stability to once again rub his growing erection against a solid object. The poor mattress is going to be ruined once they’re done.

“Faster,” you gasp, jerking your hips into his face, “Spencer— oh, yeah like that!”

Spencer Reid is a quick study, and when he hears the positive reactions, he doubles down until he feels you convulse against his tongue. You jerk so violently he has to hold you down. He pushes his tongue past your entrance experimentally, and feels you tug roughly on his hair in response, gasping his name and God’s name in slurred phrases as you ride out your high.

It’s the hottest damn thing he’s ever experienced.

 “Jesus Christ,” you gasp, and he has to repeat that ridiculous sentence again, because it’s true and he feels you deserve it.

“You’re so pretty.” He fears you might be some kind of magnet, because his lips keep getting drawn back to your skin. He lets his kisses travel up your hip bone, before grinning up at you, “Even when you’re being insufferable, you’re still so beautiful.”

“Gee thanks,” you huff, pulling at his arm, “How romantic, I’m swooning.”

“Might not be swooning, but you did just come on my face.” brilliant rows of teeth flash at you as he smiles smugly.

“Asshole.”

“Is that how you say thank you?” he drags his body up lazily, draping himself over you.

“I’m not— wait, are you hard again?”

“Uh…”

“Needy, needy boy.” you pull him down to you, and he almost protests, his chin and mouth still covered with your slick. But you don’t seem to care, so he follows your lead, God at this point he would follow you anywhere at all. You’re shifting beneath him, and the next thing he knows is your legs are wrapped around his waist again, your heat completely exposed and pressing against his cock.

“Mhm,” he pulls back, eyes wide, “I—”

“What?” you whisper, lifting your head to continue giving him kisses, teeth playfully nipping at his jaw, “It’s fine, I’m on birth control.”

“It’s not that,” he can’t deny you, his body relaxing back down over you. His lips catch yours for a moment, slow and achingly tender, “I’ve just never really done this before.”

He waits for the inevitable laughter. Here he is, at 21, and somehow still the same person he had been when he first entered college at 14. But you continue to look at him with heavy lids, breathless and flushed. 

“Okay,” your voice is kind, sweet, “Take it slow then.” your hand wraps around his length again, the movement slower this time, as you align him to your entrance. He hisses as the sensitive tip grazes against your folds, as he feels your entrance slowly give way to him and envelop his cock. 

“Oh,” he sighs. With your help, he sinks halfway into you, one hand gripping your hip, the other bracing himself on his elbow. Eyes squeezed shut, he stills and manages to ask, “Are you okay?”

You don’t speak, and so he forces his eyes to focus and look at you. The sight has him twitching inside you. Mouth agape and eyes hazy, you’re nodding up at him wordlessly as your hips rock up into his. “More.”

It’s exhilarating. He’s known you for the past year, worked alongside you but respected your need for distance. And now, here you are, not merely close, but one. Spencer sighs, and thrusts shallowly, eyes zeroed in on you and your reactions. He doesn’t want to hurt you, doesn’t want it to end too soon, so he moves slowly, dragging out his cock until only the tip rests inside you, then sliding into the hilt.

It elicits the most mellifluous sounds from you, making him smile in relief. He lets his forehead rest against yours, thrusts growing more confident, but still in that slow, almost dreamy pace. He memorizes every detail of this moment, from the way your eyes flutter closed, to the quiver of your legs as they wrap tighter around his thighs. 

“So good,” he hears himself say, “God, you feel so good.”

“Mhm,” you nod, nails digging into his back, even through his clothes. In the heat of the moment, you’re both still half dressed, only getting rid of your bottom clothes in order to get what you need from each other, “More, Spencer, I need more.”

He nods, letting his thrusts grow faster, rougher. It’s an awkward angle, he’s afraid his knees will start cramping, but the feeling of being surrounded by your warmth, drowning in your moans has him reckless. “There?” he grunts, angling just so, and he can’t help the smirk on his face when he feels your walls clenching around him.

“There, there, yes!”

He’s not sure how he manages to last as long as he does. Maybe it’s the sheer desire to feel you fall apart, for his cock to be drenched in your slick that keeps his release at bay. Maybe he has too much pent up sexual energy that’s just been dying to come out. Whatever it is, he’s thankful for it, because it means he’s spending more time inside you, hips moving with so much impact he’s pushing you forward with each thrust. 

“Yes, just like that.” you’re shuddering beneath him, and he moves his arm to the top of your head, creating a barrier between you and the headboard so you don’t hit it. He could stop, readjust your positions, but he doesn’t have it in him. 

No, he wants to stay inside you, forever if there’s an anatomically feasible way to do it. But unless he invents it, he’ll settle for right now, settle for the heat between your bodies, and how you’re practically melting into the mattress, arching so prettily against him.

“You close?” he murmurs, one hand finding your clit, drawing gentle circles with his fingertips.

“No fair,” you whine, bucking into him, “That’s cheat— Spencer!” 

You come undone in the most enthralling way, eyes squeezed shut, bottom lip bitten by your own lips. You squeeze and flutter around him, and he’s helpless to stop his own release, spilling deep inside you with a broken cry from his own mouth. Your name is whispered, over and over again, until he stills, his vision blurry as he collapses against you.

He curls around you, trying to get as close, “You—that was—wow.” 

You giggle, still breathless and glassy eyed, “Are you sure that was your first time?”

“Yes,” he gives you a series of kisses along your temple, “Yes, it was. You—wow.” he carefully pulls out of you, hissing quietly when the cool air conditioned air hits his sensitive flesh. “Was that enough of an apology for not including you to our chess nights?”

“You’re making jokes now?”

“No,” he smiles, leaning away to look at you, all starry eyed and boneless, “Not a joke. Because if it’s not enough, I can do it again.” a kiss to your cheek, “And again.” one on the tip of your nose, “And again.”

When you laugh in response, he cups your cheek, “I mean it.” he says with all the seriousness he can muster.

“I’ll hold you to that.”

“Does this mean you’ll accept my invitations now?” he lights up, a large smile splitting his face.

“Only if it’s a date.”

"Then it's a date."

[snail-day]

Nanami doesn't understand Minecraft. The appeal. The garish colors, the jagged edges. A sky made of squares, a sun that moved in awkward, ticking motions. (Something you claimed to be lag?) It was like staring into a world that hadn’t finished rendering. No plot. No rules. No real purpose. Just…blocks.

He had better things to do. Things with structure, routine. A glass of wine, a warm light, a novel in hand. You tucked into his side while he read aloud, your body slowly going slack with sleep, trusting him to hold you there.

That was comfort. That was meaningful. Yet, when you’d asked him to play, with your voice bright and teasing and just a little hopeful, he didn’t say no. Your pout being rather convincing.

“The movie’s coming out soon,” you’d said. “You can’t go in blind.” “Ten minutes,” you’d bargained, tugging on the sleeve of his linen shirt. “Just ten.”

So here he was.

The gentle sound of footsteps in grass tapped from the speakers - flop, flop, flop. He moved through a clumsy world, bumping into trees, accidentally crafting buttons instead of planks. A cow lowed in the distance, slow and strangely calming. Nearby, soft music drifted in, simple piano notes, echoing into the abyss of the lonely world.

Nanami narrowed his eyes. He hated how his character’s arms flailed when he walked. Hated how the pickaxe floated in midair, like it wasn’t even touching anything. The game defying the natural laws. Was deforestation what you called a good time?

But you were leaning into his side now, draped in the oversized cardigan he’d folded over the couch for you. Your head rested on his shoulder, your body warm against his, legs tucked under you like a sleepy cat. You were watching him, tired, content, eyes starting to flutter closed.

He pressed another key.

The sound of mining echoed - chink, chink, chink. Stone cracked apart in perfect cubes - plop, plop, plop. Gathering each one carefully. When he’d collected enough, he opened the building menu, fingers moving slower now, searching through the recipes.

If he was going to do this, he was going to do it right. Loading minecraft wiki on a tab.

The house came first. Something modest but stable. No asymmetry. No ugly floating roofs like the ones you’d shown him with pride earlier that day. He used cobblestone for the frame, added a wooden roof and glass windows, and placed lanterns precisely two blocks apart along the walls.

Inside, he built shelves. Lined with books and a small fireplace in the corner. The fire crackled, low and soft, pixel sparks dancing upward. The sound of it mixed with the slow, soothing soundtrack and the gentle sounds of squids swimming (more like dying) on the beach.

He planted wheat outside on a grass patch. A small, efficient garden. You claimed there was carrots, potatoes, beets. A search for another day.

And when he found a cat - tiny, pixelated, meowing once with a high-pitched chirp - he coaxed it inside with fish and told it to sit by the fire.

You shifted against him, murmuring something soft, unintelligible, your hand unconsciously finding his and curling around it.

His chest ached.

This game…wasn’t so pointless after all.

It wasn’t about the blocks. It was about the quiet in-between. The safety. The fact that he could create a space just for you, even in this ridiculous little world. A place where the light never went out and the cat always waited by the fire.

Nanami glanced down at your sleeping form, thumb brushing your knuckles.

You deserved that.

You deserved everything.

“…You’re lucky I love you,” he said softly, kissing the crown of your head, barely above a whisper. The cat let out a quiet mrrp. Nanami, with a ghost of a smile, planted a flower by the window.

[iamgonnagetyouback]

𝐞𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐥𝐞𝐠𝐬 𝐭𝐨𝐨 𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐲 | 𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐤𝐞𝐧𝐭

― you panic over a bug and knock on your neighbor’s door for help. good thing your neighbor is clark kent. and he's stupidly hot.

🧷 clark kent x neighbour!reader, reader uses fem pronouns, no use of y/n, fluff, mixed povs, ridiculous levels of embarrassment, clark is dangerously charming, reader is terrified of bugs (valid), neighbors-to-something-more, not proofread, potential ooc clark since i haven't watched the movie (?), word count: 1,579

꒰🧺꒱ — gif by @ayatou | divider by @lavendergalactic

You see it the second you flick on the bathroom light.

There, sitting right on top of the drain like it pays rent, is a bug. Not just any bug — no, that would be too merciful — but one of those vaguely beetle-shaped, awful little stinkbugs. Brown. With... were those eight legs?

You freeze.

It doesn’t move.

You back out of the bathroom slowly, heart racing, because nope. This is not what you trained for. This is not something you can handle tonight. You were planning a hot shower, maybe a facemask, definitely some leftover garlic bread, and instead you are now a prisoner in your own apartment because some little eight-legged demon decided the drain was it's now.

You call the only people you trust with your fear.

“Darling, just kill it,” your dad says, utterly unfazed. “It’s a bug.”

“I can’t kill it! It’s on the drain! I can’t use the sink, I can’t do anything, I’m stuck here, I’m literally trapped.” You’re pacing your tiny hallway now, one socked foot squeaking softly against the tile. “It’s huge, Dad. It’s—it’s precarious. If I miss, it’ll fall in. Then what? I’ll never sleep again.”

In the background, your mum snorts. “Get a boyfriend, darling. This is why.”

You gasp. “That is not helpful.”

“I’m just saying—”

“I can’t use the sink!”

They’re still arguing when you end the call with a defeated sigh and turn toward the hallway. Your options are limited. Your dignity is questionable. You glance at the door across from yours — apartment 3A — and hesitate.

Clark lives there.

You know his name because he once signed for your package. You know his smile because he gave it to you in the elevator that one time, sheepish and warm and caught off-guard like he hadn’t expected you to make him shy. You know his voice because your apartment vents aren’t soundproof and he hums sometimes when he washes dishes, low and unbothered and so gentle it makes your heart ache.

And right now, you’re going to knock on his door because the enemy has claimed your bathroom and all hope is lost.

And so, you knock.

Clark likes the quiet of early evenings.

Not the quiet of silence, exactly, but the soft, apartment-building kind — distant televisions humming through drywall, the low shuffle of footsteps in the hall, the occasional clang of someone’s cooking gone slightly wrong. It’s comforting. It’s normal. It makes him feel human.

He’s reading on the couch when he hears it — a muffled sound across the hall, something between a panicked noise and a choked-off whimper. It’s followed by a faint thud, the scrape of something (a shoe?) against tile, and then — unmistakably — your voice.

“Oh my god, no. No, no, no. Absolutely not.”

Clark sits up.

You live directly across from him, just one floor down. Apartment 3B. He knows this because he gave you a parcel in the elevator once and you shyly thanked him without really meeting his eyes. He also knows because he may or may not pause at your door sometimes, just for a second, just long enough to hear the faint sound of your radio or the low strains of whatever music you’re listening to that week.

And right now, apparently, under siege.

He hears it clearly through the vent now — your phone on speaker, a man’s voice filtering through. Older. Your dad, maybe.

“Just kill it, darling,” the man says, exasperated.

“I can’t kill it!” you reply, scandalized. “It’s on the drain. I can’t use the sink. I can’t do anything. I’m stuck here. Trapped.”

“Wash it down then.”

“I just told you it’s on the drain!”

There’s a laugh in the background — your mum, by the sound of it — and Clark presses the back of his hand to his mouth, fighting a smile. He shouldn’t be listening. He knows that. But you’re so earnest. So genuinely distressed.

He hears your voice again, quieter this time. “I think I’m gonna knock on Clark’s door.”

His heart stutters.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. Just waits.

And then — three hesitant knocks. Light. Polite. Like you’re scared to wake a dragon.

He opens the door.

You’re standing there in an oversized hoodie, hair tied up messily, phone still clutched in one hand. You look horrified and hopeful and like you might start crying again if he so much as says the word “bug.”

“Hi,” you say, small. “I’m so sorry to bother you, but there’s a… situation.”

Clark blinks, then smiles. “Is this about the bug?”

Your shoulders slump as you give him an exaggerated look. “Yes, how did you know?”

“Details,” he waves off. “Want me to handle it?”

“Please. I’ll owe you forever.”

You’re wringing the sleeves of your hoodie now, eyes wide with a kind of panicked gratitude. It’s adorable. Clark’s not sure his heart can take it.

He steps into your apartment and follows your pointed finger to the bathroom.

You hear him flick the bathroom light on. Then silence.

“Clark?” you call. “You okay?”

He reappears in the doorway a second later, looking dead serious.

“You didn’t tell me it was this huge.”

Your eyes widen. “See! I wasn’t being dramatic!”

He gives you the softest, most smug smile and holds up a wad of toilet paper. “Kidding. Got it.”

“WHAT— That was so mean! I believed you! Anyways,” you continue, from behind the doorframe. “It’s gone?”

He nods, holding up the balled tissue like a trophy. “Back to the wild.”

You sag in relief, and something like awe passes over your face. “You didn’t even hesitate.”

“I’ve fought worse,” he says, lips twitching.

You don’t know how true that is.

Still, you laugh, soft and grateful. “Thank you. Really. I might’ve cried.”

He gestures at your phone. “Your parents sound like they’re on standby.”

“My dad said to kill it, my mum said to get a boyfriend. So.” You pause, suddenly aware of what you’ve said. Your cheeks pink. “Not that—that’s not what I’m doing. I mean. I did ask for help, but not like—”

Clark holds up a hand, still smiling. “I got it.”

You nod. Then, quieter. “Thank you, Clark.”

He glances down at you, heart doing that annoying flutter thing again. “Anytime.”

And he means it.

Even if it’s not a bug next time. Even if it’s just coffee. Or flowers. Or a quiet moment between floors in the elevator.

He’d show up every time.

Just to see you smile like that again.

[buckysleftbicep]

winning streak 𐙚 b.b

pairing: hockey captain!bucky barnes x fem!reader (modern au)

warnings: just teeth rotting fluff, some sports trash talk,

summary: the national title on the line. one last goal. and bucky doesn’t skate to the trophy — he runs to you.

word count: 2.8k

author's note: hi my loves! i couldn't stop thinking about this idea! and because i am a swiftie, this is heavily inspired by the alchemy (one of my many favourite songs) i hope you enjoy this fic as much as i do, love you guys and stay safe!

i love soft!bucky so freaking much

The crowd was thundering.

Not the kind that rumbled in the distance no, this was the kind that cracked the sky open. The kind that rose and crashed in waves, relentless and hungry. 

The stands shook with boots stomping on aluminum bleachers. Painted signs bounced in the air, words blurring from the motion—GO THUNDERBOLTS, CAPTAIN BARNES #91, KISS FOR LUCK scrawled in lipstick. 

Faces flushed red with cold beer and high hopes. Flags waved, foam fingers pointed, and a hundred thousand hearts pounded in time with the bass of the pre-game anthem pulsing through the speakers.

This wasn’t just a game. It was the game of the year.

Finals night. National Hockey League Championship. 

The Thunderbolts vs The Avengers.

Two rival teams, two captains with so much history and one trophy gleaming behind the glass.

The anthem had barely ended before the roar kicked up again, raw and ravenous.

Spotlights danced across the crowd like searchlights over a battlefield, and the overheads dimmed just enough to make the ice glow—pristine, perfect, untouched, a fresh battlefield waiting to be claimed.

Cameras swung in wide arcs across the arena, cutting from row to row, finding the faces that made up the frenzy.

Fans in war paint, faces streaked with glitter and ink, jerseys layered over hoodies, fingers locked around hotdogs and cardboard trays of fries, beer sloshing over gloved hands. 

Everyone yelling. Everyone watching.

And then—the camera landed on you.

Dead center. First row behind the Thunderbolts’ bench.

Wearing his jersey.

“Barnes” stitched in clean bold letters across your shoulders. The deep navy fabric pulled snug where it was tucked into the waistband of your jeans. Sleeves rolled just past your elbows. The Thunderbolts logo—a silver lightning bolt spearing through a black-and-blue shield shimmered faintly beneath the lights.

Your grin bloomed instantly when you saw yourself on the jumbotron—sharp and nervous and entirely unfiltered.

One hand flew up to your cheek, laughing in surprise. The other still held tight to the paper soda cup you hadn’t touched in ten minutes.

And then the commentators pounced.

“Ooooh, and look who we’ve got in the front row tonight!” one of them crowed, amusement crackling in his voice. “That’s Barnes’ girlfriend, she’s already wearing the number 91 like a badge of honor!”

The other chuckled, already rolling with it. “You’ve gotta love it, Bill. Young love, big stakes. She’s all in tonight. And the question on everyone’s mind—will Barnes bring home the trophy tonight? Or will Rogers shut him down one last time?”

You flushed hard, heat flooding your cheeks, but your smile only widened. Your fingers twisted nervously in your lap, the cup long forgotten.

The spotlight swept on—and the thunder swelled again.

The Thunderbolts were being called onto the ice.

First came Ava. Sharp, and fast. She cut across the blue line like a blade, sleek in her uniform, her form low and agile as she glided across the rink. Her braid flicked behind her helmet like a threat, chin high, eyes locked forward.

Then Bob. Wild grin beneath his helmet, that familiar bounce in his stride like he was skating into a bar fight instead of a championship. He gave a ridiculous salute to the crowd, winked at someone in the third row, and pumped his stick once in the air.

John followed, big and loud, throwing a fist into the sky like a gladiator entering the ring.

Yelena came next. Practically vibrating with excitement, her grin so wide it looked dangerous. She skated backward just for the hell of it, flashed a peace sign at the Avenger’s bench, and flipped off Tony Stark when he yelled something back.

And then —

“Number ninety-one…BUCKY BARNES!”

The arena exploded.

The glass walls behind the benches vibrated with the noise. The rafters groaned. People were screaming his name—BARNES, BARNES, BUCKY, BUCKY—the rhythm of it echoing like a chant across the rink.

You shot out of your seat without thinking, hands flying to your mouth, heart stuttering in your chest like it couldn’t keep up.

