#barely read the assignment instructions

[non-un-topo]

I'm in such a crappy mood because this panel discussion is on Wednesday and still not a single member of my group has contributed to anything (we're supposed to be posting and talking in a forum). Not even a hello except for one person who sent me a personal email at 12:30 last night apologizing because she didn't know there even was a forum. Honey are you telling me you haven't checked the online classroom at all over reading week + the weekend??? While you undoubtedly had other work that required you check the online classroom?? I actually just feel really sad. Just down and sad.

[enhaflixer]

campus crush!sunghoon x f!reader

stats class. keep ur glasses on when u fuck me. statistical analysis with ur tongue. thats abt it. sunghoon word porn ngl ENHA HARD HOURS (kinda) 18+ MDNI

-

You're late. Again.

The digital clock on your phone reads 3:10 PM as you sprint across campus, your backpack bouncing against your spine with each step. Statistics seminar started ten minutes ago, and Professor Clarke has definitely noticed your absence by now. Not that it's unusual—you've made it a habit to burst through those doors at exactly ten minutes past, a whirlwind of apologies and bright smiles.

"Sorry, sorry!" you announce as you push open the computer lab door, slightly out of breath.

Twenty pairs of eyes swivel toward you, but Professor Clarke doesn't even look up from his laptop at the front of the room.

"How kind of you to join us," he says dryly. "We were just assigning semester project partners."

You flash him your most charming smile as you slide into an empty seat. "Perfect timing then."

A few people laugh. You've mastered the art of diffusing tension with humor, of making your tardiness seem like a quirky character trait rather than a genuine inability to manage time. It's gotten you this far in university.

"As I was saying," Professor Clarke continues, "this statistical analysis project will count for forty percent of your grade. You and your assigned partner will select a dataset, develop a hypothesis, and use STATA to analyze your findings." He gestures to the complex statistical software displayed on the projector screen—the same software that has been giving you nightmares since week one.

You glance around the room, hoping you'll be paired with Olivia or Zara—friends who wouldn't mind carrying the team if necessary. But when Professor Clarke reads off, "Sunghoon Park and..." followed by your name, your heart does something unexpected.

It skips.

You've noticed him before—it's hard not to. He always sits in the same spot three rows from the front, always arrives fifteen minutes early, always has his notebook open at the exact moment class begins.

What you haven't fully appreciated until now, as you turn to locate him in the room, is just how devastatingly handsome he is. His dark eyes find yours immediately behind stylish wire-rimmed glasses that give him an irresistible intellectual appeal. One corner of his perfectly shaped mouth lifts in the smallest acknowledgment, and a strand of black hair falls across his forehead when he nods at you. The combination of his reserved demeanor and model-worthy looks creates an effect that makes your stomach flip. He's the definition of a hot nerd—the kind that makes you temporarily forget about statistical analysis altogether and wonder what he'd look like with those glasses slightly askew, his usually perfect hair disheveled.

After partnering announcements finish, Professor Clarke instructs everyone to move next to their assigned partners to discuss project ideas.

You gather your things and make your way to Sunghoon's station, dropping into the chair beside him with dramatic flair.

"Fair warning," you say brightly, "I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing with this software. Like, none. Zero. Statistical analysis to me is deciding which café has the shortest queue."

You expect a sigh or a look of disappointment—it's what most serious students do when they realize they've been paired with you. Instead, Sunghoon's expression softens.

"It's okay," he says quietly, his voice carrying just a hint of an accent. "I'm... not an expert either."

"But you always look so focused during class," you say, gesturing to his immaculate notes.

He shrugs, the movement slight and controlled. "I write everything down. Doesn't mean I understand it all."

When he opens the STATA program and navigates through a few screens with apparent ease, you lean closer.

"Okay, so you're being modest. You definitely know more than I do."

"Barely," he admits, and you catch the faintest hint of a smile—not the polite one from before, but something genuine that makes you want to see it again. "I just know how to make it look like I know what I'm doing."

"That's an important life skill," you laugh, pulling your chair closer to see his screen better. "So what kind of data are we analyzing? Please say something fun like ice cream consumption versus happiness levels."

Sunghoon doesn't laugh, but his eyes crinkle slightly at the corners. "Actually," he says, "we can choose almost anything that interests us."

You bump his shoulder lightly with yours. "See? We're going to be great partners. I bring the wild ideas, you bring the common sense."

"Is that what they call it?" he asks, and there's a hint of playfulness in his voice that catches you off guard.

"What would you call it?" you challenge.

He considers for a moment, adjusting his glasses with a single finger pushed against the bridge. The gesture shouldn't be as attractive as it is. "Survival instinct."

You laugh, genuinely surprised. "So I'm dangerous?"

"No," he says, turning slightly to face you better. "Statistical software is dangerous. You're..." he pauses, seeming to search for the right word, "unpredictable."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"It was meant as one." The quiet confidence in his voice sends a small thrill through you.

Professor Clarke clears his throat at the front of the room. "I expect project proposals by the end of next week. Choose your dataset carefully—it will determine the scope of your entire project."

You glance at the clock. Only fifteen minutes of class remain.

"So, partner," you say, lowering your voice as Professor Clarke continues, "when should we meet to figure this out? I promise I'll try not to be ten minutes late."

Sunghoon's mouth quirks up at one corner. "Would you actually show up if I said 8 AM at the library?"

"Now you're just testing me," you whisper back.

"Coffee shop after class on Thursday?" he suggests instead, his voice equally quiet. "The one behind the science building?"

"Beans & Books? You've got good taste." You nod approvingly. "I practically live there between classes."

"I know," he says, then immediately looks as if he wishes he could take it back.

"You know?" You raise an eyebrow, intrigued and slightly pleased.

A faint color appears high on his cheekbones. "I've seen you there. You always order something different and then type furiously on your laptop."

The fact that he's noticed you before, observed your habits even, gives you a little flutter of satisfaction. "And what do you order, Sunghoon Park? Let me guess—plain black coffee, no sugar."

His eyebrows lift slightly. "Close. Earl Grey tea."

"Of course," you nod sagely. "Sophisticated."

When class ends, you gather your things slowly, suddenly reluctant to leave. Sunghoon stands, slinging his messenger bag across his chest in one smooth motion.

"Thursday, then," he says, as if confirming an important business meeting.

"It's a date," you reply with deliberate casualness, watching his reaction.

His expression remains mostly neutral, but you don't miss the quick blink, the slight pause before he nods. "For statistics," he clarifies, but the slight upturn of his lips betrays him.

"For statistics," you agree solemnly, though you're already wondering what other subjects you might explore together.

The coffee shop meeting goes surprisingly well. What you expected to be an hour of awkward dataset discussions turns into three hours of conversation that meanders far beyond statistics. Sunghoon, it turns out, has layers beneath his reserved exterior—he plays piano, reads philosophy for fun, and has a dry sense of humor that catches you off guard and makes you laugh harder than you have in weeks.

By the end of the evening, you've not only selected your dataset (coffee consumption versus academic performance—your suggestion, which he surprisingly agreed to), but you've also learned that his stammer appears when he's either nervous or passionate about a topic. You find both instances equally endearing.

When Friday's class rolls around, something shifts. You arrive only five minutes late (progress), and the space beside Sunghoon, which is usually empty, now seems to be waiting for you. You slide into the seat and he glances up from his notebook, the corner of his mouth lifting in that subtle way that's becoming familiar.

"You're almost on time," he says quietly, amusement in his eyes.

"Don't get used to it," you reply, but there's no bite to your words.

Throughout the class, your awareness of him is heightened—the way his brow furrows when he's concentrating, how his fingers tap thoughtfully against the desk when Professor Clarke asks a difficult question, the scent of his cologne when he leans closer to point something out on your screen.

After class, you find yourself hesitating as you pack up your things, watching as he meticulously organizes his notes.

"So," you begin, aiming for casual, "I was thinking... we should probably meet again this weekend to work on the project." You pause. "My roommate's gone for the weekend. We could use my dorm? Fewer distractions than the coffee shop."

Sunghoon looks up, his expression unreadable for a moment before he nods. "That would be... efficient."

You laugh at his choice of words. "Very statistical of you."

"I meant—" he starts, a hint of that stammer appearing.

"I know what you meant," you interrupt, grinning. "Saturday at four?"

He nods, adjusting his glasses. "I'll bring the data analysis. You bring the coffee."

"Deal."

Saturday arrives, and for the first time in your university career, you spend thirty minutes tidying your room before a study session. You tell yourself it's just basic courtesy, not because you care what Sunghoon thinks of your living space.

At precisely four o'clock, there's a knock at your door. Punctual as always.

You open it to find Sunghoon standing there in jeans and a simple button-down shirt, his laptop bag slung across his body. He's swapped his usual wire-frames for slightly thicker black glasses that somehow make him look even more attractive—scholarly but with an edge.

"You're making me look bad with this punctuality thing," you say by way of greeting, stepping aside to let him in.

"Sorry?" he offers, clearly unsure if he's actually done something wrong.

You laugh. "I'm joking. Come in."

Your dorm room is standard—bed, desk, small seating area with a loveseat and coffee table—but you've made it yours with art on the walls and plants on every available surface. Sunghoon takes it all in with curious eyes.

"I like your space," he says, and it sounds genuine.

"Thanks. Where should we set up? Desk or coffee table?"

"Either is fine," he says, that formal politeness still present even after your hours in the coffee shop.

You end up at the coffee table, sitting side by side on the loveseat, laptops open. For an hour, you actually make progress on the project. Sunghoon explains correlations in a way that finally makes sense, and you discover you have a talent for visualizing data in creative ways that makes his eyes light up with approval.

But as the afternoon wears on, the small space means your shoulders keep brushing, your knees occasionally touch, and each point of contact feels increasingly deliberate. When you reach for your coffee at the same moment he reaches for his tea, your hands collide, and neither of you pulls away immediately.

"Sorry," you both say at once, and then laugh.

"Great minds," you add, but you're distracted by how his eyes look behind those glasses, warm and focused entirely on you.

At some point, you shift positions, both of you turning toward each other to discuss a particularly complicated aspect of your analysis. Your knees are definitely touching now, and the loveseat suddenly seems much smaller than it did an hour ago.

"So if we compare these variables..." he's saying, but you're watching his mouth form the words more than listening to their meaning.

"Hmm?" you say, forcing your attention back to the screen.

He turns to look at you fully, and you realize how close your faces are. "You're not listening," he says, but there's no accusation in his voice.

"I'm distracted," you admit.

"By statistics?"

"By you."

The words hang in the air between you. Sunghoon blinks, his expression shifting from confusion to something more intense. He swallows visibly, and you watch the movement in his throat.

"I'm... distracting?" he asks, his voice lower than before.

"Extremely." Your eyes lock on his glasses, the way they frame his dark eyes, how they complete his devastatingly attractive intellectual look. "Especially with these on."

His eyebrows raise slightly in surprise. "The glasses?"

"God, yes," you breathe, moving closer. "You have no idea how fucking hot you look in them."

A flush spreads across his cheeks, but there's a new confidence in the way he holds your gaze. Without warning, he pulls you forward into a kiss that has nothing of his usual restraint. His laptop slides forgotten to the coffee table as you shift closer, and then somehow you're straddling his lap, your hands on either side of his face as you deepen the kiss.

When you break apart to breathe, his glasses are slightly askew. You straighten them gently, then run your fingers through his usually immaculate hair, deliberately messing it up while keeping the glasses perfectly in place.

"You're so sexy," you murmur against his mouth. "I've been thinking about this since the first day we were paired up."

His hands find your hips, holding you firmly against him. "I find that... statistically improbable," he manages, but his breathing is as uneven as yours.

"I'll show you improbable," you whisper, grinding down deliberately. His glasses fog slightly from the heat between you, and the sight sends a thrill through your body. "So fucking hot," you repeat, unable to stop yourself.

His hands slide beneath your shirt, exploring with a surprising boldness that makes you gasp. "We should—" he starts, breathing heavily.

“Yes,” you agree, already pulling him up from the loveseat, walking backwards toward your bed while keeping his mouth on yours. “The project can definitely wait.”

You fall back onto the mattress, pulling him down with you, careful not to knock his glasses off as he hovers above you. They’ve fogged again from the heat between your bodies, and something about that sight—this controlled, precise man coming undone while still looking every bit the hot intellectual—pushes you past any remaining hesitation.

“Leave them on,” you insist when he reaches to remove his glasses. “Please.”

His lips curve into a smile that’s nothing like his usual restrained expressions—this one is knowing, almost wicked. “If that’s what you want,” he murmurs, lowering his mouth to your neck.

“It’s definitely what I want,” you gasp as his teeth graze your skin. “Along with… everything else.”

There’s a playful air to each touch, a slow building of tension as you both start to peel away layers. You tug at the hem of his shirt first, sliding it up inch by tantalizing inch until he lifts his arms to help you pull it off. He returns the favor by slipping a hand under your blouse, fingertips teasing over your ribs. Every time he tries to hasten the pace, you grin and slow him down, dragging the fabric just a bit more before letting it fall away, leaving him momentarily breathless. The sound he makes—caught somewhere between a groan and a laugh—sends a thrill through you.

Time seems to blur as clothing is discarded piece by piece, inhibitions falling away with each new revelation of skin. The afternoon sunlight filters through your curtains, casting everything in a warm glow.

At some point, you find yourself above him, both of you completely bare except for his glasses, which have somehow remained perfectly in place despite everything. You pause for a moment, taking in the sight of him beneath you—all lean muscle and flushed skin, those wire-rimmed glasses still perched on his nose, slightly fogged from the heat between your bodies.

“You’re staring,” he whispers, a vulnerability in his voice despite the intimate position.

“Can you blame me?” You lean down, placing a gentle kiss on his lips, then another, and another, each one growing more insistent. “God, look at you.”

His hands find your hips, steadying you as you continue to kiss him, his glasses occasionally bumping against your face in a way that only heightens your desire. There's something impossibly erotic about him being completely naked except for those glasses—the contrast between his exposed body and that one remnant of his studious, put-together appearance.

"You're so fucking sexy," you breathe against his mouth. "How does anyone focus in that statistics class with you sitting there looking like this?"

He laughs softly, the sound vibrating against your lips. "I could ask you the same question."

Your kisses become more urgent, your bodies moving together with increasing need. The heat between you builds with each touch, each whispered encouragement. Sunghoon's usually careful movements grow bolder, more instinctive, as your hands explore each other's bodies. His glasses, still perfectly perched on his nose, begin to fog at the edges first—just a light mist that catches the dim light of your room. But as your passion intensifies, as your breathing grows more ragged and synchronized, the lenses cloud completely.

When you pull back to look at him, you can't help but laugh softly at the sight—this brilliantly composed man now completely blinded by the evidence of your shared desire, those glasses that make him look so irresistibly intellectual now rendered useless by the heat radiating between your bodies. To your surprise, he laughs too—not the polite chuckle you've heard in class or the soft amusement from your coffee shop conversations, but a genuine, uninhibited sound that seems to come from somewhere deep inside him. It's rich and warm and completely unguarded.

"I can't see a thing," he admits, his voice husky with desire and amusement. His hands find your face despite his temporary blindness, thumbs tracing your cheekbones with unexpected precision. "But I don't need to see to know exactly where you are."

"Is that so?" you challenge, your breath catching as his fingers trail down your neck, across your collarbone, mapping you with deliberate attention.

"I've been studying you," he murmurs, his touch making you shiver despite the heat between you. "Memorizing. Analyzing patterns." His hands continue their exploration, finding every sensitive spot with remarkable accuracy. "It's very... statistical."

You laugh against his mouth. "Only you could make statistics sound sexy."

Through the fogged lenses, you can just barely make out how his eyes darken at your words. "I have other statistical terms I could demonstrate," he offers, surprising you again with his boldness. His accent becomes slightly more pronounced when he's like this—another detail you've grown to cherish.

"Show me," you whisper, and he does—his hands and mouth conducting a thorough analysis of cause and effect, of stimuli and response, until you're clutching at his shoulders and gasping his name. All while those fogged-up glasses remain perfectly in place, the final vestige of his composed exterior while everything else between you unravels into glorious chaos.

You’re already bare beneath him, skin flushed from teasing and anticipation, but the only thing still clinging to his body—those damn glasses—make it so much worse. Or better. Definitely better.

Sunghoon hovers over you, gaze dark behind the lenses, lips swollen and slightly parted as he takes in the sight of you. You should be embarrassed at how wanton you must look, legs spread for him, body already trembling, but he’s the one who looks wrecked. His composure is gone, shattered somewhere between the desperate kisses and the way you dragged your nails down his back.

His lips quirk. “Still want me to leave them on?”

“Don’t even think about taking them off.”

His smile turns wicked, and then he’s moving—kissing, sucking, trailing his mouth down your body with purpose. His fingers dig into your thighs, spreading you wider, and then he’s right there—close enough that you can feel the ghost of his breath against you, the heat of it making your stomach clench.

He doesn’t start slow. No teasing, no light flicks of his tongue just to test the waters. Sunghoon eats you like he’s been starving for this, like he’s been waiting for the moment he could taste you, drown in you. His tongue is hot and relentless, curling against you just right, pressing where you need him most, sending shockwaves through every nerve in your body.

But what really undoes you is the feeling of his glasses pressing against your inner thighs, the cold metal contrasting with the heat of his mouth. Every time he moves, every time he adjusts his angle, the frames shift against your skin—slightly rough, slightly smooth, a reminder of exactly who is between your legs and how absolutely ruined he’s making you.

You fist the sheets, hips jerking up into his mouth, but he pins you down effortlessly, a strong arm wrapped around your thigh to keep you exactly where he wants you. He groans when you tug at his hair, the vibrations shooting through you, making you gasp his name.

“Fuck, Sunghoon—”

His response is a low hum against your clit, and your whole body shakes. You feel the damp heat of his breath, the slick slide of his tongue, but more than anything, you feel the weight of those goddamn glasses as they drag along your skin, fogging up even more, smudging against your inner thigh every time he moves deeper, harder, sloppier.

The sheer filth of it makes you clench around nothing.

Sunghoon notices, because of course he does—because he’s been studying you this whole time, memorizing what makes you gasp, what makes your thighs tremble around his head. And he’s smug about it, too, because when he pulls back just enough to glance up at you, lips glistening, glasses just barely slipping down his nose, he smirks.

“You like that, don’t you?” His voice is raspy, breathless, wrecked.

You don’t even try to deny it. “Yes—God, yes, don’t stop.”

Sunghoon’s smirk deepens, and he doesn’t make you beg for it. He dives right back in, tongue flicking, sucking, his grip on your thighs tightening as you lose yourself completely. The drag of his glasses, the precise way he adjusts his angle to push you higher, the way he groans into you like he’s getting off on this just as much as you are—it’s too much.

The coil in your stomach snaps hard, pleasure crashing over you so intensely that you barely realize you’re pulling at his hair, moaning his name like a prayer, like you might fall apart completely if he stops.

Sunghoon doesn’t stop. Not right away. He works you through the aftershocks, his tongue slow, methodical, lazy in a way that makes you shudder from overstimulation. Only when your body twitches beneath him does he finally pull away, chin glistening, glasses fucking ruined.

You’re still gasping when he crawls back up your body, hovering over you, his mouth right there, his glasses so close you can see the way they’re fogged-up and smudged with sweat.

When you finally collapse beside each other, spent and satisfied, his glasses are askew once more. You reach over to straighten them, and he catches your hand, pressing a kiss to your palm.

"So," you say, when you've caught your breath, "should we tell Professor Clarke we've found an interesting correlation to study?"

Sunghoon laughs, the sound free and unrestrained in a way you hadn't heard before today. "I don't think this is what he had in mind for the assignment."

"His loss," you murmur, snuggling closer. "I'd say our statistical analysis was very... thorough."

"We should probably actually work on the project at some point," he says, but makes no move to get up.

"Tomorrow," you promise, running a finger along his jawline. "I think we need to collect more data first."

His eyebrow raises above the rim of his glasses. "For the sake of academic integrity?"

"Absolutely," you agree solemnly, before dissolving into laughter.

The statistics of probability have never been so compelling.

-

Over the next few weeks, your statistics class takes on an entirely new dimension. What was once your least favorite part of the week has become the highlight—not because you've suddenly developed a passion for data analysis, but because of the subtle dance that unfolds between you and Sunghoon twice a week in that computer lab.

The Monday after your "study session," you arrive to class five minutes early—a personal record. Sunghoon is already there, of course, and the moment he sees you, his ears turn slightly pink. When you slide into the seat next to him, now officially your spot, he gives you a small smile that feels like a secret.

"You're early," he says, his voice low enough that only you can hear.

"I had motivation," you reply, letting your knee brush against his under the desk.

His eyes flicker to your lips for a fraction of a second before returning to his notebook. "I hope it wasn't just for... statistical analysis."

"Depends on how you define statistics," you whisper just as Professor Clarke calls the class to order.

Throughout the lecture, you're acutely aware of every movement Sunghoon makes—how he adjusts his glasses when he's thinking, the precise way he takes notes, the occasional glance he throws your way when he thinks you're not looking. Halfway through class, you deliberately drop your pen between you. When you both reach for it, your fingers touch, and he doesn't pull away. Instead, he hooks his pinky finger over yours for just a moment before handing you the pen. The small gesture sends a flutter through your chest.

After class, you walk together to the coffee shop without needing to discuss it. Somehow, it's already become your routine.

"How's the dataset compilation going?" he asks as you find a small table in the corner.

"That's what you want to talk about right now? Really?" You raise an eyebrow.

A faint smile plays at his lips. "We do have a project due in three weeks."

"Always so responsible," you sigh dramatically, but there's fondness in your voice. "It's going fine. I've got the coffee consumption survey data from about fifty students so far."

He nods approvingly. "That's a decent sample size for our purposes."

When your drinks arrive—his Earl Grey and your excessively complicated latte—you notice something different about him. He's still quiet, still thoughtful, but there's a new ease to his movements, a softness around his eyes when he looks at you.

"What?" he asks, catching you studying him.

"Nothing," you say, then reconsider. "Actually, not nothing. You seem... different."

He takes a sip of his tea, considering. "I feel different," he admits after a moment. "With you."

The simple sincerity of his words catches you off guard. For all your flirtatious confidence, his straightforward honesty disarms you completely.

"Good different?" you ask, suddenly feeling shy.

"Very good different," he confirms, and beneath the table, his foot rests against yours. Not by accident.

By the third week, you've fallen into patterns that blend the academic with the intimate. Your Tuesday and Thursday afternoons are devoted to actual project work—usually in the library where the public setting keeps you reasonably focused. 

Your Saturday “study sessions” in your dorm room are significantly less productive in the statistical sense, though you joke that you’re certainly collecting plenty of data on other variables.

Sunghoon rolls his eyes every time you say it, but you know he loves it—loves how eager, how shameless you are when it comes to him. Because every time you spread your legs for him, every time you drag him into another compromising position, he never tells you no.

Case Study #1: The Textbooks

It starts with an innocent enough setup—Sunghoon sitting cross-legged on the floor, back against your bed, flipping through a statistics textbook while you sit across from him, pretending to study. But it’s boring. He looks too good in his glasses, sleeves rolled up, the slightest furrow in his brow as he concentrates. And before you even realize you’re moving, you’re crawling into his lap, straddling him right there on top of the book.

He barely has time to exhale your name before you sink down onto him, making both of you groan.

The hardcover digs into your knees, the pages creasing beneath you, but you couldn’t care less. Sunghoon is buried inside you, stretching you open, warm and deep and perfect, and the only data you’re analyzing is how his breath stutters when you roll your hips just right.

“Fuck, you’re unreal—” he pants, hands gripping your waist, watching you through the slightly fogged lenses of his glasses as you use him, ride him slow, grind on him like you want to ruin him.

You do. You want to wreck him just as much as he’s wrecking you. The friction, the delicious drag, the way his hands squeeze your hips to urge you to go faster, harder—it all shreds your self-control.

By the time you both come undone, gasping and clinging to each other, the textbook beneath you is thoroughly creased, sticky, ruined. Neither of you even bother looking at it.

Case Study #2: The Desk Chair

Another Saturday, another useless attempt at studying.

Sunghoon’s seated at your desk this time, one leg lazily spread, hand bracing his forehead as he tries to focus. But you’re kneeling between his legs, and the moment you reach for his zipper, his entire body tenses.

“You’re insatiable.”

“And?” You tug his pants down just enough to free him, palming his length, watching him harden in your hand as his breathing turns shallow.

He leans back, exhaling sharply when your lips part and you take him deep. His hand finds the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair as you swirl your tongue around him, tease him, make him fall apart.

His glasses slip down his nose as he watches you, half-lidded and dazed, jaw slack as you take him deeper, sucking, hollowing your cheeks, making obscene little noises that drive him insane.

He trembles when he finally spills down your throat, groaning your name, head thrown back against the chair.

And the moment he catches his breath, he drags you into his lap, flips you onto the desk, and fucks you stupid.

Case Study #3: Against the Window

Another week. Another “study session.” Another location.

This time, you find yourself pressed against the glass of your dorm window, palms splayed, breath fogging the pane as Sunghoon pounds into you from behind.

The curtains are open.

You don’t know if anyone can see—if someone walking by on the street below can look up and spot your bare body, the lewd way you’re bent over, Sunghoon’s hands gripping your hips as he drives into you with punishing force.

But you don’t care.

All you care about is the way he grunts into your ear, his glasses slightly askew, one hand slipping down to rub your clit, making you jerk and gasp his name as pleasure crashes over you like a tidal wave.

“Keep your eyes open,” he growls, voice thick with lust, dragging his lips along your shoulder. “Look outside. Look at what a mess you are.”

Case Study #4: The Shower

It’s late, and you should be asleep. But instead, you’re pressed up against the tiled wall of your tiny dorm shower, water scalding hot, steam curling around you as Sunghoon lifts you up, holds you against him, and fucks you slow, deep.

His glasses are gone, finally.

They’d fogged up the moment he stepped into the shower, and the second you’d made a joke about it, he’d taken them off and set them on the sink. But you don’t miss them too much—not when his mouth is on your throat, sucking bruises into your wet skin, not when his fingers dig into your thighs, keeping you in place as he rolls his hips into you with exquisite precision.

You come twice before you finally stumble out of the shower, exhausted, dripping, completely spent.

And the moment you walk back into your dorm room, still naked, Sunghoon picks up his glasses, slides them back on, and gives you a look that tells you he’s nowhere near finished with you.

Case Study #5: The Floor (Again, Because You Can’t Stop)

At this point, you don’t even make it to the bed.

You’re both desperate, panting, **clawing at each other like you can’t stand the idea of being apart for another second.**The moment Sunghoon pushes you onto the floor, you’re already wrapping your legs around his waist, pulling him down, gasping when he fills you in one smooth thrust.

It’s fast, dirty, messy.

He grits out your name, one hand bracing beside your head, the other gripping your thigh, holding you open as he slams into you, pace brutal, relentless. The carpet burns on your back will be worth it.

He loses his glasses at some point, but you don’t even notice—you’re too busy coming apart beneath him, clawing at his back, moaning his name like you’ll never get enough of him.

Maybe you won’t.

Because the second you catch your breath, still tangled up in him, you’re already thinking about where you’ll fuck next.

What surprises you most is how much you enjoy both versions of your time together. The project, which should be tedious, becomes engaging through Sunghoon's perspective. He has a way of finding patterns in chaos that makes even the driest data seem fascinating. And through your influence, he's learning to approach problems more creatively, to see beyond the rigid frameworks he's always relied on.

"What if we visualize it this way instead?" you suggest one Tuesday, sketching a completely unorthodox chart on the margin of his meticulously organized notes.

His initial reaction is skepticism—you can see it in the slight furrow of his brow—but he considers it longer than he would have three weeks ago.

"It's unconventional," he says finally.

"But?"

"But it might actually work better for presenting the correlation," he concedes, and the smile you give him is so bright it makes the student at the next table look over.

In class, Professor Clarke notices the change in both of you. Your questions become more insightful, Sunghoon's responses more animated. When you present your initial findings mid-semester, the professor actually seems impressed by your unusual approach to visualization.

"An interesting methodology," he comments, adjusting his own glasses in a way that reminds you of Sunghoon. "Unorthodox, but effective."

You beam at Sunghoon, who ducks his head slightly but can't hide his pleased expression.

After class, he catches your hand as you're packing up—a gesture he would never have initiated before.

"We make a good team," he says quietly.

"The best," you agree, squeezing his fingers before reluctantly letting go. Public displays still make him slightly uncomfortable, and you respect his boundaries.

-

It's during a rainy Friday evening in your dorm room, six weeks into your relationship (though neither of you has officially labeled it as such), that something shifts again.

You're sprawled on your bed with your laptop, Sunghoon sitting at your desk reviewing your latest statistical findings, his glasses reflecting the blue light of the screen. Classical music plays softly from his phone—another new development. He's been gradually introducing you to his favorite composers, and you've found you actually enjoy the background music while working.

"Your scatterplot is missing a data point," he says, turning to look at you.

"Mmm, probably deleted it accidentally," you reply, not looking up from your position. "Is it important?"

"All data points are important," he says, but there's amusement in his voice rather than criticism.

You roll onto your back, laptop balanced on your stomach. "That sounds like something that would be on a statistics department t-shirt. 'All data points matter.'"

He laughs—a sound that's become less rare but no less thrilling to hear. "I'd wear it."

"Of course you would," you tease. "With your glasses and a pocket protector."

He makes a face at you. "I don't own a pocket protector."

"Yet," you add with a grin.