And then he appeared.

Skating out from the tunnel like he owned the damn world.

No waving. No showboating. 

He skated clean, hard, powerful—straight across the rink like the ice had parted just for him. His strides were controlled, each one cutting smooth into the surface, blades singing. He stopped short of the bench, stick tapping once against the ice with a heavy clack.

Then, he turned. Just enough to find you.

His helmet was tucked low, shadowing his eyes, but it didn’t matter. You could feel him find you. See you. That weightless flicker of connection when two people find each other in a crowd of thousands.

And then—

That grin.

God, that grin, that same grin that made you fall hopelessly in love with him back in college.

Crooked. Boyish. And ever so infuriatingly sure of itself.

He didn’t wave, didn’t mouth a word.

Just gave you the faintest nod, like a promise. Like watch this, baby.

And then—

The puck dropped.

“Thunderbolts coming in fast from the left side, Ava’s on the edge with the puck, she’s got Bob tailing her for backup—”

The announcer’s voice rang loud over the speakers, almost drowned out by the buzz of the arena. 

Ava skated hard, slicing across the ice like a bullet fired from a gun, body low and focused. Her stick tapped the puck forward with quick, lethal flicks, weaving past one defender, then another.

Bob was on her tail, his form bulkier but no less agile, cutting in wide to draw a second Avenger off the line.

The Thunderbolts were moving as one, quick and ruthless, barely blinking.

“Wait for it—OH! Big interception by Wilson for the Avengers, clean take on the boards, he’s flying down center ice—”

The collective gasp was instant. 

Sam was fast. Too fast.

He pivoted so tightly off the wall it looked impossible, scooping the puck on his blade mid-turn and blasting down center ice. The Thunderbolts scrambled to recover, boots hitting the ice in frantic scrapes, blades cutting through the frozen surface like razors.

Yelena cursed under her breath—you saw it from the bench cam, the sharp twist of her mouth unmistakable as she shot back toward the neutral zone in a blur of motion. 

You knew that look. Knew it well. You’d been friends since high school, back when she used to play pickup games with the boys just for fun.

She hated being outrun, hated it like it offended her personally. And judging by the speed she was moving now, someone was damn sure about to pay for it.

Bucky fell in behind her.

Unlike the rest, he didn’t panic.

He skated backward, cool and calculated, reading the play like he’d seen it a hundred times before. His knees bent, balance low, eyes flicking between Wilson streaking down the middle and Rogers gliding up the opposite wing, already sizing up his angle just outside the blue line.

And then, Steve entered the zone.

The crowd went feral. The commentators lost their minds.

“Rogers, himself folks, lining up for the slapshot—!”

Steve adjusted his grip with deadly precision, dragging the puck across the line and winding up like a spring. The stadium held its breath. Cameras clicked. Flashbulbs lit the glass.

And then —

CLANG.

Stick on stick.

Bucky didn’t just block the shot—he rejected it.

The blade of his stick met Steve’s with a metallic crack that echoed across the ice, the force of it spinning the puck up and off course like it had hit a steel wall.

The puck arced high, spiralling toward the boards as both captains skated through the impact. Steve’s blade skidded empty.

The crowd howled.

Steve turned slowly, arching a brow beneath his helmet. The half-smile that played across his face was all teeth. 

Familiar.

Bucky skated past with ice in his veins and zero hesitation. He didn’t look back. Just kept gliding, chin raised, mouth curling.

“Try again, punk,” he smirked, eyes locked with Steve’s as the puck spun away.

Steve chuckled. “Make me.” And peeled off.

Your heart was racing.

No, not just racing. Hammering.

You couldn’t stop bouncing in your seat. The coke you held in both hands had gone warm long ago, the paper cup soft with condensation, but you hadn’t taken a sip. Your eyes were locked on the rink like your life depended on it.

Every pass was a lightning bolt. Every movement a blur.

The game was brutal, but brilliant. A war fought in blades and bruises. This wasn’t teammates having fun. This wasn’t friendly competition.

This was rivalry.

Hits against the boards came hard and fast. Elbows tucked sharp. Shoulders thrown into chests with unapologetic force. You flinched each time someone slammed into the wall, the crack echoing up into your ribs.

Still, through the chaos, Bucky led.

He was everywhere. Every line. Every pivot.

You watched him bark something to Bob, nod once to Yelena, then slash down the rink with the kind of clean, perfect control that only came from years of skating like the ice was his home.

He skated like fire. Moved like smoke.

His stick kissed the puck and made it sing.

“BUCKY! HERE!”

Yelena’s voice split through the noise, loud and sure. She tore up the right side like she’d stolen something, and Bucky didn’t even look.

He passed blind.

A perfect no-look cross-zone—sharp, clean, so instinctual it looked choreographed. The puck streaked across the ice, too fast to track.

Crack.

Bob’s blade met it in motion, and the sound was surgical.

And then—

SLAM.

Straight into the Avengers’ net.

The red light flared. The buzzer screamed.

Thunderbolts: 1. Avengers: 0.

The arena exploded.

“WE’RE ON THE BOARD, BABY!” the commentator bellowed, practically lifting out of his seat. “What a setup—Barnes to Belova, Belova to Bob, and in she goes!”

Fans surged to their feet, foam fingers punched the air, and you clapped both hands to your mouth in shock, laughing, beaming, glowing.

On the bench, Alexei looked like he was going to combust.

“THAT’S HOW YOU DO IT, BARNES! I TEACH HIM THAT!” he shouted at the top of his lungs, pounding the plexiglass like a drum. “YOU SEE THAT PASS? HE LEARN FROM ME!”

Stark, meanwhile, was livid.

On the Avenger’s bench, he was a one-man storm—clipboard flailing, tie half-undone.

“Rogers! Wilson! You gonna let him dance around you like that? I swear to god, this isn’t fucking disney on Ice!”

The camera caught John laughing so hard he nearly fell off the bench.

You could even see Yelena, skating backward toward center, roll her eyes from behind her visor, muttering something that made Ava snort.

And Bucky—

Bucky just skated to the bench like he hadn’t even tried.

Stick low. Jaw sharp. Eyes already on the next play.

Second period. Tie game.

The ice glistened with sweat and melted friction, grooves carved deep from blades and fury.

Both teams were breathing hard, skating harder, the weight of the scoreboard pressing down like a vice.

Every hit sounded louder now. Every pass carried desperation.

The Avengers had clawed one back.

It wasn’t a clean goal, not by Thunderbolts standards, anyway. It was sneaky. Wanda had slipped it in off a deflection, the kind of tip-in that no one even saw coming until the red light flashed behind the net.

Bob turned, confused, and smacked the post with his stick.

The crowd gasped, half in awe, half in protest.

The commentators were already on it.

“Oooh! Maximoff sneaks one past the line—unbelievable angle on that tip-in.”

“Barnes is not happy about that one, Bill. Look at that expression.”

“Stone cold. But if there’s one thing we know about number 91…it’s that he plays best when he’s pissed.”

You saw it too. Felt it. That flicker shift in the entire energy of the game. 

Like a match had been struck.

On the ice, Bucky reset.

His jaw was locked tight, the muscles ticking beneath his cheekbone. His knuckles curled around his stick like it was a lifeline. He muttered something sharp to John as they lined up for the next faceoff—you couldn’t hear it, but whatever he said made John nod immediately, all humor gone.

And then—

Breakaway.

John slingshot the puck out of the circle with brutal precision, snapping it straight to Ava as she darted up the ice.

Her skates cut the surface like blades through water, a clean, slicing motion that made her look more like a dancer than a forward. She passed to Yelena, who caught it mid-stride and bolted down the left wing like her skates were on fire.

The Avengers defence scrambled.

You leaned forward in your seat, one hand gripping the railing, eyes wide.

Yelena ducked her shoulder just before a check, spun out of the hit like she’d rehearsed it in a dream, and—with barely a glance—

“BUCKY!”

The shout rang through the air.

He was already there.

No hesitation. No delay. 

He’d read the play like a book with his name written in the ending.

The puck hit his blade like fate.

Three strides.

A shift in weight.

The low sweep of his stick.

Snap.

Like a bullet fired from center ice—the puck screamed into the net.

GOAL.

Red light. Horn blast. Thunder in the stands.

Thunderbolts: 2. Avengers: 1.

The stadium erupted. Fans on their feet. Flags waving. Voices cracking. Someone a few rows behind you screamed “MARRY ME, BUCKY!” and you couldn’t stop laughing, even as tears prickled the backs of your eyes.

Ava was pounding her stick against the wall. Bob leapt over the boards to tackle John in celebration. Yelena blew kisses to the camera and Alexei was hoarse from screaming.

But Bucky —

He didn’t stop.

Didn’t slow.

Didn’t raise his arms or pump his fists or even look at the scoreboard.

There were thirty seconds left. Thirty brutal, breathless seconds. But the goal had done its job. The Thunderbolts were ahead. Now it was all defense.

And Bucky... he was locked in.

The final clock ticked down like a heartbeat.

Twenty seconds.

Ten.

Five—

BUZZZZZZZZZ.

The horn went off like an explosion. Final whistle.

The Thunderbolts bench emptied, skates clattering across the ice as the team poured toward center.

Players collided, hollering, helmets flying into the air. Ava jumped straight into Yelena’s arms. Bob tried to slide across the rink on his belly and crashed into the boards.

And behind it all—

The trophy waited. Gleaming, glorious and beautiful.

Spotlights swiveled. Cameras focused.

The announcers were already yelling.

“Thunderbolts take the championship! What a finish, what a goal—and Barnes with the game winner, folks! That’s number 91 doing what he does best!”

You stood with the rest of the crowd, clapping, screaming, face flushed with adrenaline and awe.

Your hands were over your mouth again, eyes sweeping the chaos for him—where was he?

And then —

You found him.

Or rather—he found you.

Bucky skated past the goal without slowing.

Past the glittering silver trophy being lifted onto its pedestal. Past the thunder of his teammates’ cheers. Past Alexei’s open arms and the blinding camera flashes.

His stick dropped to the ice.

Then his helmet.

And he skated straight to you.

There was no hesitation. No calculation. He ran.

Skates to the boards, gloves off, his hands catching the edge with one clean, practiced grip. Security blinked, caught off-guard—but he was already climbing over, lifting himself into the front row like it was nothing.

You gasped—half-laughing, half-stunned—arms instinctively reaching for him.

And he caught you.

His hands wrapped around your waist, and without a word, he lifted you straight into the air like you weighed nothing at all. 

You squeaked—breath catching—legs curling around his hips as he spun you, holding you there in the middle of screaming fans and cameras and flying confetti.

His mouth crashed into yours.

And everything else disappeared.

The noise, the lights, the rink, the pressure, it all dropped away like a curtain falling. All you could feel was him. His hands gripping your back, his lips against yours, rough and breathless. His chest shaking with laughter.

“Hi, sweetheart,” he whispered, breaking the kiss only long enough to murmur it into your cheek.

Your laugh was pure joy. You buried your hands in his sweaty hair and kissed him again, not caring that you were in front of thousands of people, not caring that your face was probably all over the jumbotron.

“I told you you’d win,” you breathed.

“And I told you,” he grinned, eyes bright and unbearably soft as he pressed his forehead to yours, “you’re all I was playing for.”

Your heart melted.

Somewhere in the chaos, John’s voice rang out: “Go get her, Bucky!”

From the loudspeakers, the announcers cracked up.

“Well, there’s your answer, folks,” one of them laughed, his voice barely audible over the thunderous cheer. “Who needs the trophy… when she’s right there waiting?”

And Bucky—still holding you—only kissed you deeper.

Because he already had everything he wanted.

a/n: this fic was really just indulgence for me, i love this idea so much i typed half the fic on my phone during my train ride home 🥹 i am not the best at describing hockey and i'm sorry if i got anything wrong 😭. if you enjoyed the fic, please leave a comment of reblog!

[flowersforbucky]

sweetener

bucky barnes x reader

summary: when the vacation that you've been planning for months gets canceled due to a last minute mission, you can't help but feel bummed - the bright side is that you're being sent on a mission with bucky.

word count: 5.3k - my masterlist

warnings/tags: canon level violence, descriptions of injuries, mention of blood, almost drowning, hospital setting, bad guys getting killed (not descriptive), non-sexual nudity, hurt/comfort trope, avenger!reader, friends to lovers, fluff, language, reader pov, no use of y/n, fem reader, bucky being super soft, not explicit but mdni please

when life deals us cards

make everything taste like it is salt

then you come through like the sweetener you are

to bring the bitter taste to a halt

Hand warmers. Flashlight and extra batteries. Can opener. Matches. First aid kit –

You glance down the handwritten list for the dozenth time that morning, checking and rechecking that you aren't forgetting anything obvious.

Your eyes flicker between the ridiculous amount of supplies scattered across your bed and the three large duffle bags on your floor that you're determined to pack it all into. You know that you are most likely being excessive, but you'd much rather be too thorough than not thorough enough when you're about to be miles deep in the Appalachian wilderness.

Sure, you'd be staying at a relatively civilized campground with restrooms and showers, but this is the first time that you've been camping in years, and your first time ever going camping alone.

A two day road trip there, then six days in the Great Smoky Mountains, and then another two day road trip back to upstate New York.

A much needed ten days of time spent by yourself, seeing as how you haven't gone on anything resembling a vacation in over two years. The last couple years have been nonstop work with very little time for relaxation.

To say that you're excited would be an understatement. Although you find immense fulfillment in the work that you do with the Avengers and can't see yourself doing anything else, you're ready to sit by a warm fire and sleep under the stars without a care in the world.

Just as you've finished packing the second bag and are about to begin on the third, the Bluetooth speaker that your cell phone is paired to begins blasting your ringtone, cutting off the music that you'd been listening to while you pack.

When you grab the phone off of your nightstand and see the name Nick Fury displayed across the screen, a ball of unease immediately forms in the pit of your stomach.

Nick Fury isn't the type to call and chit chat about how your day is going or what shows you've been binge watching. He's the type to call when he wants something done, and wants it done now.

“Hey, Fury,” you greet in a neutral tone as you perch on the edge of your bed. With the phone still connected to your speaker, you place it back down on the nightstand so that you are free to wring your hands together.

“Agent,” Fury's voice booms throughout your room. “I hope I've caught you before you've left the state of New York.”

Godfuckingdammit.

“Uh - yep. I'm still here. Packing up for my trip right now,” you answer, trying your hardest to conceal the irritation in your voice. There's a small voice in the back of your head telling you that you should just lie and say you are already on the road, but you're not stupid enough to lie to Nick Fury.

There's a second, louder voice in the back of your mind screaming at you that you shouldn’t have even answered the phone.

“You know I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I'm going to suggest you pack a tactical suit and weapon of choice instead of hiking boots and a sleeping bag. We just got word that a vibranium weapons dealer we've been tracking will be receiving a large shipment at a port in Destin tomorrow night. Need you and Barnes on a flight to Florida this afternoon.”

“Florida?” you repeat, unable to hide the shock and disappointment in your tone. “I can't go to Florida right now. I've been planning this trip for months. I put in the notice for my leave–”

“I realize that this is unfortunate timing but I'm afraid that this is non-negotiable, Agent,” he interrupts you in a tone of finality. “If we don't intercept this shipment then these weapons fall into very dangerous hands. With Romanoff and Rogers still in San Antonio until next week, I have no choice but to ask you and Barnes to handle it.”

You exhale an audible, frustrated breath and massage the heels of your palms into your eye sockets. You don't know why you're surprised. It's not like illegal arms dealers take your vacation time into consideration when they plot their dealings.

“Is that understood, Agent?” he asks when you don't respond.

“Yes,” you say as you dig your nails into the flesh of your palm to hold back any further argument. “Yes, I understand.”

“Great. The jet leaves in three hours.”

The line cuts off before you can get another word out.

You groan out loud. Three hours. That doesn't even leave you enough time to feel sorry for yourself.

You look around at the chaotic state of your room before your gaze lands on the already packed duffle bags filled with camping supplies.

You're too annoyed and short on time to care right now, so you empty the contents of both bags back onto your bed and tell yourself that you'll deal with the mess when you get back home. For now, you need to focus on packing the appropriate items for taking down a vibranium arms dealer in hotass Florida.

Beneath all of the disappointment and frustration, there's a glimmer of relief that at the very least it's Bucky who you're being sent on this unexpected mission with. You may not be fond of hot weather, but you are quite fond of him.

••••••

Just as Fury said, the jet departs from the compound at exactly three o'clock. You sit in the aircraft's cabin, reading through a thick file containing all of the information that SHIELD has compiled on Dmitri Petrov's crime empire, ranging from drug smuggling to illegal arms deals.

You are only a few pages into the report and it's abundantly clear why this mission was non-negotiable. Petrov has been getting away unscatched for years - tomorrow night will be the first clear opportunity for a take down since getting on SHIELD's radar.

“Coffee?” A voice snaps you back to reality, making you realize that you're reading the same sentence for the dozenth time. “Three creams, two sugars.”

You look up to find a vibranium hand holding out a disposable cup to you. If the fact that he's committed the way you take your coffee to memory isn't enough to increase your heart rate, his smirk and the crinkles around his blue eyes do the trick.

“Thank you,” you tell him, snapping the folder shut on the table in front of you. “My eyes are on the verge of bleeding.” You take a sip of the coffee - indeed, three creams and two sugars.

He takes the seat directly across from you, spinning the folder around for him to flip through himself.

“We land in less than half an hour and you've been reading this the entire flight,” he says teasingly as he thumbs through the pages. “I think it's safe to say you're prepared.”

“Just trying to get myself in the right headspace. I didn't know anything about this operation until a few hours ago, you know.”

Not one to complain, you had yet to bring up the fact that your trip had been postponed in order for you to be here. You had talked about the trip on several occasions with Bucky, but you didn't expect him to remember the exact dates that you were supposed to be gone.

Sure - if he was going to be away for over a week, you'd be hyper aware of it until he returned - but you weren't naive enough to think that he would know the exact dates of your comings and goings.

He places the file back down, returning his attention to you.

“I know,” he sighs, a sympathetic look on his face. “I was on my way to tell you to have a good trip and to be safe when I got the call from Fury this morning.”

Oh. Your cheeks heat at the casual admission from him.

“I'm sorry about your trip. I know you were really looking forward to it,” he adds sincerely. “I'm going to find extra enjoyment in putting Dmitri Petrov behind bars for causing it to get canceled.”

“You and me both,” you chuckle. “Really though, it's okay. I was bummed, but it's not the end of the world. It can easily be rescheduled once this guy is locked up and we're back home.”

You don't add the fact that you find yourself caring less and less about the canceled trip the longer that you sit here with him.

“There is at least one silver lining to this, you know,” he chimes, leaning forward with his elbows on the table between you. You instinctively lean in closer too, causing the side of your leg to brush against his beneath the table. You wait to see if he'll pull away, and when he doesn't, you leave the side of your thigh resting against his.

“Oh, yeah? And what's that?”

“Petrov’s shipment isn't set to arrive until tomorrow night, and they've sent us down here the day prior. It's not like we have to stay holed up in our hotel room for the next twenty-four hours, right?”

••••••

Bucky's right - there's no sense in locking yourselves inside the hotel room until the time of the weapons deal tomorrow evening, but when you see the hotel room that you'll be spending the next couple nights in, you think you would also be okay with staying inside if you had to.

It's not a five star resort by any means, but in comparison to the dingy roadside motels that you're normally stuck in for missions? This place might as well be a Four Seasons.

It's relatively small, but there's more than enough space for the two of you. There's one full size bed, plus a couch that converts to a futon mattress - the latter of which Bucky insists on taking, giving you the bed. The bathroom is nearly as big as the main room, with a jacuzzi tub that's bigger than three standard bathtubs put together.

And the best part of it? When you open the curtains to the sliding glass door on the backside of the room, there's a clear view of turquoise water and white sand.

“I guess Fury felt a little bad about springing this on me at the last minute, after all,” you sigh as you pull the door open, letting the light breeze pull the smell of saltwater into the room. “Can't say that I’ve been given a beachfront room for a mission before.”

Bucky walks up to stand beside you, leaning against the doorframe and staring out to the ocean.

“It's definitely a step up from the rat and roach infested Motel 6 that Sam and I had to spend three nights in when we were sent to Atlanta for recon last month.”

You shake your head, both cringing and laughing at the memory of him ranting about the motel room as soon as he saw you after returning home.

“It was the size of a fucking capybara. Why are you laughing? I opened the bathroom door and it charged at me–”

A sudden deep rumbling noise snaps you out of the memory and you glance down at your stomach in surprise. You suppose it makes sense that your body is screaming at you to eat - you had such little time to pack for Destin before your flight left that you hadn't even bothered with lunch today.

“How does pizza sound?” Bucky asks with a knowing smirk. “I saw a pizza place just down the street on the way here.”

“Anything sounds good right now,” you sigh, both starving and exhausted from your day of packing, unpacking, re-packing and traveling.

“I'll go grab one for us,” he tells you, pulling the keys to the rental car out of his pocket. “Just stay here and get settled in.”

You don't object, itching to change into comfier, more weather appropriate clothes. When you left the state of New York just a few hours ago, it was chilly outside. Now that you are in eighty plus degree Destin, the sweater and boots that you're wearing have got to go.

You unpack your bag, thankful that you had brought a pair of casual drawstring shorts. You throw them on, along with a tank top. You decide to go ahead and convert the futon from a sofa into a bed, and then search through the hotel room's small linen closet for a set of sheets and a quilt. If Bucky insists on you taking the comfier sleeping option and going to get food for the two of you, you figure the least you can do is make his bed for him.

When he returns, he not only has a large cardboard box containing the pizza, but a plastic bag hanging from his vibranium arm as well.

“Grab a towel and follow me,” he tells you before he's even closed the door behind him.

“Follow you?” You laugh, taken aback by the instructions. “Where are we going?”

You hop up from where you'd been mindlessly scrolling on your phone on the bed, doing as he asked and grabbing one of the complementary beach towels from the bathroom closet.

“Not staying holed up in our hotel room. Remember?”

And with that he pulls the sliding glass door open with his empty hand and exits the room, heading towards the beach that sits directly in the backyard. You don't even take the time to throw on a pair of tennis shoes before practically running after him through the sand.

He comes to a stop when he's a few yards away from where the waves wash up against shore and turns back to look at you. You take it as your cue to spread the towel across the sand at your feet.

He sits down and you follow, the cardboard box nestled between you. He opens it, revealing a pizza that is split down the middle - half your favorite, half his favorite.

“I know it's not a campfire in the Great Smoky Mountains,” he smirks. He digs into the plastic bag and pulls out a drink for each of you, along with some napkins. “But it's the best I could do in our current situation.”

The sentiment leaves you momentarily speechless. You know it isn't a grand declaration of love, and it might not mean as much to some people as it does to you - but you can't remember the last time someone went out of their way just to improve your day in such a simple yet thoughtful way.

Between the pizza, the vibrant pink and purple sky as the sun sinks beyond the ocean's horizon, the sound of the waves and him beside you, you wouldn't want to be anywhere else right now.

“No,” you murmur. “It's not. But it's perfect.”

••••••

The next day, you manage to forget that you're actually on a super important mission taking down a dangerous illegal arms dealer.

The first half of the day feels like an actual vacation - the closest thing you've had to a vacation in a long time, anyway. You sleep in until nearly ten o'clock in the morning - which may not be considered sleeping in for some people, but in this line of work, you've overslept if you're still in bed at eight am.

After waking up thoroughly rested and refreshed, the two of you get brunch and then spend the early hours of the afternoon leisurely strolling at the boardwalk just a short drive from your hotel.

You and Bucky are sitting on a bench eating ice cream when you check your phone for the first time in hours and realize how quickly the day has gone. It's already four o'clock - you're due to be on lookout at the pier where Petrov's exchange will occur soon.

“What's wrong?” Bucky asks when you huff under your breath as you stick your phone back into your pocket. “Nervous about tonight?”

You're not nervous, truthfully. You're fully confident that you and Bucky will be able to handle the job. You've been on countless missions less straight forward than this before, and so has he.

“No,” you shake your head as you take another bite of your ice cream cone. “It's… silly,” you say, waving your hand in dismissal.

“I'm sure it's not silly,” he assures you gently.

You pause, staring at a couple holding hands in the distance as you contemplate your words.

Bucky seems to follow your gaze.

“Today has just been really nice,” you shrug with a small smile. “I almost don't want to go back home.”

From your peripheral vision, you see his face shift to look at you. You continue to eat your ice cream, pretending that his stare doesn't warm you more than the Florida sun.

“We're on the same page then, doll.”

••••••

A few hours later, a feeder ship pulls up to the pier just after dusk.

“We've got eyes on three men,” you say lowly into your communication device. “They're guarding the pier. No sign of Petrov yet.”

“He'll show,” Fury's voice echoes in your ear. “Keep watch until then. Backup is on standby to take him in.” The comm clicks off before you can respond.

“I know there's a lot riding on this going smoothly,” you grumble as you bring your binoculars back up to your eyes. “But sometimes I think he just really needs to get laid.”

You and Bucky are across the road from the pier, concealed by large shrubs and the darkness of the night sky. You've been sitting here as still and silently as possible for well over an hour, before Petrov's men had even arrived to stand guard at the dock.

You really fucking have to pee.

Headlights begin to approach from down the street, and as the vehicle gets closer you're able to see that it's a large, black van.

Totally not suspicious at all.

It comes to a stop close to the boat dock, and a second later Petrov hops out of the driver's seat. You recognize him right away by his shrimpy build and receding hairline.

“I should just take them all out from here and be done with this,” Bucky grumbles from beside you.

“I agree,” you sigh. “But Fury's adamant that Petrov be brought in alive if possible. He’s got an empire behind him that we need to find out as much as possible about. His men, however..” you trail off.

Bucky looks through the scope of his gun, zeroing in on one of the guards.

“Blow a tire on the van first,” you murmur. “So Petrov can't flee.”

“I'll take out these three guards, and then I'll get Petrov and call for back-up. You worry about getting to that ship and taking out anyone inside. Sound like a plan?”

“Easy peasy,” you agree.

Less than thirty seconds later, all three guards have dropped dead and Petrov is frantically running to his van, unaware that Bucky had shot the back tire after killing his guards. You and Bucky emerge from the shrubs, sprinting across the road. He dashes towards Petrov, who freezes and begins shouting curses in Russian when he sees what is running towards him.

Bucky lands a punch to Petrov's jaw as you're running past them, only slowing down enough to not trip over the guard’s dead bodies that are littered across the dock.

You're only a few yards away from the ship when you hear Bucky screech your name. You immediately come to a halt, turning back to see why he could be calling for you.

You see a tall, burly man - someone that you and Bucky hadn't noticed before - sprinting down the dock after you. He raises his arm above his head, his hand holding a rocklike object that he sends barreling in your direction.

It's the last thing you see before everything fades to black.

••••••

The shrill, repetitive beeping of a monitor pulls you out of limbo and back to earth.

You're met with painfully bright, fluorescent lighting that has you squinting your eyes shut before you can make sense of your surroundings.

“Bucky,” you attempt to call out but it sounds like the croak of a lifelong smoker. Your eyes begin to adjust to the harsh lighting, allowing you to see that you're alone in a hospital room. You raise your fingertips to where it feels as if your brain is pulsing through your skull. There's a thick, defined knot on the top of your head that's sensitive to the touch.

Panic starts to take over you. Bits and pieces of the mission start to flash through your mind. Bucky shooting the guards, you running towards the feeder ship when you heard Bucky yell your name and then turning to see –

“Bucky!” You call out louder, your voice still hoarse. You sit up, not hesitating to carelessly yank an IV out of your arm. You're vaguely aware of the fact that you're in only a hospital gown and that blood is now trickling down your left arm, but you don't care.

You throw your legs over the side of the bed, standing up far too quickly. Your vision fades to a fuzzy gray and you're overcome with an intense wave of vertigo as the room spins around you. You grab onto the metal side railing of the hospital bed to keep yourself upright, desperately trying to focus your eyes enough to find the nurse's call button.

“Hi! I'll be to your room in just a moment–” An overly cheerful, feminine voice pours from the speaker a moment after pressing the button.

“What happened? How long have I been here? Where is my–”

The door to your room opens, and you immediately breathe an audible sigh of relief as your last question is answered. He looks as though he could use a good night's sleep, but he is okay.

“What the fuck happened?” Bucky exclaims as he rushes over to where you're still clutching the hospital bed railing for support. You follow his gaze to your arm, seeing that there's now blood all over your gown as well as the white floor around your feet.

“I could ask you the same thing,” you mumble, embarrassed by your current state. He guides you back to the edge of the mattress before walking away to get a towel from the bathroom. “I was worried something happened to you,” you add weakly.

He wipes the blood trail on your skin before using the hand towel to apply pressure to the puncture in the bend of your arm.

“I'm okay,” he assures you delicately. “I had just gone to get some coffee.” He glances at the styrofoam to-go cup that you hadn't even noticed him place on the bedside table when he entered the room.

“How long was I asleep?” You ask, noticing that it's still pitch dark outside. You also notice that he's no longer in the clothes that he wore on the mission - now wearing a pair of loose fitting black sweatpants and a matching hoodie. “What happened?”

“There was another guy in the back of Petrov’s van,” Bucky tenses, still holding the towel to your arm for you. “We were both distracted and he snuck up on you. He hit you over the head with a piece of vibranium and threw you into the water.” His jaw clenches as he recounts what happened, meeting your gaze with a pained look.

“But you saved me,” you finish for him.

“Yes,” he gulps. “I did. But I was almost too late. By the time I knocked out Petrov and killed the man who hit you.. it felt like it took forever to find you in the water. You almost drown–”

He cuts himself off, unable to force the last word out. A nurse enters the room as you open your mouth to offer him reassurance. Bucky holds your gaze for a split-second longer before reluctantly dropping his hold on your arm and turning to take a seat in the room's singular guest chair.

The nurse informs you that they did a CT scan while you were unconscious, and that while you don't have any swelling or bleeding on your brain from the blow, the doctor believes you to have a concussion and tells you that she will need to do an exam now that you are awake before they feel comfortable discharging you.

Judging by the high-pitched ringing that you've heard in your ears since you woke up and the way that you feel dizzy when you even think about trying to stand up, you don't doubt that you're concussed.

An hour later, you've been thoroughly examined and it is confirmed that yes - you are indeed concussed. The doctor discharges you under the condition that you don't drive and that someone keeps a close eye on you for the next twenty-four hours.

“Don't worry,” you hear Bucky tell her when you step into the bathroom to throw on a pair of dry sweatpants, a t-shirt, and cheap shower slides that the hospital had given you to wear back to the hotel, seeing as how your tactical suit and boots are still sopping wet with ocean water. “I'm not letting her out of my sight.”

The nurse who helps you dress gives you a small smirk at his words.

“You're a lucky woman,” she tells you quietly. “He was worried sick until you woke up.”

You avoid her gaze, your cheeks heating. You busy yourself by tightening the drawstrings to the gray sweatpants.

“I am lucky,” you agree. “He's a great partner.”

She raises an eyebrow at the word partner, but doesn't make any further comment.

By the time that you and Bucky make it back to your hotel room, the sun has started to rise.

Bucky all but carries you inside, only letting go of you when you're perched on the edge of the mattress. Your head is still throbbing despite the extra strength ibuprofen that you'd taken before leaving the hospital, and you still can't walk without stumbling from dizziness, but at least the intense ringing in your ears has begun to subside.

You feel tired down to your very bones, but you have no doubt that Bucky is even more exhausted. You'd been unconscious for nearly eight hours during the night, whereas he had been awake the entire time sitting by your bedside.

“You get some rest,” you tell him. You brace your hands against the mattress, preparing to attempt to stand back up. “I smell like a mixture of sweat and fish from being in the ocean, so I'm going to shower off.”

You push yourself off of the bed, and as quickly as you stand, you're sitting back down. The room immediately begins spinning in circles around you, sending a wave of nausea through the pit of your stomach.

“Yeah, not likely,” Bucky huffs lightly. “You can't stand up, and the shower doesn't have a seat. How about we compromise on a bath?”

You give a weak nod, too tired to protest. A warm bath sounds incredible right now.

Bucky retreats to the bathroom, where he turns on the water to fill the tub before returning to help you get up from the bed without toppling over. He secures his flesh arm around your waist and guides you to the closed toilet, where you carefully sit down.

“Do you.. need help undressing? Or..?” He asks hesitantly.

“No,” you breathe with an awkward laugh. “I think I've got it.”

He gives you a quick nod, looking away to give you the privacy to shed your clothes. You carefully tug the oversized t-shirt the hospital had given you over your head, wincing when it brushes against the swollen knot on the side of your scalp. You rise off the lid of the toilet just enough to push your sweatpants down to your ankles.

“Okay,” you murmur, letting him know that you're ready to step into the tub.

He grabs one of your hands in his, and places his metal hand on the small of your back as you step over the side of the large jacuzzi tub and into the water.

You're aware of the intimacy of the scenario, but you can't find it in yourself to feel insecure or embarrassed right now - you're sure that's largely due to the concussion, but you think it's also simply because of who you're with.

If it were Sam, or Steve, or anyone else, you know you'd be mortified to be utterly exposed as they help you take a bath. If it were anyone else you wouldn't be taking a bath right now - you would have just gone to sleep and waited until you could fully do it yourself instead of putting yourself in such a vulnerable position.

Not that you don't trust your other teammates. But with Bucky, it doesn't feel vulnerable.

He lowers you into the water, your entire body instantly relaxing at the warmth. You glance to his face, noticing a faint purple bruise along his cheekbone.

“I'm going to leave the door cracked. I'll be right outside if you need anything. Just let me know when you're ready to get out, okay?”

You don't respond, instead reaching up to his face, where you run your finger along the outline of the bruise. He freezes beneath your touch, his eyes meeting yours.

“Don't worry,” he assures you softly. “It was a lot worse when it first happened. It's already almost gone.”

“I'm sorry,” you whisper. “It happened because of me. I wasn't paying attention as well as I should have been. Should have heard that guy coming.”

“Don't say that.” He places his flesh hand on top of where yours still rests against his cheek and then brings it in front of his lips, his eyes never leaving yours. “You're okay, and that's the only thing that matters now.”

“Mmm,” you hum, staring at his lips that are no more than an inch away from your hand.

“What are you thinking?” he asks, his voice patient and curious.

You hesitate for a brief moment before leaning forward and pressing your lips to the bruise in a featherlight kiss. You pull back, once more resting your back against the tub and giving him a small shrug.

“Just thinking that I wanted to do that. Have for a while.”

He grins, a faint blush taking over the apples of his cheeks.

“Yeah, I'd say you're definitely concussed.”

You chuckle, your smile matching his. “I am,” you agree. “But the concussion will go away soon, and I'll still want to kiss you then, too.”

He then presses his lips to the side of your hand, causing goosebumps to form across your skin despite the warm water that you sit in.

“I hope that you will do just that.”

••••••

One month later

You wake up to the smell of campfire smoke that creeps through the crack in the partially zipped tent.

Despite a thick sleeping bag, multiple blankets, and the plush sweater that you wear, you can't help but shiver.

Something is missing.

You look around the tent, your eyes adjusting to the early morning daylight that filters into the tent.

Someone is missing.

You reluctantly exit your cozy sleeping bag, shoving your wool sock covered feet into your boots and crawling out of the tent.

Bucky is facing away from you, cracking an egg into a pan that is positioned over the fire.

“Good morning,” you murmur as you creep up behind him, wrapping an arm around his midsection. He wraps his own arm around your shoulders, pulling you flush against him and pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“Morning, sleepy head,” he teases softly. “What's on the agenda today?”

“Maybe some hiking, maybe some biking,” you shrug into him. “Maybe a little bit of you keeping me warm in that tent.”

He laughs, more carefree than you've ever seen him before.

“See? It's a good thing that your trip got postponed. What if I wasn't here to keep you warm?”

You raise up to capture his lips in yours, the taste of fresh brewed French press coffee on his breath.

“Remind me to thank Fury for that when we get back.”

thank you so much for reading 💕🫶🏻 comments and reblogs are infinitely appreciated!!

[elliesbabygirl]

Inspired by charli xcx's 'party 4 u' because I'm unoriginal and still not over the fact that my 'RYM' series has just ended :( + I love writing cool-ish loser! Ellie. She's like a guilty pleasure that I crave really bad 24/7. NOT proofread like always considering I import it from my google docs. 😭Consider it a sweet treat for showing my 'RYM' series sm love🩷

Summary: a small fic that follows you and ellie in a series of moments, where the two of you are too nervous to confess and instead decide to play the long game over some not-so platonic moments.

You told everyone it was just a chill hangout. "Lowkey", you said. "Just a few people, good music, my place." But you’d spent two days rearranging furniture, stringing up lights, and refreshing the playlist so it hit that perfect mood—right between casual and maybe-I-like-you.

Your tiny off-campus apartment buzzed with soft chatter, solo cups in hand, laughter spilling into the hallway. The bass of Charli XCX’s 'party 4 u' thumped low underneath it all, like a secret. And in the center of it? You. Smiling. Mingling. Laughing a little too hard and watching the door.

Jesse bumped your shoulder as he handed you a drink. “You owe me.”

You grinned, feigning innocence. “For what?”

“For casually mentioning this party to Ellie in our lab today. Loudly.. multiple times.”

You nearly choked on your drink. “She’s coming?”

Jesse just sipped his beer and raised a brow. “She said she might. That’s the most commitment you’ll get from her.”

Your pulse picked up. You thanked him—sincerely—and flitted off to refresh the chips or the playlist or just to keep moving so you wouldn’t go insane.

Twenty minutes later, she walked in.

Ellie Williams, with her hands shoved deep into the pockets of her oversized hoodie, a faded science joke T-shirt barely visible underneath (“Never trust an atom. They make up everything.”) and worn jeans that somehow made her look cooler than anyone in the room trying too hard.

You were in the middle of a story—something about a disastrous mixer and three fire alarms—when you saw her. And for a second, your words faltered. She spotted you through the crowd, and her lips pulled into the faintest smile, like she wasn’t used to smiling but still wanted to try.

You waved her over before you could second-guess yourself, cheeks already warm.

“Ellie! You made it!” you said, maybe a little too excited, but you didn’t care.

She gave a short laugh. “Yeah, well… Jesse said there’d be free drinks and good music. He wasn’t wrong.”

Her voice was casual, but she kept glancing around—at the people, the lights, your posters, the blanket you’d half-draped over the couch in a panic to make it look effortlessly cozy.

“So,” you said, stepping closer, voice soft under the music. “You’re not usually a party person.”

“I’m not,” Ellie said. “But… I guess I wanted to see what kind of party you throw.”

You smiled, heart skipping. “It’s literally for you. So… hope it’s decent.”

Ellie blinked. “Wait, seriously?”

“Don’t make it weird,” you teased, stepping back a little, playful. “I throw parties for all the quiet, tattooed girls in science shirts I secretly have a crush on.”