He shakes his head, turning back to the screen, but you catch the smile he tries to hide. After a moment, he speaks again without looking at you.

"My parents want to meet you."

You sit up so quickly your laptop nearly slides off your stomach. "What?"

Now he turns, his expression a mixture of nervousness and something softer. "I mentioned you during our weekly call. Multiple times, apparently. My mother... noticed."

"You talk about me to your parents?" You can't keep the pleased surprise from your voice.

He adjusts his glasses, a gesture you now recognize as his tell when he's feeling vulnerable. "It seems I do."

"What do you tell them?" You set your laptop aside, giving him your full attention.

"That you're brilliant in ways I'm not. That you see solutions I miss." He pauses. "That you make statistics class the best part of my week."

Your heart does that skipping thing it did the first day Professor Clarke paired you together, only stronger now.

"Sunghoon Park," you say softly, "are you saying I'm statistically significant to you?"

His expression turns serious, though his eyes remain gentle. "With a p-value approaching zero," he replies, and though it's phrased as a joke, his tone makes it clear it's anything but.

In statistics, a p-value approaching zero indicates an extremely high likelihood that an observed effect is real and not due to chance. It's the closest thing to certainty that statistics allows.

You cross the room to where he sits, gently taking his face between your hands. His glasses are slightly smudged, and you resist the urge to clean them, focusing instead on the eyes behind them.

"So," you say, "when do I meet these parents who raised such a statistically significant nerd?"

He laughs, pulling you into his lap in a move that would have seemed impossibly bold from him just weeks ago. "They're visiting next weekend. Dinner on Saturday?"

"I'm there," you promise, sealing it with a kiss.

-

The day of your semester project presentation arrives with an unexpected lack of anxiety. You're prepared—more prepared than you've been for any academic presentation in your life. Partly because the subject has actually become interesting to you, but mostly because working on it meant spending hours with Sunghoon.

You stand beside him at the front of the class, watching him explain your methodology with a confidence that wasn't there at the beginning of the semester. His voice is still quiet, still measured, but there's a strength behind it now, an assurance that comes from truly understanding his material. When he gestures to your creative visualization on the screen, there's a hint of pride in his voice that makes your chest warm.

When it's your turn to present, you catch him watching you with undisguised admiration. You explain the correlations you found between different types of coffee consumption and various academic performance metrics, throwing in jokes that make the class laugh and complex statistical terms that make Professor Clarke nod approvingly.

"And in conclusion," you finish, "we found that while caffeine consumption generally correlates with improved academic performance up to a point, the type of environment in which the coffee is consumed may be an equally significant factor."

"Furthermore," Sunghoon adds, stepping forward to stand beside you, shoulder to shoulder, "we discovered that the companionship variable—whether students studied alone or with others—showed the strongest positive correlation with both satisfaction and performance outcomes."

His eyes meet yours for a brief moment, and you know he's not just talking about the data anymore.

When Professor Clarke gives your presentation an A and commends your "complementary analytical approaches," you resist the urge to high-five Sunghoon in front of everyone. Instead, you wait until you're outside the building, then throw your arms around him in celebration.

To your surprise, he lifts you slightly off the ground in his enthusiasm, spinning once before setting you down, his face flushed with excitement and mild embarrassment at his own uncharacteristic display.

"We did it," he says, adjusting his glasses which were knocked askew by your hug.

"Was there ever any doubt?" you reply, reaching up to straighten them properly. "We're statistically significant, remember?"

His smile softens, and right there on the path outside the statistics building, with students streaming past on their way to other classes, he kisses you without hesitation or self-consciousness.

"What was that for?" you ask when he pulls away, delighted but surprised by the public display.

"I've been collecting data," he says, his eyes crinkling behind those glasses you've grown to love, "and I've formed a hypothesis."

"Oh?" You raise an eyebrow. "And what hypothesis is that, Mr. Park?"

He takes your hand, lacing his fingers through yours as you begin walking toward the coffee shop that's become your place.

"That I'm in love with you," he says simply. "And unlike most statistical conclusions, I'm one hundred percent certain."

You stop walking, turning to face him fully. "That's a bold statistical claim. Absolute certainty is rare in your field."

"I have compelling evidence," he counters, and the confidence in his voice, so different from the hesitant student you met months ago, makes your heart race.

"I might need to review your data," you tease, though your voice catches slightly.

"Extensive observation over time," he begins, stepping closer. "Consistent results across multiple variables. Reproducible effects." His voice drops lower. "Significant positive impact on all quality-of-life metrics."

"Very scientific," you murmur, your hands finding their way to his chest.

"I thought so," he agrees, his eyes serious despite the playful exchange. "So my conclusion stands."

You rise on your tiptoes, pressing your forehead to his. "Well, as someone who's conducted a parallel study, I can confirm your findings. The evidence suggests I'm in love with you too."

His smile, rare and full, lights up his entire face. "Independently verified results. The best kind."

“Should we celebrate this breakthrough with coffee?” you suggest, already knowing his answer.

“I was thinking maybe we skip the coffee today,” he says, surprising you again. “I have other hypotheses I’d like to test.”

“Professor Clarke would be shocked at your dedication to statistical research,” you laugh, letting him lead you in the direction of your dorm instead of the coffee shop.

“Some variables,” he says with newfound confidence, “are worth studying in depth.”

You lean in close, pressing your lips right against the shell of his ear, and whisper the kind of filth that would make even the most shameless person blush.

“Then why don’t you pin me down the second we walk through that door, shove your face between my legs, and eat me so fucking good I forget my own name? And when I can’t take anymore, you’ll flip me over and fuck me like you’re trying to imprint yourself inside me—deep, rough, until I’m crying and drooling on the sheets, too dumb to do anything but take it.”

Sunghoon stops breathing.

You feel the exact moment your words hit him—his entire body locks up, his grip on your wrist tightens, his jaw clenches so hard you swear you hear his teeth grind.

His glasses fog immediately.

A strangled noise escapes him, something between a curse and a choked groan, and then he’s moving.

Not just moving—dragging you, fast, purposeful, like a man on a mission.

“Fucking hell,” he mutters under his breath, voice wrecked, dangerous, and it sends a thrill straight through you.

By the time you reach your dorm, he’s already reaching for the door handle, barely keeping himself together, and the second it clicks shut behind you—

You know he’s about to make good on every single word you just whispered.

That, by any metric, was statistically significant indeed.

-

TL: @ziiao @beariegyu @seonhoon @somuchdard @naurwayyyyy @bloomiize @zzhengyu @annybah @ijustwannareadstuff20 @ddolleri @elairah @dreamy-carat @geniejunn @kristynaaah @zoemeltigloos @mellowgalaxystrawberry @inlovewithningning @vveebee @m3wkledreamy @lovelycassy @highway-143 @koizekomi @tiny-shiny @simbabyikeu @cristy-101 @dearestdreamies @enhaverse713586 @cybe4 @starniras @wonuziex

[mosspapi]

"Create a realistic/accurate self portrait, and focus on representing ur psyche" ok maybe that's possible for a normal person but if you want an artistic representation of me it will look Nothing like the physical form you see in front of you. So which would u prefer.

[heyimkana]

Pads & Conspiracies

AO3 Link

Set in the same AU as Pillow Talk and Come Home to Me, but can be read separately.

Pairing: Sung Jinwoo x Female Reader

Genre: Marriage AU, Domestic Fluff, Slice of Life, Comedy

Summary: Sung Jinwoo isn’t so much an S-Rank Hunter as he is an S-Rank Husband. Today, he’s dealing with his wife’s period cramps, pad sizes, Beru’s cravings and a tiny domestic conspiracy.

Content Warnings: None—unless you count teeth-rotting fluff, adorable husband-wife moments, and Beru’s constant Shakespearean monologues.

Word Count: 10K (I wrote too many fluffy/silly moments—sorry 😔)

This one's for @satoruandjinwoobrainrot I'm sorry for taking so long to answer your ask, babe 😭 I hope you enjoy it ❤️

Your sweet, loving husband is in the middle of another dungeon raid. A dangerous one, at that—its mana levels place it just below an S-Rank gate. But Jinwoo, as always, enjoys the challenge. High-level dungeons offer greater experience, and he’s always hungry for more, isn’t he?

He steps into the boss room with his chin held high, the sleeves of his fitted black shirt rolled up to his elbows, veins prominent against fair skin.

“I’ll take care of this one myself,” he tells Igris, craving a good fight to keep his skills sharp. He can’t afford to get rusty just standing on the sidelines.

Jinwoo’s thin lips curl into a smirk as the beast looms before him—a colossal snake, three times the size of Kasaka, its fangs longer than his own towering height. The Demon King’s daggers materialize in his hands, gripped tightly between lean fingers as he taunts, “Quite a remarkable aura you’ve got there. Keep me entertained for a bit, will ya?”

The snake hisses, and Jinwoo lunges, aiming for its vitals—but suddenly—

MY LIEGE! MY LIEGE!

Beru’s frantic voice cuts through his mind, breaking his focus. The distraction costs him; he misses the strike.

Jinwoo’s chest tightens with dread. Beru is the shadow soldier assigned to protect you. The former Ant King could take on an S-Rank Hunter without breaking a sweat.

So why is he panicking? What could possibly shake him?

More importantly—are you okay?

If he weren’t mid-fight, he’d swap places with him or share his senses to see for himself. But since Beru can still speak calmly—well, frantically but coherently—Jinwoo knows he’s not in combat.

Still, the distraction nearly proves fatal. The snake whips its tail, and Jinwoo only barely dodges, his reflexes saving him by milliseconds. A direct hit would've pulverized his bones.

“Beru, talk to me!” he shouts, panic bubbling in his throat. “What happened?!”

Mine liege, lo, it hath been naught but an hour since thy wedded dame did informeth me—

“Speak normally!”

A-apologies, my liege! It is… that time of the month again. She told me she is in great pain. There is significant bleeding.

His dagger clashes against the snake’s fang. “She’s having her period?”

Yes, my liege.

Oh, thank God, Jinwoo breathes in relief, dodging yet another attack. It’s not that he’s glad to hear you’re simply suffering from your regular period cramps—but it’s much, much better than the dreadful thought that had emerged in his head a second ago.

Tell her to hang on, he instructs through the link, driving a dagger through the snake’s scales. Blood stains his shirt, but he barely notices. I’ll be there as soon as possible.

I will inform her, my liege. But I must stress—she is in tremendous pain. What if something worse occurs?

Jinwoo clenches his teeth, frustration surging through him. He would've asked his sister Jinah if she was in town, but she'd left on vacation with Jinho two days ago.

I need to get this over with fast, he thinks. Do what you can to help her, Beru. I’ll finish this and return immediately. Tell her to wait for me.

Yes, my liege, I shall assist her in any way I can in your absence. But your presence is sorely needed. I cannot soothe her the way you do.

That, Jinwoo knows—and he’s proud of it. But he still can’t abandon the fight just yet.

The snake is tougher than expected. Jinwoo could end it quickly if he focused, but his mind is elsewhere. You’re all he can think about.

What does my wife need?

She requested medicine and sanitary pads, my liege. But… we appear to be out. Shall I dispatch a high orc to the store?

No. The last thing he needs is to terrify the entire neighborhood. Again.

His tempo falters. For the last two minutes, he’s done nothing but dodge and parry. His chest tightens at the image of you, curled up in bed, hurting and alone. He considers calling Jinho or his sister—but they’re on vacation at the moment.

And then—things get worse.

Dozens of slithering snakes suddenly come into view. Smaller in size, but lethal nonetheless. They bare their fangs at him, hissing—probably fucking pissed off because he hasn’t been taking them seriously.

Jinwoo curses under his breath. Clearing this dungeon just got more complicated. Can she wait twenty… maybe thirty more minutes?

My liege… she is crying.

“IGRIS!” Jinwoo calls out in haste. Debate’s over. “Take my place. I need to leave—now.”

The powerful knight does not hesitate. With a dozen lower-ranked soldiers at his back, Igris rushes into battle, the Demon Monarch’s longsword held tightly in his hands, casting lightning bolts with every swing.

Jinwoo’s eyes flash from icy blue to violet, gleaming in the darkness of the cave. His daggers vanish into thin air as misty black tendrils envelop his frame like smoke.

“Exchange.”

***

Having swapped places with a patrolling shadow soldier, Jinwoo emerges onto the peaceful streets of Seoul. The stark contrast to the dark, suffocating dungeon is jarring. The sun blazes overhead, hot and merciless, causing beads of sweat to form at his temple as he sprints toward the nearest pharmacy.

“H-Hunter Sung Jinwoo!”

A female cashier gasps as he storms through the automatic doors, his combat boots—still slick with monster blood—leaving grotesque red smears across the pristine white marble floor. Her eyes widen in horror. Has a dungeon break occurred nearby? It’s not every day that an S-Rank Hunter bursts into a store with his chest heaving, his shirt soaked in blood, and his dark hair clinging to his forehead.

“A-Are you all right, sir? Is there a problem—?”

“Yes.” His voice is firm. Grave. The kind of tone people expect right before an evacuation order is issued.

The intensity of his gaze wipes the color from her face. Time seems to freeze.

“I need you to get me some pads.”

“…Pardon?”

***

“S-So, um…” the cashier begins awkwardly, spreading an overwhelming selection of pads across the counter. “We have reusable pads, regular pads, ultra-thin pads, maxi pads, overnight pads… These ones are scented, these are not. Oh, these are exceptionally soft, but they’re a bit expensive. And these ones—”

Jinwoo stares blankly at the display, her words blurring together. He’s trying to listen, but nothing is sinking in. The explanation seems endless and he's losing it.

“Why… why are there so many different types?” he asks, genuinely bewildered. “Don’t they all serve the same purpose?”

“Well, yes, sir, but every woman has her own preferences. Some might like scented pads to mask the, um, odor, while others prefer—”

She keeps going. His brain starts turning to mush.

“All right. Which one’s the best?”

“Like I said, sir… it depends.”

“Which one do you use?”

“Eh?!” Her cheeks flush crimson. She wasn’t prepared for that level of personal, and Jinwoo is so out of it right now to notice it. “T-This one, sir.” She gingerly pushes a pack forward, unable to meet his eyes. When she woke up this morning, she hadn’t expected to be discussing her menstrual product choices with Sung Jinwoo, of all people. “They’re cotton-based. Um. More breathable.”

“Okay. I’ll take that one.”

“Right. What size do you—uh, I mean, does your wife usually use?”

He stops and stares. Of course they have sizes.

Seeing his soul leave his body, she gently suggests, “You might want to give her a call?”

“Give me a sec.” He closes his eyes. Beru.

Yes, my liege.

What pad size does my wife usually use?

She prefers the overnight kind. The ones labeled for ‘heavy flow,’ my liege.

Jinwoo opens his eyes. “Overnight pads. Heavy flow.”

“With or without wings?”

He stops and stares. Again. “O-one moment.”

Beru. With or without wings?

She favors the ones with wings, my liege.

“With wings, please.”

“Scented or unscented?”

His head drops back. God, why are there so many choices?

Beru.

The scented ones have caused her skin irritation before, my liege, so I suggest—

“Unscented, thanks.” God, please, no more questions.

“Y-yes, sir.” The cashier quickly bags the selected pack. “Is there anything else?”

Beru?

She has said that her abdominal pains are severe, my liege.

Right. “Yes, some painkillers too, please—for cramps.”

A beat.

A-also, my liege… may I be so bold as to request… candy mints? This humble servant has long been curious about their taste. I-if it’s not too much trouble, of course.

Jinwoo sighs. “And some candy mints. Thank you.”

***

Stepping out of the pharmacy with a plastic bag dangling from one hand, Jinwoo’s mind spins in a dozen directions, each one trying to figure out how he can make you feel even a little bit better. He knows this pain visits you monthly, yet it never sits right with him—just watching you suffer while he does nothing.

Maybe some comfort food will help…

He makes a quick detour into a nearby convenience store, heading straight for the snack aisle. These days, he’s memorized all your favorites—the specific brand, the exact flavor. Unlike the nightmare that was navigating menstrual pads, this is familiar territory.

As he strolls down an aisle, he spots a familiar brand of potato chips—the exact flavor you always reach for first. He smiles. Without hesitation, he grabs a few bags, tossing three in for you and one for himself.

But just as they land in the cart, Beru’s voice buzzes into his mind like a pesky conscience.

My liege, I do not suggest giving these food items to her. They are not suitable for women during menstrual cramps.

Jinwoo freezes mid-step. “What?” he mutters, glancing at the chips. There’s food you’re not supposed to eat during your period? He genuinely didn’t know. He makes a mental note to be better next time.

What should I get for her, then?

Foods that are high in fat and sodium should be avoided, Beru explains smoothly, as if he’s been rehearsing this in the mirror. They can increase bloating and water retention. She needs easily digestible meals—foods that reduce inflammation. Fruits like bananas and berries are good choices. A light vegetable soup, especially with ginger, will ease her cramps. And dark chocolate, my liege. It helps with mood regulation.

Jinwoo blinks, frowning. That’s… oddly specific. How do you even know all this? You’re an ant.

Beru puffs up with pride—even through telepathy, Jinwoo can feel it. I have studied human biology extensively through your interactions and dialogue, my liege. While I am not human, I have amassed considerable knowledge to ensure the safety and comfort of your lady wife. In fact, I have also learned about human sexual reproduction by studying anatomical references and behavioral data. If you wish, I can provide suggestions to improve fertility—

Nope. No need.

But, my liege, it has been several months since you began your attempts to produce an heir, and the results have been less than rewarding. May I suggest altering your coital positioning to improve pelvic angle and sperm—

I will strangle you.

M-m-my apologies, my liege. Please have mercy!

Jinwoo exhales sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. He was just trying to buy soup ingredients—how did this escalate so quickly?

Right. Soup. He returns to the task. I’ll just get what I need and cook it for her later.

An excellent decision, my liege. She will surely be pleased.

Jinwoo’s hand reaches for the chip bags to return them—only for Beru’s voice to chime in one last time, soft and trembling.

M-my liege… may I also have the potato chi—

No.

He doesn’t need to see him to know—Beru is weeping somewhere in the shadows.

***

The player screen flickers before his eyes:

Cooldown Time Remaining: 2:32:36

Jinwoo swears under his breath. Shadow Exchange won’t work for another two and a half hours. He has no time to waste.

Without hesitation, he leaps into the air and calls, “Kaisel.” The sky darkens instantly as the massive wyvern materializes, letting out a ferocious roar that echoes across the city skyline.

“Take me to my wife,” Jinwoo commands, his voice low, sharp with urgency. “As fast as you can.”

The air whips around him as Kaisel surges upward, wings slicing the clouds like blades, the landscape a blur beneath. He plants his feet on the creature’s back, wind tugging at his shirt, but his eyes are fixed on the horizon, his mind drifting back to you.

How is she now? he asks Beru.

The ant’s voice answers quickly, full of subdued concern. She is still in bed, my liege. Unable to sleep. It has been a very taxing pain—on both her body and her spirit. She has been fighting it for hours.

For hours? Jinwoo's heart tightens, stabbed by guilt. Why didn’t you tell me sooner?

I wished to, my liege. But… she forbade me. Beru’s voice dips with guilt. She did not want to worry you, especially knowing you had a raid this morning.

Jinwoo exhales harshly, his eyes narrowing. Of course you did, he thinks of you—not in frustration, but in aching admiration. Always protecting me, even when you're the one in pain.

What about your healing magic?

I have tried it several times, my liege. It dulls the pain, but only slightly. I fear my abilities cannot counteract this form of suffering.

Keep at it, he orders. And heat a water bottle—press it against her lower stomach. It should ease the pain a little. He’s done it for you countless times. It always helps.

At once, my liege.

His heart aches at the thought of you lying curled up in bed, face pale, body trembling, fighting off the ache in silence. This isn’t like the others, he thinks. Isn’t this her sixth day? That’s past the worst of it, usually.

He presses two fingers to his chin, deep in thought. He’s memorized your cycle by now—he knows your usual pain, your patterns. Normally, your cramps hit hard on the first day, then fade within a couple more. Why is it still so bad? Did something change? Whatever the answer is, it doesn’t change the fact that you're still in pain.

And that he's not there to soothe you.

Damn it.

Had he known this would happen, he never would’ve left your side this morning. Just like earlier this week, when he spent the whole day holding you, warming you, stroking your back until sleep claimed you. No raid, no mission, no beast was worth more than your comfort.

Jinwoo clenches his jaw, wind howling around him as Kaisel surges faster. I’m sorry I couldn’t be there to comfort you sooner, he thinks, his heart heavy with regret.

The shadows tremble beneath his feet as Kaisel speeds forward, a black streak across the blue sky.

I promise I’ll be there soon.

***

Jumping off Kaisel's back even before the beast sinks its talons into the ground, Jinwoo dashes toward the house, barely registering the startled high orcs tending the garden as he passes. The second he reaches the door, he slows, catching his breath. Carefully, he turns the knob—gentle, quiet—so he doesn’t startle you.

As expected, he finds you lying on the bed, curled up on your side. His heart squeezes at the sight of you, and he feels a mix of sympathy and helplessness for not being able to take the pain away.

He places the plastic bag on the bedside table and eases down beside you. “Hey…” His voice is low, velvety-soft as his fingers comb through your hair. “I’m here.”

Your eyes flutter open at the sound. “Hey… You’re here? I thought you were still on the raid…”

“I was, but Beru told me you were hurting.” His brows pull together as he gazes at you. “I couldn’t stay after that.”

“You shouldn’t have left. I’m fine.” You shift, trying to sit up and brush it off, pretending to be strong as always.

“Don’t,” Jinwoo says quickly, gently guiding you back down. “Lie down, honey. It’s all right.”

“I’m fine, Jin. Honestly.”

He smiles—tender but a little sad. “You always do this, don’t you? Always trying to be strong so I won’t worry. It’s cute when you do, and I love that about you, but...” His hand brushes along your temple. “It’s okay not to be so tough all the time, you know that, right? When you come to me and ask for my help, that makes me happy too. Maybe even the happiest. I love it when you’re being needy—didn’t I tell you that?”

You give him a tired smile. “Still… you didn’t have to leave the raid. I feel bad.”

“Don’t be. I wanted to see you. As soon as Beru told me you were crying in pain, I had to get out of there. I just couldn't stand it.”

“Beru was being dramatic…”

“I wish you’d be a bit dramatic,” he smirks, roguish and seductive. “Crying, whimpering my name, begging me to come home and soothe you.” His voice falls into that low, teasing register. “I’d love that.”

You groan. “I’m too weak to punch you right now, but please try and visualize it for me.”

He laughs quietly, his eyes softening again. How do you still manage to be this adorable while in pain?

He brushes his fingers down your cheek, cupping it tenderly. “I’m here, okay? You don’t have to pretend. It’s just me.”

His heart melts at the sight of you nuzzling your face further into his palm, your contented sigh mollifying his worry. “Okay.”

“Is there anything you need? I brought you some painkillers,” he says, reaching for the bag. “Got new pads too—overnight, unscented, with wings. Also… dark chocolate to help your mood. I wanted to grab your favorite chips, but Be—” He coughs once. “I mean, I read somewhere they’re not great for cramps. Something about water retention.”

“Wow,” you giggle faintly, impressed. “Look at you, doing your homework.”

“Of course,” he says proudly, kissing your forehead. “I care about my wife.” Watching you curl further into yourself, he frowns. “How bad is it?”

You answer with a pained moan, rolling to your side with one hand clutching your stomach. “Bad enough that I want to punch someone in the face.”

“Ah. One of those days.” He tears open the painkiller packet, pours you a glass of water, and helps you sit up. Your hands tremble as you take the meds, and Jinwoo runs a hand up and down your arm to steady you, his touch gentle and reassuring. “I’ll run a warm bath for you, okay? I can give you a back massage too, if you want. It might help relieve the pain a bit—at least until the medicine kicks in.”

You lean forward, your forehead resting on his shoulder as you mumble, “You’re just looking for an excuse to touch me.”

“Is that what you think of me?” He sighs, despite being a little amused, because… well, yeah, he’s probably going to, just for a tiny bit. He puts a small distance between you, gesturing for you to lie down. “Wait here, honey. I’ll be back in a minute.”

He stands, preparing to head to the bathroom, but you catch him by the sleeve, holding onto him tightly. “Don’t go…” Your voice echoes through his ears in a fragile whisper. “I don’t need you to do anything. I just want you to stay here. Just for a bit.”

Watching you act like this, a part of him dies and goes to heaven. You’re more adorable than you’ve ever been.

“Hey…” Jinwoo kneels right beside the bed, bringing himself to your level. He takes your hand in his, giving it a soft squeeze, his sweet smile dripping with affection. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m just gonna run the bath, that’s all. Then I’ll come right back.”

He can tell you just want him to be there, to hold you and just breathe in the same air until the pain in your stomach recedes. But a warm bath would certainly help more than just lying around in bed. He decides that the cuddling can wait until you’re all warmed up and relaxed.

You hesitate, lips puckered in a soft pout. “Just five minutes. Please?”

“God, you’re so cute.” He physically has to fight the urge to wrap his arms around you, to hold you close, to kiss your lips and love you until you’re suffocated with it. “Can I be honest?” The sweetness in his smile morphs into something mischievous. “Is it bad that I want you to stay like this forever? So you’ll always be this clingy around me?”

The moment is shattered. “Never mind. Go.”

“No, wait, come on—” He laughs, dodging your half-hearted swat. “Beg me again, baby.”

You flick him on the nose. “Go.”

With a grin still perched on his lips, your husband heads to the bathroom and gets the water running, testing the warmth with his fingers until it’s perfect. When he returns, he doesn’t say a word—just slides his arms beneath you.

“I can walk,” you say, palm against his chest to stop him.

“I know,” he says, landing a small kiss on the tip of your nose. “But I want to. Let me spoil my wife a little. It’s not every day she clings to me like this. I wanna take the opportunity to be the husband she dreams of.”

“But you already are…”

He catches you murmuring under your breath. Your honesty brings a tinge of scarlet to his cheeks. He clears his throat, pretending not to hear.

“…All right,” Jinwoo says after a pause. “Bath first. Cuddles after. Deal?”

You nod, and he kisses your temple with a smile.

***

Hooking one hand beneath your knees and the other supporting your back, Jinwoo carries you to the bathroom, a quiet smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He takes pride in this—in taking care of you. Although he sympathizes with your pain, he can’t help but feel immense joy from being so needed, from being the person you lean on for support. It fills him with something warm and grounding. Purpose.

He sets you down gently, keeping an arm firm around your waist in case your legs give out. The warm scent of lavender bath salts fills the air.

“I’m going to undress you, okay?” he says, his voice soft, coaxing.

He waits until you give him a little nod before he proceeds.

He pulls your knitted sweater over your head with careful hands, leaning down to kiss the curve of your shoulder like it’s something sacred. “You’ll be all right, Sweetheart. I’ll take care of you.”

Seeing you turn sheepish under his ministrations causes joy to swell further in his chest. You’re adorable when you’re shy. He lowers himself to his knees, fingers brushing the waistband of your jeans—and that’s when you stop him.

“I—I can do this part myself.”

Jinwoo glances up, a curious smile forming. “Hey, it’s okay. I’m your husband, remember? There’s no need to be shy.”

“No, it’s not that,” you stammer, hands fluttering awkwardly. “I’m wearing a pad, and… I’m bleeding.”

He lets out a quiet laugh. “And? Honey, I’ve been waist-deep in dungeon filth and monster guts. A little period blood isn’t going to faze me.”

You shake your head stubbornly, cheeks burning. “No, it’s gross. I don’t want you to see it.”

“It’s not gross,” he insists gently, reaching for your hand. “It’s just you. There’s nothing about you that could ever be—”

“No. Go,” you say more firmly, cutting him off. “I’ll call you when I’m done.”

That stops him.

He studies you for a beat, his smile softening into something more thoughtful. There’s a flicker in your expression—too quick for most to catch, but not for him. Jinwoo has seen every version of you. This one is… off.

You’re flustered, yes, but beneath that, there’s something else.

Guilt?

His brows draw together slightly, a faint furrow forming between them. Why would she feel guilty?

“Jinwoo, go.”

He exhales through his nose, standing up slowly. “Always so stubborn,” he mutters, giving your head one last pat. “All right. If you insist. I’ll be right outside if you need me.”

As he turns to leave, he steals one last glance at you over his shoulder.

You’re biting your lip.

He closes the door behind him and leans his back against it, arms crossed. Something doesn’t add up.

He’s not mad—he never could be, not with you—but now his thoughts are running. You looked too tense. Too evasive. And he knows you. When the pain is real, you don’t hide it like that. You don’t push him away. Not like this.

So what are you hiding, Sweetheart?

***

Jinwoo returns to the bathroom a moment later, his head peeking inside. “Can I come in?”

“Yes.”

He slips past the door, tugging on his sleeves until they pool around his elbows. He’s pleased to see you sitting comfortably in the tub, back resting against the curved porcelain, your expression blissful as the steaming water cradles you up to the shoulders.

“Feels good?”

You hum in contentment, eyes closed, lips parting in a quiet sigh. The tension you held earlier seems to be melting away with the heat. Your shoulders have softened. Your breathing is even. It’s working.

“That’s good to know,” Jinwoo breathes in relief, setting a fresh towel on the bathroom counter. He closes more of the space between you, settling himself on the edge of the tub right next to you. “I’m glad you feel better,” he says, reaching forward to brush a damp strand of hair from your face. “The meds should kick in soon, too. You’ll feel even more comfortable then. Also, here.” He hands you a chocolate bar, your favorite brand plastered on the package. “For emotional support. And sugar. And serotonin. You know—the holy trinity.”

“Mm. The holy trinity to make me fat.”

He chuckles at your comment. “Just something to munch on as you drown in your own filth.”

“You should join me next time,” you titter, peeling the wrapper. “We can drown in our filth together.”

“Mm. Sexy,” he deadpans. “But I can’t say no to a pretty lady bathing in molten chocolate, so yeah—next time, when you’re not feeling like you’re being stabbed in the stomach.”

“That’s a pretty accurate depiction of period cramps, actually.” You bite into the chocolate, groaning in delight as it melts on your tongue. “God, I forgot how good this is. Want some?”

“Sure.”

Instead of taking a bite, Jinwoo cups your chin gently and leans in, his lips brushing yours in a soft, slow kiss that quickly deepens. His tongue sweeps into your mouth, savoring the blend of chocolate and you—and for a second, he forgets you’re supposed to be hurting. The taste alone threatens to undo him.

When he pulls away, he licks his lips, eyes still fixed on your mouth. “Mm. Not bad at all.”

You roll your eyes despite being flustered. “I knew you’d do something cheesy like that.”

“And yet, I can hear your heart racing.” He smirks, tapping his ear, referring to his acute hunter’s hearing. “Expecting more, Sweetheart?”

“No,” you scoff, though the heat rising in your face says otherwise. “That was so predictable. Step up your game, Husband. You’re at risk of becoming boring.”

He chuckles, low and dangerous. “Careful, love. I’m only behaving because you’re sick. Say that again when you’re better—I’ll prove you wrong.”

He gazes down at you, the curve of his mouth filthy with desire, making sure you understand he’ll keep his word—and all the dirty things he has in store for you. It delights him, seeing you turn so embarrassed, and he wishes you’d stay that way a little longer. But you quickly regain your composure.

“Thank you,” he hears you say. “For doing this for me. Seriously, Jin. You’re the best.”

Jinwoo blinks at the sincere gratitude shimmering in your eyes, not expecting to see it so soon—but it’s a pleasant surprise indeed.

“The best husband in the world?” he fishes, grinning boyishly.

“Oh, absolutely. No competition. Expect your World’s Number One Husband mug to arrive in three to five business days,” you jest, your tiny giggles pulling a laugh from him too—unguarded and warm.

“Just a mug?” He reaches for a nearby washcloth, soaking it in the water. “Surely I deserve something more than that, Angel.” Though his words are playful with a hint of impishness, his heart is filled with the desire to take care of you—to protect you—especially now, seeing how vulnerable you look, all naked and… wet.

“Like what?” you ask, but he misses it—his gaze transfixed on a single bead of water that trails from your chin, sliding down your neck to rest in the hollow of your collarbone.

“Jinwoo?”

“Yeah?” He blinks, breaking free from his stupor. “Sorry. Got a little… distracted.” He clears his throat. “Let me help you.”

Your husband dips the washcloth in the water again before carefully washing your body—starting with your shoulders, then moving down to your arms. His touch is reverent, filled with quiet devotion, mindful of your soreness. He dabs the cloth over your face, softly rubbing it against your skin. As he reaches down to your neck, his gaze lingers a moment too long on the part he usually marks with lips and teeth. It’s been over a week since he last saw a bruise bloom over your veins. The urge to repaint it rises.

“You’re distracted again, honey.”

“Right, yeah.” He gets to work again, moving his hand lower to your chest with painstaking care. It’s even harder than before—but this time, he’s prepared. Trying his best to be respectful, he avoids looking at your intimate parts for too long, keeping his thoughts focused on the task at hand, not the way your body feels under his touch.

Then something flickers in his thoughts.

Wait.

You said you were on your period. That you were in pain. But…

You’re holding yourself differently now. No winces. No tension in your abdomen. You’re relaxed. Too relaxed.

His eyes narrow slightly. Strange. You don’t fake pain—not with him.

He swallows the suspicion for now, smoothing the washcloth across your side in silence. But somewhere in the back of his mind, a theory begins to form.

“So, what is it that you want?” you ask, your voice soft, breath stirring the steam as his fingers trail down your spine. “You never answered my question earlier.”

“Can I ask for something sexual?”

You snort. “Sometimes I’m impressed by how shameless you are. No, like a gift, Jin. An actual gift.”

“An actual gift, huh? Hmm…” He reaches for the bottle of soap, squeezing a dollop into his hands before lathering it between his palms. “How about… you give me some coupons?”

“Coupons?” Your brows knit in confusion. “What, like grocery coupons?”

“No,” he laughs, the sound low and fond. God, you’re cute. “Like special coupons, you know? A set of blank vouchers you give to your partner.” He starts rubbing your shoulders, hands moving in circles, massaging the tension from your muscles. “I’ll write something down on the card—whatever it is I want you to do for me—and when I give it to you, you’ll have to do it. I can use the coupon anytime I want. No exceptions. No complaints. No backsies.”

“You just want an excuse to boss me around,” you murmur, though you’re already melting under his touch.

“Maybe. But mostly”—he leans in closer, his warm breath fanning your shoulder as he reduces his voice to a low, seductive whisper—“I want to see you be a good girl for me.”

You stiffen slightly, goosebumps breaking on your skin. He doesn’t miss it—and neither does he miss the sound of your heartbeat escalating. He wonders if it’s because you’re too shy to uphold the idea… or if you just really, really like being called a good girl.

You gather yourself quickly. “A-and what if I don’t want to?”

His caress, like his voice, turns seductive and teasing, fingers trailing languidly just below your breast. “You don’t want to be a good girl for me?”

“No, I mean—” You hug your knees to your chest, burying your face in them. Oh yeah, it’s definitely the good girl part that flusters you, but more because of the way he said it, not the line itself. “I meant the coupons, you dummy. W-what if I don’t want to do the things you write down?”

He chuckles darkly, sliding his hand up to the nape of your neck, fingers twitching with the urge to grip. “Then that’s an even better gift for me.”

You shiver when he applies a little pressure there. Maybe, just like him, you recall the way he possessively holds you by the back of your neck when he kisses you—or when he takes you from behind. Jinwoo can’t help but succumb to his desire, just for a bit—lean fingers twisting around your damp strands, pulling your head back until you have no choice but to meet his gaze. He smiles down at you, eyes hooded, voice dropping an octave lower.

“Because then, I get to punish you.”

He kisses you—slow and indulgent—letting you feel the shape of his tantalizing smile. When he releases you, he’s greeted by another pout.

“I feel like you’re just going to use those coupons to exploit me sexually.”

“That’s harsh,” he replies, grinning. But is it a denial? Of course not.

“Look, honey, if you don’t trust me, you can write them yourself.” He kneels beside the tub, his hand traveling down to your thigh, rinsing the soap from your skin with careful sweeps of the cloth. “Write down the things you want to do with me. To me,” he corrects, shamelessly. “I’m down for whatever you want to do. Focus on what makes you happy.”

“But this is supposed to be my gift to you. I want to make you happy.”

“Sweetheart,” he lands a soft kiss on your knee. “If you’re happy, I’m happy.”

Jinwoo lifts your other leg, giving it the same amount of care and attention. Your skin is warm and soft, and it takes all his self-control not to touch you sensually. The warm water beads on your skin, and every soft gasp you let out as he works the sore muscles in your ankle tests his restraint. You’re completely naked. Vulnerable. Glowing.

And he’s trying very, very hard to be good.

“Just be creative with it,” he adds, trying to redirect his focus. “Write down something fun.”

“Like what?”

“Like…” His hand glides up your thigh, hovering dangerously close to the part he’s been dying to touch. He leans forward, bringing his lips close to your ear, his smirk grazing your shell. “Putting on a nurse costume and treating me like your patient—”

You splash water in his direction before the words even finish leaving his mouth, not caring if you’re drenching his hair and clothes. He flinches, laughing, water dripping down his face and hair.

“Hey!” Jinwoo grabs your wrist, his laughter bouncing off the bathroom walls. “It was just an example! Unless, y’know… you’re into it.”

You lift your hand again, ready for another splash. He raises both palms in surrender, grinning wide and cheeky.

“Yeah, I’m definitely not giving you blank coupons,” you mutter.

“Fair enough,” he simpers, rinsing off the last traces of soap. “All right, you’re all clean. Can you stand up for me, Angel?”

He snatches the towel from the rack, drying you off and wrapping it around your body as soon as you step down from the tub. The terrycloth doesn’t reveal much—but it doesn’t need to. It hugs your curves, clings to damp skin, and he looks away quickly, jaw tightening.

“So… do you need help with your clothes, or are you still shy?”

“I can do it myself. Thank you.”

He huffs in disappointment but tries not to argue. “All right. Well, I’m gonna go make you some soup, then. Just get back in bed when you’re done. I’ll bring it to you.”

“Can you stop being so perfect?” You sigh. “You’re gonna make me feel bad.”

Though he’s pleased with your praise, your last line leaves him confused. “Why would you feel bad?”

“N-nothing,” you promptly respond, which only tautens his brows even more. “I’m gonna… put on my clothes now, if you don’t mind.”

He narrows his eyes, unconvinced. “…Yeah. Okay.”

He lingers for a second longer than he should, then finally steps out, closing the door behind him and leaving you to your privacy as you requested.

***

You press your ear against the closed bathroom door, listening intently. His footsteps echo, then fade. He’s gone. 

Now that you’re alone, standing in silence, you summon the tiny conspirator lurking beneath your feet.

“Beru,” you whisper. “Come out. He’s gone.”

Your shadow trembles, twisting into a thick fog before forming the floating head of your overly dramatic general. Barely the size of your palm, Beru zips toward you, mirroring your agitation, his antennae twitching with anxiety.

“M-Mine queen…” he croaks, dread thick in his voice.

“Beru, I hate to say this, but…” You let out a breath. "We are so fucked.”

Beru nods gravely, wings vibrating with shared terror. “Hath mine liege discerned that we have been deceitful?”

“No, not yet.” You slump against the door. “But he’s definitely suspicious. I don't think I can lie to him anymore, Beru.” Your shoulder sag, the urge to just give up and come clean threatening to take over you. “I suck at lying.”

“Mine queen, thou hast performed most admirably! Pray, do not abandon the path now!”

“I don’t even know if I want to do this anymore,” you sound whiny, but you don’t care. “He’s been so sweet to me, Beru. So, so sweet. Ugh, I knew I shouldn’t have listened to you. This is all your fault!”

His panic spikes.  “M-mine lady, why dost thou cast this grievous blame upon mine head?”

“You were the one who came up with the plan! I just wanted to see how he’d react, Beru—not create a soap opera! You told him I was crying during a raid, didn't you?! You know he can’t stand it when I cry!”

“I—I but sought to evoke the fullest display of his affection!” Beru stammers, wringing his claws together. “It was all for thy benefit!”

“Yeah, and now he’s gone all out just to comfort me! He’s doting on me like some perfect husband in a drama! He bathed me, Beru. Washed my feet!”

“Aye,” Beru breathes reverently. “tis cometh as no surprise. He ne'er doth cease to leave me in wondrous awe.” He nods to himself, admiring his king still even as his own terror slowly consumes him. “S-shall we then speak unto him the truth, mine queen? Will he findeth it in his heart to pardon us for our grievous sins?”

You chew your nail, pacing, spiraling. “He’s in a good mood right now, so maybe? But he’s done so much for me. If I were him, I’d be pissed.”

“Aye,” Beru nods solemnly. “Thy temper is most volcanic—”

You grab his floating head in your hand and squeeze. “What was that?”

“F-Forgive me! A slip of the tongue!” 

You release him with a heavy sigh. “He’s going to be so angry with me, isn't he?”

“Fret thee not, mine lady. Mine liege shall ne'er possess the heart to chastise thee. He loveth thee, beyond all else.”

“You’re right. He does love me. But what about you? Won’t he punish you? You lied to him too, you know. We’re in this together.”

At that, he pales. “Then, I deem it wise that we continue this charade!”

You seize his face again, your voice low, filled with threats. “If you betray me, Beru, I swear—”

“Nay! I shall carry thy secret unto mine grave!”

“You can’t die, you idiot.”

“...Ah.”

You groan, tossing your head back. “Ugh, fine. I’ll keep pretending to be sick. But it’s so exhausting. I have to act all weak, and I keep forgetting.” You drop your voice in embarrassment. “When I pushed him away so he wouldn’t see I wasn’t wearing a pad anymore, I felt awful. He looked so hurt, Beru.”

“Yea, I comprehend, mine lady. Yet… I do fear he shall be wrathful if he discovers thy deceit.”

“I need to figure out how to keep him from getting too mad…”

Beru taps his chin with a tiny claw. “Thou mayest ever wield thy feminine grace to beguile him, mine lady. The king is powerless before thy charms. Thou knowest well he hath no defense against thy tender touch.”

“…Are you telling me to seduce my husband?”

Beru nods gravely, as if he’s proposing a military strategy.

You stare at him, utterly deadpan. “I can’t believe an ant is telling me to use sex as a distraction.”

“I am loyal to victory, mine queen.”

You roll your eyes, pointing a stern finger. “Fine. But you. You keep your mouth shut.”

Beru salutes, vanishing back into your shadow with the gravity of a warrior going into battle.

You turn to the mirror, steeling yourself.

Lady charm. Lady charm.

You slap your cheeks lightly.

You’ve got this.

***

You have not got this.

Why? Because you’re shit at lying.

You’ve known it from the start—you’ve never been good at it. But this? This is embarrassing. The harder you try to act like you’re suffering through one of the most torturous pains of your life, the more tense and awkward you become.

You sit restlessly on the bed, arms folded on the small, foldable table in front of you. Dinner’s just ended. Jinwoo stands beside you, balancing a tray as he collects the empty plates and bowls.

“Are you okay?” he asks, eyeing you closely, one brow raised. “You’ve been… fidgeting.”

“N-no, I’m fine,” you stammer. “Just a little uncomfortable.”

“Is the medicine working?”

“Yeah, perfectly.” Oh, a golden opportunity! An excuse to tone things down! “In fact, I don’t feel that much pain anymore. Got my spirits back, all thanks to you, lover.” You throw him a smile that’s far too wide to be natural.

“O... kay,” he says, still unconvinced but amused. “So—how was it?”

“How was what?”

“The food, my love.”

“Oh!” You perk up. “It's amazing!” You savor the last bite of the soup he made for you. The savory flavors of the broth, the warm, aromatic kick of the ginger he added—all mixed with the sweetness of the carrots and onions—made it a feast for both your eyes and tongue. “That was the most delicious thing I’ve ever had.” You polish off the last drop of watermelon juice he made for you and hand him the glass. “The juice too. Everything was perfection. My compliments to the handsome chef.”

“So dramatic,” he snorts, though the joy radiating from his face says the opposite.

“I thought you wanted me to be dramatic.”

“True,” he concedes. With a slight laugh, he stacks the chopsticks on the tray and sets everything aside on the nightstand. Your husband climbs into bed beside you and pulls out a pack of mints from his pocket.

“Care for one?”

You look at him, so utterly impressed that he’s prepared everything down to the last detail. You’d just thought how nice it would be to have a mint to freshen your breath, and here he is, offering you one like he read your mind.

You part your lips, letting him slip one past them. You roll it over your tongue, the cool, sweet burst of flavor coating your taste buds. “Marry me.”

“We’re already married,” he chuckles, popping one into his own mouth.

“Marry me again. You’re perfect.”

“I'd marry you a thousand times, you know that.” He sits up, his back against the headboard. “Come here, jagiya.”

His arm slithers around your waist, gently drawing you toward him until your spine is glued to his torso. His body wraps around yours, fitting so naturally it’s like your backs were carved for each other. He adjusts his legs so you’re cradled between them, his arms settled around your waist.

“This feels nice, doesn’t it?” Jinwoo sighs, nuzzling his face against your neck, basking in your scent. “You know what I love about us being married?”

You breathe out in bliss, resting your full weight on him. “Mm, what?”

“We share the same shampoo. So now you smell like me, and I smell like you.”

“Mm. And so do thousands of other people who use that shampoo.”

“You little—” He pinches your side, making you squirm and giggle. “I’m trying to be romantic.”

“Honey, you’re the most romantic when you’re not trying,” you assure him with a kiss on the cheek, giggling. “So, my sweet King of Shadows. Tell me about your day.”

“You already know what I did today. I was taking care of my queen.” Jinwoo, out of habit, slides his hand under your shirt, gliding over your skin in lazy, teasing strokes as he casually speaks. “A princess, actually. A spoiled, demanding one. Just the way I love her.” He catches your heart pounding when his palm skims your stomach, misinterpreting it as pain rather than guilt over your stupid prank.

“Does it still hurt?” he asks softly, worry clouding his voice. He runs his palm gently over your belly, slow and soothing. “Is there anything else I can do to ease the pain?”

God, you want to tell him so badly. He’s too precious for this.

“No, I’m fine now. The medicine helps. And please, you’ve done so much more than I needed you to. Thank you.” You lift his hand and press a kiss to his knuckles, letting your gratitude—and your secret apology—sink into his skin. Another kiss lands on his jaw as you guide his hand back to your belly. “You’re so sweet to me, Jin. You didn’t have to do all that, you know. Just having you here already made me feel better.”

“I know, but I wanted to.” He presses his lips lovingly to the side of your neck, his mouth moving slowly, leaving one featherlight kiss after another. “Making you happy makes me happy.”

You smile softly, leaning your head back to rest against his shoulder. “You’ve said that before.”

“I mean it.”

The need to cover your entire body in kisses is almost unbearable, but he holds back, knowing it might be too much when you’ve only just recovered. He settles for embracing you tightly, arms encircling your waist, lips softly pressed just below your ear.

The pleasant warmth of his body, his intoxicating scent, the huskiness in his voice, and the tenderness of his tone—everything is enough to lull you to sleep. But your nerves keep you awake, buzzing. The guilt clings to you like an anchor, dragging you deeper with every second.

Maybe… maybe it’d be easier to just tell him now?

“You seem distracted,” Jinwoo murmurs against your nape, his breath hot against your sensitive skin. “Am I boring you, Angel?”

“N-no, I was just—” Your breath stutters, your body jerking in pleasure as he takes your earlobe between his lips, nibbling and sucking gently. His large palm slides upward, cupping your breast through your shirt, squeezing just enough to draw a moan from you. “Jin…”

“I won’t do anything,” he murmurs, promising innocence despite the desire dripping from every word. “I just want to feel you, baby. Just for a moment.”

Your eyes flutter shut, your head falling back against his shoulder again as his touch spreads warmth through your body. You catch your bottom lip between your teeth, drowning in the sweet sensation. Your hand reaches backward, sliding across his undercut before fisting his strands and guiding him closer to your neck.

His kisses grow deeper, wetter, his teeth teasing your tender skin.

“So…” he breathes, too casual, as his tongue traces the line of your vein. “I heard something new today.”

You sigh, surrendering completely, tipping your head to the side to give him better access. Your mind fogs with heat, guilt evaporating under the burn of his affection.

“Yeah…? What did you—ah—hear?”

“Something silly.” He sucks the skin just below your jaw, hard enough to leave a mark. Then he licks over it, soothing the sting before moving back to your ear, capturing the lobe again with a smirk in his voice. “Something naughty.”

A soft moan escapes you, your stomach tightening. “Something naughty…?”

“Mm.” You feel the curve of his grin against your skin. “Something that Beru just told me.”

You freeze, your heart rate skyrocketing. Warmth drains from your chest, replaced by cold panic.

Did that bitch just betray me? you wonder, heart thrashing.

“W-what?” you stammer, voice thin and high. “What do you mean? What did he tell you?”

He senses your shift immediately, pulling back just enough to see your face.

“Are you all right?”

“No. I mean, yes.” You force a shaky breath. Calm down. Just breathe. “I just… I want to know what Beru told you.”

Jinwoo’s eyes narrow slightly, reading between the lines. Still suspicious, but he lets it slide—for now.

“He said there are… certain positions that help conceive a baby faster.”

You choke, the words catching in your throat. “What?”

“Yeah,” he deadpans. “That was my exact reaction too.”

“Ah. And, umm—” You clear your throat, forcing a smile. “What advice did he give you?”

“I didn’t ask.” He shrugs with quiet confidence. “I don’t need advice from an ant to get my wife pregnant.”

“R-right…”

“But…” He leans in again, his lips grazing the shell of your ear, voice dark and smooth. His hand slips beneath your shirt, warm against your skin, hovering just over your bare breast. “I did some reading of my own today.”

He doesn’t knead or grope—just lets his thumb circle lazily over your peak, barely grazing, but it sets your nerves alight. It’s teasing. Intentional. Cruel in the best way.

“And while there’s no guaranteed method, apparently, positions that allow for deeper penetration might give better chances.”

You swallow hard. “A-and… what would that be?”

He reaches up, gently gathering your hair and draping it over one shoulder to bare the other. He tugs your collar down, just enough to reveal a stretch of skin—and then he’s there, kissing softly at first, then harder, until you feel the start of a bruise. His lips curve into a grin against your shoulder.

“You’d be on your hands and knees, Princess,” he murmurs, his breath sending shivers down your spine. “I’d be behind you. And you’d have your pretty little ass in the air…”

He takes your earlobe gently between his teeth, nipping, then whispering low.

“...and I’d be able to go really… really deep… until…”

His palm spreads over your stomach, warm and possessive.

“...you can feel me right…”

Two fingers press just below your navel.

“...here.”

A sharp jolt of heat courses through you as your imagination runs wild. The anticipation, the intimacy, the way his voice wraps around you like silk—it’s almost enough to smother your guilt.

Almost.

But no—Lady charm, you remind yourself. You’re supposed to distract him. Use what you’ve got. Own it.

You shift in his lap, turning just enough to catch his gaze. When you speak, your voice is honey-sweet, edged with daring, soaked in seduction.

“Why don’t we… try something right now?”

Jinwoo goes still, as if your words need time to sink in. Then you feel it—his breath stutters, his grip on your waist tightens, and his hand twitches against your skin like he's holding himself back by sheer force of will.

“…What?” he asks at last, his voice thick with caution and desire. “You mean—?”

“You know what I mean.”

“But… you said you were in pain earlier.”

You slide your legs around him, straddling him slowly, deliberately. Your hands trail up his chest, feeling the tension coiled just beneath his skin. “I told you, the medicine worked. I feel fine now.” You press your forehead to his, lips brushing his in a featherlight tease. “And you’ve been so good to me. Let me return the favor.”

His jaw tightens. You feel it beneath your fingertips—the restraint, the ache, the tenderness. “You don’t have to—”

“But I want to.”

You cut him off with a kiss—slow, deep, filled with longing. Not rushed. Not desperate. Just real.

You roll your hips in his lap, letting him feel your warmth, the shape of your desire, the silent promise wrapped in every movement.

“I need you, Jin.”

His breath escapes in a low groan, rough and needy. “You have no idea what you're doing to me.” Jinwoo buries his face in your neck, arms tightening around your waist like he’s afraid you’ll perish into thin air if he didn't hold you tightly enough. “You don’t even have to try, Sweetheart. You’re already driving me crazy.”

“Well…” you whisper, kissing along the line of his jaw, your breath hot against his skin, “What if I do try?”

You begin unbuttoning his shirt, slow and teasing. Each button undone reveals more of him—his sculpted chest, the heat of his skin, the steady thud of his heart under your palm. You push the fabric off his shoulders and trace your fingers down his body, memorizing the contours all over again.

“You’re so beautiful,” you breathe out.

His eyes soften at your words, but the tension in him doesn’t ease—it coils tighter. “And you’re fucking gorgeous,” he replies breathlessly, smashing your mouths together, his kisses ardent, full of hunger.

You reach behind you, tugging off your shirt. His hands rise to help—worshipful and gentle despite the fire inside. He cups your breasts with aching tenderness, his thumbs brushing across your nipples before his mouth follows—hot, slow, adoring.

“Jin,” you gasp, fingers tangling in his hair as his tongue plays with you, just enough pressure, just enough tease to send a shiver down your spine.

“You taste so good,” he murmurs, lips brushing your skin, gently suckling on your bud. “You always taste so good, Angel. So warm and sweet.”

You lean back slightly, guiding his hands down your sides, then rise off his lap. Slowly, deliberately, you turn and ease forward onto your hands and knees, sinking into the bed in front of him.

You glance over your shoulder, catching the stunned, ravenous look on his face. Desire burns in his eyes like an open flame—and you smirk, tipping your hips just enough to make him lose the last of his composure.

“Was this the position you were talking about?” you ask, your voice laced with honey and wickedness.

He’s behind you before the sentence ends. His hands find your hips, seizing them with veneration and need, like you're the only thing tethering him to this earth.

You push back, pressing yourself against him.

“God, baby…” His voice is hoarse, nearly a groan, breathless with restraint. He leans down, lips grazing along the line of your spine, his breath scalding as it fans over your skin. “You have no idea what you’ve just started.”

“Oh, I think I do,” you purr, rolling your hips back into him with intentional slowness. “Maybe Beru was right. Maybe we should try a few different positions. It’d be fun to get a little… experimental.”

That lights a fire in him. He smirks, lips grazing your shoulder. “Experimental, huh?” His hands travel up your sides, his voice dropping lower. “I’ve held back all this time, thinking my sweet girl liked things tender, gentle. I figured you preferred romance over ruin.”

He presses himself against your clothed core, his arousal throbbing beneath the thin fabric of his pants, grinding into you with intent. The pressure steals your breath, a moan escaping your lips before you can hold it back.

“Mmm,” you whimper, biting your lip to muffle the sound. Your hands fist into the sheets below as you push your hips back toward him again. “I wouldn’t mind something a little different. Something rougher. Maybe something that… hurts a bit.”

He stills behind you, his grip tightening, voice strained with control. “Don’t tempt me.”

“Maybe I should.”

The tension crackles between you like a live wire, aching to snap. You can feel his desire clawing just beneath the surface, threatening to break loose.

He wants to devour you, desperately. Wants to throw restraint to the wind and take you the way you’re begging to be taken.

But then—he stops. His hands fall still.

His voice, when it comes, is softer now, gentling like rain, hesitant. “We can’t. Not right now.” He brushes a thumb over your bare back, rediscovering control. “You’re still bleeding. What if the pain comes back? I don’t want to hurt you.”

You blink, stunned. A pang of guilt slices through you so suddenly it almost knocks the air out of your lungs.

Jinwoo is too sweet. Too good. And you’re just too damn evil if you keep this going.

Ah, screw it. I can’t take this anymore.

“Jinwoo.” You shift back around, pushing him down and straddling his lap. “I have... something to tell you.” There’s a different kind of vulnerability in your gaze now—not desire, but truth. The weight of it presses down on your chest.

He gazes at you with concern, gently tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “What is it?”

“I’m not in pain,” you whisper.

He blinks. “Honey?”

You take a shaky breath, heart hammering. “I haven’t been in pain. Not really. I’m not… I’m not even on my period right now.”

Jinwoo freezes. The change is immediate. His jaw tightens, his eyes narrowing with disbelief. “What?”

A guilty laugh escapes you—small, shame-tinged. “I’m sorry,” you murmur nervously. “It was stupid. I missed you. I wanted to be close to you. I didn’t mean for it to go this far. I just… I wanted to see your reactions—”

“You lied to me?” His tone darkens—not with fury, but with something heavier. Something primal. His presence becomes thunderous, the air thick with power. You flinch.

“I-I didn’t mean to manipulate you,” you rush to say, heart kicking into overdrive. “I just wanted to know how far you’d go for me. I was curious. Stupidly curious.”

“This was a test?”

“No! God, no.” Your hands shoot up defensively. “I would never test you like that. It was just a prank. A stupid, awful prank. I’m so sorry.”

He leans back, sighing through gritted teeth—the kind that makes your skin prickle. His expression is tight with exasperation, but there’s a glint in his eyes—amusement, maybe. Or something darker. Something deliciously vengeful.

“So,” he drawls, his tone deceptively casual, “I left the raid early. Nearly got swallowed by a giant snake because I was too distracted worrying about you crying.” He draws out that last word, twisting the knife. “Burned through half my mana because my shadows were getting overwhelmed without me there. And then I humiliated myself buying pads in a pharmacy stocked with more options than a potion shop. And that was all… for nothing?”

You nearly fold where you stand. “I didn’t mean to distract you during the raid! I would never want to put you in danger!”

“Then why did you tell Beru to say you were crying?”

“I didn’t! That was all his doing!”

Silence. Then—“What?”

“…Ah.” You wince. The irony hits hard. You thought Beru would be the one to betray you—yet here you are, throwing him under the bus.

“It was his idea?”

Well, it’s too late to retract your words now—not that you want to. “Y-yes, it was his idea. All of it. I—I didn’t even want to do it.”

His expression darkens, like storm clouds gathering over still water. “Put your shirt back on.”

Shit. Now he’s mad.

You scramble to dress yourself, hands shaking, heart pounding. As soon as you finish—hair tousled and skin flushed—Jinwoo’s eyes flash, his usual cobalt hue bleeding into a deep, dangerous violet.

“Beru,” he summons.

The shadow beneath your feet quivers violently. You feel it—a frantic fluttering within the dark. Beru is stalling, clearly panicking in the depths of the shadow realm, desperately finding ways to escape.

But an order is an order, and he knows better than to anger his Monarch further.

The shadow materializes midair, a floating head that trembles like a leaf. “M-mine liege, how art thou this day?” Beru greets with a forced, trembling grin. “Thou doth appear most divine—”

“Was it your plan?”

Beru quivers, flicks his gaze to you in betrayal, pleading for help—but you avert your eyes, lips sealed.