She laughed, head ducking slightly, the tip of her ear pink. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re here,” you said.

“Guess I am.”

For a moment, the room felt smaller, the lights softer. The music just a little louder.

Then Jesse passed by, grinning like he’d won a bet. And you didn’t care—because Ellie was still looking at you like you were the only reason she showed up.

Which, maybe, you were.

The living room hummed with energy—your sorority sisters playing some chaotic drinking game, a speaker nearly tipping off the table from the bass, someone shouting “who brought the glitter??” but in the kitchen, it was quieter, dim. The yellow light from the overhead bulb buzzed faintly. Safe.

Ellie followed you in with an awkward sort of hesitation, her hands fiddling with the strings of her hoodie, like she wasn’t sure if she’d crossed some invisible line by following you.

“I swear, this kitchen is the least aesthetic part of the apartment,” you said, grabbing two sodas from the fridge. “But… also the most peaceful.”

She took the offered can with a quiet “thanks” and leaned her hip against the counter. You mirrored her on the opposite side, just far enough to pretend you weren’t stealing glances at her.

“So..” Ellie said, popping the tab on her drink, “you really threw this party just because of me?”

You gave a light laugh, shrugging. “Well, technically it was an excuse to wear my cute outfit and force Jesse to help me clean my apartment, but yeah… mostly you.”

Ellie smiled into her can, trying to hide it but failing.

“I don’t really get invited to stuff like this,” she said after a pause. “Usually just study groups or… I dunno, weird board game nights in the dorm basement.”

“You’re seriously telling me no one invites you to parties?” you asked. “Like, Ellie Williams, girl-who-always-knows-the-answer-in-chem?”

She snorted. “Yeah, that’s my reputation. Super hot.”

You leaned forward a little, teasing. “Actually? It kinda is.”

Ellie looked up sharply, her expression unreadable for one second too long. Then she bit her bottom lip, hiding the way her face went pink.

“You’re just saying that ‘cause I showed up.”

“Nope,” you said. “I say it every time you leave class with that nerdy little squint of yours”

She laughed again, more quietly this time. Her foot tapped nervously against the floor. Yours mirrored it.

The silence that followed was charged—soft and anxious and somehow perfect. Like the both of you were standing at the edge of something but didn’t quite know how to fall into it.

You took a sip of your soda just to do something with your hands. “You know, we could probably stay in here all night. They wouldn’t even notice.”

Ellie nodded, eyes drifting towards the doorway like it was another planet. “Yeah… I like it better in here. It’s… nice.”

You grinned. “You mean I’m nice.”

She rolled her eyes but didn’t deny it.

“Maybe I just like being cornered by the sorority girl in a too-perfect kitchen.”

“Careful,” you said, stepping just a little closer. “That almost sounded like flirting.”

Ellie tilted her head, curious. “Would that be… a problem?”

You looked at her, really looked at her, all nervous humor and fidgety hands with a hidden warmth.

“No,” you said. “It’d be a start.”

The music pulsed faintly from the other room, the sound like a heartbeat you didn’t have to chase anymore. And in that tiny kitchen—amid the empty solo cups and the hum of the fridge—neither of you moved, but something changed anyway.

Ellie shifted her weight, shoulder brushing just barely against the cabinet as she leaned in a fraction—like it was accidental, it wasn’t. You were leaning in too. Inch by inch, like gravity had its own agenda.

“Your playlist is kinda fire,” she murmured, eyes flicking to your lips and then back up. “Didn’t know you were hiding taste and brains.”

You smiled. “I have secrets.”

Ellie smirked, that soft, rare kind of smirk like she wasn’t used to letting herself have fun. “Bet you say that to all the chemistry nerds you trap in your kitchen.”

“Only the ones who wear punny science shirts and look like they’d rather die than admit they’re having fun.”

She laughed, quiet and breathy, and the space between you shrank again.

Your shoulder grazed hers, then your hands, and then her knee bumped yours under the counter and neither of you moved away. Her eyes locked on yours, green and stormy and very, very close.

“You always do this?” Ellie asked, voice almost a whisper now.

“Do what?”

“Throw a party for someone you like, then corner them and flirt until they can’t think straight?”

You blinked slowly. “I don’t think you’re thinking straight right now.”

She breathed out a laugh, but it caught in her throat. Her hand brushed against yours on the counter—barely there, but deliberate. Everything in you felt still, humming.

Her voice was quieter than ever. “Maybe I’m not.”

You leaned in, so close you could feel her breath on your skin and you didn’t even notice how close your faces were until your nose nearly brushed hers. She didn’t pull back. Neither did you.

Then—

“YO!”

Jesse’s voice blasted into the kitchen like a bomb.

You and Ellie jolted apart like you’d been caught setting off fireworks in a church.

“There is puke! Puke! On your rug!” he shouted, flailing into the doorway with a wild look in his eyes and a towel wrapped around one hand like a crime scene.

“What the—who?!” you yelled, stepping away from Ellie so fast you almost tripped over your own foot.

“I don’t know! Some girl in glitter boots and a unicorn onesie. I think she thinks this is the chi o afterparty..”

Ellie cleared her throat and took a big, unnecessary gulp of soda, pointedly looking away from both of you.

You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Of course! The one time I throw a party for a girl—someone nice, not a walking frat mistake—and this happens.”

Jesse blinked. “Wait. This was a—oh, Ohhhhh. I’m gonna go clean..i was never here.”

He disappeared as fast as he came, leaving a gust of hot wind behind him.

You looked at Ellie, your cheeks burning, heart still racing for a completely different reason now.

“I swear this never happens,” you said, voice hoarse.

She laughed—quiet, but warm. “Sure, but… you did corner me.”

“I did.”

She looked at you again, really looked. “You gonna finish what you started?”

You smiled. “Maybe. Just… after I make sure my rug survives the night.”

Ellie snickered. “I’ll be here, kitchen's kinda… cozy.”

The last of the music had faded into silence. Your apartment looked like a glitter bomb had gone off during a frat hazing ritual—red solo cups littered every flat surface, someone had left a half-eaten slice of pizza on a bookshelf, and the rug (miraculously) had survived.

Jesse was stacking cups into a tower in the kitchen, muttering something about “next time, no open invite.” Ellie was still here, to your total disbelief, sleeves rolled up, hair tied back with an elastic she found on her wrist, helping you pick up confetti with two fingers like it was nuclear waste.

“You don’t have to stay, you know,” you said, dropping a plastic cup into a trash bag. “You’re officially above this. You helped clean glitter puke, you've earned your freedom.”

Ellie glanced at you from where she was crouched, grabbing a stack of napkins from under the coffee table. “Yeah, well… figured I’d see it through. Make sure your place doesn’t collapse.”

You smiled, tired but too giddy to care. “What a hero.”

She looked away quickly, but you caught the flush that crawled up her neck.

Jesse yawned loudly, clapping his hands once. “Alright. You two got this. I’m out.”

You didn’t stop him. Ellie didn’t either. The door shut behind him with a quiet click.

And then there was just… silence.

Ellie stood in the middle of the room, holding a sad party streamer in one hand like she’d forgotten what it was. You stood nearby, frozen with a trash bag half-full, too aware of the fact that she didn’t leave. That you didn’t want her to.

You both laughed at the same time—nervous, overlapping.

“This is weird,” you said. “Why is this weird?”

“I don’t know,” Ellie replied, smiling sheepishly. “You tell me. You threw the party.”

“For you.”

“I know.”

The silence came back, heavier this time. But softer, too.

Ellie stepped closer, tossing the streamer into the bag you were holding. Her fingers grazed yours. Not an accidental mistake.

“You were gonna kiss me earlier,” she said, voice almost a whisper.

You blinked. “You were gonna kiss me.”

She smiled. “So what happened?”

You gestured toward the now-destroyed battlefield of your living room. “A unicorn onesie and bodily fluids, that’s what.”

Ellie chuckled, and the tension broke—just enough. She was still so close. You could smell her faintly—soap, and whatever cheap body spray Jesse kept in the bathroom.

Your heart raced. You looked at her, at her stupid science T-shirt and her flushed cheeks and the way she couldn’t stop fiddling with the hem of her hoodie.

“You’re not leaving, are you?” you asked, half a statement, half full of hope.

Ellie shook her head slowly. “Not yet.”

She took another step.

You mirrored it.

Neither of you were sure who moved first—maybe it didn’t matter—but one second you were standing in the wreckage of a party, and the next her hand was on your waist, your fingers brushing her jaw.

The kiss started soft—testing the waters—but didn’t stay that way.

It deepened quickly, like both of you were letting go of something you hadn’t realized you’d been holding in. Her lips were warm and a little uncertain, but she matched your rhythm like she’d been thinking about this just as long, maybe longer.

Her fingers curled into your sweatshirt. Yours slid to her neck, your thumb grazing the side of her jaw, and she made the faintest sound in the back of her throat—surprised and shaky.

The world around you slowed. The music was gone. The mess didn’t matter. There was just the pulse in your ears, the warmth of her mouth, the quiet tension that pulled you both in tighter.

When the kiss finally broke, it was slow—reluctant.

You stayed close, noses brushing. Neither of you ready to pull away.

Ellie’s voice came out breathless. “That was… wow.”

You smiled, giddy and flushed. “Yeah. Definitely… wow.”

She swallowed, still catching her breath, still holding on. “I thought I messed it up.”

“You didn’t.”

Her forehead rested against yours for a second—like she didn’t want to let the moment go.

Then you both stepped back at the same time. Nervous and a little dazed.

You cleared your throat, gripping the trash bag like it was the only thing tying you to reality. “So, um.. more confetti?”

Ellie laughed under her breath, eyes still locked on you. “Yeah, sure Confetti.”

The hum of fluorescent lights. The low clatter of glassware. That faint, sterile scent of ethanol and dust and overachieving. It was another monday in chem 204—unforgiving and way too early—but everything felt different.

Maybe because you were still riding the high from last night.

Jesse slouched next to you at your shared lab bench, scrolling through the instructions on the tablet like he hadn’t just watched half your apartment get turned into a frat-adjacent crime scene last night.

“Honestly,” he mumbled, cracking open a vial, “I don’t know how there was that much glitter. Like—do they make concentrated glitter now?”

You nodded absently, measuring out sodium bicarbonate, pretending to listen. You weren’t.

Because across the room—station C3—Ellie Williams was setting up her beakers and pipettes like it was just another lab day. Like she hadn’t kissed you in your living room until your knees felt like static.

Her hair was pulled back in a low bun. Same hoodie from the party, layered over a different science-pun T-shirt (“If you’re not part of the solution, you’re part of the precipitate”). You nearly choked on your own breath when you saw her walk in.

You’d barely said anything to each other this morning. A single text.

y/n: didn’t dream that right?

els: nope. you kissed me. pretty sure that was real.

And now she was here, four tables away, trying to act like she wasn’t sneaking glances at you every ten seconds.

You caught her eye again just as she pretended to adjust a burner. She bit her bottom lip, hiding a smile.

You smirked, turning back to your experiment as your cheeks flushed warm.

Jesse raised an eyebrow. “Okay, what's going on with you?”

“Hm?” you said, a little too quickly.

“You’ve measured the same solution three times. And you’re smiling at… baking soda.”

You blinked. “Oh, just… really love chemistry.”

Jesse gave you a flat look. “You’re a communications major.”

You didn’t answer. Instead, you risked another glance.

Ellie was pretending to take notes, her pen unmoving on the paper. She looked up and met your eyes.

And that smile again—shy and smug and like she was remembering every second from last night.

You mouthed, hi.

She mouthed, hey, like it meant more than it should.

Across the lab, burners hissed and partners whispered, and Jesse kept muttering something about your measurements being off, but none of it mattered. Not really (yes really, you were being graded on efficiency).

Because you and Ellie were caught in your own little chemistry equation.

The study room smelled like old paper and floor cleaner, with the buzzing of overhead lights that had probably been flickering since 2013. One wall was all glass, offering a clear view of the rest of the library, but inside—at this small round table surrounded by mismatched chairs—it felt like its own little world.

Four laptops were open. A tangle of wires, coffee cups, and half-eaten snacks sat between all of you. Textbooks were scattered in varying degrees of neglect.

Jesse and Dina sat shoulder to shoulder, her legs thrown over his lap, both of them wearing matching hoodies they definitely stole from each other. Jesse was quizzing her on anatomy flashcards.

“Name the bone that connects the shoulder to the elbow,” he said.

“Your arm bone,” Dina said.

He stared at her. “You mean the humerus?”

“That’s what I said.”

Meanwhile, you and Ellie sat directly across from each other, separated by one open chemistry binder and roughly three inches of space.

Ellie was pretending to read. You were pretending to highlight something useful. Neither of you were doing a very good job at hiding it.

“Hey,” you said quietly.

Ellie looked up so fast she almost knocked over her iced coffee. “Hey.”

You smiled, nervous and warm. “How was your day?”

She blinked like you’d asked her to recite the periodic table backwards. “Oh. Um—good. Pretty average. I made a perfect hexane compound model in lab, which I know is thrilling content.”

“Super hot,” you whispered, teasing her.

Ellie let out a small laugh, rubbing the back of her neck. “You?”

“Also thrilling. I watched three people fight over a toaster in the dining hall. Guy nearly cried.”

She snorted, trying to hide her smile behind her sleeve. “College is wild.”

You nodded. “We’re living the dream.”

Neither of you moved, neither of you said anything else for a second. You could hear Dina kissing her teeth as Jesse tried to explain what a scapula was. Ellie’s fingers drummed lightly against the edge of the table. Yours were close by.

Then—so soft you weren’t sure it was on purpose—her pinky brushed against yours.

You didn’t move, didn't look away. Just slid your hand a little closer.

She didn’t pull back.

Your fingers touched. Not holding hands, not really. Just touching. Playing, in that quiet kind of way that made your pulse skip. Her nail grazed your knuckle. Yours traced the side of her finger.

It was nothing but everything at the same time.

Ellie glanced down once then looked back at you. Her cheeks pink.

“You’re not… freaking out?” she asked, voice low so only you could hear.

“Not unless you are.”

She shook her head slowly. “Not freaking out.”

You smiled. “Cool, me neither. Totally chill. Definitely not counting how many times you blink.”

Ellie laughed—really laughed this time, head tilted back slightly. Jesse looked over.

“Ellie, you good?”

Ellie cleared her throat, sat up straighter. “Yeah, just… bonding over carbon chains.”

Dina snorted. “That’s what the kids are calling it now?”

You both looked down, hands slipping apart for a second—but not for long.

Because two minutes later, your fingers found hers again, underneath the table this time.

The booth was sticky. The lighting too yellow for your taste. The laminated menus hadn’t been cleaned properly since at least last tuesday. And still, somehow, it felt perfect.

You sat across from Ellie in a near-empty waffle house, the windows fogged slightly from the steam of the kitchen and the chill outside. A waitress with a name tag that read “barb” had taken your order without judgment, like she’d seen hundreds of college kids walk in with wide eyes and not-a-date date energy.

Ellie sat curled into the corner of the booth, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, chewing on the straw in her coke.

“This isn’t a date,” she said for the third time, obviously shitting her pants (metaphorically) from nerves.

You grinned over your mug of watery coffee. “Definitely not. Just two people eating waffles alone together at midnight.”

“Yeah,” Ellie said, nodding solemnly. “Very casual...very platonic.

You both broke out into quiet, giddy laughter.

The cook called something from the kitchen, and a plate clattered onto the pass-through window.

Ellie drummed her fingers on the table, then looked at you with that shy little tilt to her head. “So, tell me a weird fact about your childhood.”

“Oh, we’re doing that game now?” you teased.

“It’s tradition, non-date waffle house rules.”

You thought for a second. “Okay. When I was eight, I was completely obsessed with those mini baking ovens. Like—the easy-bake ones? I made the weirdest, driest little cakes and forced my parents to eat them.”

Ellie cracked a grin. “Were they good?”

“They were inedible. I made ‘pizza bagels’ once and nearly set the microwave on fire.”

She laughed, eyes crinkling. “That’s actually kinda badass, future arsonist vibes.”

“I prefer ‘culinary visionary,’” you said, mock offended.

Ellie smirked. “Alright, alright. My turn.”

She leaned back, eyes scanning the ceiling like she was pulling the memory from deep storage. “When I was ten, Joel taught me how to carve wood. Like—real, pocket-knife, dangerous shit. First thing I ever made was a little dinosaur, looked more like a lumpy potato with legs, but I was proud.”

You blinked, surprised. “Joel taught you?”

“Yeah,” she said, voice softening. “He’s kind of a hard-ass, but… he has this whole woodworking setup in the garage. Said it was good for patience... said I needed that.”

You smiled. “Do you still do it?”

Ellie shrugged, suddenly shy again. “Sometimes. It’s easier than talking, most days.”

There was a pause—comfortable, warm.

You reached across the table, gently nudging her fingers. “That’s really cool.”

She glanced down at your hand, then up at you, cheeks pink. “You ever wanna bake something not in a microwave, we could, uh… make a weird trade. Wood-carving for baking.”

You raised a brow. “Are you asking me on a real date now?”

Ellie grinned, eyes flicking away. “Maybe, you into lumpy dinosaurs and waffles?”

“Very,” you said, grinning back. “But only if you eat my awful cupcakes.”

Barb dropped off your plates with a tired smile, and neither of you reached for them right away.

You were too busy smiling like idiots, pretending this still wasn’t a date—even if you both knew it was.

The first bite of waffles hit like a religious experience.

You closed your eyes dramatically. “Holy hell.”

Ellie was halfway through her own plate of hash browns, looking similarly awed. “Why is this so good? Have we just been eating garbage all semester?”

“We have been eating garbage all semester,” you said through a mouthful of syrup. “This is real food, god-tier.”

Ellie grinned, syrup on the corner of her mouth, pointing at your plate. “You gonna finish that bacon?”

You narrowed your eyes. “Touch it and die.”

The banter went on like that, easy and unfiltered, between bites that got messier and sloppier as neither of you cared about being “cute” anymore. Hunger trumped awkwardness. You were both suddenly seventeen again, staying up too late and eating like you’d never see a kitchen again.

By the time you were both leaning back in the booth, plates cleared and stomachs full, you were practically melting into the vinyl.

Ellie glanced at you. “You wanna… come over? I mean—not like that,” she rushed, ears going pink, “just—I live super close and I have, like… tea? Or something.”

You tried not to smile too hard. “Tea sounds dangerous.”

She rolled her eyes. “Totally reckless and wild.”

+

It was small, but the kind of small that felt lived-in, cozy. You stepped through the door and took it all in slowly; stacks of books lined the floor by the windows, a second-hand couch facing a tiny TV, shelves full of random junk—rocks, figurines, more than a few cracked mugs. But what caught your eye were the walls.

Framed Savage Starlight comics, a whole set. Not just pinned—framed. Carefully, reverently, like museum pieces.

And above her desk, posters of galaxies and star charts, some yellowed at the edges, others so crisp they must’ve been recent finds. NASA logos. A glow-in-the-dark moon.

You turned in place, smiling. “Okay. You are, officially, a dork.”

Ellie rubbed the back of her neck. “Yeah, well… I had a phase.”

“You’re still in it.”

“Shut up,” she muttered, but she was smiling too, leaning against the kitchenette counter, arms crossed like she was trying to act unbothered. But you could see the twitch in her jaw, the way she kept flicking her eyes toward you—checking your reaction like this was some test she hadn’t studied for.

You walked over to the comics, pretending to inspect them like a snooty art critic. “Wow, this one’s worth, like, eighty bucks on ebay. Should I steal it?”