“Yes, it was all his plan,” you say flatly, sealing his fate.

“Mine queen!” Beru gasps in horror. “How couldst thou betrayeth me so—”

Jinwoo grabs his shadowy face with one hand, his fingers engulfing the ant’s skull entirely. His smile is sharp. Unforgiving.

“You lied to your king,” he says lowly through gritted teeth. “And had the audacity to ask me for mints and chips while doing it?”

Beru whimpers. “M-my liege, I doth beg thy forgiveness! Mine heart is heavy with remorse. But the queen is most persuasive! I was beguiled by her honeyed words! Who am I to deny her whims, when even thou—the King—yield to her will?!”

You gasp, jaw dropping. “Beru!”

“A-also… I doth yearn for ye crisps of potato.”

Jinwoo squeezes his hand around him, nearly bursting him into pulp.

“ACK—M-my liege!” Beru chokes. “Mercy! Mercy!”

“Outside. Head on the ground. Now.”

“Y-yes, my liege!” The shadow scrambles, zipping out like a bat fleeing hell. Fleeing death. Literally.

Jinwoo turns to you. “You.”

Your throat goes dry. “Y-yes?”

He unfastens his belt in one smooth, practiced motion. The leather hisses through the loops, loud in the silence. His smirk is ice and fire all at once. “Come here.”

You step toward him, heart hammering.

“Arms out.”

You obey, raising your trembling hands in the air. He seizes your wrists, binding them tight with the belt. The leather bites into your skin, and you flinch.

“Too tight, Sweetheart?”

“A-a little…”

He tightens it.

You hiss softly, and his smirk deepens—cruel and thrilled. He knows your limits. And he knows just how much pain you can take… and crave. You asked for this, didn't you?

“Eyes on me,” he commands.

You meet his gaze.

“What do you say?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Keep going.”

“I am… sorry for lying to you. I’m sorry for pulling a childish prank on you.”

“And?”

You swallow thickly. “I promise I won’t ever make you worry like that again. I swear I won’t ever do something so stupid again.”

His voice rumbles deep and low. “And if you break your promise?”

“I’ll…” Your face twists in a grimace. “…accept whatever punishment you see fit?”

He smiles, slow and wicked. Jinwoo leans in, kissing you softly—tender, gentle, almost jarringly sweet. “Good girl.”

You shiver, your voice crumbling to a whisper. “A-are you going to punish me now?”

“Oh, no. Not tonight,” he purrs, dark and smooth. “Tonight… I’m going to play with you.”

He cups your chin, tilting your face up, his gaze molten. His lips press to yours—deeper this time, more demanding, his hand gripping your chin like you’re something precious and breakable… or something to be devoured. He leaves you breathless. Dazed.

“You said you wanted to be experimental, didn’t you?” he whispers against your lips, voice a silken threat.

Your lips part to answer—but before you can speak, he spins you around, one hand grabbing a fistful of your hair, dragging your head back.

His breath is fire in your ear.

“Then bend over.”

***

[heliosunny]

okay.. one.. YOU'RE GENUINELY THE BEST WRITER ON THIS PLATFORM I THINK I'VE READ EVERYTHING YOU'VE EVER WRITTEN.. two, a yandere phainon with a SO that keeps pushing him away due to thinking he's way too good for them, like moving countries typa pushing him away, just telling him like.. "You deserve someone way better, you're just misguided!".. etc

No Escape

Yandere!Phainon x Reader

The first time you saw Phainon, he was standing at the top of the academy’s marble steps, a faint breeze teasing at his silver hair as he spoke to someone important-looking. Even in a place filled with prodigies and elites, he stood out. Meanwhile, you were just another nameless student in the sea of faces, struggling to keep up in a world that never seemed to slow down.

You never expected to cross paths with him. But fate had a cruel sense of humor.

A few shared classes. A single partnered project. Then, somehow, Phainon kept appearing—offering to help you with assignments, walking with you between lessons, seeking you out in the crowded dining hall when he had a thousand better people to sit with. His attention was overwhelming.

You tried to brush it off as politeness. He had no reason to be interested in you. Maybe he pitied you. Maybe he was just nice to everyone. But no matter how much you convinced yourself of that, Phainon never looked at anyone else the way he looked at you.

It was supposed to be a simple experiment. A foundational potion—one that even first-years could brew without issue. Yet, somehow, you had still managed to mess it up.

The classroom was thick with the scent of crushed herbs and simmering liquids, cauldrons bubbling softly as students carefully followed the professor’s instructions. You and Phainon had been paired together, much to your dismay. Not because he was unpleasant—far from it. But because standing beside someone like him only highlighted how out of place you were.

“Careful” Phainon murmured as you reached for the powdered moonroot. “That’s starshade. If you mix that in, the potion will—”

A single spoonful of the wrong ingredient hit the potion’s surface before he could finish his warning. The liquid instantly turned a sickly green before erupting into a thick, foul-smelling smoke.

Coughing, you stumbled backward, barely able to make out Phainon’s silhouette through the haze. Around the room, other students were staring, some laughing, some groaning from second-hand embarrassment.

You wanted the ground to swallow you whole.

When the smoke cleared, the professor pinched the bridge of her nose before marking something down on her clipboard. “Another failure” she sighed, shaking her head. “Mr. Phainon, I expected better.”

You glanced at him, feeling guilt twist in your gut. It wasn’t his fault—you were the one who had messed up. But Phainon merely smiled, completely unfazed. “Mistakes are part of learning”

If failing potions class was humiliating, then physical training was an absolute nightmare.

Magic broom exercises were a staple at the academy—a mix of aerial maneuvering and endurance meant to build both magical and physical control. For most students, it was exhilarating. For you, it was just another opportunity to fall flat on your face. Literally.

“Just kick off the ground lightly” Phainon instructed, hovering effortlessly beside you as if it was the easiest thing in the world. “Let the magic flow through you.”

That was easy for him to say.

Still, you grit your teeth and tried. The broom wobbled violently the moment your feet left the ground, and before you could steady yourself, it twisted sideways. You yelped as gravity took over, sending you crashing back onto the training field.

The instructor let out a long-suffering sigh. The other students snickered.

Phainon, of course, landed smoothly beside you, offering his hand. “Are you hurt?”

You groaned, rolling onto your back to stare at the sky instead of meeting his gaze. “Just my pride.”

There was a soft chuckle, and then—before you could stop him—Phainon crouched down and plucked a stray leaf from your hair.

“You’re improving” he said, completely sincere.

You gave him a skeptical look. “I literally just fell on my face.”

“You lasted two seconds longer this time.” His smile was slight but warm. “That’s progress.”

Something in your chest tightened. It was the way he looked at you—like you weren’t a failure, like he actually believed in you.

----

“You’re avoiding me”

You forced a smile, pretending not to feel the weight of his presence. “I’m just busy.”

“No, you’re not.”

You exhaled, shoulders tensing. “Phainon, you don’t understand. You shouldn’t be wasting your time with me.”

“Why would you say that?”

“Because you deserve better,” you blurted out, frustration bleeding into your tone. “You deserve someone extraordinary, someone who belongs in your world—not me.”

A slow silence stretched between you.

“You think I don’t know what I want?”

“You’ll realize it one day.”

“I already have.” He stepped closer, “You’re the only thing I’ve ever been certain of.”

That was the problem.

Because one day, he would see the truth.

And that’s why you had to leave.

The village was quiet. Tucked away in a valley where the mountains shielded it from the outside world, where magic was nothing more than a story told to children before bed.

Here, you weren’t a failure. You weren’t a disappointment. You weren’t anything but yourself.

The people welcomed you easily enough. A newcomer with no past, no baggage—just willing hands and a desire to work. You took on whatever jobs you could. Fetching water, helping at the bakery, tending to the fields when the farmers needed an extra hand. It was hard work, but it was yours.

And best of all, Phainon wasn’t here.

Time moved differently in the village. The days stretched long beneath golden sunlight, the nights cool and filled with the sounds of crickets and rustling leaves. Slowly, the tension in your chest unraveled.

For the first time in years, you could breathe.

You stopped thinking about magic. Stopped thinking about what you left behind.

The village had become home. Years had passed since you arrived, and with time, you molded yourself into the life here, into the rhythm of simplicity. No one here knew of magic—no one needed to. You had left that world behind.

Until the day you were forced to use it again.

It was supposed to be a normal afternoon. You stood knee-deep in the river, feeling the gentle current brush against your legs as you worked to catch fish for dinner. The sun was warm, the air filled with the laughter of children playing nearby.

Then, a scream.

You turned just in time to see a boy, no older than six, trip over the edge of the riverbank. His friends gasped as he tumbled forward, the steep drop giving him no chance to stop himself before he plunged straight into the deeper part of the river.

The current was too strong. The boy’s small body disappeared beneath the surface, water swallowing his cries.

No one here could swim well enough to save him in time.

No one, except you.

But swimming alone wasn’t enough. By the time you got to him, it would be too late.

The promise you made to yourself—to never use magic again—shattered.

Without thinking, you raised your hand.

A whisper of energy, long buried, surged through your veins. The river stilled in an instant, the currents bending to your will. The water lifted, forming a controlled wave that carried the boy gently back to the shore, setting him down safely on the grass.

The children hadn’t spoken a word.

You had made sure of that.

After pulling them aside, you crouched down, “You can’t tell anyone what you saw. Not your parents, not your friends—no one. This is our little secret, alright?”

They had nodded, still wide-eyed from the miracle they had just witnessed. Thankfully, kids loved secrets. They thought of it as a game, something special just between you and them. For now, your peace was intact.

Or so you thought.

The next morning, you made your way back to the river, hoping to clear your mind. Maybe even push down the unease still twisting in your stomach. But as you approached, you froze.

Someone else was there.

And not just anyone. Him

Phainon sat comfortably on a fallen log, watching the children with a small, amused smile as they chattered excitedly around him. He looked out of place among them- too refined, like a painting come to life. And yet, he somehow blended in so effortlessly, laughing at their stories, ruffling their hair like an older brother would.

As if sensing your presence, he looked up. The moment his gaze met yours, time itself seemed to halt.

His expression softened, “Oh?” He rose to his feet, brushing off nonexistent dust from his coat. “I was beginning to think you’d never show up.”

You took a step back instinctively, but he was already approaching.

“You look well” he murmured, eyes scanning you as if memorizing every detail. “This place suits you.”

“Phainon…”

“How…?” The question barely made it past your lips.

“How did I find you?” he finished for you, his smile deepening. “Come now, you know the answer to that.”

Of course, you did. He had never been the type to let go of something he wanted.

“Why are you here?” you asked, though you already knew.

“To take you back.”

The children, blissfully unaware of the weight in the air, tugged at his sleeve, asking if he would play another round of their game. He chuckled, indulging them for just a moment longer before returning his attention to you.

“I’ve been very patient” he said, “But you’ve had your fun, haven’t you? A few years of pretending to be someone else, living a quiet life in hiding.”

He stepped closer, lowering his voice just enough that only you could hear.

“But you belong with me.”

You swallowed hard, willing yourself to stay calm. The river murmured beside you, its steady rhythm grounding you against the storm that had just arrived in your life.

“I’m not going back” you said, keeping your voice even. “I built a life here. A normal, happy life.”

Phainon hummed as if considering your words, but the knowing glint in his eyes never faded. “A happy life, is it?” He glanced around at the quiet village in the distance, at the carefree children still playing near the water. “I see. It’s charming. Simple. Safe.” His gaze flickered back to you, sharper now. “But is it really yours?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’ve been pretending.”

“No, I haven’t.”

“Haven’t you?” He stepped closer, and you resisted the urge to back away. “You came here running, hiding, trying to erase the parts of yourself that didn’t fit into this little picture-perfect village. But you can’t change who you are.”

“Even if I wanted to return—which I don’t—you’re not just expecting me to go back to that world, to the academy, to the annoying people?” You studied him, searching for an answer you already knew. “You want me to stay by your side.”

You exhaled, “I deserve to be where I choose.”

“Then prove it.”

“…What?”

Phainon gestured around, as if presenting the village itself. “You say you belong here. That this life is what you truly want. So, I’ll stay.” He smiled, voice light but unmistakably firm. “I’ll see it for myself.”

“If you’re right,” he continued smoothly, “then I’ll leave. I’ll never bring this up again.”

A lump formed in your throat. You knew him too well—Phainon never agreed to something without confidence in the outcome.

“But if I’m right…Then you’re coming home with me.”

“Fine.”

“Then it’s a deal.”

----

Phainon blended in effortlessly.

He smiled at the villagers, greeted them politely, and answered their curious questions with practiced ease. They saw a charming, well-mannered traveler—someone elegant yet approachable, someone who belonged in the outside world but was humble enough to appreciate their quiet life.

But you knew better. Every kind word, every gentle laugh, every playful interaction with the children—it was all a mask. A carefully crafted act.

Because beneath that smile, Phainon hated them.

He hated the way they spoke to you like you were one of them. Hated the way they relied on you, trusted you, called you their own. Hated that you had given them years of your life—years that should have been his.

And worst of all, he hated that you thought they were your home.

You kept a close eye on him as he spent his first day in the village.

He helped an elderly woman carry a basket of vegetables from the market. Listened to the local blacksmith talk about his craft with genuine-seeming interest. Even played with the children again, letting them tug at his sleeves and drag him into their games.

And yet, you could see it.

The slight hesitation before he let them touch him. The way his fingers twitched, as if suppressing the urge to recoil. The empty warmth in his voice when he praised them.

To anyone else, he was nothing but kind.

His patience was razor-thin.

This was a test—for you, for them.

He was waiting. Waiting for the moment you would finally realize what he already knew. That these people weren’t your home. That this place wasn’t enough for you.

Later that evening, as the sun dipped into the horizon, you found Phainon sitting outside the small cottage you called home. He looked up at you with a smile, a book resting on his lap.

“How was your day?” he asked, as if this was normal, as if he hadn’t just invaded the life you built.

“I should be asking you that.”

He chuckled. “The village is… charming.”

“They’re good people” you said carefully.

“Are they?”... I’ll admit, it’s impressive how long you lasted here”

You clenched your jaw. “I’m still here.”

“For now.”

----

The scent of fresh flowers filled the small shop, delicate petals brushing against your fingers as you arranged the newest bouquet. It was peaceful here—one of the few places in the village where you could find solace. A quiet, colorful haven where no one expected too much from you.

But today, peace was a fleeting thing.

Because Phainon was here.

Seated gracefully near the counter, he idly turned a flower between his fingers, the picture of effortless charm. The sunlight filtering through the window caught the silver strands of his hair, highlighting the striking contrast of his sharp, elegant features.

And, of course, the ladies noticed.

They had been stopping by all morning, some of them customers, others just looking for an excuse to linger. They giggled, twirled strands of their hair, asked far too many questions about him.

Phainon, as always, indulged them.

He smiled, listened with amused interest, even complimented them in that smooth, easy tone of his. It was effortless—just like back in the academy days, when people gravitated toward him like moths to a flame.

You exhaled sharply, setting down the bouquet you had been working on.

“I must say” one of the women giggled, resting a hand on the counter as she looked at Phainon through her lashes, “you don’t seem like a traveler at all. You carry yourself like someone of noble blood.”

Phainon chuckled, twirling the flower in his hand. “Do I?”

You didn’t miss the amusement in his tone.

If only they knew.

Another woman leaned closer, lowering her voice. “Are you staying long? It would be a shame if someone like you just disappeared.”

“I suppose that depends.”

His gaze flickered toward you for just a second—so brief no one else would’ve caught it. But you did.

Your fingers tightened around the bouquet’s stems.

He wanted to see how you would react. If you would push him away. If you would feel something. So you said nothing. You grabbed a pair of scissors, focused on trimming the leaves, and ignored him entirely.

The women kept fawning over him, unaware of the silent tension beneath the surface. And through it all, Phainon smiled.

But you knew him too well.

Beneath that easy charm, there was something sharper. A quiet, unspoken warning.

By the third day, the village had fully embraced Phainon as a welcome guest. His charm and helpful demeanor had won over the villagers, and they spoke of him with admiration. But beneath his courteous exterior, a storm was brewing.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows over the village, Phainon approached you with a serene smile that didn't reach his eyes.

"It's time to end this charade"

"What are you talking about?"

"You know exactly what I mean. Return with me, or face the consequences."

Swallowing your fear, you shook your head. "I won't go back. This is my home now."

Phainon's smile faded entirely, replaced by a cold, calculating expression. "Very well."

Without another word, he raised his hand, and a surge of energy crackled through the air. Flames erupted from the thatched roof of a nearby cottage, quickly spreading as villagers screamed and scrambled to extinguish the fire.

"Stop!" you cried, reaching out instinctively.

Phainon turned to you, his eyes devoid of mercy. "This is just the beginning. For every day you refuse to come with me, more of this village will burn."

Tears blurred your vision as you watched the chaos unfold. The people who had taken you in, who had become your family, were now suffering because of you.

"Please," you whispered, voice trembling. "Don't hurt them."

He stepped closer, gently cupping your face with a hand that had just wrought destruction. "Then make the right choice. Come with me, and they will be spared."

Defeated and broken, you nodded, tears streaming down your cheeks. "I'll go with you."

"Good. We leave at dawn."

As he walked away, you fell to your knees, the weight of your decision crushing your spirit. The village would survive, but at the cost of your freedom.

The journey back was quiet.

You sat beside Phainon in the carriage, staring out the window as the village faded into the distance. A hollow ache settled in your chest, your hands clenched into fists against your lap.

You had fought so hard to stay. To build something for yourself.

And yet, here you were.

Dragged back to the place you ran from.

The silence was suffocating, but Phainon seemed completely at ease. He sat comfortably across from you.

Finally, you exhaled sharply, unable to hold it in any longer. “Why?”

He tilted his head slightly. “Why what?”

“Why me? You’re—you’re Phainon. Talented. Admired.” You forced yourself to look at him. “You could have anyone. People worship the ground you walk on. So why are you wasting your time with someone like me?”

For a brief moment, Phainon simply studied you, as if the question itself was absurd.

“You truly don’t understand, do you?”

“Understand what?”

“You are mine. You were meant to be by my side.”

“That’s not—”

“You say I could have anyone.” His smile widened, amusement glinting in his eyes. “You’re right. But I don’t want anyone else.”

His grip on your wrist tightened ever so slightly, enough to make your pulse spike.

“I want you.”

Phainon exhaled through his nose, his usual composed demeanor slipping just a little.

“You always do this” he murmured, shaking his head as if disappointed. “You keep pushing me away like I’m some foolish child chasing after something fleeting.”

His fingers slid away from your wrist.

“I thought you understood me better than that.”

“I don’t understand you at all.”

Phainon’s lips pressed into a thin line. He leaned back against the seat, regarding you with something unreadable.

“Do you remember,” he started, “that day in the alchemy class? When you nearly blew us both up?”

“What…?”

“You misread the measurements, mixed the wrong ingredients.” His gaze darkened, but there was no malice in it. Just something strangely… fond. “And instead of panicking, instead of trying to shift the blame like most people would, you just—” He let out a quiet, breathy chuckle. “You just looked at me with guilt and then laughed to brush it off.”

You had laughed. Not because it was funny, but because you were so used to failing.

“That was the first time in years someone had laughed with me. Not to impress me. Not to get my attention.”

You glanced away, unsure what to say.

But Phainon wasn’t finished.

“And then there was that time during flight practice.” He tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing. “You were terrible.”

Your lips parted, indignant. “I wasn’t that bad—”

“You crashed into a tree.”

You winced. Okay, maybe you were that bad.

Phainon exhaled, rubbing his temple. “I should have been annoyed. It was a waste of time, and you dragged me down with you.” He lowered his hand, his eyes locking onto yours again. “But instead, I found myself fascinated.”

“Wait- Why?”

His lips parted, then closed again, as if choosing his words carefully. And then, finally—

“Because you weren’t afraid to be imperfect.”

“You struggled. You failed. You made mistakes.” His voice was quieter now, but no less intense. “But you never let that stop you. You never pretended to be something you weren’t.”

“I grew up surrounded by people who only showed me what they thought I wanted to see. People who wore their own masks, desperate to be flawless, desperate to be noticed.” His jaw clenched. “But you… you never tried to be anything but yourself.”

His fingers curled slightly, as if resisting the urge to reach for you.

“And I—” He exhaled, almost shakily. “I couldn’t look away.”

The carriage fell into silence.

The weight of Phainon’s confession hung between you, suffocating in its intensity. His words should have meant something—should have been enough to prove he wasn’t just chasing an illusion.

And yet, your hands still trembled in your lap.

Because no matter how much he thought he loved you—

It was still wrong.

“So what?” you whispered, voice hoarse. “Just because you like those things about me, you think that justifies everything?”

Phainon’s brows furrowed slightly.

“You burned my home, Phainon.” You clenched your jaw, trying to keep the anger from breaking into something weaker. “You threatened innocent people just to get me back. That isn’t love. That’s—”

His hand lashed out, gripping your wrist before you could recoil. Not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough that you felt the unspoken don’t you dare finish that sentence.

His usual composed mask cracked—just slightly, just enough to reveal something darker beneath the surface.

“I did what I had to do.” His voice was quiet, almost calm, but there was a tremor beneath it. A barely-contained storm. “You left me. You threw yourself away like you were nothing. Like we were nothing.” His fingers tightened, just a fraction. “And I wasn’t going to stand by and let that happen.”

“That wasn’t your decision to make.”

“Wasn’t it?”

His other hand came up, brushing against your cheek—“You think I could just let you go? Just sit back and watch while you buried yourself in a life that was never meant for you?”

His fingers curled, tilting your chin up so you had no choice but to look into his eyes.

“You think I could ever be okay with that?”

Your throat went dry. Because this was it. The moment he stopped pretending.

“You belong with me.” His voice dropped lower, “You always have. And I don’t care how long it takes—how much you fight, how many times you try to run.”

He leaned in, his breath ghosting against your skin.

“I will always bring you back.”

You knew you couldn’t fight him head-on—not now, not when he was stronger, more prepared. But you had to try.

So you made your move.

With a sharp twist of your wrist, magic surged through your veins. The carriage around you blurred, the air crackling as you poured everything into a single desperate spell— Escape.

The moment your body flickered out of existence, you reappeared outside, stumbling onto the forest road. You didn’t wait. You ran.

Twigs snapped beneath your feet as you pushed forward, lungs burning. The wind howled past your ears, the distant hoot of an owl the only sound in the otherwise eerie silence.

A presence loomed behind you.

A hand seized your wrist.

Your entire body jerked backward as a grip yanked you off your feet. A sharp gasp tore from your throat as you collided with something solid.

The scent of embers and something faintly sweet filled your senses.

“Really now,” Phainon’s voice drawled “Did you honestly think you could get away?”

You thrashed, kicking, clawing—anything to loosen his hold—

But his grip only tightened, effortlessly caging you against him.

“You already knew how this would end.”

“No—! Put me down—!”

“Now, now,” Phainon mused, carrying you effortlessly through the forest as if you weren’t fighting him with every ounce of your strength. “If you didn’t resist this much…”

His fingers trailed up your back, sending a sharp chill through you.

“I’d go easy on you.”

The moment Phainon’s home came into view, dread twisted in your stomach. The towering walls loomed over you, the polished stone gleaming beneath the moonlight. Once, this place had simply been part of the academy grounds. Now, it felt more like a prison.

And you were being dragged back inside.

The heavy doors shut behind you with a thud that might as well have been the slamming of a cage. Phainon finally set you down, but his grip never left your wrist. You yanked at it instinctively, but he only pulled you closer, forcing you to face him.

“You’ve tired yourself out,” he murmured, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face as if you weren’t staring at him in outright defiance. “You should rest.”

“I don’t want to rest. I want to leave.”

“And where would you go? Back to that village?” A quiet scoff. “Do you think they’d still want you after what happened?”

He was wrong. They wouldn’t blame you. They couldn’t. But his words still wormed their way into your thoughts, planting doubt where there shouldn’t have been any.

“You see? There’s nowhere else for you, love. The world out there doesn’t deserve you. It never did.”

Your hands trembled. “That doesn’t mean you do.”

“You can fight me” he murmured. “You can scream, run, struggle. But it won’t change anything. Because in the end, I will always find you.”

“I will always bring you back.”

And as he leaned in, his lips barely a breath away from your ear, he whispered—

“So stop making this harder than it needs to be.”

[pinkboaclub]

Professor Styles [part two]

[read first part here!]

Summery: After you hook up, Professor Styles desperately tries to work things out, though you’re unsure……until you’re not.

Words Count: 2.9k

Warnings: smut, teacher-student relationship (university-everyone is of age), fem!reader

It was Monday morning, and the air in the lecture hall felt heavier than usual. You could barely focus on anything, definitely not on the lecture Professor Styles—Harry—was doing.

Instead, your mind kept circling back to Friday night when you felt the soft brush of his hand against yours, the lingering heat between you as he leaned in closer to help with your research, the unexpected rush of emotions that had filled the space between the two of you, the kiss, and everything after that. You couldn’t shake it. You couldn’t look at him the same way anymore.

He stood at the front of the room, detailing his lecture, though you didn’t hear a word he said. His eyes were constantly trying to find yours, looking over at you every few minutes, but you stayed looking at your notebook. You normally were so engaged in these lectures, eager to raise your hand, to contribute, but today you stayed silent. The tension between you and Harry was palpable, and you felt it in every inch of your body.

He dismissed the class to work on their assignment as he walked around the room, asking people if they needed help. Your stomach churned every time he walked by your seat, which he kept doing, as if he was preparing himself to talk to you.

"Y/N?" He finally said, breaking you out of your nervous thoughts. "How’s the assignment going? Need any help?"

His voice, low and familiar, sent a jolt through your body. You didn’t dare look up, but you could feel him standing there beside your desk, waiting for an answer.

You shook your head quickly, avoiding his gaze. "No. I’m fine," you muttered, your voice coming out more abrupt than you intended.

He paused, as if he wanted to say something back, but nodded and moved on to the next student. You felt like you’d ruined everything, and yet, he still was trying to grab your attention.

The rest of the class dragged on. You couldn't focus. Your mind kept spinning with thoughts of Harry. What would he think of you now?

After Harry gave a last minute instruction and dismissed the class, everyone started to shuffle out of the room. You grabbed your things, the only thing on your mind was leaving. Just as you were about to walk to the door, you heard Harry’s voice again.

"Y/N, could you stay for a moment?"

You froze. His voice made your heart race, and you cursed yourself for not leaving faster. You could feel the weight of his eyes on you as you reluctantly gathered your belongings and made your way to the front of the room. You tried to come up with some excuse, an assignment to work on, a place to be.

“Uhm, I actually have to go…I have somewhere to be.”

“It will only take a moment, it's about the last assignment.”

You knew it wasn’t about the last assignment, but a large part of you was praying it was.

"Sure," you reluctantly said, your voice tight.

The last student left, and Harry closed the door behind them. The awkwardness caused your body to want to squirm.

He leaned against his desk, his gaze softer now, but still carrying that same tension. “Y/N, I—” He paused, running a hand through his hair, clearly struggling to find the right words. "I’m so sorry. I never meant to make you feel uncomfortable, and I just...I don’t want you to hate me. I really care about you, and I would never want to ruin…this…us." His voice was sincere, and you could hear the concern in it, but it only made you feel more confused.

You opened your mouth to respond, but the words got caught in your throat. You didn't know what to say, you agreed with him, you never wanted to feel uncomfortable around him. But, he never made you uncomfortable.

“I don’t hate you,” you said firmly. "I think I...crossed a line, though. I shouldn’t have let it happen." Your voice broke slightly, and your heart raced at the confession. You stared down at your shoes, shifting uncomfortably.

Harry’s eyes widened, and he shook his head vehemently. “No, Y/N, you didn’t do anything wrong. Nothing about that was wrong.” He took a deep breath and a small step closer, his eyes never leaving yours. "You didn't cross any line and I’d never want you to feel bad about it. You didn’t make things awkward for me. I just want to know you’re okay, at the very least"

You stared at him, trying to make sense of everything. His words, your feelings, the entire situation. But everything felt so jumbled in your mind.

And then, without thinking, you walked up to him. The pull between you both felt magnetic, and before either of you could say another word, you were kissing him again, this time, it was you who closed the space between you.

His lips were warm against yours, and the second they met, they welcomed yours, molding together. He didn’t hesitate this time. His hands cupped your face, drawing you closer.

When you pulled away, your breath was shallow, your heart pounding in your chest. His forehead rested against yours, and you could feel him smile, that same soft smile you’d seen a hundred times before—but now, it felt different, warmer, more intimate.

"I think I just ruined everything, again." you whispered, your voice breathless.

Harry chuckled softly, pulling back to look you in the eyes. "No," he said, his voice low but certain. "You didn’t. We’re just figuring this out together."

There was a loud knock on the way causing both of you to harshly separate, creating a large distance between the both of you. The person walked in, it was another one of the art professors coming in to talk with Harry.

“So I think if you have time to make it up today, we can definitely work something out, make sure you get the grade you wanted.” Harry blurted, trying to make it look like he wasn’t just making out with a student moments before.

“Oh, yeah no problem, what time do you want me here?” You casually replied, pulling out your best acting skills. The other teacher, giving Harry a smile and waiting patiently for your conversation to be done.

“Uhm,” He looked at his watch, face scrunched, in a way that almost turned you on. “How about, anytime after twelve thirty My last class ends at twelve, so I can prepare a makeup quiz for you, it shouldn’t take long.” He lied and he gave you a look.

“That sounds perfect, see you then.” You gave a final nod before walking towards the door, giving the other professor a smile before walking out.