Ellie snorted. “Touch it and die.”

You looked over your shoulder, smirking. “Hey, that's my line.”

She blinked, caught off-guard, then laughed. “Damn, you're right.”

The silence that followed was soft, expectant. You weren’t doing anything particularly romantic—just… existing in her space. Letting her show you who she was without saying it out loud.

And Ellie, trying so hard to play it cool, stood there like her whole body was buzzing.

You finally turned fully to her. “I like your place.”

She nodded, chewing on the inside of her cheek. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. It’s very… you.”

“Messy and space-obsessed?”

You shrugged, stepping closer. “Exactly my type.”

Ellie flushed instantly, looking down at her feet. “You’re impossible.”

You leaned against the counter next to her, close enough that your shoulders brushed together.

“Still not a date, by the way,” you said quietly.

She glanced sideways at you. “Definitely not.”

Ellie made the tea, or something vaguely like tea. It tasted like cardboard and chamomile, but you drank it anyway because she’d nervously handed it to you like it was a sacred offering.

Now the two of you were squeezed onto her too-small couch, feet tangled awkwardly over a throw blanket that smelled like laundry detergent and cedar. The TV was on but muted—some old sci-fi movie flickering in black and white, just enough to give the room a quiet glow.

You were pressed shoulder to shoulder, legs brushing occasionally, both pretending it wasn’t happening.

Ellie sipped her tea too fast, like it gave her something to do. “Sorry there’s, like, no room. It’s, uh— a studio. I didn’t think this far ahead.” An awkward frown on her face as she looked at you.

You tilted your head towards her, smiling gently. “You mean you don’t prepare for late-night almost-date hangouts with every girl you share waffles with?”

Ellie choked on her tea.

You patted her back as she coughed, laughing softly. “I’m kidding.”

“No, you’re not,” she muttered, grinning despite her face turning red. “You’re such a menace.”

You didn’t answer. Just let the moment settle. The silence wasn’t awkward anymore—just full, soft. The kind of quiet that feels like permission to say something you wouldn’t normally say.

She turned to look at you, eyes a little tired but warm. “Hey.”

You looked back. “Yeah?”

Ellie opened her mouth, then closed it. Looked at your mouth, then looked away. “…Nothing.”

You reached up gently, brushing her knuckles with yours again, the same way you had in the library.

“Ellie.”

She looked at you again. This time, neither of you looked away.

The kiss was barely a kiss—more hesitation than action. Her lips brushed yours like a question, like she was waiting for you to pull back. You didn’t.

You kissed her again, slower this time, still unsure, both of you smiling into it like idiots. It wasn’t perfect—your noses bumped, and the angle was weird on the tiny couch—but it didn’t matter.

It was clumsy, real. Warm.

Ellie pulled back, blinking, breath hitching as she let out a soft laugh. “Okay, so that happened..”

You nodded. “yeah..”

“Still not a date, though.”

“Definitely not.”

The two of you didn’t move for a moment, just stared at each other, hearts in your throats. Then Ellie shifted, slumping sideways, and you followed, curling instinctively against her.

You fit together like it had been waiting to happen.

Her arm tucked behind your shoulders. Your hand found hers again. The TV kept flickering, casting faint shadows over the framed comics and cluttered bookshelves.

And slowly, the tension melted away. Your breathing slowed down to sync with hers, your limbs tangled, and Ellie’s cheek rested against the top of your head.

By the time sleep came, the awkwardness had faded into something quieter. Something sweeter.

The living room was a controlled disaster.

Half a pizza sat in its box on the coffee table, two different board games were half-set-up and ignored, and someone (probably Jesse) had spilled root beer and made a failed attempt at cleaning it up with paper towels. The overhead light was off (thank god), replaced by the soft flicker of some D-list sci-fi movie Ellie had insisted on playing “for the vibes.” A spaceship exploded in the background as someone screamed something about “quantum portals.”

Ellie sat on the floor, legs crossed, chewing on a twizzler and pretending not to be pressed up against your leg.

You were half-leaning on the couch, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, your knee bumping hers every few minutes like it was casual. It wasn’t. She still gave you that same flustered little glance every time it happened.

You were officially girlfriends now. You’d said it—out loud, with words and everything, a few weeks ago. Maybe longer. But apparently the universe didn’t care, because you still flirted like it was week one.

“Okay,” Jesse said from across the room, holding up a card from the trivia game that had been abandoned twenty minutes ago. “New question. When, officially, do you two stop acting like you just brushed hands for the first time in a high school hallway?”

Dina cackled, curled into Jesse’s side like she lived there. “Seriously, it’s like watching a coming-of-age movie in real time.”

You groaned, reaching for a throw pillow. “I hate both of you.”

“You hate us?” Jesse leaned forward, pointing at you with a chip. “Ellie literally flinched when you tucked her hair behind her ear two hours ago. I saw it. It was like she was struck by lightning dude.”

Ellie, still chewing her twizzler, raised her hands. “Okay. In my defense, she does that thing with her thumb—on my cheek—and I’m not built for that level of affection, alright?”

You covered your face with your hoodie sleeves, muffling a laugh. “You’re such a nerd, ohmygod.”

“You’re dating this nerd,” Ellie shot back, poking your side.

You poked her back. It devolved into a low-effort war of soft jabs and teasing mutters in front of Jesse and Dina.

“Exhibit A,” Dina said, waving a hand. “Couple of actual teenagers.”

Jesse leaned over to her. “Should we leave them alone? Or, like, offer juice boxes and tell their parents they’re holding hands after school?”

You flipped them both off with a smile. “This is harassment.”

“This is friendship,” Jesse corrected, raising his root beer. “And we’re proud of you, but also painfully aware of how soft you both are now.”

Ellie leaned into you just slightly, like she didn’t mean to. You bumped her back.

The sci-fi movie in the background exploded again—something about a failed wormhole this time.

You sighed dramatically. “Next time we’re watching a rom-com.”

Ellie glanced over, mouth twitching into a smirk. “You’re really gonna try and make me watch 27 dresses again?”

“Hell yes, I am.”

Jesse groaned. “God help us.”

Dina nodded solemnly. “The true horror genre.”

And just like that, it settled—easy, familiar. You and Ellie, curled up together in the chaos. Still awkward, still soft, still brushing hands like it was brand new.

Girlfriends, yeah. The kind who talked about sci-fi movies like they mattered and touched each other like they still couldn’t believe they were allowed to.

The best kind.

[thatonegrimm]

🎤Huntr/x + Bobby— Random Drabbles #1

🪽 Rumi – “You Forgot to Sleep Again”

It was well past 3 a.m. when you found her.

The living room was dimly lit by the soft glow of her laptop screen, her fingers still poised above the keys even though her eyes had long gone unfocused. Papers were scattered everywhere—battle maps, training notes, lyric scribbles. A mug of something long cold sat forgotten beside her elbow.

You padded over quietly and knelt beside her chair.

“Rumi.”

No response.

“Rumi.”

Her eyes snapped toward you like she'd been yanked out of a trance.

“Oh. Hey. What time is it?”

“Late enough that your eyebags need their own combat license.”

She huffed. “I was just finishing—”

You reached up and gently closed the laptop.

“No more finishing. You’re coming to bed.”

She looked like she wanted to argue, but then your fingers found hers, lacing them together with just enough warmth to silence her resistance.

“…Okay,” she whispered. “But only because you asked nicely.”

You smiled. She was exhausted—but she let herself be led, trusting that you’d still be there when she woke up.

🗡️ Mira – “Don’t Touch the Knife. No, Seriously.”

The gleam in her eyes should’ve warned you.

Mira stood at the kitchen counter, sharpening a curved blade that absolutely had no business being indoors. It was a normal Saturday morning, and she looked like she was prepping to fight a demonic warlord instead of eat breakfast.

You squinted at the blade.

“That’s the one that cut through a car door, right?”

Mira didn’t even look up. “And three cursed vines, a demon rat, and one extremely aggressive soda machine.”

“Cool cool cool,” you said, taking a casual step back. “Just gonna make toast over here and not die.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

But then she paused. Glanced over her shoulder.

“…Thanks for not getting freaked out,” she said quietly.

You looked at her. At the soft line of her jaw, the tension in her shoulders.

“You scare me all the time,” you replied honestly. “But never in the way you think.”

Her eyes softened.

And when you handed her a piece of buttered toast on a napkin shaped like a truce flag, she actually smiled.

🦋 Zoey – “The Hair Dye Incident”

The bathroom looked like a unicorn exploded.

Pink dye everywhere—on the sink, on the walls, somehow even on the ceiling. Zoey stood in the middle of the chaos with a guilty grin, a towel around her shoulders and a streak of bright magenta in her bangs.

“…Don’t kill me,” she said immediately.

You blinked. “Do I want to know what happened?”

“No. But I’ll tell you anyway. It was supposed to be lavender. And then it wasn’t.”

You tried not to laugh. You really did.

But Zoey looked too damn proud of herself for you to hold it in.

She smirked. “I look hot though, right?”

“You look like a Care Bear with a vengeance arc.”

“That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

You rolled your eyes—but reached for the comb anyway.

She leaned into you a little when you started brushing out the dye. And under the teasing, you could feel it: the warmth of someone who trusted you enough to be a little ridiculous.

📋 Bobby – “Manager, Therapist, Occasional Fire Extinguisher”

By the time Bobby arrived, the studio was already chaos.

Zoey was blasting music from two different speakers, Mira was trying to mop up water from a spill she definitely didn’t cause, and Rumi was shouting into her phone about someone double-booking a rehearsal room.

Bobby walked in with coffee, took one long look around, and calmly set the drinks on the counter like none of this was new.

“Okay,” he said cheerfully, “which disaster do I triage first?”

Rumi immediately pointed at the mess. “Not mine.”

Mira raised her hand. “Also not mine.”

Zoey grinned. “Miiiight be mine.”

He gave them a dramatic, fatherly sigh. “This is why I have gray hairs.”

“You don’t have gray hairs,” Rumi muttered.

“I will.”

But later, when the floor was dry, the tech issue was fixed, and the girls were finally laughing again, Bobby just stood off to the side with his arms crossed—watching them like a proud (exhausted) dad at a school play.

He didn’t need thanks.

Just that look on their faces.

And when Mira tossed him one of the extra snack bars they’d packed for later, he caught it easily and grinned.

“You know,” he said, “I wouldn’t trade this job for anything.”

M-List

Taglist: @honey-and-sweetdreams @lyunsafebubble @moonlit-koraline @reixtsu @ghostiiess

[ccupcakqs]

— jet lag & juice boxes ౨ৎ✧˚

warnings: pure fluff, a kiss, sleepy alex, light swearing pairing: alex albon x female reader a/n: i love tired boyfriends who just want juice and forehead kisses :)

you check the time again. it’s nearing midnight, and the arrivals board finally blinks to life: flight landed.

the car is warm, engine idling softly, your playlist humming low through the speakers. you’ve been parked here for almost forty minutes — early, on purpose. alex’s texts had been sporadic since he left japan. spotty wifi, exhaustion, time zones that didn’t line up with your own. still, you knew the drill. race week was chaos. you didn’t mind waiting. you’d rather be early for him than late for anyone else.

the backseat is lined with little comforts: his favorite sour gummies, a neatly folded hoodie he left behind last time, and a juice box — grape, the only flavor he insists is “actually elite.” you’d laughed while grabbing it at the gas station earlier, imagining the look on his face.

outside the windows, the airport looks quiet and damp. puddles reflect the yellow-orange glow of the streetlights. you chew on your thumbnail, nerves fluttering even though there’s no real reason to be nervous. he’s just been gone two weeks. not even that long. but the missing always stretches time out like elastic. it makes everything feel further than it is.

when your phone buzzes, your heart jumps.

alex 🤍 just off the plane. you here?

you smile, thumbs already flying.

you row c, under the covered pickup. look for the world’s sexiest civic.

he replies with a single laugh emoji. your smile grows.

minutes later, you see him.

he’s dragging his carry-on like a man twice his age, backpack slung one-shoulder, baseball cap shoved backwards over messy hair. he’s in joggers and the team hoodie you’ve stolen more times than you can count. he looks like the inside of a sunday morning. like comfort. like home.

he doesn’t see you at first. his eyes scan the row of cars, squinting through the low mist. then you wave — a quick, ridiculous little jazz-hand thing out the window — and his entire face changes.

he lights up like the sun cracking through cloud cover.

you jump out of the car as he nears, rushing around the front bumper just as he drops his suitcase. he opens his arms without a word and you go right into them, arms around his waist, head tucked against his chest. he smells like recycled plane air and something faintly citrus, probably the shitty in-flight hand wipe.

"you’re real," he mumbles into your hair.

you laugh, squeezing him tighter. “barely. you look like a zombie.”

“i feel like a zombie.” he pulls back just enough to look at you, hands still low on your back. “but, like, one that would only eat you. for emotional nourishment.”

“mm, romantic. truly.”

he leans down, forehead pressing to yours. “hi.”

“hi.”

you stay like that for a moment, the kind of quiet that fills you instead of empties you.

then you remember what you’ve stashed in the backseat.

“come on, race boy,” you say, slipping from his arms and reaching for the back door. “i brought you something.”

he squints suspiciously but follows, kicking his suitcase closer to the trunk. “if it’s another protein bar disguised as chocolate, i swear—”

“behold.” you flourish the juice box like it’s sacred.

alex stares. then blinks. then grins, slow and wide and genuine. “you’re kidding.”

“grape,” you confirm. “imported all the way from... the BP on smith street.”

he takes it reverently, like it’s a trophy. “you really do love me.”

you roll your eyes, but your cheeks go warm. “you said it helps with jet lag.”

“and my soul,” he adds, sticking the straw in with the confidence of someone who’s done it a thousand times before. he takes a sip and sighs dramatically. “god. that’s the good stuff.”

“you’re ridiculous.”

“you’re perfect.”

the words slip out so easily it makes your chest ache. he says it like it’s a fact, like it’s always been true.

you duck your head, smiling. “get in the car, albon.”

he climbs in, still sipping his juice, and you start the drive home with soft music playing and his hand finding yours across the center console.

the world outside is quiet. but inside this little car — grape juice, sleepy smiles, your fingers intertwined — everything is full of light.

the rain has started up again, soft and rhythmic on the windshield, casting slow-moving shadows across the dash. alex is half-asleep in the passenger seat, hood pulled up now, mouth slightly parted, straw of the juice box still sticking out like a cartoon.

your hand rests in his lap — not doing much, just there. his fingers play with yours absently every so often, like he’s checking if you’re real.

“you didn’t have to wait that long,” he murmurs suddenly, voice raspy and low.

you glance at him, smile soft. “i wanted to.”

he hums. “your texts felt like... landing lights.”

you pretend not to melt at that. “okay, poet laureate.”

“i’m serious.” he leans his head back, looking at you sideways. “everyone else was asleep or busy. but you were there. always.”

your heart does this gentle stutter. like it’s catching up to something it already knew.

“always,” you echo.

the car is warm. the hum of the freeway, the rain, the low sound of your playlist curling through the speakers — it all swirls into something that feels domestic. like this is a moment pulled from some future where you do this all the time.

you glance over at him again. he’s watching you, eyes soft, tired. the kind of tired that makes everything quiet inside.

“you look good,” he says quietly. “like... annoyingly good. considering i feel like a bootleg corpse.”

you snort. “a sexy corpse, though.”

“mmm. i should crash in your bed and never leave it.”

“that was already the plan.”

he grins, all sleepy teeth and slouch. “god, i missed you.”

your hands find each other again.

you’re pulling into your apartment building’s garage now, headlights sweeping across concrete pillars and faded yellow lines. as you park, alex sits up a little straighter, blinking away the daze.

“home sweet home,” you say, turning off the ignition.

but he doesn’t move to get out.

instead, he reaches over, cups your jaw gently, and says, “wait.”

you still.

he leans in, forehead to yours, thumb brushing your cheek. his eyes are so close. so full of affection it makes your throat tighten.

“you really brought me a juice box,” he murmurs, smiling like it’s the most tender thing in the world.

“and a hoodie,” you whisper.

“and gummies.”

“and a playlist titled alex jetlag boy.”

he laughs under his breath. “you spoil me.”

then he kisses you.

it’s soft. not rushed. not deep. just lips against lips in the still dark of the car, the rain still pattering gently overhead. it tastes like grape and tiredness and something golden behind your ribs.

when he pulls back, his eyes stay closed for a moment longer.

“best welcome home ever,” he whispers.

you bump your nose against his. “and there’s leftover pad thai in the fridge.”

he groans. “marry me immediately.”

you grin. “carry your suitcase first.”

he kisses you again, quick and laughing.

“fine. but only because you bribed me with food.”

he opens the door, grabbing his bag. you step out too, the concrete cool under your shoes, and for a brief second — under flickering garage lights and the scent of rain and petrol — he looks at you like you hung the stars just to guide him home.

© ccupcakqs. all work written by me. DO NOT PLAGIARISE!

[oreo-creampies]

‘𝐝𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐲 𝐬𝐥𝐮𝐭 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐚 𝐠𝐥𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐦𝐞𝐧 (𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦-𝐩𝐢𝐞𝐝 & 𝐟𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐩𝐢𝐝)’

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: pervert!reader, bdsm, service sub!reader, dom!toji, dom!sukuna, dom!suguru, dom!satoru, gang-bang, degradation/praise/mocking/taunting, daddy/princess, pain kink, mind break/dumbification, overstimulation, they all got big dick, vibrator, collar and leash, light bondage, blindfold, voyeurism, biting, spanking, some face spalling, drinking satoru's cum outta a pussy sleeve, double penetration, dacryphilia, some cervix fucking, light belly bulge, squirting

𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞: 𝟏𝟒 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐮𝐭𝐞𝐬/𝟑.𝟗𝐤

𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧: sukuna/toji/gojo/geto foursome??? w/ heavy degradation andddddddd dumbifiction and they’re like rlly mean to reader lolz. u can do anything else u want i trust u

fey: the way i've been fixated on writing this is ridiculous, gangbang requests are my fav

Waiting with your legs spread, rubbing a vibrator on your clit. Tonight you’re a nameless glory hole for a random guy to fuck and cum in. It's your guilty pleasure to be whored out and degraded.

If only it were by your handsome, muscular roommates. They could pass you around like one of their fat blunts.

Scarlet states on your sex room's ceiling speakers. "A group of four is coming. Ya gonna enjoy them, rowdy hotties. They might last a while." Moving to the edge of the bed, where you bend over, legs spread.

The door slides open and closes behind the silent group. You're anticipating lewd, crude comments, large hands on your hips, and a warm, hard cock in your needy cunt. Slipping the vibrator inside you, moaning.

"Aren't you gonna use me?" Spreading your cunt apart with your fingers. Letting them see the toy pulsing in your cunt. Rubbing your clit, whining. "Please, I'll be a good slut." Stuffing the toy inside, groaning when it touches your sweet spot.

You hear a familiar deep voice, “You'll be a good slut for daddy n' let me get my moneys worth outta your sloppy cunt.” Clenching the toy pulsing in your cunt. Heating up in embarrassment, quickly standing up and turning around.

Whimpering his name, "Tooojiiinn?" The sweet pleasure from the vibrator keeps you from sounding firm. Your thighs trembling, knees weakening, sitting down. They've caught you being a slut.

Toji slips off his shirt quickly. "You'll gonna be fucked too stupid think straight so we'll keep it simple for you. Dirty slut call us daddy." You're done for.

Spreading your legs open, slipping the vibrator out by the long string-like rubber piece. You cunt spams when you rub your clit. Curling your toes into the sofa carpet, Loudly moaning, "Whatever you want Daddy." Toji slips his sweats off.