In your next class, feeling way better about your current situation with Harry, your phone lit up.

‘See you at 12:30, my classroom.’

You knock on the door that had ‘Professor Styles’ engraved into it. Taking a deep breath, looking around to see other students passing by. The door finally opened to a smiling Professor Styles—Harry.

“I have that makeup quiz ready for you.” He said while the door was still open.

Once the door was closed and he turned towards you, you grabbed his face, smashing your lips against his. He wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling your body closer to his.

“Mm…my…office…is the only…door with…a lock on it.” He muttered in between kisses. You both walked towards his office, which was connected to the classroom.

He closed and locked the door and turned on the light. Walking backwards, you leaned your backside against his desk, continuing to keep his lips on yours.

Licking your bottom lip, he gently demanded entrance to your mouth, which you gave gladly with a light moan. You kissed him deeply, pushing your tongue against his. His hands rested lightly on your waist and yours on his solid chest.

You lost track of time while enjoying kissing him, not worrying about anyone or anything else, until you suddenly wanted more. Much more.

“Is this okay?” You broke away from his lips to unbutton his shirt, looking up at him to silently ask. He firmly consented and slowly dragged your top off, followed by your bra.

He leaned down to kiss your collarbone, gently nipping his way down to your breasts before taking one in his mouth. His hand cupped the other breast, rolling the already hard nipple with his thumb and forefinger. He moaned into your breast, the vibration against your nipple sending a wave of heat and sensation through your body. You gasped and dug your nails into his broad, strong shoulders.

He helped you out of your pants and lifted you on to the desk. His hands became more urgent as he began kneading and caressing your thighs.

“Please, more, Harry,” You babble, unable to form a specific request.

He pulled your underwear off and swiftly placed his fingers on your clit, before slowly lowering his body. You had never been so turned on in your life. He pulled your legs over his shoulders and without another word, he licked a soft stripe along your slit, from your opening to your clit, before parting his lips and planting a gentle kiss on the clit itself. You covered your mouth to muffle your strained gasp.

“We need to be so quiet, honey. Just for now, next time I’ll make sure you can scream as much as you want.” He gently said, rubbing a hand up and down your thigh.

He licked another stripe along your slit and fixed his gaze on yours as you watched your Professor do this, which was the sexiest yet dirtiest thing you’d ever seen.

He continued to look up into your eyes as he alternated licking, sucking, and grazing his teeth along your clit and labia. Registering every reaction, noting what you responded to the most, every moan, every ‘yes, keep going’. He gave you the most attentive care you had ever been given during sex.

The men on campus you had been with either wouldn’t go down on you or only did it until you were wet enough for penetration. Harry enjoyed giving you oral. He began sucking harder when he felt your legs straighten out, stiff and trembling, while your breath became heavier and louder.

“Oh fuck, Professor, I, I–ugh” This time he didn’t correct you, almost finding you calling him Professor hot.

“Yes, cum for me. You’re so beautiful like this, Y/N,” He encouraged between hot heavy breaths, before he buried his face into your pussy, using his nose to rub your clit even more vigorously while his tongue licked at your entrance.

His words tipped you over the edge and you started grinding yourself upwards, grabbing the back of his head and lightly pushing his face into you. You were cumming violently, heels digging into his shoulder blades, fingernails digging into his scalp, wanting to scream at the intensity of the pleasure.

After he licked your sensitive folds and inner thighs clean as you came down from your extreme high, he wiped away the cum that painted his chin, the tip of his nose, and his lips.

As he stood up you noticed his cock pressing against the fabric of his trousers. He had almost made you forget, by putting your pleasure at the centre of his attention. You unbuckled his belt and massaged him through his underwear.

You then removed his underwear, getting a better look at him than you did last time when you both were so quick and urgent. This time, you both were taking in every moment.

He stepped towards you, caressing your breasts before running his hands down to your hips, making you feel safe in his embrace.

“Tell me what you need, baby.” He kissed your upper neck, then behind your earlobe, rubbing his cock along your sensitive slit.

“You Harry, please, I want you.”

He kissed your temple, acknowledging your request. Using the head of his cock to stimulate your clit and inner lips, he began breathing against your neck. He knew exactly how to pleasure you, you almost feel ready to cum on the spot with this new stimulation.

After a little more teasing, you couldn’t take it anymore. You lightly gripped his cock in your hand and led him to your very ready entrance.

Needing no further encouragement, he slowly plunged into you and finally buried himself fully. He waited a moment, looking at you to make sure you were comfortable. You wrapped your legs around his waist as he began to move.

You stayed as quiet as your mouth would let you, not wanting to risk someone hearing and Harry getting fired. But you could have spent the whole time screaming his name over and over again.

He was so deep in you that your muscles started to contract around his cock, causing him to grunt in pleasure. He gripped your hips hard and began thrusting more vigorously, you could tell he was close.

Teasing your clit, he began sending you towards your own climax. You started to grind up against him even harder and crashed your mouth onto his. Desperately kissing and gripping each other, you both approached your own orgasms.

“Harry…..Harry” you quietly moaned into his shoulder, using every ounce of strength you had to stay quiet.

“I know, I’ve got you.”

You cum again, your body twitching as the pleasure rolled through you.

Your muffled moans as well as your contracting muscles on his cock, drove Harry to his orgasm, which almost made him double over as he holds your thighs in a grip that will probably leave bruises. He pulled out and came on your thigh, neither of you really worrying about where any of it would land.

Gently, he took your flushed face in his hand, “You’re so perfect, that was so perfect.”

You nodded, fully agreeing with him

You smiled as your foreheads leaned against each other, happy that you could be this intimate with him and not hate yourself afterwards.

“I do want to make this work. It will be hard, we won’t be able to tell anyone, at least for now, but I want to make it work, make you comfortable.” He said, moving his hand up to brush away some of your hair.

“I want to too. I’m sorry I didn’t know how to tell you on Friday.” You replied, diverting your eyes from his out of embarrassment.

“Don’t apologize. Our lack of communication was not your fault at all” He said sternly. “We’re here now, we feel good, we’ll figure this out as we go.” His words comforted you. In that moment you could have stayed in his embrace forever.

“I should get going though, I don’t think makeup quizzes usually take this long.” You both chuckled, allowing yourself to pull away and put your clothes back on.

With a flirtatious wink, you said a temporary goodbye “See you tomorrow, Professor Styles”

[writinginatree]

Learning By Doing

Relationship(s): Brennan Sorrengail/Riorson!reader, Xaden Riorson & sibling!reader

Summary: Your skill as a first-year mender is put to the test when your boyfriend and mentor Brennan is badly injured and you're the only one available to save his life.

Warnings: Blood and injury, panic attacks, age gap

Anonymous requested: Brennan angst with an injury

(I'm low-key thinking of this as a sequel to "Caught", but you can just as well read it as a stand-alone)

You're doing homework when they carry him in. The door slamming open startles you so badly you splatter ink all over the assignment you were writing, but that scare is nothing compared to the cold fear that settles in your chest when you whirl around in your chair to see Brennan's limp form hanging between Xaden and Garrick.

You shoot to your feet and rush over to where they carefully lay him down on your bed.

Gods, there's so much blood.

The wound is hidden from sight by your brother's shadows, wrapped tightly around Brennan's stomach to hold a bundled up jacket in place. It's not enough to stench the bleeding. The precious liquid has long soaked through it, and now stains your bedsheets red around your boyfriend's torso even as you watch.

"What happened?!" you try to yell, but it comes out as a choked gasp.

Your hands shake as you take one of Brennan's between them. He's colder than he should be, pallid from how much blood he's lost.

"We were patrolling near the border when a bunch of venin came out of nowhere," Garrick explains. "Killed them all, but Brennan took a blade to the guts. I don't know how that happened exactly; we lost sight of each other in the fight."

Xaden adds, "He passed out before he could mend himself, so we brought him back here as fast as we could."

"And why the fuck did you bring him to me?" you shout. "He needs a healer!"

"No, Y/N," Xaden says calmly, putting his hands on your shoulders, "he needs a mender. And you're the only one we have here right now."

You didn't think your heart could race any faster than it already did, but at those words, it does. Sheer panic floods your body. This can't be happening. Brennan's life, resting in your inexperienced hands. You've only had your signet for half a year, barely know how to wield it. You're pretty good at mending inanimate objects — it's what you'd started practicing with — but healing people is much more complicated, even when the injury isn't too bad. And this injury is very bad.

You shake your head. "I can't!"

"You can, and you will."

"But I've never worked on a patient in critical condition before!" You've never worked on a patient at all without Brennan's guidance. "I don't— I don't even know what to do!"

"Yes, you do. Take a deep breath and focus," your brother instructs. "You've got this. Just remember your lessons with Brennan, and don't panic."

Xaden is right, of course. If you let the panic consume you, Brennan is as good as dead. You need to do something about his wound, not stand here and freak out. There's no guarantee you'll be able to save him, but you can try. You have to.

But if you fail—

The thought steals your breath and keeps you rooted in place. You'll never forgive yourself if Brennan dies because of your inadequacy as a mender.

"Then don't fail," your dragon's voice sounds in your head, uncompassionate as always.

He makes it sound much simpler than it is, but he has a point. Failure is not an option.

"You could have warned me that Brennan is hurt when you saw them land," you accuse, but the beast only scoffs.

"So you could have worked yourself into a full-blown panic before they even got him inside?" he mocks. "I don't think so. Now quit wasting time and get to work. Unless you want him to die, of course."

Your dragon's familiar snark helps you break through the panic. He's right. This isn't the time for fear.

One of the first things Brennan taught you about mending people was that you must never ever panic when faced with an injury. If you do, your patient will freak out, too. Not relevant in this case, since he's unconscious and you wouldn't be in this terrible situation if he was awake. But more importantly, fear will distract you from doing your job. That's why no matter how much blood there is, how horrible the sight of the wound, you must ignore those feelings and focus on the task before you. Steady hands, a clear head — that's what you need. No room for fear or hesitation.

With a deep breath, you reach for the jacket covering the wound and pull it away. The rivulets of blood flowing down Brennan's side immediately turn into rivers. You need to hurry. You don't know how much blood he's already lost, but it has to be a lot.

Putting your hands directly to the source of the blood, you desperately try to remember everything Brennan taught you.

When you'd progressed from mending inanimate objects to assisting in the infirmary, Brennan taught you some basic facts you needed to know about the inner workings of the human body, but he'd only briefly brushed on the topics of internal bleeding and mending organs. That kind of stuff was too difficult, he'd said, until you were more used to working with living tissue. Flesh and bone are much more complex than a piece of wood or ceramics, which had been your main practice materials at the beginning. Stomach wounds are especially complicated — too many organs that could be affected, too much you could do wrong.

But you don't have a choice.

You close your eyes, visualize the torn tissue beneath your hands, and try not to think too much about the blood seeping between your fingers. If you get this right, the bleeding will stop soon enough.

Before you can close the entry wound, you need to heal any damage the blade might have done inside Brennan's body. That's the hardest part, fixing something you can't see. You have only the vaguest idea of what each organ looks like, where it sits. Something is bleeding in there, your power tells you that, tugging, wanting deeper into him. You can mend whatever it is. Probably.

You imagine the tissue knitting back together, blood clotting to close off the opening it's flowing from, scar tissue growing and smoothing out. You can only hope the organ will continue working the way it's supposed to once you're done, because you don't have the knowledge necessary to fix any complex damage to it, can't even tell how much damage there is or which organ it is you're working on.

If it's his stomach, you're fucked. In that case, his stomach contents might have poured out into his abdominal cavity, and you have no idea what you could do about that.

Oh please, please don't let it be his stomach, you pray to whichever gods might care to listen.

But no. A detail surfaces in your mind from your anatomy lesson. When Brennan had touched on the topic of stomach problems, he'd briefly put his hand on yours, indicating where the organ was situated. You'd only been together for a couple weeks at that point, and your skin had tingled with a million butterflies even through two layers of clothes — above your bellybutton. Brennan's wound is a little to the side of his bellybutton. Probably not the stomach then. That's good.

You think it might be his liver, but you're not certain. Whatever it is, you're done healing the cut on it's front now. If it still works, or if it took more damage than you can tell, only time will show.

Thankfully, no other organs seem to be hurt, so you move on to closing Brennan's abdomen.

Starting with the innermost layer, you force flesh and muscle and what little fat he has to grow back together. This, you're familiar with. You've healed plenty of deep cuts before; this part is not all that different from healing someone's arm or leg.

The gaping wound turns first into a thin line still oozing blood, growing less and less deep with every layer you put back together. By now, your hands are shaking with the effort of channeling so much magic, much more than you're used to, but you push through. Almost done. Brennan will be fine, if you did it right. If you didn't miss any internal bleeding.

You shake your head. No use thinking about that. You can only keep going.

Last comes the skin, closing the wound off with a thick, reddened rope of scar tissue.

As soon as it's done, you collapse into a heap beside the bed. Xaden is there in an instant, stopping you from hitting your head on the floor. He helps you sit, leaning against the bed, as the three of you inspect your work. It's not pretty, but it's the best you could do with a wound so severe. Brennan could have done better, could have probably healed it without even a trace of a scar. Doesn't matter, as long as he just survives. He can smooth the scar out himself once he's awake if he wants to.

You watch the rise and fall of his chest, hypnotized. With every breath he takes, you send a silent prayer of thanks to Malek for not taking him from you.

There's nothing more you can do now, except wait for him to wake up.

You startle when Garrick hands you a glass of cold juice. When did he get that? You must have been more zoned out than you realized.

You're shaking so badly you spill some of the juice over yourself before your brother's shadows wrap around your hands like gloves to steady them. You give both boys a grateful look, draining the whole glass in slow, tiny sips. The sugar almost immediately helps.

Xaden is the first to break the silence. "Is he stable?"

"Probably. I've done everything I can. We just have to wait and hope—" Your voice cracks. "Hope it was enough and he wakes up soon."

Xaden brushes sweaty strands of hair from your face. "He'll be fine," he reassures. He sounds so certain you almost believe him. "You did great. Now get some rest."

"I'm not leaving him."

"I'm not asking you to. We'll take him to his room and you can lie down with him, okay?"

Right — because your own bed is currently covered in a pool of Brennan's drying blood. You don't particularly like the idea of moving him, but — as per usual — Xaden is right. There's no telling how long Brennan will remain unconscious, and you can't leave him lying in his own blood in the meantime.

"Okay."

Your brother helps you to your feet and keeps close to your side as you walk the short way to Brennan's room, ready to catch you in case your legs give out again. Garrick carries Brennan. By the time you reach his room, your vision is threatening to turn black, but you make it to his bed before collapsing again.

Lying with your head on Brennan's chest, the steady beat of his heart soon lulls you into a doze. You're aware of the sound even as you fade in and out of consciousness, know you would immediately notice and wake if it were to stop.

During your waking moments, you remind yourself that it's normal for him to take a while to wake up after losing as much blood as he did, but it's hard to ignore the voice in your head that says it's your fault. If you were a better mender, he might be awake already. And what if he doesn't wake at all? What if he's in a coma, slowly dying from internal injuries you missed?

Xaden and Violet poke their heads through the door a few times. Your brother makes you drink another glass of juice and eat a few bites, but other than that, they don't disturb you.

Dusk falls without Brennan awakening, but the color is slowly returning to his cheeks.

Your sleep is fitful, filled with nightmares of blood and Brennan's lifeless face. Time over time you jerk awake with tears streaming down your face, calming only after you assure yourself that Brennan is beside you, unconscious but alive and breathing.

When you wake for what must be the dozenth time, it's not from a nightmare. This time, it's Brennan stirring beside you.

You sit up faster than your exhausted body likes, sending waves of dizziness through your head, but you're so focused on Brennan you barely notice. He's waking up!

"Hi," you breathe when his eyes fully open and find your face, illuminated by the small mage light you'd left on.

"Hi. What happened?"

The tears burning behind your eyes spill over at the sound of his voice, low and slightly hoarse and alive. You'd been so scared you'd never get to hear his voice again, never see him look at you, or smile, or do anything again.

But he's awake now. He's okay. The relief is so overwhelming that if you weren't sitting in bed already, you surely would have fallen to your knees.

"That's what I'd like to know from you," you answer Brennan through your tears. "Xaden and Garrick brought you in half dead, and there wasn't any other menders around, so I had to try and save you! I was so scared I'd fuck it up and lose you, and t-then you wouldn't wake up even after I stopped the bleeding and I didn't— didn't know what to do and— and—"

Brennan sits up, cooing soothingly, and pulls your sobbing form into his arms.

Probably not a good idea — you have no idea if you really managed to fix all of the damage to his organs, and even if you did he shouldn't be moving around just yet. But now that he's awake, he can heal anything you might have missed himself.

You hide your face against his neck, cling to him like he might disappear any second if you let go. You shouldn't be crying, but you can't seem to stop. All the emotions you'd had to push aside earlier come pouring out now that you know he'll be okay.

"Shh, shh, it's alright. I'm awake now. It's alright. You did such a good job. I'm proud of you, little angel."

You're a shitty mender, forcing Brennan to comfort you when he has been awake for less than a minute. You should be taking care of him.

"I didn't, though," you mumble against his skin. Still crying, but calmer already. "I got the wound to close, but then I was too weak to smooth the skin so now you've got this big raised scar and there might be internal damage I missed, so you'll have to check and fix it yourself even though you should be resting, all just because I'm not a good enough—"

"Hey, none of that," Brennan interrupts. "You're a first-year. We haven't even covered stomach wounds in your lessons yet, and you managed to heal mine anyway. That's really fucking impressive."

"You really think so?" you sniffle.

"Mhm, I do. And it doesn't feel like you missed any damage, either. You did a great job, believe me."

"What about the scar?"

Brennan gently shifts you to the side so he can lift his shirt and take a look. You cringe at the sight, not because it's ugly or anything like that, but because it feels like an attestation of your inadequacy.

Brennan just hums. "Doesn't look so bad to me. Just like it would look if it healed naturally."

"You could have healed it without leaving any scar at all," you mumble. "Still can, probably."

"Maybe, but that's only because I've been doing this for a lot longer than you. In a year or two, you'll be able to do that too. Besides, I don't want to erase the scar."

You frown up at Brennan as he wipes away the tears drying on your cheecks. "You don't?"

"Of course not, silly. Why would I want to erase the evidence of how brave you were, mending me when you barely knew how? It might not be the prettiest, but it's your work."

"Technically it's the work of the asshole who tried to gut you."

"Right. But you know what I mean. I'm really proud of you." He takes your hands, kissing the knuckles of one and then the other. "Thank you, by the way."

You give him a shaky smile. "Just do me a favor and never scare me like that ever again."

"I'll do my best."

[orellazalonia]

Found some footage of unhinged!reader training rookies:

https://vm.tiktok.com/ZMS8vnswe/

(Hi! I love your works, you're amazing!!)

I’M DYING LOL AND IT WORKS SOMEHOW. So, that got me thinking how would she train them…. Now we turn it into a Drabble/blurb [Confession: I don’t know the difference between those two yet LOL] Happy reading! Also greetings! Thank you so much, always so nice seeing you around. Thanks for following along!!! :D

Unqualified, Unhinged, and Unforgettable

Summary: A bunch of excited, hopeful rookies have the absolute displeasure honor of being trained under you.

Word Count: 700+

Main Masterlist | Earth’s Mightiest Headache Masterlist

The rookies were excited. Nervous, but excited.

After all, they’d been assigned to training with one of the Avengers. A respected, battle-hardened legend. Probably someone like Steve Rogers. Or maybe Natasha Romanoff! God, even Sam Wilson would be incredible.

“Wait,” One of them whispered. “Who’s that?”

You walked onto the training mat holding a stick of string cheese like a cigarette, wearing mismatched socks and aviators. You pointed the cheese at them.

“Morning, nerds.”

The recruits glanced at each other.

“…Are you the trainer?” One asked hesitantly.

You bit the cheese, chewed, and nodded. “Absolutely. Avengers’ top strategic mind. Fun fact, I have never successfully used a revolving door. You’ll respect me soon enough though.”

One recruit hesitantly raised their hand. “Why are you barefoot?”

“I fight better when grounded to the earth’s vibrations,” You replied. “Also I couldn’t find my shoes.”

And so began the most absurd training session in S.H.I.E.L.D. history.

-

Hour 1:

You paired them off. “First, pick a partner. Then pretend they just betrayed you in a high-stakes casino heist.”

They hesitated, looking around at each other as they tried to process the instruction. You shouted, “Feel the betrayal! Feel the drama! Slap them if you need to!”

One poor recruit started sobbing. Another screamed, “I LOVED YOU, TYLER,” and tackled their partner into a fountain.

You applauded. “Amazing. Raw and painful. That’s real combat.”

-

Hour 2:

You rolled a blender onto the mat with duct tape, Christmas lights, and three timers.

“This,” You announced dramatically, “is your bomb.”

“That’s a blender,” Someone whispered slowly.

You leaned in, deadly serious. “That’s what they want you to think.”

The rookies huddled, genuinely trying to figure it out. One made the mistake of cutting the red wire (which was actually a Twizzler). The blender turned on and shot glitter everywhere.

“That was a decoy,” You told them solemnly. “Now you’re covered in regret and sequins.”

-

Hour 3:

You took them on a “field simulation” which turned out to be a surprise shopping trip to IKEA.

“Navigate this labyrinth. Assemble a chair. Use only hex keys and trauma.”

Two recruits got lost in the kitchen model displays. One called you from inside a wardrobe. You refused to help.

“If you can’t escape IKEA,” You said, eating a meatball with your bare hands, “How will you escape Hydra?”

-

Aftermath

When the rookies returned to HQ, some crying, some covered in glitter, and one holding an emotional support fern; they were never the same.

But they were better, somehow. Sharper and unpredictable. Capable of disarming actual bombs and Swedish furniture with nothing but rage and a plastic fork.

Bucky found you later in the common room, sitting on the couch, eating marshmallows with chopsticks and watching a documentary on nuclear fission at max volume. You were also wearing his hoodie, which meant you were either thriving or about to cause an international incident.

He leaned in the doorway, arms crossed. “You turned those rookies into emotionally unstable weaponized gremlins.”

You didn't look away from the TV. “I prefer the term ‘innovative prodigies.’”

“They challenged Sam to a duel using plungers and grief metaphors.”

“They need to learn how to weaponize emotion. That’s day three material.”

“They built a working trebuchet and launched my motorcycle onto the roof.”

You finally turned to look at him. “And did it not work?”

Bucky stared at you. “You trained them for one day.”

You gave him a slow blink, then gently offered him a marshmallow with the chopsticks. “You love me.”

“I love you,” He said flatly, taking the marshmallow. “I also think you might be a war crime in human form.”

You grinned. “That’s the most romantic thing you’ve ever said to me.”

He walked over and dropped his head into your lap with a tired sigh, arm slinging around your waist. “Next time you train anyone, I’m sedating you first.”

“Won’t happen but that’s fair,” You said, petting his hair with one chopstick. “But you have to admit… they’re kind of unstoppable now.”

From down the hallway came a loud bang, a screech of victory, and someone yelling, “FOR SCIENCE AND THE POWER OF FRIENDSHIP!”

You sipped juice from your “World’s Best Trainer” mug and said softly, “My legacy begins.”

Bucky just groaned. “God help us all.”

[devdozes]

♠ Double package of tits and wits

i swear tge title is a joke okaya 💔anwyays, maybe innacurate medical knowledge and reader yaps about spiderverse theories tw- description of surgeries, gore (not much), surgeon mydei and reader.

The first time you met Mydei, he was standing in the middle of the ER, clipboard in hand, reading over a patient file with the expression of someone who had just been assigned to clean a crime scene with a toothbrush. He was new, fresh from a high-end medical program, and carried himself with the kind of quiet confidence that made nurses whisper and interns both respect and fear him. He had an air of efficiency, crisp in both movement and demeanor, like a man who had everything under control.

Naturally, you had to mess with him.

"Oh no, another serious one," you fake gasped, leaning against the nurses' station, balancing a cup of coffee precariously on a stack of patient charts. "You look like you're contemplating life choices. Did you lose a bet to end up here?"

Mydei slowly looked up from his clipboard, unimpressed. "No. But I assume you did, given your current posture and general air of irresponsibility."

Your smirk widened, tapping your fingers against the cup. "Ah, he's got claws. Good. You'll need them here."

Before he could reply with what you were sure would be a clinical-level roast, a nurse rushed over. "Dr. [L/N], emergency surgery. Chest trauma. OR 2. Now."

Your entire demeanor shifted in an instant. Gone was the playful teasing and casual posture. The coffee was discarded onto the counter, forgotten. You pushed off, face tightening with focus as you nodded. "On it. Let's move."

Mydei watched as you strode off, barking orders at the surgical team like a general leading an army. The contrast was stark—one moment, you were a chaotic sister figure of the hospital, the next, a razor-sharp surgeon whose presence commanded the room with no room for erorr. The ease with which you transitioned between those two states intrigued him. It was impressive.

It became a running joke in the hospital that you never walked—only sprinted. Due to the absurd number of trauma cases flooding the ER, you had been dubbed the "Marathon Runner" by the staff because you were always dashing to the emergency room or the OR, barely catching your breath between surgeries.

One particularly chaotic evening, yet another murder victim was rushed into the ER, the fifth in five days. You were already running before the announcement had finished crackling over the speakers. "Where's Mydei?! I need extra hands!" you yelled over your shoulder.

You caught sight of him further down the hall, walking at his usual composed pace. Not fast enough. In one swift motion, you grabbed his ear and yanked him along, continuing your sprint toward the ER.

"Move it, newbie! We don't have all day!" you barked, barely sparing him a glance as you dragged him with you.

Mydei stumbled slightly but quickly regained his footing, shooting you an exasperated glare. "Is this how you usually recruit your surgical team? Physical assault?"

"If it works, it works! Now stop whining and keep up!"

By the time you burst through the ER doors, Mydei’s expression was a mix of mild irritation and resigned acceptance. The staff barely batted an eye at the scene—just another day in the war zone, and just another mad sprint for the infamous "Marathon Runner." ♥♥♥

The patient was already prepped by the time you and Mydei scrubbed in. Gunshot wound to the underside of the thoracic region, severe internal bleeding, possible liver damage. Time was not on your side.

"Scalpel," you said sharply, hand outstretched as the instrument was placed into your palm.

The moment you made the incision, the world outside the operating table ceased to exist. The chaotic, joking version of you disappeared, replaced by a laser-focused surgeon with only one objective: saving this patient’s life.

"Retractor," Mydei instructed, his voice calm but firm, matching your energy perfectly. Despite his usual stoic demeanor, he worked with the same level of intensity, sharp eyes scanning for complications before they could escalate. "The bullet's lodged near the hepatic vein. High risk of rupture."

You nodded, steady hands navigating the delicate area. "We'll need to remove it without causing further damage. Hold traction here."

He complied without hesitation, and for the next hour, the two of you worked seamlessly, the tension in the room thick as you maneuvered through the critical steps. Nurses exchanged glances—rarely did a new surgeon adapt so well to your pace, but Mydei was holding his ground.

Finally, with careful precision, you made the incision, gently extracting the bullet with forceps. Mydei immediately clamped down on the bleed as you worked to close the wound. "Hemostasis achieved," he confirmed, voice still level despite the high-stakes procedure.

You exhaled sharply, finally allowing yourself to acknowledge the strain in your muscles. "Good work, newbie. Maybe I won't have to drag you by the ear next time."

His mask couldn't hide the slight quirk of his lips. "A relief, truly."

The nurses stifled laughter as the tension broke, and you smirked beneath your mask. Just another day in the war zone cod mentioned

Over the following weeks, the emergency murder victims didn’t stop. If anything, they became more frequent. More victims, more emergency calls, more all-nighters in the OR. You barely had time to breathe between surgeries. The staff was growing anxious—talks of a serial killer floated through the hospital halls, whispers of patterns, speculation about who the next victim would be.

One night, after finishing another back-to-back surgery, you leaned against the break room counter, rubbing the exhaustion from your eyes. Mydei sat across from you, arms crossed, his usual composed expression marred by something contemplative.

"You notice it too, don’t you?" you muttered, cracking open a cold energy drink. Mydei inhaled slowly, "Mhm. Yeah, I did, it is truly concerning. Who could be doing all this? and why are these happening to only those who are connected to the hospital in some way or the other?" "As much as I would like to say that it's a conspiracy theory although this seems too..well planned," You reply before taking a huge gulp of your energy drink, and cringing out as the brain freeze kicks in "OH FUCK BRAIN FREEZE!!" "Good lord"

Surgery after surgery. Shift after shift. Barely enough time to breathe.

You were used to this—the endless flood of trauma cases, the sleepless nights, the way your body screamed for rest but never quite got it. The hospital never slowed down, and neither did you. And with the murders increasing, the ER had become more of a war zone than ever.

But if there was one silver lining in this chaotic, bloodstained mess, it was that you had a new plaything—Mydei.

He had only been here for a couple of months, but the poor bastard had already been roped into your whirlwind pace. Every time another trauma case came barreling through those ER doors, it was like clockwork—you and Mydei, sprinting through the halls, elbow-deep in someone's guts five minutes later.

And to your shock? The guy was handling your bullshit.

Mostly.

♥♥♥

Surgery #1 “Another one?” Mydei muttered as he scrubbed in, glancing at the case file.

You huffed, aggressively tying your mask. “Yup. Because life is fair and normal and totally not a complete joke.”

“It is, in fact, not fair or normal,” Mydei agreed dryly, stepping into the OR beside you. “We just had back-to-back stab wounds two hours ago.”