His cock is thicker than you thought. With puffy veins, you want to trace with your tongue. He's going to break your cunt with a cock like that.

Suguru folds his shirt and pants, setting it on the door side counter. "Whatever we want, good little slut." Sukuna and Satoru throw their clothes together in a small pile. All of them are beautiful, with thick pecs, washboard abs, meaty arms, and muscular thighs

Sukuna snaps "Good slut my ass!" He playful glares, a predatory smirk on his kissable lips. "Fuckin' whore lied to us, said she was hanging out with some friends." You want to sit on his beautiful tattooed face.

Toji adds, "If ya us the truth we could have just tied ya up at home." He picks up a thin collar, with its leash attached.

Swirling the toy on your clit. "Didn't feel like advertising I'm submissive at a BDSM sex club occasionally. What if I got designated to a whore instead of a friend?" Joining in for Sukuna's horror movie nights. Random late-night drives with Satoru and Suguru. Toji's fat blunts and warm cuddles.

These were things you don't want to miss out on if they see you differently.

Satoru spits into his large palm, smearing it over his head. Lightly pumping his hand over his pale pink head. "Aw, don't worry you're always gonna be our lil princess. " He smears the thick pre-cum seeps from his slit with his thumb.

Toji wraps the collar around your neck. Tugging on the leash, forcing you off the edge of the bed and onto your knees. "So you told a little lie to your friends because you thought we'd shun ya for being a slut." He winds the chain around his big rough hand. Yanking you forward, you brace yourself on Toji's thick muscular thighs.

"Yes, I'm allowed to keep things private. 'Side now ya know, ya know my safe word, limits. Are you gonna keep bein' a meanie or are ya use me?" Sticking your tongue out. Toji slaps his heavy cock on your tongue.

He glides his cock into your mouth. "I've always wanted to bully ya more when ya call me a meanie." Gagging you, holding your head in place with a large hand. Pumping his cock in your mouth. You suck in your cheeks, keeping your tongue out, relaxing your neck.

Suguru encourages you, "Hold your hands out for Satoru and I." A large hand guides yours to their warm cock. Swirling your fists, gliding your hand along the length of their cocks.

Satoru croons, "Hmm your hand is so soft 'round my cock." Suguru's droops underneath his weight, too thick for your fingertips to touch. Satoru is a couple inches longer, slimmer but reasonably thick, with more puffy veins.

Your cunt clenches nothing, your slick dripping down your thighs. They are all so big, your cunt is going to be sore for days after this. Are you going to walk after this? They could take you home with them, and you could call it a night.

Anyone after Suguru, Satoru, Toji, and Sukuna would be a disappointment anyway.

Filling your lungs when Toji glides his cock out. He steps aside for Sukuna to stand next to him. "Wondered if your cock was tattooed." Wrapping your lips around Sukuna's light tan thick cockhead. Bobbing your head, groaning, taking him in deep long strokes. Gagging occasionally.

Sukuna wonders, "Is that the only thing you wondered about us?" Loudly slurping, sucking, swirling your tongue around his cock. Gliding him deeper, gagging yourself when your nose touches the short patch of Sukuna's dark hair. Sliding him out with a pop, his cock hangs, too heavy to stand up.

Kissing Sukuna's fat balls, sucking them into your mouth. Toji pulls you back, "Tell us what goes on in that perverted head of yours. Or you're not cumming." It's getting you off to have so many thick cock in your face. The slick sounds of their fist gliding along their cocks goes straight to your cunt.

Letting Satoru go, replacing Toji's hand. There is more space between your fingertips than with Suguru's cock. They're impossibly thick, able to split your cunt open and leave you gaping.

"You're cocks makin' my cunt soaking wet." Biting your lip, fighting the uncertainty. Kneeling, surrounded by four beautiful muscular men with big cocks and heavy balls they're intending to empty in your cunt. "But I dunno if I can handle all four of you. All of you are huge, but I wanna try." Turning your head, kiss Satoru's pale pink cock head.

Trailing kisses along the puffy vein, dragging your tongue up to his head. Licking up his salty sweet pre-cum. Sucking on his balls gently, swirling your tongue. Satoru croons, "Stupid little slut is trying to take on more than she can handle. "s hot makes me wanna break her."

Suguru groans, "Aww, we're too big for our little princess." Steadily pumps his cock, swiping your thumb over his head. Suguru has the prettiest cock and balls. Taking a moment to admire his thick thicks, heavy balls, and pre-cum dripping from his fat head.

You croon, "Some of the biggest, pretties cocks I've seen." Letting Suguru go, fondling Sukuna's balls. Switching to Suguru's cock, leaving Toji to stroke his own cock.

You feel the leash move as it switches hands. Sukuna, Suguru, and Satoru shift, closing in when Toji walks off. He suggests, "We should tie her up, blindfold her, and make her guess whose touchin' her." You hear a chair scrap as he moves it closer.

Struggling to take Suguru deeper, he pushes your head down with a large hand. Sukuna suggests, "The leash is long enough that it can bind her hands." Gliding your hand from massaging Sukuna's balls to stroking his thick cock. Swirling your fist, keeping a quick and steady pace.

Gliding Suguru out of your mouth with a pop. "Still new to this but I can handle two." Letting Sukuna go, twisting your hands behind your back for Satoru to bind with the chain. Satoru slaps your ass, slipping his fingers between your legs.

Satoru drags his fingertips along your wet slit, swirling around your needy hole. "You look so beautiful princess with that collar around your neck, tied up." Whining, trying your best not to rock your hips back when he pulls away.

Suguru orders, "Stand up." Quickly rising, "Good girl." Toji has a blindfold, Sukuna has lube and a buttplug. "Are you gonna be a good, little glory hole?" Suguru twists you around, bending you over the edge of the bed.

There's a pleasurable thrill you feel in your cunt from being manhandled. "Please use me. I want my meanie roommates to bully me, and fuck me stupid. Wanna be a dirty cock hungry whore." Suguru yanks on the chain, pulling your head back, blindfolding you.

Suguru lets you go. Another pair of large hands spread your cheeks. Too rough to be Suguru's. Digging in his nails and taking a large bite of your left cheek. "Toji, Nn Daddy!" He groans when you cry. "Know your hands anywhere." He bites your other cheek, gliding his fingers to your slit.

You're trapped between the bed and Toji. "You're always pulling me onto your lap and teasin' me by rubbing my thighs getting so close to my cunt." He curls his fingers into your soaking wet, tight cunt. "I want you to fuck me in front of everyone, make me your whore." Your cunt squelched when he pumps his fingers.

Toji croons, "Right a fuckin' way. Proud of ya." He spread his fingers apart, spitting into your cunt. Stuffing it in with a loud groan, "Fuck you're so damn wet, dripping down your soft thighs." He drags his nails, scratching your cheek down to your thighs. Squeezing, savoring how his fingers sink into your squish.

Squirming, the sweet firey pain of Toji's scratches adds to the sweet pleasure of getting finger fucked. Hearing Suguru, Satoru, and Sukuna groan as they touch themselves to the sight. Waiting for their turn to use your soft body. It turns you on m.

Toji groans, slapping your thigh and watching it jiggle. "Having your tiny, soft body to fold in two n' fuck mindless is makin' my night." Pumping both his fingers faster, stroking your sweet spot.

Toji croons, "The things I've been wanting to do to ya." It's only taking a few strokes from Toji's fingers and the pressure-building snaps. Intense sweet pleasure tingling in your cunt consumes your whole body. Moaning, clenching his thick fingers.

You plead, "Nnn cumming! Nng your fingers feel so good in my cunt. Mmm wanna make your cock feel good, wanna make you cum Daddy." Toji glides his finger out, roughly slapping both cheeks. Smearing your cum with each heavy spank.

Sukuna groans, "Fuck she's so hot cryin' from getting her cheeks beat. Hit her harder, make our dirty little whore sob." You jolt forward, the bed preventing you from getting far. Firey pain erupts from each harsh slap.

Crying, trembling, struggling to keep your feet planted flat. Toji glides his cock "Stupid slut is getting off on her it. She's clenching, begging for a cock." It's hot how vulnerable you are, tied up, blindfolded. Bent in front of a large, muscular man with his cock throbbing.

Your dripping wet cunt is his to use how he wishes. "Please use me, let me be your stupid little cock sleeve." He lines his cock up, lightly gliding just the tip in. Fighting the urge to rock your hips back.

He glides his fat head in. The soft ridge of his cock head tugs your tight cunt before slipping out. Sliding himself in, "Dirty fuckin slut letting anyone use your cunt. Gonna fuck ya so hard that your glory hole breaks. You won't be thinking of anyone else but me after this." He leans over you, rolling his hips forward.

He tugs on your leash. Pulling your head back, making the collar dig into your neck. Straining your pleads, "Fuck me, please! Please! Fuck me!" The bed dips, a rough hand grabs your chin and warm cock nudes your lips. Opening your mouth, sticking your tongue out.

Toji bites your shoulder, whining, your cunt clenching Toji's fat veiny cock. Suguru reminds, "Let the whore try to guess if she's not too stupid to." Which canceled out him.

"Satoru's hands are too damn soft." Toji picks up his pace, fucking his fat cock into you harder. "Nootthim!" Your words slur together with a moan. You're unable to keep your thoughts together.

He roughly slaps your face. "Say it you cock drunk slut." Your cheek stings, cunt clenching Toji's veiny cocky. "You're only purpose in life is to take fat cocks. That's all our greedy beautiful whore is meant for." Sukuna roughly fucks your mouth.

Choking you with his cock, gliding his cock out and slapping you across the other cheek. Toji hits your ass, digging in his nails and jiggling your soft fat. Sukuna pulls his cock out with a soft pop.

Collecting your breath, begging "Sukuna please! Daddy please. I'm only good for taking fat cocks and dumping cum in. I'm a dirty perverted slut who can't get enough of having her cunt played with!" Your cunt quivers around Toji's cock, squeezing him tighter than before. Your thick slick gushing down your thighs as you cum.

Trembling, unable to think straight. Giving in to nothing but the pleasurable feeling of getting fucked stupid by Toji's fat cock. Every puffy vein getting thicker, the twitching of his cock. He's so close to spilling in your soaking wet, tight cunt.

Sticking your tongue out, with a swift thrust, Sukuna buries himself in your hot, wet mouth. His large balls smack your chin.

Satoru moans, "Fuck couldn't help from cumming with our pretty dumb little slut begging like that." Sukuna rips your blindfold off. Groaning when he sees your tearful eyes. Tugging on the neck, choking you with the collar, fucking your mouth faster.

Suguru suggests, "I bet our cum dump is thirsty. Make her beg for it." You want to drink Satoru's cum. Not care if it tastes good or not. If it made their cocks hard you'll be their pretty cum thirsty slut.

Sukuna groans, "Fuckin' crybaby slut knows how to take it." Toji's thick hot cum spills trickling from his head. Then shooting out in thick, short bursts. Fucking it deep, smearing it with sloppy ragging thrusts.

He groans, "Pretty little cock sleeve can take all my cum in her tight sloppy cunt." Slowly gliding his cock out, stuffing the cum that trails after his cock. Keeping some of it from spilling out easily.

Toji slaps your ass one more time. "Pretty little slut! Hmm her fat cunt looks good dripping cum." Sukuna glides his cock out. Undoing your bound wrists, yanking your leash, dragging you onto the bed.

Flipping you over, and getting on top of you. Sukuna pins you in a mating press, dipping his head and biting your breasts. Flicking your nipple with his tongue. With your hands free you dig your nails into his back. Scratching alongside his tattoos.

Sukuna groans, rocking his hips, gliding his fat cock on your sloppy cunt. Sinking his teeth in deeper. You slide your hands into his pink hair, pulling to hear him moan.

Suguru and Satoru climb on the bed, hovering on either side of your head. In Satoru's hands in the pussy sleeve full of cum. "Please lemme drink your cum, I'm a thirsty whore." Licking your hand, cupping Suguru's balls, massaging them gently.

Sukuna lets your breast go, pinching your other nipple. Pulling on it, making you arch your back and cry. You can feel it in your clit. Sukuna lines up his veiny tattooed cock with your cum filled cunt.

His abs flex when he slams his cock in. Sukuna's using his strength and weight to restrain you in a tight mating press. Pinning both legs by your side, keeping you from running away or even wiggling. Making you take the full harsh force of Sukuna's thrust.

Opening your mouth, Satoru touches the rim of the pussy sleeve to your bottom lip. His liquid cum trickling onto your tongue. It's sweet, with a slight thickness. "Good fuckin' slut drink my fuckin cum make my cock hard again." Wrapping your fingers around Suguru's head, swiping your thumb over it.

Swallowing the mouthful of Satoru's cum. Sukuna's fucking your cunt too roughly. Your stomach bulges with his cock head hitting your cervix. "I can see how deep I'm going in my thirsty cock whore sloppy cunt." Toji left you feeling sore. Bringing an overwhelming sensitivity.

Your sloppy cunt can't take anymore. "Too much! Can't your cock 's too big, going too deep innnn mmy" Sukuna picks up his speed. Unable to focus on stroking Suguru's cock crying, "Cunt so sore from Toji's fat cock. Too much!" Pushing Sukuna's abs, failing to get away.

Sukuna grabs the vibrator you left on the bed. Clicking it on, holding it to your puffy clit. Snapping at you, "No safe word means I don't fuckin' care. Shut the fuck up and choke on his cock." Crying, warm tears trickling down your face.

Suguru lightly slaps your lips with his heavy head, smearing his pre-cum. "Took two cocks to break her, pathetic." Suguru straddles your neck, Sukuna holds the toys still on your clit. Adding too much pressure, the uncomfortable pain conflicts with the sweet pleasure of his cock stroking your sweet spot.

You're unable to decide if it hurts or feels good when his cock hits your cervix. Giving into every sweet pleasurably painful sensation, not bothering to think. Wanting them to use your body for their pleasure.

You're their cock hungry, dumb little slut. You don't need to think, you just need to take their cocks. Satoru croons, "It's too much, too deep!" Suguru gags you with his cock, his balls hitting your chin.

Clenching Sukuna's cock, you're so close to an intense peak. "Fuck!" You can feel Sukuna's thick cum spurting from his fat head. He glides his large hands down your thighs, squeezing your hips.

Wrapping your legs around his slim waist, pulling him closer. Getting off on Sukuna fucking his cum in your sloppy cunt with Toji's. "Nnn how can her sweet cunt get tighter?" He swirls the vibrator on your clit.

Suguru slips his cock out, letting you breathe. Sukuna twists your nipple, crying from the sharp pain. Suguru shoves his cock into your mouth. Covering half your face with his balls. Groaning, he's gotten hard again quickly.

Grabbing Suguru's cock, swirling your fist, pumping your fist along his thick veiny cock. “Hmm as good as your hand feels I need to be inside ya princess.” Letting Sukuna go, he glides his softening cock out. Handing the vibrator to Suguru.

Suguru pulls away. “Toru let me get her on my chest, we can share her messy cunt.” Satoru whines, giving a couple more quick pumps. Fondling your sore breasts, rubbing your nipples with his thumbs.

He croons, “Dunno if our princess can handle that. She was strugglin’ to take Sukuna.” Choking you with his cock, grabbing muscular his thighs, digging your nails in. “Won’t it be too much for our glory hole? We’ll have to carry her to the care after this.” Gliding himself out, dragging his balls across your face.

Sticking your tongue out, happily groaning. “Course a whore like you would get off to that.” Suguru slaps your cunt. Whining from the sweet pain, clenching nothing. Wanting another thick cock stretching your aching cunt despite you previous claims.

Satoru pulls away, Suguru grabs your leash yanking you up. Your collar pressing into your sore neck. Scrambling onto your knees, he pulls your back to his. You whine, “Imma dirty slut who loves her daddies cocks and balls.” He roughly slaps your clit then holds the toy to it.

Whining from the stinging pain and overwhelming pleasure. Jerking your hips back, involuntarily running away from the intensity. “Aww is it too much for your sore cunt? Poor little whore.” His mocking shouldn’t sound so sweet.

Satoru gets off the bed, the toys capturing his interest. Shifting through the dildos, you don’t know which one he picks. Suguru lines his cock up, slamming himself deep with one harsh thrust. Closing your eyes, bracing yourself for whatever pace he sets.

Suguru gets you on your back, laying on his chest. Your legs hooked over his forearms and his hands clasped behind his back. Pushing your head down, you can see Toji jerking off with a pussy sleeve.

Gliding it along his cock, staring your sloppy cunt split open by Suguru’s fat cock. “Don’t worry princess I’m going again after they’re done with ya.” You can’t respond when Suguru rocks his hips. Gliding his mind numbingly fat cock in your sloppy cunt. Sukuna’s and Toji’s cum trickling onto his balls with your slick.

Satoru climbs onto the bed with a thin, pulsing dildo. Spitting on its head, gliding his hand along it. “You can take it, let us fuck your beautiful cunt till our cocks won’t get hard again.” He glides the toy in alongside Suguru’s fat cock.

“Fuck! Fuck! Nnng it’s makin’ her cunt into a vibrating pussy sleeve!” Slowly fucking your aching, sensitive cunt. You can’t manage a single thought, don’t care to even try.

You can’t process what their saying. It’s as if something in you snaps. It doesn’t matter when you feel this good. “Nnn! Ahhh nnn!” Mindlessly moaning, Suguru’s fat cock is pressing the pulsing dildo to your sweet spot.

Curling your toes, trembling, pleading, “Please! Please!” Splaying your fingers on Satoru’s thick pecs when he leaned over you. Lining cock up, Suguru pauses for Satoru to glide his cock in.

You’re quivering from the intense burning pleasurable pain of your cunt stretching to take another cock. With a thin pulsing toy stuffed, “What is our slut begging for? Your stuffed full of all you need, cock and cum.” Whining, clawing Satoru’s chest when their heads hit your bruised cervix.

Tightly grabbing Suguru’s thick bicep, moaning when he flexes. Their cocks aren’t the only big their about them. Thick pecs, washboard arms and meaty arms, your trapped between. Taking their throbbing cocks. Your cunt seeming to vibrate around them with the toy stuffed in you.

Suguru groans, “She’s too cock drunk to do more than beg. Fuck that’s gonna make me bust. We fucked our dirty little slut dumb.” Timing their merciless thrusts, rubbing each other’s cock inside your pulsing, clenching cunt.

One head hitting your cervix after the other. Your getting off on the pleasurable painful feeling more with each stroke. “She’s so beautiful crying with not a thought behind her pretty eyes.” He grabs your leash, tugging on it despite Suguru holding your head. Forcing you to watch them double stuff your dripping cunt.

Suguru’s deep groans and Satoru’s breathy moans sound so sweet. He croons, “Does having your messy cum filled cunt ruined feel good?” Satoru presses the other vibrator to your clit, and your hips are bucking. Twisting away from their harsh, quick thrusts.

Thick warm cum squirts into Satoru’s abs and trickles onto Suguru’s balls. Loudly moaning, unable to form words. Your cunt spasming, toes curling, eyes rolling back. Satoru swirls the toy on your clit, fucking you harder.

Messing up his well-timed pace with Suguru, who ruts into you faster. “She’s shaking, sweet little whore. Let’s see how many times she can cum before her cunt breaks.” The force of their thrusts makes your stomach momentarily bulge. Showing how deep they are reaching.