“Welcome to the life of an average surgeon,” you shot back, holding out your hand. “Scalpel.”

The instrument was placed in your palm, and you immediately got to work, making the first incision. The moment the skin parted, blood surged up like a dark tide, and you barely resisted the urge to curse.

“Gunshot went clean through the left lung,” Mydei noted, his hands already moving to assist. “We need to clear the hemorrhaging before we can close it.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Look at you, newbie. Talking like a real trauma surgeon.”

“Unlike you, I actually paid attention in medical school.”

“Unlike you, I actually know how to function on three hours of sleep and an energy drink,” you retorted, maneuvering the forceps with ease.

He didn’t even dignify that with a response, focusing instead on securing the ruptured artery. The monitors beeped wildly as the patient’s vitals dipped, and for the next hour, it was a brutal game of tug-of-war with death.

But eventually, after what felt like forever, the bleeding was controlled, the lung repaired, and the incision closed.

Another one survived. Another round of exhaustion settling deep into your bones.

As you peeled off your gloves, you nudged Mydei with your elbow. “Good work, newbie. You only looked mildly horrified this time.”

“I was not horrified.”

“Sure you weren’t,” you said, smirking behind your mask.

♥♥♥ Surgery #5

Mydei had just sat down in the break room, a cup of coffee in one hand and his sanity barely intact, when you kicked the door open, with the most tired, zombie-like eyes ever, but your energy said otherwsie.

“We have another stab wound victim,” you announced dramatically, pointing at him like you were accusing him of a crime.

He stared at you for exactly three seconds. Then, without breaking eye contact, he calmly put down his coffee, stood up, and walked past you.

“You coming?” he said flatly.

You grinned and followed after him, practically skipping.

By the time you were both in the OR again, hands scrubbed, gloved, and ready to operate, you could feel the weight of exhaustion pressing down on you. But at this point, exhaustion was just another permanent state of being.

“Another day, another stab victim,” you muttered, making the first incision. “I should start keeping a tally at this point.”

“I assume you already do,” Mydei said without looking up, using a retractor to hold the muscle layers apart.

“I do, actually. I carved it into the back of the break room door.”

He blinked. “You did what?”

“I’m kidding.”

“… Are you?”

“Maybe.”

He exhaled sharply, muttering something under his breath about unprofessionalism and ‘why do I work with you’, but his hands never faltered.

And as always, you and Mydei worked seamlessly, patching up yet another poor soul and dragging them back from the brink of death.

♥♥♥

Surgery #9

It had been twenty hours since either of you had properly rested, and you were running on nothing but spite, lemon-flavored energy drinks, and questionable life choices.

“Did you seriously just chew a lemon before scrubbing in?” Mydei asked, his voice filled with both disbelief and vague disappointment.

“Yup,” you said cheerfully, barely suppressing a yawn.

“Unbelievable.”

“You say that like this isn’t my standard operating procedure.”

“… That is the problem.”

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose before shaking his head and focusing on the patient before you. It was a nasty case—multiple knife wounds across the abdomen and thigh, excessive blood loss, risk of sepsis.

The moment you started cutting, it was pure chaos. Blood loss was extreme, the heart monitor was fluctuating wildly, and the nurses were scrambling to keep up with the damage.

Through it all, you and Mydei moved in perfect sync—suctioning, stitching, clamping arteries before they could burst.

“Patient’s BP is dropping,” a nurse warned.

“We need to move faster,” Mydei said, his voice sharp.

You didn’t hesitate, maneuvering the forceps with expert precision, your breathing controlled even as tension mounted. The OR was filled with nothing but the sounds of beeping monitors and the relentless rhythm of your hands moving against time itself.

And then—

Stabilization.

The vitals steadied. The bleeding stopped. The worst was over.

You let out a long, exhausted breath, finally stepping back. “Oh my fucking god. That was hell.”

Mydei, equally exhausted, glanced at you. “At least we’re still alive.”

“For now,” you muttered, tossing your gloves into the bin.

♥♥♥

After nine surgeries in less than two days, the exhaustion finally hit you like a truck.

As you walked into the break room, Mydei following behind, you dramatically collapsed onto the couch, draping yourself over the armrest. “I am dying. This is it. Tell my story.”

Mydei raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “No.”

“Rude.”

He ignored you, instead pouring himself another cup of coffee with all the grace of a man barely holding himself together.

You peeked at him from the couch. “You know, newbie, for someone who acts all serious, you’re weirdly good at keeping up with my insanity.”

He took a slow sip of his coffee, meeting your gaze with a look of complete indifference. “Because someone has to make sure you don’t actually die from your own bad habits.”

You grinned. “Aww. You care.”

“I don’t.”

“You totally do.”

“I don’t.”

“You’re looking out for me. Admit it.”

He sighed heavily, rubbing his temples. “I regret working here.”

“No, you don’t.”

He took another long sip of coffee, not answering.

And despite how exhausted you both were—despite the blood, the chaos, and the looming shadow of the unbelievably many cases—you couldn’t help but laugh. You then stand up, stretching your arms upwards and bending down until you feel a sense of relief. "Alright, I'm going to go in the dorm to rest now, call me if anything happens" You sluggishly say while walking outside the door, not giving Mydei a single look as you slam the door shut.

The hospital was never quiet.

Machines beeped, nurses murmured in hushed voices, and somewhere down the hall, the steady rhythm of footsteps echoed against the tiled floors. It was a never-ending cycle of exhaustion and urgency.

But for once, you weren’t in the middle of the chaos.

You had crashed in the break room after nine surgeries back-to-back, running on caffeine and pure adrenaline. The moment your body hit the couch, you were out—four hours of deep, dreamless sleep. It wasn’t enough, not even close, but at least you could function again.

You groggily blinked awake, stretching slightly as your stiff muscles protested. Something felt different.

Lifting your head, you noticed the dimmed lights and the faint chill of the air conditioning. And then—your gaze landed on the figure at the desk.

Mydei.

Fast asleep.

His arms were folded on the surface, head resting on them, his usual sharp posture completely gone. His strawberry-blonde hair, with its signature faded red tips, was a little messier than usual—strands falling over his forehead, some brushing against his closed eyes. Even the normally well-hidden red tattoos that curled faintly along his collarbone and neck were just barely visible beneath the slightly loosened collar of his uniform.

You stared.

It wasn’t like you’d never seen Mydei exhausted before—you practically lived in the trenches together, spending ungodly hours in the operating room, barely catching breaks between emergencies. But this?

You’d never seen him this unguarded.

His sharp golden eyes—usually keen, unwavering, always calculating—were closed, his breathing deep and steady. Without that intense gaze, the usual tension in his expression had softened, leaving behind something… calmer.

… Honestly? He kinda looked like a big, overworked tiger curled up for a nap.

Which made the urge to mess with him even stronger.

Still groggy, you dragged yourself off the couch and plopped down beside him. Instead of waking him up, you mirrored his position—arms folded, head resting on them.

And then—you just watched him.

Not in a creepy way, of course. 🤨

You were just… admiring.

The way his hair fell over his face, the subtle rise and fall of his breathing, the faintest crease in his brow like even in sleep, his mind was still running through checklists and surgical procedures.

It was rare to see Mydei so… still.

You exhaled softly, tilting your head slightly, and without really thinking, you reached forward—lightly brushing a stray strand of his hair out of his face.

His hair was softer than you expected.

Not fair.

“… Damn,” you whispered, a small smirk tugging at your lips. “Didn’t know you could actually look peaceful.”

No response.

“… Or that you had a soft side. Thought you just ran on stress and stubbornness.”

Still nothing.

You chuckled, shifting slightly to get more comfortable. Maybe you’d just sit here for a while.

The break room was quiet—a rare thing in a hospital where chaos never took a break. The distant hum of machines and the occasional muffled voice from the hallway were the only reminders that the world outside was still moving.

But here, at this moment, it felt like time had slowed down.

You had only meant to sit beside Mydei for a little while—maybe tease him when he woke up, maybe just steal a moment of peace. But the exhaustion that had been dragging at your bones for hours finally caught up to you.

Your breathing evened out, your eyelids grew heavier, and before you even realized it… you were out.

Your head tilted slightly, resting against your folded arms—barely a few inches away from Mydei’s.

For a while, the two of you just slept there.

The break room remained undisturbed, the dim lighting casting soft shadows over the both of you. The warmth of exhaustion settled in, and despite the hard surface of the desk, despite the stress of the hospital, you slept soundly.

It wasn’t long before Mydei stirred.

His sharp golden eyes fluttered open, blinking away the haze of sleep. It took him a moment to register where he was—the familiar scent of antiseptic, the low hum of hospital equipment, the faint chill of the AC brushing against his skin.

And then—he noticed you.

Still fast asleep.

Mydei froze.

You were so close.

Your head was resting on your arms, your breathing slow and even. Your hair was slightly messy from the way you had collapsed against the desk, a few strands falling over your face. Your usual smirk and teasing remarks were absent, leaving behind a rare, peaceful expression.

For the first time since he had met you, you looked completely relaxed.

His gaze lingered.

Longer than necessary.

The way your eyelashes rested lightly against your skin. The way your lips were slightly parted in sleep. The way your entire presence, which was usually so chaotic, loud, and restless, was now quiet and soft.

Mydei’s fingers twitched slightly—as if resisting the urge to reach forward.

He swallowed, looking away for a brief moment, but his eyes inevitably found their way back to you.

Why did you always manage to surprise him?

Every day in this hospital, you ran on energy that should’ve been impossible, pushing through sleepless nights, impossible surgeries, and the constant storm of emergencies with a smirk and a sharp remark.

But now?

Now you were just a person. A tired, overworked person who had finally given in to exhaustion.

Mydei exhaled slowly, his gaze softening ever so slightly.

“… Idiot.” His voice was barely above a whisper, but there was no bite in it.

Just something quiet.

Something unspoken.

Something fond.

His golden eyes lingered on you for a moment longer before he sighed and leaned back, closing his eyes again.

♥♥♥

Not even after a few minutes, his sharp golden eyes fluttered open again. And Mydei remained still, his sharp golden eyes lingering on you as you slept—your breath slow and even, lips slightly parted, exhaustion weighing heavily on your features.

It was rare to see you like this.

Usually, you were everywhere—a constant storm of motion, teasing remarks, and sharp wit. You sprinted through hallways, laughed in the face of pressure, and dragged him into surgeries without so much as a warning.

But now?

Now you looked… adorable.

A rare sight. One that made something tighten in Mydei’s chest.

Without fully thinking, his hand moved on its own.

His fingers brushed against your cheek, featherlight—hesitant, almost uncertain.

His touch was gentle, warm despite the callouses from years of steady-handed practice in surgery. He traced the faint warmth of your skin, watching the slow rise and fall of your breathing, the way your eyelashes barely fluttered in sleep.

Soft.

You always carried yourself with a reckless energy, a chaotic presence that burned like an uncontrollable fire. And yet, here you were, fragile in a way he’d never seen before.

Mydei swallowed, pulling his hand away reluctantly.

You needed rest.

And if he knew you at all, the moment you woke up, you'd be right back to running through the hospital like a madwoman.

With careful movements, he shifted forward, sliding his arms beneath you.

His hands settled under your back and legs as he lifted you effortlessly—your body light in his grasp, head naturally falling against his shoulder.

You stirred slightly.

A soft murmur left your lips, barely coherent, but you didn't wake.

Mydei stiffened, pausing for a second as his heart gave a single, unexpectedly loud thud.

Then, when he was sure you wouldn’t suddenly snap awake and make some kind of smug remark, he continued moving.

Crossing the break room in a few quiet steps, he carefully lowered you onto the bed.

The mattress dipped slightly beneath your weight, and Mydei took his time ensuring you were comfortable. He adjusted your arm so it wasn’t awkwardly twisted, gently tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear before pulling the blanket over you.

He watched for a moment.

The way your lips parted slightly in your sleep. The way you instinctively curled into the warmth of the blanket.

Then, finally, he exhaled—stepping back.

His gaze lingered.

Just a little longer.

The next day, the emergency room was in chaos again.

Another murder victim had arrived—stabbed five times across the torso. But this time, it was different. The victim was one of the kidney donors for an upcoming transplant surgery.

"Damn it," you hissed under your breath, already sprinting down the hallway. "Where’s Mydei?!"

Just like before, you spotted him walking toward the ER. Without hesitation, you grabbed his arm, dragging him along at full speed.

"Another one?" he asked, voice edged with something colder this time.

"Yeah, and it’s bad. Let’s go."

You burst into the OR, scrubbing in faster than you ever had. As you pulled on your gloves, the sight before you made your stomach drop. The victim was barely hanging on, the stab wounds deep, organs likely compromised. fuckfuckfuckfuck.

♥♥♥

The operating room was already a bloody fucking battlefield by the time you and Mydei scrubbed in, the air thick with the metallic scent of blood. Nurses moved with trained precision, hooking up transfusions, adjusting monitors, and preparing for what would undoubtedly be a long, grueling surgery. The overhead surgical lights cast harsh illumination over the patient’s torso—five deep stab wounds, oozing dark crimson with every weakening pulse.

Heart rate: dangerously unstable. Blood pressure: crashing.

Your jaw tightened as you surveyed the damage. Stabs this deep weren’t meant to be survived. Whoever did this had aimed to kill.

“Damn it,” you muttered, snapping on your gloves. “If we don’t stop the bleeding now, he’s going into irreversible shock.”

Mydei, standing opposite you, let out a slow breath, already tying his mask over his face. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes—sharp, calculating—scanned the wounds just as fast as yours. “Five stab wounds. Two to the upper left quadrant, three to the lower right. If the knife went deep enough, we could be looking at a perforated intestine or a renal artery injury.”

Your pulse spiked. A renal artery injury was a death sentence without immediate intervention.

“Massive transfusion protocol,” you snapped. A nurse responded instantly, prepping units of blood and plasma. “We need volume replacement now.”

Mydei nodded. “We’ll clamp first, repair later. If we go straight to suturing with this much blood loss, he’ll code on the table.”

No arguments. No wasted time. You were already reaching out.

“Scalpel.”

The cold metal handle was placed into your palm within seconds. You made your incision with expert precision, cutting through damaged tissue with just enough force to expose the internal injury without worsening it. Blood immediately welled up, pooling at the edges, but you ignored it.

“Suction,” Mydei instructed. A nurse responded instantly, clearing your field of vision.

You leaned in, eyes narrowing as you inspected the worst of the damage. “Wound number three tore straight through the abdominal muscles—there’s internal bleeding near the right kidney, but no penetration to the organ itself. Wound number five is the real problem.”

Mydei adjusted his grip on the retractor, carefully exposing the area. “It’s deep. Arterial involvement is definite.”

You exhaled sharply. “We need to clamp the renal artery now. If we don’t stop this bleed, the kidney’s gone.”

Without hesitation, he reached for the vascular clamp and maneuvered it into place, securing the artery just enough to slow the hemorrhaging without cutting off circulation completely. The heart monitor beeped erratically, a sharp, nerve-wracking rhythm reminding you both that time was running out.

Your mind worked at lightning speed. A clean suture wouldn’t be enough. The artery needed reinforcement.

“Vascular shunt,” you ordered.

The nurse handed it over, and Mydei carefully inserted the temporary tubing into the laceration, allowing blood to continue flowing while preventing further hemorrhage. It was a calculated move—buying you time to stabilize the patient before a definitive repair.

The surgery stretched into hours. Each stab wound presented a new set of complications—layers of muscle damage, ruptured capillaries, tissue trauma that required intricate repair. At one point, the patient’s vitals dipped dangerously low, sending a wave of tension through the OR.

“Heart rate’s dropping,” a nurse announced, voice tight.

You snapped your fingers, already moving. “Increase fluids, push epinephrine if needed.”

Mydei’s voice remained steady despite the pressure. “The renal artery’s secured. Moving on to muscle closure.”

You nodded, exhaling sharply as you reinforced the sutures around the artery and checked for residual bleeding. “Alright. That’s the worst of it. We’ll leave the abdomen open with a temporary closure—he’s too unstable for a full close-up now.”

The next steps were grueling. Stitching up torn muscle, ensuring no internal bleeding remained, placing protective barriers to prevent sepsis. The process required patience and absolute focus.

By the time you secured the final surgical dressing, the monitors had stabilized. The heart rate was still weak, but steady. The kidney function was preserved. Against the odds, the patient had survived.

The room was silent for a moment—no words, just the heavy weight of exhaustion and relief pressing down on you.

Then, finally, you leaned back, stretching out your stiff shoulders. “Well,” you said, voice hoarse, “that was an absolute nightmare.”

Mydei removed his gloves with that same composed expression, though there was a flicker of something else in his gaze—something unreadable. “But he lived.”

You huffed out a breath, nodding. “Yeah. He did.

The second you stepped out of the OR, the weight of the past few hours slammed into you all at once.

Your legs felt like lead, exhaustion pressing into every joint and muscle. The harsh fluorescent lights of the hallway blurred at the edges of your vision, and your pulse drummed sluggishly in your ears.

The moment you made it past the door, your knees buckled.

You barely had the energy to curse before your back hit the wall, and you slumped down onto the cold tile floor. Your head lolled back against the surface, eyes fluttering shut as you exhaled sharply.

“Shit.” The word came out as more of a breath than a complaint.

The sheer amount of adrenaline, focus, and precision that the surgery had required had drained you completely. Even though you’d done longer procedures before, something about this one had left you bone-tired.

Maybe it was because the patient shouldn’t have made it. Maybe it was because you’d spent every second fighting against the inevitable.

Maybe it was just the way your body was finally giving out.

A pair of footsteps stopped beside you.

You barely cracked an eye open before a shadow loomed over you.

Mydei.

Still in his surgical gown, mask pulled down, golden eyes sharp and alert. He stood over you, arms crossed, brows pinched slightly—though whether in concern or exasperation, you couldn’t tell.

“You look pathetic,” he noted, though his voice lacked its usual bite.

You gave him a half-hearted smirk. “Flatter me more, tiger.”

His expression barely flickered, though the faint twitch in his jaw told you he was holding back a sigh. Instead of responding, he simply crouched down beside you.

“You should get up.”

“I literally can’t feel my legs.”

“Tch.” A beat passed before Mydei exhaled through his nose. Then, without hesitation, he reached out and—

Grasped your wrist.

His fingers curled around your pulse point, firm and steady, grounding you to reality.

Your breath hitched slightly, but you didn’t have the energy to react beyond that.

“Pulse is weak,” he murmured.

“No shit,” you mumbled, head lolling slightly to the side as you closed your eyes again. “It’s almost like I just performed a life-saving operation or something.”

There was a long pause.

Then—before you could fully process it—you felt warmth press against your forehead.

Mydei’s hand.

His palm was broad and slightly cool, pressing against your damp skin in a way that was almost soothing. And his scent—you may have just come out of a 12-hour surgery with him but god he smelled good, a hint of raspberry, vanilla, and pomegranate? You almost leaned into his touch before stopping yourself and tightening your body.

Checking your temperature. That’s all it was. Just routine.

Still, your stomach did a strange little flip.

“You’re burning up,” he muttered. His voice was quieter now, softer, but still carrying that same weight of irritated concern.

“I’ll live,” you said, though your body very much disagreed.

He didn’t move his hand away immediately. He stayed there for a second longer, studying you. Then, finally, he pulled back, exhaling sharply.

“Come on.” He pushed himself up to his feet, then—without warning—reached down again and grasped you by the forearm.

“Wait—”

He hauled you up.

Too fast. Your body protested instantly, knees nearly buckling again.

Without thinking, you grabbed onto his coat for support.

For a moment, the two of you were far too close.

Your forehead nearly brushed against his collarbone, and in that brief second, you felt the steady rise and fall of his breathing, the slight heat radiating off of him, the faintest scent of disinfectant and something vaguely warm—like ginger and cloves.

Your fingers tightened on his coat for just a second.

His grip on your arm lingered.

Then—Mydei cleared his throat.

“You’re impossible.” His voice was gruff as he steadied you properly, making sure you could stand on your own. “I swear, if you collapse again, I’m dragging you to a bed myself.”

You forced out a weak, tired smirk. “That a promise, doc?”

He stared at you for a second. Then, with a huff, he turned on his heel.

“Break room. Now,” he ordered over his shoulder. “Before you actually pass out.”

You sighed, rubbing the back of your neck.

With how heavy your limbs felt, you had no choice but to obey.

The break room was dimly lit, the overhead lights turned down low to keep the atmosphere calm. A faint hum from the vending machine filled the space, along with the occasional soft beep from someone’s pager in the distance.

You were lying on the couch, one arm lazily draped over your stomach, feeling much better after your forced rest. Mydei, on the other hand, sat on a chair nearby, long legs stretched out, one arm resting against the table.

He had forced you to rest. You had technically obeyed. You closed your eyes. You stayed still. You didn't pass out from exhaustion. Success.

…But now you were bored out of your goddamn mind.

Which led you to this.

“So technically, in ‘Across the Spider-Verse,’ Miguel’s entire logic about ‘canon events’ is flawed because the entire idea of a multiverse means infinite possibilities. You can’t have a strict set of events that must happen in every universe, because that would contradict the whole ‘infinite variation’ thing—”

Mydei was actually listening.

Despite his usual deadpan demeanor, he hadn’t told you to shut up or leave him alone yet. Instead, his sharp golden eyes were fixed on you, brows slightly furrowed as he processed your rant.

“…That’s assuming the multiverse follows a quantum branching system,” he said, voice calm and thoughtful. “But if we apply a more structured framework—like the Many Worlds Interpretation—then it’s possible that only specific variations of events can exist while still allowing divergence.”

You blinked. “You’re actually engaging in this conversation.”

He gave you a look. “You sound surprised.”

“I am surprised. I expected you to roll your eyes and tell me to sleep.”

Mydei shrugged. “I don’t mind listening.”

You stared at him for a second, then grinned. “Damn. You’re a nerd.”

He exhaled, shaking his head, but you caught the faintest twitch at the corner of his lips.

Undeterred, you continued.

“But Miguel is literally contradicting himself,” you argued, shifting slightly on the couch. “He says Miles wasn’t supposed to be Spider-Man, meaning he technically never had a ‘canon’ to begin with. So why would the universe force him into one now?”

Mydei tapped his fingers idly against the table. “It could be that the multiverse adapts, forming new constants based on anomalies.”

“But that would mean anyone could be Spider-Man.”

“Perhaps.” He tilted his head slightly. “Or perhaps Miguel’s mistake was believing he could control a system that was never meant to be controlled in the first place.”

You stared at him.

“…I’m actually impressed.”

He raised a brow. “You thought I wasn’t capable of holding a conversation?”

“No, I just didn’t expect you to willingly entertain my Spider-Verse nonsense.”

Mydei let out a slow breath, leaning back slightly.

“…You like talking about it,” he murmured. “So I don’t mind.”

Something about the way he said it made your heart do a weird little flip.

You quickly covered it with a smirk. “Careful, doc. You’re gonna make me think you enjoy my company.”

He simply looked at you.

A pause.

Then—

“Go to sleep.”

You groaned dramatically, throwing an arm over your face. “You were doing so well, and then you just had to ruin it.”

Mydei huffed softly, shaking his head. “You’re exhausting.”

Mydei sat at the table, flipping through a patient file, but you knew he wasn’t really reading it. His eyes, usually sharp and calculating, had that half-lidded, exhausted look—the kind that screamed I have five minutes before my brain shuts down.

You weren’t much better.

Despite your fake nap, sleep still refused to claim you, leaving you restless and annoyingly aware of how much your body ached from standing in surgery for hours. Your stomach twisted—not in pain, but in that weird way that told you hey, dumbass, maybe eat something before you actually collapse.

But…you’d ignored hunger before.

It’d pass.

Probably.

Then, Mydei spoke.

“Change your clothes.”

You blinked, snapping out of your haze. “Huh?”

He barely looked up. “We’re going out.”

You raised a brow. “Since when do you voluntarily leave the hospital?”

“Since I realized you’re just as bad as me when it comes to taking care of yourself.” He finally met your gaze, golden eyes unwavering. “Neither of us has eaten anything real in over twelve hours. If we don’t fix that now, we’ll both be too dead to function tomorrow.”

You wanted to argue. Really, you did.

But he wasn’t wrong.

You had both been running on caffeine, adrenaline, and sheer spite for the past…God, you didn’t even know how many hours.

“…Fair point.” You let out a slow breath, pushing yourself up from the couch with a groan. Holy shit, your muscles were stiff.

Mydei had already stood, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off the weight of the last few hours. His hair—normally somewhat neat—was slightly disheveled, the faded red tips a little more pronounced under the dim lighting. You caught a glimpse of the faint tattoos along his neck when he stretched, but—as usual—he made sure not to expose too much.

He didn’t like drawing attention to them.

Not that you’d ever ask why.

“Alright, doc,” you sighed, stretching your arms over your head. “Let’s go eat before we actually drop dead.”

Mydei simply nodded, grabbing his coat.

And just like that, the two of you left the hospital behind—two overworked, half-dead surgeons, finally taking care of themselves for once.

♥♥♥

The rumble of Mydei’s bike beneath you was oddly soothing, the crisp night air rushing past as the two of you sped down the empty streets. The hospital was long behind you, and for once, you weren’t drowning in the stench of antiseptic and blood—just fresh air, neon-lit roads, and the low hum of the engine.

You leaned back slightly, arms wrapped around his waist, feeling the warmth of his body through his jacket. He was solid. Reliable. Steady.

Not that you’d ever tell him that.

“You always drive this fast?” you teased over the wind.

“Faster, usually.”

You snorted. “Damn. And here I thought you were the responsible one.”

Mydei didn’t respond, you roll your eyes and then you suddenly a hear a slow, deep amused chuckle from his side. Fake ass scary wannabe

The place Mydei picked was a small, cozy restaurant—dim lighting, warm colors, and the scent of something freshly baked lingering in the air. Definitely not the high-energy bar you half-expected him to take you to.

You slid into the booth across from him, propping your chin on your hand as you lazily glanced over the menu.

“So,” you mused, “what’s the Mydei Special?”

He barely hesitated. “Strawberry ice cream shake.”

You blinked. Paused.

Then you burst out laughing.

Mydei just stared, unimpressed. “What?”

You tried—tried—to hold back your laughter, but the mental image of this tall, buff, scary-looking man sipping on a strawberry-flavored ice cream shake like it was the most normal thing in the world was sending you.

“Oh my god,” you wheezed, “you have the biggest sweet tooth, don’t you?”

He didn’t confirm. He didn’t deny it either.

“…It’s good,” was all he said, as if that was enough of an explanation. And you swear you see a small pout on his stern face along with a slight blush on his cheeks.

You grinned, eyes gleaming with mischief. “So you’re telling me, out of all the drinks on this menu, you saw ‘strawberry ice cream shake’ and went yep, that’s the one?”

“Yes.”

Your grin widened. “No regrets?”

“None.”

You shook your head, still grinning, before waving the waitress over. “Alright, alright, respect. I’ll take a limoncello.”

Mydei nodded at her. “And I’ll have the strawberry ice cream shake.”

The waitress smiled politely before walking off with your order.

You still hadn’t stopped snickering when she came back a few minutes later—with your drinks.

Only…

She placed the limoncello in front of Mydei and the strawberry shake in front of you.

Because, of course, everyone assumed the big, brooding man with golden tiger-like eyes was the one ordering alcohol, and the chaotic, snarky, sweet you was the one drinking something soft and sweet.

There was a beat of silence.

You bit your lip, trying so hard not to laugh again.

Mydei just stared at the drink in front of him.

Slowly, he looked back up at you. “Switch.”

“Wait, no, this is hilarious.”

“Switch.”

“I should take a picture first—”

“Switch.”

Now you were full-on laughing. “Oh my god, you’re actually embarrassed.”

He wasn’t. Not really. But the flat stare he gave you made it so much funnier.

Eventually, you relented, swapping the drinks properly. But as Mydei sipped his strawberry shake—totally unfazed—you couldn’t help but admire just how effortlessly him he was.

Big, intimidating, and secretly soft as hell.

Yeah. You were keeping this information for blackmail later.

The ride back to the hospital was uneventful, but there was a strange sense of dread lingering in your chest. Maybe it was the way Mydei’s grip on the handlebars felt a little tense, or maybe it was the way the city lights seemed too quiet for this time of night.

Or maybe—just maybe—it was intuition.

When you stepped off the bike and walked back inside, the sterile white halls of the hospital were as cold as ever, humming under dim fluorescent lights.

But then—

You saw her.

Standing in front of the breakroom. Arms crossed, expression unreadable, piercing blue eyes locked directly onto the both of you.

Aglaea.

The hospital director.

Your stomach plummeted.

“Oh. Shit.”

You felt Mydei stiffen beside you. Not visibly—but you knew him well enough to notice.

Aglaea wasn’t like the other directors you’d met in your life. She was meticulous. Calculated. Sharp as a scalpel and just as dangerous when she wanted to be.

And right now, she was staring directly at you both like a mother catching her kids sneaking in past curfew.

“…You’re back,” she said smoothly, voice as cool as ever.

You cleared your throat, nudging Mydei slightly. Say something, idiot.

“…Yes,” Mydei said simply.

Silence.

Aglaea’s gaze slowly flickered between you and Mydei.

Then, she sighed. “Do I want to know where you two have been?”

“…Cafeteria,” you blurted.

She raised a single, perfectly shaped eyebrow. “The hospital cafeteria closes at 8 PM.”

“We took the long route.”

Mydei shot you a look. The ‘seriously?’ look.

Aglaea, to your absolute horror, looked vaguely amused.

“You took the long route,” she repeated, clearly not buying a damn word of it.

“…Yes,” you said again, just to commit to the lie.

For a long moment, Aglaea said nothing. Just stared at the both of you with that air of quiet superiority, as if she already knew exactly what happened and was merely giving you a chance to embarrass yourselves.

Then, finally, she sighed.

“I assume you both at least ate something?”

“…Yes,” Mydei answered.

“And slept?”

You and Mydei hesitated.

Aglaea closed her eyes briefly, as if resisting the urge to scold you both like children. Then, after a moment, she just exhaled slowly and rubbed her temple.

“I don’t know what I expected,” she muttered to herself.

You exchanged a glance with Mydei.

Then, cautiously, you asked, “Are we… in trouble?”

Aglaea opened her eyes again, looking utterly unimpressed.

“No, but you will be if you keep this up.” She gave you both a look. “Surgeons are only as good as the state they keep themselves in. If you start making a habit of neglecting your own health, I will personally ensure you take forced leave.”

You grimaced. Forced leave meant staying at home, doing nothing. Which was actual hell.

“Noted,” Mydei murmured.

“Good.” Aglaea turned, stepping aside. “Get some rest. I expect you both back on duty in four hours.”

Four hours. That was generous.

You exhaled in relief, muttering, “Understood.”

Aglaea shot one last glance with her sharp yet cool cyan-green eyes at the both of you before walking away, leaving you slumping against the breakroom door.

“…That was terrifying,” you muttered.

Mydei hummed. “She went easy on us.”

“That was her going easy?”

He didn’t answer, just pushed open the door to the breakroom. You followed him inside, stretching out with a long, tired sigh.

“Well,” you huffed, flopping onto the couch. “That went better than expected.”

Mydei didn’t respond—he was already shrugging off his coat and tossing it onto a chair before sitting down beside you.

For a long, comfortable silence, you both just sat there, the exhaustion slowly catching up.

Then, finally, you nudged him with your foot.

“…Strawberry shake,” you murmured with a teasing grin.

Mydei didn’t open his eyes. “Sleep.”

“You like cute things—”

“Sleep.”

You snickered. Maybe you’d get some rest. But only after you finished teasing him about this for another ten minutes.

♥♥♥

You didn’t even bother changing into something more comfortable before dragging yourself to the breakroom. If Aglaea was going to forcefully make you rest, you might as well do it on your own terms.

And by ‘rest,’ you meant laying on the small bed with your phone, zoning out.

Mydei followed in after you, shrugging off his coat before sitting down near the sink, his sharp golden eyes half-lidded with exhaustion.

The restroom was dimly lit, the overhead fluorescent lights buzzing faintly, mixing with the hum of the hospital beyond these walls. It was quiet here. Too quiet.

You sighed, taking out your phone, plugging in your earphones, and scrolling through your playlists before finally settling on something slow, dreamy, and detached.

The soft, melancholic strum of the guitar filled your ears as you leaned back, closing your eyes. The aching tiredness in your bones was undeniable, but sleep wouldn’t come that easily.

And then—

A warm hand suddenly plucked an earbud out of your ear.

You opened one eye just in time to see Mydei casually pop it into his ear, settling beside you like he owned the place.

Your brain lagged.

“…Did you just—”

“Yes.” His voice was smooth, as unreadable as ever. He leaned back slightly, his expression neutral as if he didn’t just steal your music.

You blinked at him.

Then, without thinking, you muttered, “…Double package of tits and wits.”

Silence.

Mydei slowly turned his head to look at you. His golden eyes narrowed slightly, as if trying to determine whether he actually heard that right or if he was simply too tired to process it.

“Excuse me what the fuck?” "Erm.. that was a compliment"

anwyays hi i have math exam next killl me credits to my sister to helping me with all the medical knowledge 💔

[couch-potato28]

Imagine being a Blue Lock manager! ⚽️

VERSION IX.

(a/n: RAAAH 🔥 woke up to a congratulatory message for 1000 likes, you guys are amazing!! sending lots of love, I’m extremely grateful and thank you for the support ❤️)

Warning-none

wc: 1k

ALSO: @ttheggrimrreaper ❣️ (if you wanna join the taglist lemme know)

——————

FROM THE PROLOGUE:

“Congratulations L/N Y/N! Based on your results, you've earned your place in Blue Lock as the manager of player number…

…5, Yukimiya Kenyu.”

As soon as his name was announced, a group of girls squealed from excitement, immediately turning to you with curiosity perhaps jealousy in their eyes.

“Lucky!”

“Oh my gosh, if I knew he was here I would have trained harder!”

“Can you get me a signature, please?”

You were bombed with questions left and right, the room shrinking to the size of a football with barely enough space to breathe. Before you could suffocate, Ego’s voice harshly reminded everyone to back off, letting you make your way to Anri.

“I almost died for you Yukimiya”

Imagine being the 1v1 emperor, Yukimiya Kenyu’s manager.

——————

Yukimiya Kenyu whose tall frame, paired with glasses framing his face, made him easily recognizable among the others. You caught him in a rather intense 1 on 1 match—quickly recalling what you read from his profile sheet—convinced that he’s gonna win the duel. Patiently waiting for the match to finish, you then approached him with a smile, handing him his water bottle before introducing yourself to the boy. As expected, he returned the polite smile, shaking your hand while asking some questions. Talking with him made you realize, no wonder everyone was all over him, because damn was he handsome.

——————

•Yukimiya, who you form a strictly professional relationship with, sometimes curious about what he thinks of you. He’s just so polite to the point it’s almost scary, and not once has he offended you in any way. Super nice, but you can tell there’s this certain wall between the two of you.

•He’s easy to deal with, never complaining, always following instructions to the core and he’s really capable on his own as well. You notice how he likes to do things alone most of the time—dealing with exhaustion, injuries, and personal problems without discussing them with you.

•Very mature and loves to handle his own business, but after a certain incident where you prove yourself to be more than just an assigned manager, he lets you in his inner circle. No more distance between you and him—just his pure, unfiltered self.

•FINALLY, someone who shows up on time for events, matches etc. without needing a thousand reminders. Disciplined during practice and training, all while carefully listening to your guidance.

•Yukimiya, who will do some extra training, if he feels like it but you will have to practically force him to rest, otherwise he’s gonna overwork. Likes to help you with paperwork too, turning it into a fun bonding time.

•Always notices if you’re having a bad day and will gently ask how you are, or instruct you to go back to bed, saying he can manage himself for a day. Perfect at listening to you vent, and gives the best solutions for any problem.

•Yukimiya doesn’t tease you a lot since he’s such a gentleman, instead he will secretly trash talk and gossip to you. Also, he’s always silently judging someone with the nastiest side eyes known to mankind. (second to Chigiri) LOVES to roll his eyes as well.

•He doesn’t mention his job as a model, but due to his teammates’ teasing, he tells you some snippets of how they scouted him etc. At the same time you tell him about the little incident during the announcements, making him laugh and a glint of pride shines in his eyes.

——————

AFTER THE U20 MATCH…

•Yukimiya becomes more open to others, cooperating during matches and discussions. He also pays more attention to you during analysis sessions and pre-match talks, asking even more questions than before.

•You also have to change some things in his diet that could make a slight improvement in his vision, as well as ensuring he goes for monthly checkups, and searches for treatments on the Internet.

•He appreciates your support silently. Not really the emotional type, but when you’re sitting on a bench waiting for him to finish—it means a lot. Remembers your habits, and never fails to look out for you.

•Yukimiya is EXTREMELY photogenic since he’s a model. Super polite with interviewers and always gives clear answers. Really sweet to his fans as well, they swoon every time they see him. To your surprise, they also compliment how cute his manager is, some people even making ship edits about the two of you.

•Definition of unbothered in everyday life. Did he forget his own water bottle? Karasu’s will do. Oops, was this seat supposed to be Isagi’s? Guess he’ll have to sit somewhere else. You are scolding him? “Yes, yes manager-san.” He definitely DID NOT listen and was instead, counting how many eyelashes you have.

•You can’t read his emotions off of his face. He has this gentleman image that never seems to leave even if he is angry. Not towards you tho, it’s for his teammates—and the extremely pushy and rude paparazzi. It’s chilling how he smiles when he’s happy AND when he’s mad. You can hardly tell the difference.

•Yukimiya, who will drop random pick up lines out of nowhere without even realizing it—surprised every time when you’re flustered, thinking it’s the hot weather. (could be winter doesn’t matter)

•He will also unconsciously (or not) do the most boyfriend coded things ever like—looking over your shoulder with his face dangerously close to yours, or moving you by the waist with a “can you move a bit to the left” while his hands are on your sides.

•Big anime fan, but refuses to talk about it unless you bring it up first. After that he turns into a total fanboy, telling you some episodes by heart and he’s just so nerdy, it makes you smile.

•Nobody suspects him, but he has some UNHINGED photos of the boys on his phone. Otoya with a double chin? Check. Nagi drooling on his own pillow? Check. Bachira FULLY naked? Check, and don’t ask him how he got it.

•Yukimiya is the ideal player to get with his attentive nature, all while being perfectly media trained. Thanks to his skills, you don’t have to suffer that much, making your life stressful-free. That is until his very first scandal pops up and the topic is none other than—you and him being involved in a RELATIONSHIP?

[monstersandgenderqueers]

Little Gifts (Part One)

Loki, a new resident in the compound, sparks your interest. You decide to give him a gift in secret, hoping he might cheer up just a little bit. Well, it didn't work out that way.

Pairing: Loki x neurodivergent!reader

Word count: 2200

A/N: Look, I really wanted to read a fanfic about an autistic reader but alas, there are so few. So I made one myself. Yes, this might just be a self-insert, but everyone's experience with neurodivergence is different, and it felt simpler just to make the reader's neurodivergence similar to mine. This series will mostly be exploring neurodiversity and Loki's reactions towards it, hopefully fluffy?

Masterlist | Next

I think he's gone, now's my chance!

You peek around the corner, hugging the little terracotta pot to your chest. Nestled inside is a tiny little staghorn fern, tucked gently inside some damp moss. You wait for a moment, listening for footsteps or voices.

Boisterous laughter echoes down the hall, forcing you to freeze with your back against the cold wall. The voices subside, and you dare to dart from around the corner and toward the door just in front of you.

Quiet as a mouse, you reach his door. After another quick look, just to be sure no one is watching, you place the fern carefully on the floor, and a card beside it. You'd handwritten detailed care instructions, ensuring that even the most notorious plant-killer could still keep the little thing alive.

Well, maybe.

You twist the pot just a little. There. He will love this… right?

You bought him this fern as a sort of housewarming gift. Or maybe a "welcome to the compound" gift or… a "be my friend, please" gift. Most likely the latter.

Often, you trail behind him on his escorted walks outside. He likes to stop and stare at the trees, or sit down on the bench and watch the undergrowth. You hope this gift isn't too far off the mark, but since you were so uncertain, you intentionally left your name off the card. Afterall, you don't want him to think you're too desperate to be his friend, even though you definitely are.

When you first moved in, you were just the same as he is. Self-isolating, restless, temperamental, and just downright rude. His reasons seem more concrete than yours did, though. 

Loki is forced to stay. His magic is restricted, and he isn't allowed to leave without either Thor or an armed escort. No one trusts him, but at least Thor trusts in whomever decided Loki should be punished in this way. You aren't privy to that sort of information, so you only have your assumptions for now.

Your excuses for your behavior are based on just… who you are. Different. Change is hard, and moving to the compound to live with some very intimidating people and surrounded by people at all times was devastating.

You'd gotten more comfortable in the time since, but it's still challenging. At least you're not a total jerk anymore. You still ask, sometimes, if it appears like someone is ignoring you on purpose or they get an attitude. Did I say something wrong?

Or maybe that was just all in your head.

Regardless, you see a kindred spirit in Loki. There are so many things you do differently because of your neurodivergence, and he seems to do them, too. Like masking, for one. Your masking is for the purpose of looking normal, to hide everything that makes you stand out, and from your perspective, it seems like he is also trying to hide himself away behind indifference and snark.

You really, really hope the fern will work.

Tiptoeing away, you make it all the way down the hall to your assigned quarters, and close the door shut quietly behind you. You're tempted to peer out from your door and keep an eye on it. You could just barely see his door if you poked your head out from yours. That'd be too obvious, though, and he might think you're a creep.

You pick up your plushie, hoping that if you squeeze something tight, your anxiety might just ebb away and you can go about your day as normal without constantly ruminating on Loki and whether he likes the fern or not.

It doesn't work. Now you're just pacing, second-guessing and triple-guessing yourself, new thoughts popping into your head with each stride down the length of your bedroom.

What if he thinks it's weird? What if he thinks I'M weird?

So? He doesn't know I left it, right?

But what if he does? What if I accidentally wrote my name on the little card?

What if he realizes it's me because I like my plants and I talk about them all the time?

What if he saw me walk in with it?

What if someone else did and they tell him?

But how would he know it's from me otherwise?

He won't be angry with me, right? Right?

What if he actually likes it and tries to figure out who left it but he finds out it's from me and then he gets upset because it's me?

You toss your plushie onto your bed, and then yourself right after it. With a deep groan, you smash your face against the comforter, trying to release some of the tension.

You hope he's at least a little bit like Thor when it comes to receiving gifts, polite and gracious even if the gift is really weird or random. You're horrendously terrible at figuring out what people want or like, and figuring out Thor is still something on your to-do list. 

Giving gifts is one of the few ways you know of to get people to notice you, so it stings a bit when gift after gift is ignored or set aside, even the things that don't really seem like gifts. Like for Thor, you noticed he developed a craving for sugary, processed foods shortly after joining the Avengers. So, you got him a variety pack of the most unhealthy types of cereal. You knew it was a stupid idea the second he patted your head and placed it on the counter without really looking at it. It hurt it a bit when you saw others eat it, but at least that gift was used by someone you know, which you can't say for everything else you'd gotten others for birthdays or holidays or "I just like you" days.

Your gifts are always ending up in junk piles or in the trash.

Maybe the fern would break that pattern?

After what felt like years of waiting, you get up and open your door as casually as you could make it look. You walk down the hall and around the little corner you were hiding behind before, and face Loki's door.

You try not to make it obvious when you look down, so you turn and keep walking by and just barely glance downwards.

It's gone! That means he saw it, right? Does he like it?

You can't help the smile that breaks your mask. He likes it, right? Just the thought of him smiling sent unfamiliar giddiness up from your belly to your chest. If you saw him smile in real life, your heart might just fly away.

But, instead of flying away, it breaks. Just as you enter the common room, you see the bottom of the terracotta pot sticking out from the garbage bin in the corner, the orange color drawing your eye towards it.

Oh.

The room is empty, so he probably just tossed it the second he saw it. Hearing laughter again, you walk towards the window and see a few people outside, enjoying the sunshine. Thor is the one laughing, chatting with Steve about something you couldn't make out. Loki is there, too, standing to the side with his arms crossed and his brows knit together so tightly they might snap off.

He glances briefly in your direction. You swear he's making eye contact, but there's no way he can see you through the dark tint of the glass.

You sigh, shuffling your feet a bit as you turn back around. Plucking the fern from the trash, you gently shake it to get the plastic off that stuck to one of the leaves. You carry it back to your room with you, berating yourself for getting teary-eyed and for the too-much bad feeling that fills your belly like lead.

After finding the fern a home next to your already mature staghorn fern, you sit and wait for dinner. If your memory is correct, the chef who makes all the meals for everyone is making something familiar to you tonight, so at least there is something to look forward to.

Loki glares at you as you take your seat across from him. Months ago, you claimed a chair where no one sat across from you on the long dining table purposefully. You hate when people watch you eat, or try to engage you in conversation when you have food in your mouth. Then Loki moved in and claimed the opposite chair.

The dining table was never packed, since there were always at least a few people absent for various reasons, so it was quite alarming when Loki chose that seat and stared at you with his icy eyes until you finished your meal. It was like he wanted you to get up and move, even though you sat down that day before he did.

Since then, he's given up on intimidating you into moving. He still sits there, of course, so it's extra awkward now that he's back to glaring at you after your failed attempt at friendship.

He knows, doesn't he? Why else would he be looking at me like he's trying to make me explode through the force of his glare alone?

Thor sat down to the left of Loki, his plate already mostly empty. He makes some comments about how the dish tastes like something from Asgard, but it's hard for you to make out with everyone else talking and scraping cutlery on their dishes.

Unfortunately, Thor must've asked you something, since he's looking at you like, "well?"

Even worse, Loki looks interested in your answer.

You swallow your bite. "Uhm… could you repeat that?"

Thor repeats himself, "I asked if you enjoyed the sunshine today. It has been such a welcome reprieve from the storms as of late." He winks, as if he had something to do with the storms, though you know he doesn't care enough to mess with the weather here. After elbowing Loki, he continues, "Even Loki basked in the sunlight this afternoon."

Loki doesn't seem to care enough to retort. He just keeps…. staring.

"Uhm… I went out this morning before the clouds parted. So… no, I didn't really enjoy the sunshine…"

Thor's eyes dart to Loki quickly before he looks back at you. "Oh? Where did you go?"

"Uhm… to town. For some shopping." You hope that's enough of an answer, but with the way the brothers just keep staring, you know it's not. "I bought some stuff for my room."

Thor brightly smiles. "Perhaps Loki could join you on your next shopping adventure. His room is still bare."

You hope you hide your disappointment well enough. Since you tried to get something for Loki's room, it hurts all the more knowing that he's actively looking for things and he rejected your gift. "Yeah. Maybe next time…"

Loki looks at you oddly. It's a subtle expression, one you hadn't seen on him before. Your mind ran through every instance you've seen an expression like that on someone else, but there was nothing. You hope it isn't disgust.

You trip your way through the rest of Thor's agonizing small talk then bring your plate to the dishwasher. Loki follows you, scraping his plate off into the compost bin. His elbow brushes your side ever so slightly, making your eyes widen. "Uhm, excuse me…" you say, as if you had bumped into him. You slot your dishes in the washer and walk away, feeling heat creep up your cheeks and your ears.

As you're walking to your quarters, a thought comes to mind.

Maybe he's just picky. Maybe a plant was the wrong gift. Books? He likes books, right? I've got hundreds stacked on my floor, at least one has to be interesting to him…

With a new goal, you quicken your pace and head directly to the stacks leaning precariously every which way against one of the walls.

Ah hah!

Without toppling anything over, you manage to snag the complete Lord of the Rings trilogy. This one is a cheap copy, one that you'd dog-eared and written in and highlighted. You think about buying him a new copy, but your impatience is winning.

If I put this in front of his door now, it'll be less obvious than giving it to him after another shopping trip.

Similar to earlier that day, you made sure everyone was still in the dining room before placing the book against the wall. You stick a little heart-shaped sticky note on the cover:

"I know you don't like it here much. I know what it's like to feel like everyone hates you. Maybe this might take your mind off it? Anyway, please don't throw this one away. It's actually mine, but you can keep it if you promise you won't damage it further. If you don't want it, maybe just put it in the common room?"

Like before, you leave off your name, hoping it might save you a sliver of embarrassment later if you find the book lying about elsewhere or in the trash.

You go to bed shortly after, forcing your anxiety to settle down as you anticipate the morning.

[beckyninja]

Worthy

Pairing: Roboute Guilliman x FemReader

Warning: things get spicy, though nothing explicit

Description: The reader struggles with insecurity and low self esteem, while Guilliman struggles with... other things.

Oh boy, this is definitely the spiciest thing I've ever written. Be gentle, please!

“Roboute, ah….”

You reached up to him from your place sprawled atop his desk. Data slates and parchment scattered in every direction as you writhed. A sensual dance, just for him.

 He realized he’d never truly appreciated the aesthetic beauty of the female form before now. Starlight and candlelight competed to see which could add the loveliest glow to your skin. Your bare skin, on display for all to see.

No. Not all. Just him. No one else would ever see you this way. He’d slaughter anyone who-

“Roboute?”

Guilliman blinked and the fantasy faded.

You sat in a plush chair he’d recently placed in his office, legs tucked up beneath you, a book in your hands. The very picture of innocence.

Guilt gnawed at him.

“Yes, my dear?”

“I’ve finished this one.” You tapped the book’s cover. “With your permission, I’d like to return to the library- pardon, the librarium, for another.”

He smiled. “You grow more fluent in High Gothic by the day.” 

You glanced away. “I shudder to think how I must have sounded when I first arrived. It’s difficult to master pronunciation when one has only ever read the words.”

He returned to the parchment before him, signing his name for the two-hundred-and-thirty-second time that morning. “Nonsense. Your accent was, and is, utterly charming.” 

Especially when you cry my name as I suck bruises into your delicate- by the Throne! Get a hold of yourself, man!

“You’re kind to say so.”

Something in your tone gave him pause. He straightened, observing you more intently. The muscles around your mouth tightened, turning your smile wooden. Your shoulders hunched and you gazed at the floor. He realized you resembled nothing less than a serf expecting a scolding.

But before he could comment your mood shifted once again, and you looked as relaxed and happy as before. “As I was asking, may I return to the librarium?”

“Of course. And you need not constantly ask my permission. I have given instructions for that particular librarium to be open to your access code at all hours.”

Your delighted gasp made his hearts glow. 

“Thank you, Roboute! I’ve only just finished the first volume of Epatheon’s Chronicles of Macragge and the historitors suggested I read all six before moving on to the history of wider Ultramar….” 

Guilliman’s worries faded as he absorbed your chatter. A passing cloud, nothing more. He braced himself to return to the lonely monotony of Imperial paperwork when a particularly excited gesture sent your book tumbling to the floor.

“Oh, my apologies!”

Then you bent… over….

And he was suddenly profoundly grateful to be safely concealed behind his massive desk.

Throne, damn it.

***

“Thank you, Lord Tarchus.” You smiled up at the Ultramarine assigned to escort you that day, praying you’d gotten his name right.

The helmeted head inclined slightly in response. 

As you started toward one of the only other areas you felt familiar with on this massive ship, he fell into step behind you.

You thought you’d successfully banished the looming sense of dread. But, for the second time that day, tension tightened a leaden fist around your stomach. You kept your gaze focused straight ahead, not daring to meet the eyes of the people you passed. A diplomat’s mask came in useful at times like these.

But it could not shield you from your own thoughts.

“What presumption to think you deserve this kind of attention, girl.” Grandmother’s voice pierced your defenses. “How full of justified resentment this warrior must be for wasting his time on you. Who do you think you are?”

Your heart raced as you walked faster. You needed to get your book, then get out of these halls and back where you belonged. Tucked quietly into a corner of Roboute’s office where you’d be no bother to anyone. 

Where you’d be with him. With his gentle eyes and strong hands. Hands that felt so good when they pressed you to a massive chest rippling with muscle to put the gods of antiquity to shame. You’d felt them through his tunic on the night he kissed you breathless. When his touch sent molten liquid boiling straight between your-

A gauntleted hand landed on your shoulder. “This door… my lady.”

“Oh!” Heat rushed to your face as you realized you’d walked straight past the librarium entrance. “Y-yes. Thank you. I won’t be long.”

Your shoulders sank as you entered your code and stepped into the room. What right had you to think such thoughts? Roboute hadn’t so much as touched you since carrying you to your room after the… incident. He’d been polite, chivalrous, and honorable. He spoke to you like a dear friend. You should be more than satisfied. 

But you remembered hunger in his eyes the night he proposed. Was it selfish of you to want just a glimpse of that again? 

Grandmother’s laugh, half mocking half disgusted, echoed in your ears.

“Pathetic child. The man finally came to his senses and realized the truth: you’re simply not worth the effort.”

***

A million things should have occupied the Lord Regent’s mind. Mountains of paperwork, endless strategies to compile, not to mention the meeting with Calgar and the Ultramarine Captains in an hour’s time. He’d thought having you near would help him focus. 

A foolish assumption.

Your face greeted him as you emerged from your quarters each morning. You took your meals with him, spent most of your waking hours reading in the chair he’d provided for you. And during his few free moments, or when the paperwork in front of him required less than his full attention, the two of you conversed.

He told you much of Ultramar and Macragge, his home. He recounted stories of his childhood and parents that he hadn’t had the heart to dwell upon since his reawakening. Bittersweet memories, but made more sweet by your sympathetic ear.

The sheer relief of talking to an outsider did more to brighten the shadows of despair encompassing him than anything else in the past decade. Your mind was bright and pure, unshackled by superstition or callous cruelty. Your hands unstained by blood. You did not fear asking questions, nor did he fear telling you the truth. Every moment spent in your presence was a gift….

…and a torment.

Guilliman knew he’d been staring at your empty chair for minutes now. Breathing deeply, he tasted your scent upon the air, and he knew if he approached he’d be able to feel your warmth on the fabric. 

He’d felt your warmth before, and regretted it. Because now he knew what you felt like, what you sounded like, what you tasted like.

Throne, I ache for her.

Lust had never been a factor in his life. His accelerated maturity had bypassed the riotous desire of the average adolescent, nor had his brothers ever expressed experiencing such. 

Well, Russ perhaps.

He scowled. He was no slobbering Space Wolf. And yet.

You gasped when he took you in his arms. He heard your single heart beating wildly within your chest and the sound maddened him. It took so little effort to push you to the polished floor. Your clothing came apart like parchment in his hands.

He loomed above you, higher thought lost to his most primal instincts. You submitted eagerly, turning onto your front and presenting yourself to him. Only ever to him. He snarled in satisfaction as he mounted you like a feral-

“No!” Data slates clattered to the floor as he stood, shaking the fantasy from his head.

You were precious and fragile. Such actions would only frighten you, and the idea of you fearing him was unbearable. For you, he would stifle these perverse desires. 

Even if it meant denying himself the slightest touch.

His vox crackled to life. “My Lord? Is all well?”

Guilliman took a moment to regulate his panting breaths. “All is well, Cato.”

“I thought I heard-”

“All is well, Cato.”

A brief pause, then. “The Captains are already assembling in the comm center. Would you like me to escort you to your armoring station?”

At least his armor would hide certain biological functions he found it increasingly difficult to control.

***

“Stupid female.”

For a brief moment you thought you’d somehow manifested your thoughts into reality. Then your eyes adjusted to the soft candleglow, and you saw you were not alone in the librarium.

A Mechanicus techpriest stood next to one of the writing tables, looming over a prostrated serf. You fought an instinctive grimace at the mass of metal augmentations and scar tissue that seemed to make up the majority of the Imperium’s cyborg scientists. 

A necessary evil, Roboute had called them.

But as you watched the techpriest reach down and grasp the serf’s lower jaw in his claw of a hand, you certainly felt this one was more evil than necessary.

An image of Lord O’Rourke threatening to end the lives of thousands of innocents flashed through your mind like lightning. The sudden rage that had prompted you to hurl yourself at him surged in your veins again.

“Unhand her at once!”

The priest looked up with a hiss and clatter, and this time you didn’t bother hiding your scowl of disgust as you marched toward him.

“I said unhand her!”

“Noncompliance.” Its voice screeched. “Additional human female does not equal authority figure.”

You grasped the metal wrist still crushing the serf’s jaw. “I am the Lord Regent’s betrothed. And I command-”

“Irrelevant data. Betrothed does not equal authority-”

“Do not interrupt me.” You felt…fierce. “I may not have authority over you now. But one day I will. And you know what I do have?” 

You stared, unflinching, into its corroded ruin of a face. “A very good memory.”

The techpriest whirred and buzzed for a moment. Then the metal hand unlocked and withdrew. You released its wrist, stepping between it and the serf. 

“Compliance.” It hissed.

“Thank you. Get out.”

“Compliance.”

You didn’t move from your place sheltering the serf until the priest shambled its way through the librarium door. Then you bent double, panting as the adrenaline rush faded. 

“My…my lady?”

You turned to the serf, a young woman, still kneeling on the hard floor. Blood welled from a scratch along one cheekbone. Glancing around at the shelves and tables, you saw nothing with which to clean the wound, not unless you chose to rip a page out of one of the books. Instead, you tore a strip from your sleeve. 

The woman gasped. “Oh no, my lady!”

“It’s only cloth.” Kneeling down, you pressed it to the woman’s cheek. “That brute ought to be punished.”

“It was my fault.” The woman gestured to the bucket of cleaning supplies tipped on its side next to her. “I was clumsy and jostled him. I deserved-”

Another lightning-flash of memory. A younger you, exhausted from studying all night, stumbling into your tutor as you tried to rise from your desk. The blows that followed.

“You did not deserve that.” You recognized the dark circles underneath the woman’s eyes. “How long since you last slept?”

“I don’t know.” The woman lifted her chin. “I am not complaining, my lady. My sister- I mean, the other serf assigned to this librarium, just gave birth. I am more than willing to take her burden on my shoulders.”

The scratch stopped bleeding, and you removed the cloth from her cheek. “That’s very good of you. May I know your name?”

“My name? I- of course, my lady. I am called Hestia.”

“Well, Hestia, this librarium looks fairly sturdy. I doubt it will crumble to dust if you take a day-cycle to rest. And if anyone questions you,” you felt some of that fierceness return, “refer them to me.”

***

“...refer them to me.”

The servo-skull finished its projected recording and returned to hover over the techpriest’s shoulder. Guilliman steepled his fingers in front of his face. 

“Incident equals gross overstep.” The Magus squawked. 

“I see.”

“Chastisement recommended!”

“Hmm.” Guilliman turned to the serf at his elbow. “Request the lady’s presence in my office, Marcus.”

The man bowed and jogged off, but not before Guilliman noticed him shoot a glare toward the techpriest.