Satoru glides his hand along your body, pushing on your stomach. Whining the pressure making you feel their thick, throbbing veiny cocks hitting your cervix better.

oreo’s m.list

[southernimpala]

night moves

dean winchester x fem!reader

summary ↬ dean teaches you to play pool !

notice ↬ a lil suggestive but superrr fluffy, i want him to teach me pool, literally need this man so bad it's not even funny, i listened to night moves by bob seger while writing this, no use of y/n, lowercase intended !

wordcount ↬ 900

the crack of pool balls clinking rings through an old dive bar in indiana, old license plates and road signs littering the dimly lit walls. the place is loud, drunk people yelling and cheering and punching, classic rock echoing from a scratchy speaker.

but dean winchester is in heaven. 

he’s standing over a pool table, holding his pool cue up as he assesses where to make his next move. you’re leaning against the wall, nursing a beer, as you watch him set his eyes on one of the pool balls, which seemed way too off path to roll into any of the pockets. he lines up the cue and starts to lean over the table.

“there’s no way you’re hitting that in,” you say teasingly, taking a swig.

dean doesn’t even stir at your comment, and without fault, strikes the billiard ball right into the far right pocket. 

he straightens up and looks at you from across the table, giving you a shit-eating grin, “still think so, sweetheart?”

you’re still recovering from how he managed to make the shot, so all you can muster is a nod, “hmhm… yeah, totally can’t hit another ball in,” you say against the rim of your bottle.

he laughs, knowing there’s no way in hell you could. the deep rumble in his chest sends your knees buckling over themselves, “alright, lemme see what you got.” 

you almost choke on the alcohol sliding down your throat, “what?” 

“just try to hit a ball in,” he says, as if it’s the most straightforward task in the world. as he crosses over to you to hand you the cue, he gets close to your ear, “i promise, they don’t bite.” 

you avert your eyes away from his jawline as it grazes yours, only for a second before he pulls away, taking your half empty beer from you and stealing your spot on the wall. 

“alright, hit 7 into far left,” he instructs, pointing with the bottle, “yup, right there.” 

 you begin to sweat under the glowing white light above you—and because you can feel dean’s eyes watching you—almost knocking the ridiculously long stick into it as you orient yourself over the table. attempting to gauge a good spot for the cue to settle in your hands, you look to dean for help, “am i holding this right?” 

“i don’t know, are you?” he taunts, taking a sip through a smirk. 

you roll your eyes, huffing, before feebly trying to line the end of the cue up with the maroon ball staring at you dead in the face. you take a deep breath and slide the cue between your fingers before taking your shot. 

without surprise, you completely miss, sending the cue flying right out of your grip onto the table.

 and the ball? 

not even touched. 

“jesus, sweetheart, i think i’d hustle you,” dean jokes, shaking his head in contempt of your god awful performance. 

“shut up,” you choke out, pitifully reaching to hand him back the cue, “just take the damn stick.” 

but, he doesn’t. instead, he places your beer down on a nearby surface and signals for you to bend back over the table. with furrowed eyebrows, you listen, looking at him with confusion, “what are you doing?” 

“teaching you how to hit 7 into the far left,” he shrugs, moving to stand behind you. 

your face burns, eyes wide as you feel him pressed against your back, leaning on you as his hands reach around to adjust the stick in your grip. he skillfully places the end of the cue between your thumb and index finger—“there, keep it right there,”—resting it delicately in that spot. 

you swallow harshly as dean’s fingers trace up yours, his touch so soft; so different from his usual roughness. it sends your stomach plummeting to your feet, dragging your heart along with it. 

“alright, now, line it up—hmhm, but don’t move it from that spot—okay, you got that?” he mumbles as he adjusts. 

a lump forms in your throat. you nod. 

 “right, now shoot,” he helps you slide the cue through the web of your palm, before sending it into the side of the ball. 

it rolls straight into the far left pocket and relief spreads through you. 

“i did it!” you call out, twisting around without remembering your extremely compromising position.

you were suddenly pressed between dean and the pool table, your faces only mere inches away as he’s still somewhat hunched into you. every time you exhale, your chest touches his, heart beating so wildly, you’re sure he can hear it through the bob seger and drunk singing. 

“you did,” he says huskily, seemingly unbothered by your spot against him, but you swear his cheeks match yours in color, only a few shades lighter. he leans in slightly, eyes staring so intensely into yours, it’s impossible for you to look away, “think you can beat me in a match, now?” 

you lick your lips on instinct and try to muster a smirk, something to signal you aren’t melting into the floor, “absolutely.” 

dean’s gaze, hooded with something indescribable, flickers between your eyes, lips just brushing yours as he leans closer and closer before he abruptly stands up straight and shoves the pool cue back in your hands. 

the bar suddenly sounds a million decibels louder. you’re frozen in your spot. 

“show me what you got.”

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ dean winchester masterlist !

[dollyswishingwell]

Would you mind doing hcs or scenarios of the lads boys babying the reader?

ᯓ★ˎˊ˗ Pampered

𝒲𝒾𝓈𝒽 𝑔𝓇𝒶𝓃𝓉𝑒𝒹 𝒻𝑜𝓇 ˙⋆✮ Rafayel, Zayne, Xavier, Sylus, Caleb

𝒢𝑒𝓃𝓇𝑒/𝒲𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔 ˙⋆✮ Fluff, lots and lots of fluff, rich men, babying, very fem reader, spoilt princessy attitude

> ࣪𖤐.ᐟ A good husband always cherishes his wife

𝙍𝙖𝙛𝙖𝙮𝙚𝙡 °‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The sea was whispering again.

Gentle waves murmured against the pale white shore, the breeze brushing against the silk curtains of the open veranda. Somewhere far in the distance, a gull cried out, but it was barely noticeable over the soft hum of a lullaby playing on the estate’s hidden speakers, something Rafayel composed himself, tuned perfectly to the frequency that made your eyelids flutter and your shoulders melt.

you lay curled in a nest of imported satin cushions, cradled in a hand-carved seashell chaise, one leg lazily thrown over the armrest as you scrolled on your crystal tablet, mostly just pretty things. Dresses, shoes, crowns you didn’t need but would own before sundown. A half-eaten slice of strawberry mille-feuille sat on the side table, and a pearl-handled fork dangled from your fingers.

Rafayel appeared without warning, the way he always did, barefoot, disheveled, smelling like seawater and sun. His shirt was half-open, sleeves damp and rolled to his elbows, revealing speckles of paint on his wrists. He dropped down beside you with a melodramatic sigh, long limbs folding with an elegance that should’ve been impossible for someone so annoyingly lazy.

“You weren’t in the studio,” you murmured, not looking up.

He rested his head in your lap with a little grin. “Nope. Skipped it. Thomas threw a fit. Something about a gallery showcase. I wasn’t listening.”

“You never are.”

“I was thinking about you instead,” he said, voice low and sweet like syrup. “My little cutie. Wondering if you drank enough water. If you remembered to use the SPF I got you. If you ate anything besides strawberries and cream.”

He tilted his head up to look at you, blue-pink eyes soft and utterly devoted. His voice dropped to a playful whisper.

“Did you?”

“…Maybe.”

With a tut, he sat up just enough to kiss your cheek, then your nose, then your collarbone. Each kiss light, lingering, and just a little possessive.

“You’re getting thinner,” he muttered, fingers ghosting down your arms. “Do I have to spoon-feed you again like last week?”

“I was just tired,” you said, already flushing.

He clicked his tongue. “No excuses, darling. Not when you’re this precious.”

Before you could protest, he was standing again, scooping you up like a bride and cradling you against his chest. You gasped, arms circling his neck as he carried you inside, through the long marbled hallway with shells pressed into the walls, past the domed skylight above the orchid pool, into the sun-drenched kitchen where he deposited you onto the barstool like she weighed nothing at all.

“Sit. Watch,” he said, tapping your nose.

He moved around the kitchen like a dancer, pirouetting with flour, sea salt, delicate herbs, and rare imported fish you’d never remember the name of. Youdidn’t need to. All you knew was that Rafayel made it taste like luxury, and he always cut it into heart shapes or something ridiculous and adorable just to make you giggle.

“Raffy,” you said, eyes glittering. “You never let me do anything anymore.”

He smirked over his shoulder, already plating your food with edible flowers. “Exactly. You’re not supposed to.”

“You trapped me here.”

“Mmhm.”

“In a seaside estate.”

“Go on.”

“And now you pamper me like I’m made of glass.”

He finally turned to you, setting the plate down and leaning over, voice dark and sweet.

“That’s because you are.”

He kissed you then, right as the ocean’s breeze came through the tall windows, lifting the hem of her gauzy robe. You tasted like sugar and strawberries. He deepened the kiss for a moment, hands cradling your jaw, before pulling back with a faint sigh.

“You were a deep space hunter once,” he murmured, brushing your hair behind your ear. “So brave. So serious. So exhausted.”

He kissed your temple.

“And now you’re mine. Soft, spoiled, babied. Loved.”

Your heart fluttered as he picked up the fork again, feeding you the first bite like you were a pampered empress, watching you chew with satisfaction.

“I even bought you that glass tiara you wanted,” he added casually. “It’ll be delivered tomorrow. You can wear it in the bath.”

You tried to scowl but failed miserably as he kissed you again, tongue brushing yours with teasing affection.

“Now be good, sweetheart,” he whispered, brushing his thumb over your lips. “And eat everything. I need my princess fat and happy and absolutely useless, remember?”

You giggled, and Rafayel smiled like it was the only sound he ever wanted to hear.

Later That Evening…

The sea was quieter now. Dark. Still.

Inside the bedroom, the lights were low, casting soft golden patterns across the high ceiling. You were sprawled across Rafayel’s chest, tucked beneath a gauzy blanket that still smelled faintly of orchid milk and sea salt. His arms were looped lazily around your waist, fingertips drawing little circles over your spine.

“You’re heavy when you’re full of cake,” he murmured sleepily, voice low and teasing against your hair.

You huffed. “You made me eat it.”

He chuckled, the sound rumbling through your cheek where it rested against him. “Exactly. Can’t have my princess going to bed hungry. What kind of housewife would you be if you weren’t spoiled to the brim?”

“You baby me too much.”

He kissed the top of your head. “And you let me.”

You were quiet for a moment, listening to the waves outside the open windows, the hush of the curtains moving in the breeze. Then softly, almost inaudibly:

“…I like it.”

He smiled against your skin, arms tightening just enough to remind you he was there—warm, solid, utterly yours.

“Good,” he whispered, brushing your hair back, “because I’m never going to stop.”

𝙕𝙖𝙮𝙣𝙚 ⋆꙳•❅‧*₊⋆☃︎ ‧*❆ ₊⋆

The kitchen was too bright for the early hour, sunlight spilling through the marble arch windows and casting pale gold over polished countertops. The scent of warm rice and grilled miso fish hung in the air, delicate, mild, designed to suit his palate, even if the aesthetic of the lunchbox was unmistakably yours.

The box itself was pastel pink and shaped like a bunny. Inside were neatly arranged rice balls with seaweed smiley faces, tamagoyaki folded into hearts, and a miniature note folded into a star that read:

“Don’t skip lunch, Dr. Grump <3”

Zayne adjusted his tie with one hand and looked down at the open box on the counter with a small, nearly imperceptible smile. The corners of his mouth tilted up just a touch. That was all.

“Adorable,” he muttered under his breath, voice thick with fondness.

Then, he heard it, your steps, light and quick, coming down the grand stairs wrapped in that little robe he bought for you. Silk, dove gray, your initials monogrammed just above the heart. Your hair was still messy from sleep, lips pouting with early-morning fatigue as you shuffled into the kitchen, bare feet soundless against the heated floors.

He turned just in time to catch you mid-yawn.

“You’re up early,” he said quietly, smoothing his coat sleeve. “You usually sleep in when I have morning rounds.”

You blinked up at him. “Wanted to see you off.”

Zayne leaned in immediately, pressing a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth. Each kiss was firm, grounding, practiced. He only pulled back to brush a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“You should be in bed,” he said in that soft, familiar scold he reserved only for you. “The sheets aren’t going to warm themselves.”

“But your lunch—”

He held up the bunny-shaped box with a faintly amused expression. “Already packed. With love, I assume?”

“Always,” you mumbled, rubbing your eyes.

“Then I’ll eat it in front of the nurses just to show them what a spoiled man I am.”

You flushed a little at that, but Zayne was already turning back to the counter, picking up his tablet and checking the schedule for the day with mechanical efficiency. You knew that look, the Doctor Mode™ face. Still, even with the schedule laid out and his mind already halfway into the operating room, he reached for you with his free hand, pulling you to stand between his legs as he leaned back against the counter.

“You should go back to bed,” he said again, tone softening. “Or take a bath. I already had the temperature set.”

You made a small, sleepy whimper and leaned into him, arms around his waist.

“I miss working,” you admitted, voice muffled against his vest.

Zayne’s fingers slowly combed through your hair. “You miss exhaustion. You miss forgetting to eat and falling asleep in your office chair.”

“I miss my team…”

“They email you. Weekly. And I never stopped you from reading the mission reports.”

You pouted. He kissed it off your lips.

“I didn’t make you quit,” he murmured. “I asked you to rest. To be soft. To be mine. Fully. And you said yes.”

You nodded, slowly. Zayne held your chin and looked at you seriously, hazel-green eyes sharp behind his glasses.

“You are not missing anything out there. You have everything here.”

Then he lifted you easily onto the counter, his large hands warm against your thighs. “You’re my perfect little wife. You pack my lunches with bear-shaped rice balls and handwritten notes. You bring me tea when I forget to hydrate. You nap in the sunroom. You water the hydrangeas. You pick out my pocket squares.”

He slid one into your hand now, a soft peach one to match your robe.

“I am not letting you throw yourself back into that chaos. Not when I finally have you to myself. Not when you finally smile more than you sigh.”

You swallowed, cheeks burning. “You’re so bossy in the mornings.”

“I’m bossy because I care.”

He pulled you off the counter, set you gently on your feet, and buttoned up your robe with care, like you were porcelain. Then, from his coat pocket, he produced a sleek little pillbox.

“You forgot your supplements yesterday. Take them now.”

“Zaaaynieeee…”

“No. Open.”

You did, and he popped one onto your tongue, following it with a kiss so soft you forgot what you were arguing about.

Later that day…

He would sit in the break room, quietly ignoring grayson’s complaints while pulling the pink bunny bento out of his briefcase. When he read the little note, he’d smile to himself, just a bit.

Then, when one of the interns commented on how “cute” it was, he would deadpan:

“She makes them for me every morning. I consider myself extremely fortunate.”

And when he got home—exhausted and loosened from his suit, he’d find you in his oversized shirt, already asleep in his study, curled up in his reading chair. He’d pick you up, kiss your forehead, and carry you to bed without a word. Tucking you in like the most precious thing in his life.

Because you were.

𝙓𝙖𝙫𝙞𝙚𝙧 ⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆

It was always quiet in the upper floors of the penthouse.

Soft, surreal quiet, the kind that only existed in homes built high above the clouds. The kind of quiet where time slowed down, and everything felt like a dream stitched together with silk and moonlight.

You were draped in one of Xavier’s oversized white sweaters, sleeves swallowing your hands as you curled up on the crescent-shaped couch in the sunroom. The sweater smelled faintly of his cologne, clean, cool, and something like starlight, and you’d started to associate that scent with safety.

With home.

The low hum of the smart kettle simmered in the background. A jar of golden marmalade sat open beside a tiny teacup, half-filled with his special blend of herbal tea. A handmade plate of shortbread cookies (triangle-shaped, because Xavier didn’t understand why cookies had to be round) waited quietly beside it.

And of course, he was fast asleep. Again.

Curled on the floor beside your legs, one hand resting gently on your ankle like a makeshift leash. His silver hair spilled over your lap, impossibly soft. His breathing was slow, rhythmic, peaceful. Even when unconscious, Xavier looked like something from another world, beautiful, strange, quietly devoted.

You giggled softly and brushed his bangs back, watching the way his lips parted slightly. He made a sleepy hum, then shifted closer, nuzzling into your thigh with all the gentleness of a pampered cat.

“You really fell asleep again?” you whispered, amused.

“Mhm,” he mumbled without opening his eyes. “Recharging.”

“You came in to bring me tea, not nap.”

“I did bring the tea.”

You smiled, brushing your fingers along the shell of his ear. “You’re lucky I don’t mind.”

He finally opened one eye, a soft, glassy blue, and tilted his face toward you, still resting against your lap. “You left the bath too early.”

“You were asleep in the bath.”

“I was making sure the temperature was consistent.”

You snorted. “By napping in it?”

He blinked slowly. “Yes.”

You leaned down and kissed his forehead. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m your husband.”

“Which is the same thing.”

Xavier exhaled slowly, then rose to sit beside you. He reached over, wordlessly tugging you into his arms and onto his lap, adjusting your position with graceful efficiency. Your legs ended up draped over his, arms looped around his neck as he cradled you like something precious. Which, to him, you were.

“You’re not allowed to go back to the association.” he murmured, voice low. “I locked your gear away.”

“You hid my gun too.”

“You’re not a hunter anymore,” he whispered, resting his cheek against yours. “You’re… you’re mine.”

You shivered a little, not because it was cold, but because there was such finality in the way he said it. Not possessive. Not controlling. Just… pure. Like a simple fact of the universe.

“You say that like I’m your treasure.”

“You are,” he said. “And treasures stay indoors. Where they’re warm. And happy. And dressed in very soft sweaters.”

You laughed, pressing a kiss to the side of his mouth. “You made me quit.”

“You were tired,” he said simply. “You were hurt. You didn’t say it. But I saw.”

You looked away, but his fingers gently turned your chin back toward him.

“I’ll never let you get hurt again,” he promised. “Not while I’m here.”

“…You’re always here.”

“Exactly.”

He kissed you, soft, dreamy, slow. The kind of kiss that erased the years of chasing stars and burying your exhaustion in duty. The kind of kiss that said: Stay. Let me love you like this forever.

You melted into him, into his arms, into this beautiful moonlit home he’d made for you both.

Later that night…

You found a small wrapped package on your vanity: a new pastel dress, chosen by Xavier himself. Along with it, a simple sticky note in his oddly neat handwriting:

“For tomorrow’s sunroom breakfast.

I promise to make round scones this time. I love you. – X”

You giggled, holding the dress to your chest. Then, from somewhere in the hallway, came the sound of a light thud, Xavier had fallen asleep halfway to the bed again.

Of course.

Your sleepy, sweet, doting husband.

𝙎𝙮𝙡𝙪𝙨 ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𓅨⋆｡°✩

The mansion wasn’t built for subtlety.

It spanned over three sprawling hills of private land in a region Sylus referred to only as “safehouse no. 7.” You once joked that any place with diamond chandeliers and six koi ponds didn’t qualify as a safehouse, but Sylus had just smirked, kissed your forehead, and said, “Kitten, I don’t half-ass security. Or aesthetics.”

Everything inside shimmered like it had been plucked from a fairy tale and reimagined through luxury catalogues. Velvet chaise lounges in your favorite colors. Rococo mirrors imported from galaxies you couldn’t pronounce. Every door had a gilded, custom-made floral etching, and every single room smelled faintly like roses and the perfume Sylus claimed “only suits his princess.”

And in the center of it all, you.

Wrapped in lace and tulle and sitting on the marble vanity as your husband fastened a delicate anklet around your leg. A charm dangled from it: a tiny red crow with a ruby eye. Matching the brooch nestled on your collarbone. Matching the smug glint in his red eyes as he leaned forward to press a kiss just above your ankle.

“There,” he murmured. “Now the whole estate knows who you belong to.”

You giggled, lips parted in a dazed smile. “You already made them print my initials on all the guest towels.”

“And?”

“And you renamed the island after me.”

His smile grew wider, arrogant. “A island is still too small for you.”

You laughed harder, curling your fingers in his silvery hair as he stood to full height, crowding you gently against the mirror. His hand slipped around your waist, firm and possessive.

“You’re insufferable,” you teased.

“I’m perfect,” he corrected, voice low, smug. “And so are you. That’s why I dragged you out of that pathetic job. Look at you. You were never meant to be anything less than worshipped.”

His voice dropped lower, brushing heat against your neck.

“I built this place for you. Every velvet curtain. Every silk sheet. Every gold-dusted bath bomb. All so my princess could finally live like the doll she was meant to be.”

“I do like the bath bombs…”

He chuckled. “You like the fact that I warm the tub for you and brush your hair while you soak in them.”

You couldn’t argue with that.

“And today,” he said, brushing his thumb over your lip, “you’re not lifting a single finger. I had a schedule drafted.”

You blinked. “…A schedule?”

“Of pampering,” he said, guiding you off the vanity and onto his arm. “First: brunch. The chef has recreated those heart-shaped waffles you liked. Then: wardrobe preview. Every dress in your new closet is custom—frills, bows, ridiculous sparkle. You’re picking your favorites and we’re hosting a private photoshoot. I’ve cleared the whole wing.”

You flushed. “Sylus, I don’t need—”

“You need to be spoiled,” he said simply. “That’s my job. To make you giggle. To hear that sweet voice saying you missed me while I was out threatening arms dealers. I want to come back to my princess twirling in something pretty and demanding I carry her down the stairs.”

“…So if I did that right now—?”

He bent low and swept you off your feet before you could finish. Bridal-style. Effortless.

You squealed and held on as he carried you, smirking all the way down the marble steps like he was showing off a rare jewel.

“See?” he said. “Perfect.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m your ridiculous.”

Later that evening…

He returned from one of his armory audits, only to find you curled on the sofa in one of your new frilly nightgowns, cuddling a plush red crow he’d sneakily commissioned to resemble him.

He didn’t say anything at first, just stood there, leaning against the doorway, watching his wife hold a doll version of him like it was her most treasured thing in the world.

“…I take it you like the surprise?” he said smoothly.

You looked up, eyes wide and glowing. “He sings when you squeeze his tummy!”

You demonstrated, and yes, it was his voice. Singing one of the lullabies he only ever hummed when he thought you were asleep.

“God your singing is horrible as always” You laugh lovingly.

Sylus stared for a moment. Then gave a rare, genuine smile.

“does that mean i can take it back?.”

You pout. “No.”

“Okay okay kitty put those claws away,” he said, eyes glowing faintly red, teasing.

And he crossed the room, scooping you, and the plush crow, into his arms.

𝘾𝙖𝙡𝙚𝙗 ⋆｡ ‧˚ʚ🍎ɞ˚‧｡ ⋆

The Skyhaven penthouse was silent, save for the hum of the wind outside and the soft mechanical shhhh of the air purification system. So high up the clouds drifted right past the windows, and the golden skyline of Linkon City blinked faintly beneath your feet.

Inside, it was all warmth.

Plush carpets. Heated tiles. The faint scent of Caleb’s cologne, cedar, fuel, something electric, lingering on every blanket and every t-shirt of his you stole.

And on the cream-colored velvet couch, you lay sprawled like a doll, clutching a purple dinosaur plush he’d won you from a claw machine, one of seven from that day, actually. Your legs were propped over a pile of throw pillows, your pink robe slipping just enough to reveal the soft lace camisole Caleb had picked out for you that morning.

That was when the front door opened.

Heavy boots. Click of metal. The deep voice, smooth like gravity itself.

“I know you’re not wearing socks again.”

You pouted immediately, pulling your blanket over your toes. “They made my feet hot.”

Caleb’s voice warmed. “Did my little pipsqueak overheat again? Poor thing. C’mere.”

He was out of uniform, just in a dark grey tee and his flight pants, gloves tucked in his back pocket. His hair was still slightly windblown from the helipad. And yet, like always, he looked straight at you first.

Not the mail on the table. Not the reports from the Farspace Fleet.

Just you.

You squealed as he crossed the room in three long strides and scooped you up off the couch like you weighed nothing.

“Caleb!”

“What?” he grinned, settling you on his lap like you belonged there. (You did.) “I didn’t get my hello kiss.”

“You could’ve just sat down next to me!”

He blinked. “…But then I couldn’t baby you properly.”

You sighed dramatically but curled into him like second nature, cheek pressed to his chest.

“Gege…” You mutter out of habit.

“Mhm?”

“I didn’t clean today.”

“Good,” he said without hesitation. “What did I say about that?”

You mumbled into his shirt. “That cleaning is not your job anymore.”

“Exactly.” He ran his gloved fingers gently along your spine, slow and indulgent. “You’re cute to be mopping floors. What if you slipped?”

“You’ve got drones for that…”

“And they’re happy to do it. So why’s my pipsqueak crawling around on the floor like a maid, huh?” He kissed your temple. “You’re supposed to be pampered.”

You sighed again, the kind of sigh that only ever came when you were completely, utterly spoiled.

“…I was gonna cook for you.”

He paused. “Did you touch the stove?”

“…No?”

“Good. You’d probably burn your pretty fingers.”

You gasped, swatting at him. “I made you lunch last week!”

He caught your wrist easily and kissed the back of your hand. “And it was adorable. Still had rice stuck to your cheek after.”

You groaned and buried your face in his neck, already melting as he chuckled.

Then—he shifted, standing with you still in his arms.

“Caleb—!”

“Dinner’s being delivered. I already ordered. You’re having the little custard thing you like for dessert.”

You blinked. “…The peach blossom tart?”

He kissed your cheek. “Mhm.”

“You do love me.”

He smirked. “I married you, didn’t I?”

Later that evening…

You were laying across his lap in the penthouse lounge, nibbling on a fruit skewer while Caleb scrolled through your shared calendar on his tablet.

“…Did you really block off next week as ‘Princess Downtime’?” you asked between bites.

“Yes.”

“You didn’t even write what it was.”

He looked at you, deadpan. “You don’t need a reason. You’re my pipsqueak. If I want to spend three days dressing you up in new outfits and feeding you strawberries while you lounge in my arms, I will.”

You flushed.

“…You’re over the top.”

“You married me anyway.”

You leaned in, kissing his cheek, then whispered: “Only ‘cause I wanted your last name.”

He laughed. Then—casually—

“…Want me to change the law so I’m the only one who can have it?”

“CALEB—!”

[luvergirl-535]

clean up nice

pairing - paige bueckers x azzi fudd

word count - 2.3k

c/w - fluff, no smut sorry :( but no not forget that daddy!paige is still on its way so you’ll be getting smth spicy soon.

a/n - got a random burst of creativity, and what did i decide to do with it? work on finishing one of my many wips, you ask? no. instead i dug into the depths of my inbox and found an old ass prompt to write for, lol. you can find the prompt here.

azzi is, quite frankly, over it.

the weight room had been brutal, the team group chat has been blowing up with nonsense, and her econ professor had assigned a surprise pop quiz that was neither surprising nor a quiz—just a pure academic crime. by the time she trudges across campus toward paige’s dorm, her shoulders are tight, her jaw hurts from clenching, and she’s two seconds away from chucking her water bottle at a freshman just to feel something.

all she wants is to shower, collapse into a hoodie, maybe read the same page of her book eight times before giving up, and fall asleep next to her girlfriend. preferably with her favorite pillow—paige’s arm—cushioned under her head.

she lets herself into the dorm, ready to ignore any of her other teammates who might be lurking and head straight to paige’s room. she gets inside and toes off her shoes, pulling off her hoodie to try and cool down—

but then she stops cold.

paige is on the floor.

and not in a playing-video-games, or making-a-ridiculous-tiktok kind of way. no. she’s kneeling in a sports bra and loose basketball shorts, scrubbing something on the floor with determination. her hair is up in a messy bun. the speakers are playing slow r&b, the window is cracked open, and light is streaming in just right to make the whole thing look like a thirst trap with cleaning supplies.

azzi blinks once. then twice. her lips part slightly.

“yo,” paige says without looking up, “watch out, i just mopped.”

azzi stares. she might have stopped breathing.

“…what are you doing?”

paige’s head pops up at the sound of azzi’s voice. “oh, hey, mama. sorry, thought you were jana.” she gestures around the room. “it was gettin’ gross in here. and since nobody else fuckin’ cleans, figured i should probably take care of it.”

azzi looks around. the place is spotless. floor shining. sheets changed. even the window track—the window track!—is wiped down. azzi looks at the sink and swears it blinds her.

paige sits back on her heels and wipes an arm across her face, leaving a streak of sweat—glistening and enticing—on her forehead.

azzi’s soul leaves her body.

“you okay?” paige asks, going back to her scrubbing. azzi looks closer—she’s cleaning the baseboards. and her back is flexing as she does it.

azzi inhales sharply. “uh-huh.”

paige shifts, glancing back over her shoulder. “you look surprised.”

“i…did not know you got down like this.”

“yeah, well, last week you saw me make a protein shake in a blender bottle that hadn’t been washed since pre-season. so consider this redemption.”

azzi opens her mouth to respond and then pauses. she has nothing appropriate to say, to be honest. not when she’d walked in expecting a nap and is now watching her girlfriend crawl across the floor like a navy seal.

“how was your day?” paige asks nonchalantly. sun streams through the windows, hitting her arms in such a way it perfectly contours her muscles. “you wanna snack or sum’?”

“no,” azzi says slowly, settling herself down onto the couch without taking her eyes off paige’s back. “i want you to come over here.”

“yep,” paige says without hesitation, dropping her washcloth into the bucket and walking over to azzi. azzi reaches up, prepared to pull paige down and never let her go again, but paige doesn’t give her the time—just goes in for a quick kiss before leaving again.

“paige!” azzi says. “i want you to snuggle me.”

paige smiles, sweet and oblivious, as she kneels back down. “we can snuggle all you want as soon as i’m done. i just gotta hit the closet first.”

azzi blinks hard. “how long have you been at this?”

paige shrugs—shoulder muscles. “i’on know. a couple hours? but i haven’t cleaned my closet in forever. there’s, like, dust on some of my shoes. it’s nasty.”

“wow. okay. you’re really…” she waves a hand at paige’s whole situation, “doing the most.”

paige beams. “you noticed! i even used vinegar on the mirrors. no streaks. drew’s mom taught me.”

azzi just stares at her. “cooool, coolcoolccoolcool. that’s super cool.”

paige stands up and stretches her back with a groan, revealing an infuriating strip of boxer below her waistband. “shit, my back is killing me. i’ve been crouching for like two hours.”

“i can help with that,” azzi says, far too quickly. “you want a massage?”

“nah, i’ll do some stretches after this,” paige says casually, walking to the kitchen to grab some clorox and wiping down the counter. “you look exhausted, though. go lie down, i’ll be done soon.”

“or,” azzi says, getting up and trailing her, “you could stop cleaning now. and we could do…other things.”

“like what? i already asked if you wanted a snack.”

“jesus christ,” azzi whispers to herself.

“huh?”

“nothing, babe.” azzi plasters on a smile. “i’m just… really impressed by your…cleanliness.”

paige snorts. “what does that mean?”

“it means watching you clean is making me…feel things, paige.”

“ohhh,” paige says slowly, like she’s catching on. azzi perks up.

“yeah?” azzi asks, hopeful.

“you’re saying you want me to clean your dorm next time, right?”

“no!” azzi shouts. “i’m saying i want you to push me up against a…” she gestures wildly, “very clean wall.”

paige frowns. “you okay? you seem, like, really high-strung.”

“i wonder why,” azzi deadpans.

“bad day?”

“you could say that,” she mutters. “considering i walked in on you looking like a really hot mr. clean commercial.”

paige makes a face. “is that a compliment?” then, “you’re being weird.”

“i’m being turned on, paige. i feel like we’ve been together long enough that you know what me turned on looks like.”

paige raises her hands in surrender. “okay, okay. sorry. i thought you’d be cool with the cleaning.”

“i am! it’s impressive! and hot! i love it, actually!”

paige pauses. squints at her.

“…wait. are you into this?”

azzi massages the bridge of her nose. “oh my god.”

“i just thought you were being supportive,” paige says. “like, ‘oh yay, my girlfriend’s being productive.’ not ‘oh yay, my girlfriend’s making me all wet with the windex.’”

“you are so fucking stupid.”

“am i wrong?”

azzi pretends to consider this, then turns on her heel, marching toward paige’s bedroom.

“hey,” paige calls, following her. “where you goin’?”

“somewhere i can protect my peace,” azzi calls back. she turns to close the door, but paige gets there just in time, sticking a foot in between the doorframe and stopping her.

azzi opens the door slowly, met with paige’s smug grin. “you’re enjoying this.”

“maybe a little,” paige leans in, voice suddenly lower. “you want me to keep my hair up?”

azzi lets the door swing open the rest of the way, smoothing a hand up paige’s shoulder. “you don’t get to tease me after getting me all worked up.”

“baby, i was just cleaning.”

“exactly!” azzi says. “you were on your hands and knees, paige.”

paige takes her by the waist, backing her slowly into the bedroom. “so what—you were suffering that whole time?”

“i’m two seconds away from wrecking your perfect little chore schedule.”

paige’s eyes darken slightly, like the teasing has officially run its course. she pauses when the backs of azzi’s knees hit the mattress, then pushes her down, a hand around her back keeping them connected as paige follows closely after.

“well,” she murmurs, hand settling beside azzi’s head on the pillow, “room is clean.”

“uh-huh.”

“laundry’s done.”

“mm-hmm.”

“guess there’s only one mess left to make.”

azzi rolls her eyes, but wraps an arm around paige’s neck, pulling her in for a kiss. “hair stays up,” she demands, urging paige into the crook of her neck.

paige obeys, licking a short stripe up the column of azzi’s throat, all heat and thin restraint. “yes, ma’am.”

[cinnamongrl2006]

Bruce renting out a whole restaurant because he knows you hate the wandering eyes and the paparazzi when you go out. He takes you to the nicest place in all of gotham as an apology for being such a workaholic in the day and batman at night😔😔

౨ৎ ˖ ࣪⊹ •Husband!Bruce Wayne x Fem!Reader•⊹₊ ⋆୨ৎ

Summary/contents: pure fluff; Bruce takes you out on a date to make up for lost time.

a/n: I loveee when you guys send me asks and requests, omggg!! Also love writing Bale!Bruce so much, he's the love of my life. Also, it took me like three days to write this I feel like all the fluff I write sounds impersonal, but you girls eat it up so...here you go!!

When you got a phone call from Bruce at four p.m. on a friday you fully expected him to call bearing bad news— delayed flights, injuries, unprecedented ammounts of work— and muttering apologies. You were pleasantly surprised when his voice did not come out strained, instead it dripped sweet like honey in a way that made your cheeks flush.

"Hello, pretty girl," His voice was slightly muffled by the electronic static of the telephone.

"Hi, Brucie. Is everything okay?" You tried to sound calm but worry etched itself in between your words like like veins.

He exhaled into the microphone and the speaker of your device crackled slightly. Your heart clenched in your chest for a second before he spoke again.

"Yeah, just tired. I'm on the plane home, though." You could feel the smile on his face from the way he spoke. He sounded calm, but there was something in his tone that unnerved you, you could feel there was something he was withholding from you.

"What are you not telling me?" You asked, your tone wasn't accusatory, it was supportive, curious.

"Huh— I'm not—" He chuckled and sighed. "I'm sorry, darling."

"About?" You knew exactly what about, he hated prioritizing anything but you, but he had to do it. You'd tried to make him see how hypocritical he sounded but relented when he wouldn't budge.

"I've been busy for so long, I practically ignored you for weeks...I just...am sorry."

"Bruce, I know you're busy, it's kind of your thing." You chuckled.

The speaker crackled again. "What I was getting at...are you free tonight?"

"Are you?" you retorted.

"I'm your man until eleven p.m. baby." He exclaimed.

"Got anything planned?"

────୨ৎ────

You were getting ready when you heard the familiar beeping and screeching sounds of the gates opening, and you rushed down the stairs— heels clicking furiously against the hardwood stairs— to meet him. As soon as Bruce stepped foot in the manor his bags were on the ground and you in his arms. He held onto the nearby furniture to steady himself.

"Careful, you could get hurt." His words were serious but his tone soft.

"No, how would I get hurt?" You perked up.

"What if I hadn't caught you?" He brushed your bangs out of your face.

"Don't be stupid."

The idea that Bruce would let you slip, let alone fall on the ground when he was around was nothing short of ridiculous, since when you walked on the street with him he'd take the side closest to the road, when you wore heels he'd keep a steadying hand on the small of your back. It was obvious he'd always be there to catch you when you fell.

He pulled away from the embrace and looked you over, his finger came up to brush your bangs away from your face again, lingering against your cheek.

"Are you ready to go?" He asked. His eyes holding your gaze hostage.

You hummed in confirmation and he steered you over to the garage.

On the phone he'd mentioned a reservation for dinner, and you'd groaned, said you didn't want cameras and prying eyes around for your date, not when you hadn't done this in so long.

You'd gotten used to the attention— you'd had to learn to deal with it if you wanted to be with Bruce— but that didn't mean the hungry stares and flashes everywhere didn't annoy you. But he had assured you everything would be fine and nobody would be watching you.

You eyed him as you got in the car and he looked at you before backing out of the driveway and onto the road. His hand rested on your thigh tracing little shapes absentmindedly as you sped through the city in his car. He noticed your unwavering stare and chuckled.

"Stop staring." He warned, a smile pulling at his lips.

"I just want to know what you did this time." You narrowed your eyes at him.

His arm flexed when he squeezed the flesh of your thigh and let out a chuckle.

"You'll see in—" he lifted up his watch to his face and looked back at you. "five minutes, hopefully. Forgot it was a friday."

City traffic was always bad in the weekends, especially at night. The Gotham city streets were flooded with cabs and ubers (filled with young people eager to get into whatever club they could) and couples going out to dinner— much like Bruce and you.

You got off the car in front of an upscale restaurant you'd talked to Bruce about before, and you were shocked to see there wasn't a line outside, in fact, it was empty inside.

You were about to protest, tell Bruce maybe you should go somewhere else if this was closed, but he got out of the car quickly and jogged over to your side, opening the door and helping you out. That's when you saw the Maitre'd was outside, welcoming the both of you in with a smile.

"Did you book the entire place?" You asked, leaning closer to him as the Maitre'd, a short, thin blond man, ushered you to your table.

You sat in a table near the bar, away from all doors and windows. It felt oddly calm, like all that existed in that momen was your husband and the food before you.

You listened as he talked about business deals, nodding along as if you understood— you didn't, but it was really hot when he went into detail about the things he cared about.

After dinner you drove back home, tipsy on the wine you'd had during your meal and fell asleep as soon as your head hit the pillow.

────୨ৎ────

Next morning you awoke to a sight you hadn't witnessed in a long time, Bruce was laying in bed beside you, the covers were wrapped around his waist lazily. The saturday morning sun filtered through the curtains and cast a soft glow on his features. His eyes were closed, long lashes brushing his cheeks. You could see some yellow and purple-ish marks on his arms and chest, and a stitched up cut on his side that, judging by the look of it, he'd sewn himself.

You rested your head on Bruce's chest and brushed the hair away from his face. He looked so peaceful in this light, so calm, you could almost forget the life you were leading. Because as much as you were aware that Bruce was an heir to a fortune and a vigilante, he was just your husband to you.

────୨ৎ────

requests are open!!