Guilliman returned to examining a data slate on his desk, pointedly ignoring the Magus. In his mind, the scene of you defying the techpriest played over and over again. The grainy projection couldn’t mask the imperious lift of your chin, or the fierce look in your eye. Neither did it hide the gentleness with which you tended the serf woman’s wound. 

Judging from Marcus’s reaction, Guilliman had no doubt the story already circulated through the serf quarters.

If they liked you before, they adore you now.

A few minutes later, the door opened and Marcus entered with a flourish. “May I present….”

He gave your name and titles with respect bordering on reverence. Guilliman watched your face redden and felt a surge of empathy as he stood and beckoned you to his side. Your smile froze when you noticed the irate Magus.

You rushed to him. “Roboute, I can explain-”

“No need, my dear.” For the first time in days, he touched you, taking your hand in his.

The softness of your skin, and the way his hand swallowed yours ignited a heat deep in the pit of his stomach. He fought the wild urge to drag you up and onto his lap.

Instead, he addressed the Magus. “You are correct that my betrothed had no authority to act as she did.” He felt you tense, and gently squeezed your hand. “This is a matter I intend to rectify.”

Pulling a foot-thick stack of parchment from the pile on his desk, he handed it to Marcus. “This is an order giving this lady, my future consort, authority upon The Macragge’s Honor. She may command any person on this ship only excepting the Mechanics ArchMagi and the highest ranking Ultramarines.”

There were other caveats and exceptions of course, not to mention an extensive list of extenuating circumstances. He was nothing if not thorough. 

“See that it is posted and transmitted throughout this vessel.”

The serf’s eyes shone as he clutched the parchment to his chest, bowed lower than before, and fairly sprinted from the room.

The Magus looked as though he was about to start venting steam.

“You are dismissed.” Guilliman fixed the techpriest with a look he’d been told could freeze promethium. “See your underlings take greater care with the serfs, Magus. Any reported abuse will be severely punished.”

“Compliance. My Lord.”

As soon as the door hissed closed behind the Magus, you gripped his hand with both of yours. “Roboute, please don’t do this.”

He stared down at you, at the panic in your eyes. Before he could speak you rambled on.

“I-I can’t command anyone. I didn’t mean to suggest I could, or wanted to. I don’t deserve this kind of power! I’m so, so sorry, but-”

You tried to draw away, but he tightened his grip on your hand. All your interactions up to this point replayed in his mind, and one commonality became blindingly clear. 

“Why do you think so little of yourself?”

You twisted in his grip, eyes darting about like a captured prey animal. “I’m sorry, I…I….”

“Stop apologizing.” Against all the stalwart promises he’d made himself, he drew you closer. “What has happened to you that you cannot recognize the greatness I see within you?”

“N-no, I’m not-”

“Have I done or said something to make you think yourself unworthy?”

“No! At least….”

When tears filled your eyes he felt pain worse than Fulgrim’s blade across his throat. He cupped your face in his hands.

“Tell me what I have done that I may rectify it.”

He watched you squeeze your eyes shut and lean into him. “Y-you haven’t touched me in so long. I thought, I thought you didn’t…,” your voice died away.

If the Emperor Himself had suddenly marched into his office and punched him in the jaw Guilliman could not have been more stunned. All the times he fantasized about you, all the nights he stroked himself to completion to thoughts of you, all the moments he barely held himself back…!

“Damn it all to the Warp!”

***

Roboute’s sudden bellow nearly deafened you. You found yourself picked up by your hips and tossed atop his desk. Writing implements and documents of what you were certain was vital importance scattered in all directions. But the look in the eyes of the giant leaning over you said he could care less.

“Do you remember my words the night I came to your chambers?”

By the Light and the Void, that growl….

“Yes.” You whispered.

“Tell me.”

“Y-you, you said….”

His face pressed close to yours, teeth bared. “Tell. Me.”

The sheer force of a Primarch’s lust overwhelmed you. And yet you realized you’d willingly get on your hands and knees to beg for more.

“You said you wanted me.”

His mouth crashed into yours, stealing the very air from your lungs. After a blissful eternity you felt him grasp your thighs and yelped as he flipped you onto your front, your legs dangling off the side of his desk. Then his fingers sank into your hips and he pressed against your rear.

“Ah, Roboute!”

“Do you feel that?” You heard snarling frustration in his voice. “Do you feel how badly I desire you?” A forearm the thickness of your waist slammed into the desk above your head. “I have never felt like this about anyone in my long life. The things I want to do to you, woman.”

You felt his chest expanding and contracting against your back. You heard his heaving pants.

Doubt vanished. 

“I love you, Roboute!”

He groaned. Again, he turned you and you stared up into his eyes. The hunger remained, but tempered now by something far sweeter. You reached for him and he let you pull his head into your neck.

He whispered against your skin. “I swore not to take you until I could do so as your husband. And I stand by that oath. But never again doubt my desire for you, my Hearts.”

Relief. Sheer relief like the removal of a burden you hadn’t known you’d been carrying. 

“Never again.”

He pulled back to look you in the face. “And stop doubting your worth.”

A harder request. “I…I will try, Roboute. For you.”

He rested his forehead against yours. “Do it for your own sake, my love. You are far more than you-”

The door opened and the outraged voice of none other than Cato Sicarius spoke. “Lord Guilliman! I just read your latest proclamation and I felt it my duty to voice severe concerns-”

“GET OUT.”

You heard the hasty retreat of armored boots and burst into giggles. Roboute looked down at you, then his rumbling chuckles joined yours.

You laughed in each other’s arms, and all was perfect.

@remembrancer-of-heresy @solspina @sleepyfan-blog @moodymisty @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan

@bispecsual @kit-williams @cosmic-cryptid-from-beyond @adhd-fandom-hyperfocus @lemon-russ

@justeverythingnothingelse @scriberye @bleedingichorhearts @c-u-c-koo-4-40k @mooniequeen

@passionofthesith @noncon-photobomb @sinistermojo @b-rabbitboss @vyzz-undercover

@missmannequin @jaghatai-khock

[runa-falls]

the baby-making protocol - 2

pairing: mickey barnes (17) x afab!reader

cw: mentions of human experimentation (ofc), short mention of vomit + sickness, suggestive thoughts, a spark of emotional connection, mickey being cute again :), not beta-read

wc: ~1.6k

note: slow updates btw (lol)

---

Mickey didn’t make it to the new room with you. 

Halfway through your journey, he collapsed in the hallway and puked up the small pieces of artificial meat he had at dinner along with the usual slop he had earlier in the day.

At first, he tried to downplay it:

“O-oh…” Mickey looks down at the mess he made, face flushed, “Um, my bad. I must’ve gotten too worked up after eating or something.” His eyes are bleary, his hands are shaking, and his jaw is tense like he’s fighting back pain. You can already tell that this is more than just food poisoning. 

“...Mickey, what did they feed you?” 

You attempt to approach him, but he quickly stops you.

 “No, I’m okay,” He struggles to prop himself up, “y-you don’t have to come any closer.” 

“Let me help.”

“I-it’s–” 

He starts convulsing.

And as any sane person would – You start freaking the fuck out. 

In the end, someone from the lab was alerted about his reaction and came to collect him. Apparently, it was a test to see how safe a new type of imitation meat was. 

And you watched defeatedly as he was dragged away like a piece of livestock.

—

The room they assigned to you both is only slightly larger than the single room you had before. Instead of a double bed, a queen-sized mattress is awkwardly wedged into the corner, resting on a metal frame that also serves as storage – you suspect they included it because there's still barely enough room for one person's belongings.

The room sticks to the same monotonous blue-grey palette that you’re used to – accented by metal piping carelessly painted over, jutting from the walls in a way that seems almost hazardous. It really leans into that “landlord special” aesthetic that nobody asked for. 

The usual exposed wiring that hangs over every dwelling is visible here too, snaking across the ceiling from all sides. Now that you think about it, you’ve never figured out exactly what the wires are connected to…for all you know, they could just be there for decoration. It’s truly remarkable how far Marshall goes to offer his crew nothing more than the bare minimum.

On the multi-purpose table sat a sheet of instructions, a vase of plastic flowers, and a fake candle boldly emblazoned with the words, “Happy Baby-Making!” – If this was their idea of setting a romantic mood, you have serious doubts about the success of this mission. 

You scoff at the vibrant petals of the fake roses, running a finger over the fraying polyester threads that stick out from them. These are going straight into the incinerator after tonight. 

You turn your attention to the sheet of paper, curious why they bothered to print out the instructions when a digital memo had already been sent. 

The instructions were fairly straightforward: 

Get to know your partner: Ask simple questions like “What’s your favorite color?” or “How old are you?” to build a connection. 

Practice proper baby-making etiquette: No protection allowed—make sure to fulfill your duty at least once a day. 

Stick to your assigned partner: This isn’t a free-for-all; we’re building a sacred community, not a random collection of individuals. 

Attend all scheduled appointments: No skipping! 

Most importantly, have fun!

At the bottom of the instructions are some suggested sex positions – some of which you’ve never seen before and, frankly, don’t believe are anatomically possible. You can’t help but laugh at the exaggerated stick-figure genitalia that distinguishes the man and the woman as they fuck ‘for the sake of humanity.’ 

There's one called “Straddle the Laptop” (essentially just cowgirl — but since it takes place on a desk, they’ve thrown in some tech-inspired terminology for flair), that sparks your interest. Not only does it require the man to be at the bottom, helpless to the ministrations of the person on top, but also forces the couple to look into each other's eyes. 

You could just imagine the way Mickey would fall apart for you, staring at you in awe with those pretty blue eyes as he whines for more. How his hands would clumsily grope against the contours of your body as he braces against pleasures he’s never known before. 

You clutch the page of instructions enough to crumple the edge as the scene plays in your mind. 

You mustn’t get ahead of yourself. 

It’ll probably be a while before you get to that point in your relationship with Mickey anyway.

You set the piece of paper down and look around at the empty room. So this is your life now. 

—

He didn’t come back until the following night. 

You assumed the delay was due to the printing process, which takes about a day, so you braced yourself to meet Mickey 18. After all, each new Mickey is an exact copy of the last—yet subtle differences always emerge. 

For all you know, the next Mickey could be a freak… but you’re sure that no matter how he turns out, you’ll probably fall for him too. 

It’s still Mickey, after all.

But as it turned out, you didn’t have to worry about that. The Mickey returning to you was still 17.

After he was taken away, he was given an experimental medication that successfully counteracted the effects of the lab-made meat. Of course, after barely ten minutes to recover, he was immediately sent to the back storage room of the ship to fix a collapsing corridor—because why not?

Which is why, despite coming back as the same Mickey 17, he still bore bruises, scratch marks, and a slight limp.

Trust the science sector to throw Mickey into a mission the second he recovered from food poisoning!

You expected to return to an empty room – one cluttered with unpacked boxes, your few belongings, and an unmade bed. But instead, Mickey was sitting on the bed, printed-out instructions in one hand and the flimsy bundle of gaudy roses in the other.

There’s a palm-sized bruise on his neck – probably from the indelicate syringe that the scientists like to poke him with – and a few scratches on his forehead and arms. 

He looks up from the paper as you enter, wearing the same confused expression he had at dinner the night before.

“So the fake meat didn’t make me hallucinate this…” He mumbles in disbelief, eyes bouncing between the paper, the roses, and you. 

“Mickey, you’re…” Still alive? Still 17? Still – “...here.” 

“Yeah – I-I’m sorry you had to see that yesterday.” He’s suddenly sheepish as he recalls the last time he saw you. “The experiments are usually more isolated, but I guess they just wanted my authentic reaction to the food or something.” 

You walk over and sit next to him on the bed. He subtly scoots over to give you more space, eyes widening at the sudden loss of distance between you. You wish he wouldn’t, but you don’t say anything.

“No, don’t apologize. I’m just… happy to see you.” You offer him a small smile. “The same you.”

“You noticed?” He looks surprised, like no one has ever really paid attention to him before. 

“I always notice you, Mickey.” Your voice is soft, yet the words carry so much weight.

Again, those pretty blue eyes widen, silently asking about every layer of meaning in your admission—so close to you. Then, he breaks eye contact, preferring to look at the floor as he turns your words in his mind. You notice subtle blotches of pink coloring the base of his neck and the tops of his cheeks.

Oh no. Maybe he’s uncomfortable…

“I-I mean…I saw that you still have that one healed cut from the other day…” Amid your rambling, you miss the small smile that tugs at the corner of his lips. “...not that I’m watching you or anything, I just guard the lab most of the time and see you–”

“Thanks.” He interrupts you with a soft voice – quiet enough that you would have missed it if you weren’t so intent on noticing his every move.

“...Thanks?”

“For looking out for me. You’re the only one who treats me like a human being and not some…lab rat.” He looks down at the paper in his hand, “I’m actually…kinda glad we were paired together for this protocol.”

Your heart skips a beat at his words.

He’s glad? To be with you?

“Really?”  

“Yeah. We’ve known each other for a while…and you’re a lot nicer than anyone else on this ship…” His eyes flick up to meet yours, “I’m sorry you got roped into this though…”

“It’s okay, it was bound to happen at some point.” You shrug, still riding the high that he likes you enough to endure this twisted experiment by your side, “It’s what we all expected when going on this voyage.” 

He rubs against the blotchy bruise on his neck thoughtfully, “But we’re the first ones to…you know…”

“Procreate?” 

He blushes when you say it. “Yeah.”

“If it makes you feel any better, we can start slow.” 

“But don’t we have a schedule to keep up with?”

"Okay then, we can start slower." You take the paper from his hand and glance over the list. "The daily check-ins don’t start for a few days, so… how about a date?"

“A date?”

“Unless you want to jump right into it.” You tease.

“N-no,” he stammers, “I didn’t mean–”

You rest a hand on his thigh, and he instantly falls silent, eyes fixed on where you're touching him. “Tomorrow let’s do something, just the two of us.”

“O-okay.” He immediately agrees. 

[amutamika]

Modern AU where Mobei Jun and Shang Qinghua meet in university.

Mobei Jun is the son of some CEO big shot and majors in business. He grew up with not only a silver spoon but also a whole set of golden cutlery. It is already set in stone that he will inherit the business and that is the reason he is in the business major.

Shang Qinghua is also studying business because his parents demanded he'd do something that would make money. At the same time, he is double majoring in International Literature (his real passion). So he is swamped with assignments, barely getting by. But because he is poor and his parents don't really care about him (only sending money from time to time), he has to rely on a scholarship. But this forbids him from working part time. The money only covers his rent and he struggles financially in the months his parents forget about him. So he started ghost writing to have at least a little bit to buy food and necessities. Which results in him getting less sleep than is good even for a university student.

One day both of them get grouped up for an assignment. Mobei Jun is pretty well known to be less than enthusiastic about assignments (not that he needs good grades), but Shang Qinghua needs a good grade to get his scholarship renewed. So on the very first day, he asks - read as pathetically begging - Mobei Jun to take this assignment seriously. The rich kid is taken aback, but agrees instead of changing his group partner.

From there on the two of them meet often for the assignment and it becomes abundantly clear to Mobei Jun that Shang Qinghua is way past a burnout. During these weeks the shadows under the guy's eyes become deeper and deeper and he becomes thinner and thinner. So one day, Mobei Jun orders take out for the both of them as they work on the assignment. Shang Qinghua resists at first - even trying to pay for it - but in the end the hunger is bigger and he basically inhales a hole bucket of korean fried chicken as if it was nothing. Mobei Jun could swear that the guy was crying while eating. And for some reason that intrigues Mobei Jun.

The next time they meet, Mobei Jun claims that he has cooked too much and needed someone to help him eat all that (which is a lie, he instructed his personal chef to cook for two for the evening). Even though Shang Qinghua doesn't want to be a bother, he doesn't want the food to go to waste. And so he agrees. This happens more often, but the commute from Mobei Jun's house to Shang Qinghua's little room is long and wastes time. Which means even less sleep for him.

Of course Mobei Jun notices. He seems to notice every little thing about this weird guy for some reason since that day he ordered those korean fried chicken. So on a whim he buys a nice appartment only 5 minutes from Shang Qinghua's room. It means he needs longer to drive to university, but he even likes that because he made it a habit to take Shang Qinghua with him every morning to university and waits for him every evening.

Shang Qinghua starts to stay longer at Mobei Jun's. They two understand each other for some reason. They like each other's company and somehow become accustomed to it. Even as the assignment is done, they keep meeting. Although, Shang Qinghua feels strangely out of place in this big appartment. He knows that he doesn't belong in this luxurious place. But every time he tries to stop meeting Mobei Jun, the other finds some reason why Shang Qinghua should come over again.

Mobei Jun knows about Shang Qinghua's little gig. But because he is basically feeding him now, he notices how Shang Qinghua works less on those ghost writings and more time writing things he likes. He looks a lot healthier now and for some reason this makes Mobei Jun extremely happy. He can't imagine how it would be without him here. Their meetings become even more frequent. And some of these time's Shang Qinghua stays over because they talked until deep in the night.

During one of these nights he hears how Mobei Jun is tossing around in his sleep. Worried he checks on Mobei Jun only to find him drenched in sweat, having a nightmare. He can't wake him, but notices how he becomes calmer as soon as he sits on the bed. So now Shang Qinghua stays more often, sneaking into Mobei Jun's room as soon as he is fast asleep. He sometimes brings his laptop, typing away on some story or assignment. Mobei Jun notices that after a while, but he never says anything about it, but he is deeply thankful for Shang Qinghua.

They become even closer, neither of them talking about what their relationship is, although Shang Qinghua basically lives there now. And after one time where he fell asleep next to Mobei Jun and woke up in the strong arms of him, they are also sharing the bed.

That's all that I came up with until now~ I just like to think about them.

[liillyliilly]

tape me up, please? sugawara koushi x reader content; taping suga up- aka pure fluff 970 words

It was like any other day as Kiyoko’s friend really, dropping off your bag in the library for book club and then going to check on her- making sure your plans to hang out at your house after her volleyball stuff and your meeting as vice president of the Karasuno Literary Society.

So you bounded over to the gym, swinging your arms happily from side to side with a hum. When you peeked your head in, Kiyoko grabbed you by the hand and pulled you into the gym entirely. Harsh, and unusual, but you accepted the nudge and entered into the sweaty palace of the volleyball idiots.

“I need you to do something really quick for me, gotta run and grab my notebook from my locker, just stand here and wait for Yachi to take over.” Kiyoko is holding her hands out as if to prevent you from running away, soothing you and emphasizing how soon she’d return.

You just nodded.

Once Kiyoko had evacuated, you waved at your contemporary Japanese literature teacher, Sensei Takeda. Takeda smiled, holding up a book that you had recommended to him, and you throw him a thumbs up in return. You two were always exchanging books, and he always made sure to give you books that actually challenged you- instead of giving you the regular course books, you were getting literature he had read during University. With appropriate assignments and preparation for your third year final exams of course.

The watch on the wall started to taunt you, and you thought you could probably just leave. But Yachi still hadn’t appeared. Someone else had appeared instead.

“Tape me up, please?”

Sugawara Koushi, with his bare chest and hands holding rolls of pink and blue athletic tape.

You could feel the heat settle within your ears, burning like when the sun got particularly bad during the summer heatwaves.

“You should probably wait until Kiyoko or Yachi gets here,” You bit down on your lip seeing him bring his tongue out to swipe at his bottom lip slightly, “Or better yet, have someone on the team help you!”

Your feigned enthusiasm for a different solution to his problem caused him to roll his eyes.

“Everyone else is busy, see? Asahi and Noya are busy stretching. The first years are still changing, and the rest of the team is finishing a quick running drill outside. Just tape me. I’ll guide you, so you do it just how I like it.”

He shoved the rolls of tape into your hands and you swallowed thickly, feeling the dense stretchy tape in your hands.

“Are you sure this is how you like it?” You try to catch his eye, but he’s still lifting the back of his hair up with his hand and tilting his head down- trying to avoid getting hair in the strips of hot pink tape you were attaching from near his nape to across the back of his shoulder blade.

“Yes. Definitely.”

You get another strip of blue tape this time, following his instructions. This would curve around his rotator cuff, from the top of his shoulder to his mid-bicep. One piece for the front section and one piece for the back section, creating a sort of oval around his shoulder.

The lack of Kiyoko and Yachi was still an anomaly to you, in the next ten minutes, you would definitely have to leave to get back to your own club instead of acting as some sort of interim manager for Karasuno’s pretty boy Sugawara.

“Okay, can you get my lower back too?”

“Hmm?!” The sound you make is muffled, but not unheard by Sugawara- who’s fumbling over his words trying to avoid embarrassment.

“Just like from my mid-torso to my hip to like, the, uh, start of my volleyball shorts.” He traces his hand where he can reach, trying to illustrate where he wants the tape. His hand ends up right at the back of his shorts, at the small of his back.

His ears are red, his cheeks are pink, and his neck is the same salmon color as the tape you had applied.

“How many slices of tape do I need?”

Soon, Sugawara’s all taped up, and you think his skin is more plastic bandage than actual human flesh at this point.

“All good now?” You ask, standing up from how you’d kneeled off to the side of him to get the tape around his torso.

“Really good, like 100% better than anyone else could’ve done.” He reaches out and touches the side of your arm, squishing you a little.

“Thanks. I really should be heading out now,” You jut a thumb in the direction of the entrance and Sugawara nods furiously.

Later in the day, after practice, when Sugawara is handing two drinks from the vending machine to Yachi and Kiyoko, Kageyama asks Daichi a question.

“Sugawara never wears that much tape for a practice match, and he never has problems with his hips, why does he have support there?” Kageyama downs the rest of his water bottle. 

Daichi wipes sweat off his forehead as he shakes his head with some astonishment.

“Suga just wanted a certain someone’s hands all over him.”

Hinata pops into the conversation, “Ah! Takeda-sensei’s student yeah? The really nice third year who tried to help us with our reading Kageyama.”

Kageyama nods in understanding. “So, he pretended to need to get overly taped so he could have them touch him?”

Daichi pats Kageyama on the back, “Bingo.”

[liulang-yishujia]

! SPOILER WARNING FOR 2.5 UPDATE! READ WITH CAUTION ! summary: the yaoqing trio returns back to the yaoqing, though things are a little different, being an alchemist in the alchemy commission, you receive the instructions and diagnosis from the cauldron master of the luofu, lingsha, about jiaoqiu's condition and what needs to be prepared for him and his treatment plan. despite being someone who worked a few times with the healer, you find yourself assigning treatments to him for once, despite his stubbornness and negligence when it came to his own health. pairing: jiaoqiu x alchemist!foxian!reader (afab) warnings: slight gore, injury descriptions word count: 3.4k a/n: how are we feeling jiaoqiu fans? a mess? :,) me too <3 so we need some comfort yes <3 the idea is based on an idea oc that was an alchemist and as the xianzhou yaoqing is mostly foxians, it makes sense right? hope you enjoy it <3 sorry for the medicinal rambling too! sorry if this may seem ooc, I feel so rusty with writing these days... ^^; I plan to write some proper fluff, I apologise this isn't lovey dovey, if anyone has suggestions please send them please support me by following or sharing! it's much appreciated! <3 twitter/x: @derniermystere ao3: Dernier_Mystere

The diagnosis was almost painful to read, you knew the trio was reckless, and a part of you thought it would be the Merlin’s Claw that would come back with the injuries, not Jiaoqiu. Even Moze who lingered in the shadow of the General had his incident report of injuries, most of the events that had occurred on the Luofu remained on the hush, so unfortunately, it left you and numerous other healers in great distress when the commission received the outpatient details and care instructions for the pink-haired foxian. Toxins in the wounds have caused surrounding flesh to decay and atrophy… acute shock from severe blood loss…? Disturbed blood circulation from Tumbledust results in disturbed blood circulation, massive internal bleeding, neurological atrophy and optic neuropathy, leading to… blindness. These were just a few lines written in his injury reports, you felt your eyelids flicker in concern at the words, each description made your lips crease further into a frown, your heart wavering as you could only imagine the pain he would’ve struggled with in that short period, not only ingesting a lethal amount of Tumbleweed but also baring the injuries sustained by the Borisin Warhead, Hoolay. Not to mention there were found traces of Lupotoxin still present in his bloodstream, in short, he danced on the thin line between life and death, a second too late, and he would have died an agonising death.

As you sat in the cool room of your examination office, the rhythmic ticker a counterpoint to the steady hum of the medical equipment in the room still trying to convince yourself how Jiaoqiu remained in such good spirits, and oddly with a good appetite despite his situation… his calmness and sly exterior made you fear the worse, after all, he hid a lot of his emotions, using his fox-like smile as a mask to pretend all was fine, even if inside he could have been begging for a semblance of hope. Your e/c gaze flickered up to the Foxian who hummed softly, sitting on the examination table with a Gaiwan* in his hands, as he curiously took in a whiff of the scent of the tea, swirling it occasionally in his hand as he tried to depict what herbs were in it. “Not much to say honestly, I feel quite fine besides the fact, I have been told not to eat spicy food… it’s truly a torturous treatment,” his voice was calm, yet the mention of not being allowed to eat his favourite food made him click his tongue, one of his long ears flicking in annoyance, “But, other than that, I am quite alright,” 

Your eyes squinted as you observed him talking to the pot plant in the corner of your examination room while you were seated on the other side of him, yet… you felt your insides soften that, he was still adjusting to his new condition after all. “Master Jiaoqiu, you know ingesting amounts of spicy food will only increase inflammation of your wounds.” You spoke softly, choosing not to comment further that he was talking to the plant rather than yourself. Jiaoqiu’s ears flicked in your direction rapidly, as he quickly adjusted himself to face the direction your voice came from, acting as if he knew the whole time you were seated there, it made you softly giggle in amusement as you slowly lit a stick of Dreambranch Incense in the office, in hopes of providing calmness to the mind during his routine follow up examination.  

“You always say you’re quite alright to avoid unnecessary long appointments, who dropped you off today? Was it the Merlin’s Claw or Moze?” You teased, prepping the small station beside him with all the necessary tools and treatment needs. Jiaoqiu’s tail flicked in annoyance as he crossed his arms, followed by a tiny pout on his lips, “I will have you know, no one dropped me off, Thank you.” His tone was almost childish and petty, “I came as instructed by the Cauldron Master of the Luofu, nothing more than a routine check-up.” He clarified, yet the creases in his brows seemed to convince you further that someone made him actually arrive at his scheduled appointment. “For a healer, Master Jiaoqiu… you should always look after yourself before treating others.” You commented, your fluffy tail swaying behind you in amusement as you spoke, enjoying the small amount of petty banter with the Foxian healer who had left the field a while ago now. Being a long-life species, a mere few years seemed to fly by in the blink of an eye, but when one formed friendships or any kind of relationship when they left or moved on, it felt as if they had left for centuries, this was no different to Jiaoqiu. His sassy nature and his usual greeting with a cunning smile were oddly something you missed, but deep down, you knew the losses on the battlefield tore and ate away at his heart, leaving nothing but emptiness, a path of Nihility to creep in. Some days, you found yourself sitting on the stairs of the commission, looking at the fake night sky of the Yaoqing, wondering if your research and treatments meant really nothing in the end. Countless patients slipped between your fingers like sand, no matter how hard you tried to grab the delicate granules, it would still slip through. The many nights where you prayed to Lan or any aeon to hear your pleas and silent begs to help a young patient that was slowly succumbing to the effects of Mara, the way their limbs twisted un-naturally, root-like appendages growing from his body like a deformity as they slowly lost their mind day-by-day, yet none of them cast their gaze on you or your pleads… they always replied in a numbing silence. You felt his pain… you sympathised with his feelings for those who were lost in battle… You could treat a thousand patients, but what was the point if they returned to the battlefield and lost their lives in the end… was their sacrifice in vain? These were the many questions that went through your mind on a daily, and something you assumed most alchemists thought. 

Your eyes fluttered closed as you shook your head to dismiss the darkening thoughts, you forced yourself to read over the letter submitted by Lingsha. As written in his treatment plan, you were to clean his wounds with Pathovore bugs, before applying liberal amounts of medication and dress them up firmly. As well as take a deeper examination of his blindness and relay any suggestions to her for possible treatments of his blindness. “Well, I know you want this to be done quickly, so I will start with the treatment of the wounds, Master Jiaoqiu, then if possible, I would like to examine your eyes…?” You asked hesitantly, your h/c ears pinning back against your head as you cautiously asked him, you honestly didn’t know why you were nervous, it was your job… but he had only recently just lost his vision, was it a touchy subject? Or maybe would flat-out refuse and say it was nothing.  

Jiaoqiu simply remained silent as he continued to hold on to the delicate clay cup, he gave the tea one last sip before he gently pressed the edge of his hand along the surface of the table to confirm he could safely place his cup upon it, “Why are you concerned, Y/N? it’s your job after all. Do what you need. For once, I am simply the patient, and you’re my healer now, are you not?” He spoke up, turning to face in your direction, though you could hear the slight hesitation laced in the last few syllables of his words but you slowly nodded in reply, not that he could see it. 

The initial examination was rather simple, you had to look over his wounds, the deep lacerations on his chest, the state of his collarbone, checking him for any signs of Lycanthropic symptoms which came in the forms of excessive hair growth, elongation of the canine teeth, hostility (namely to Foxians) and a heightened increase of Lupitoxin which are evident in a blood rage. Further examination of his red blood cell, Platelets and the protein count in his plasma, to gauge how well his blood would coagulate over time, while the effects of consuming Tumbledust has significantly lowered the count, he was slowly making progress as there were some improvements. While it wasn’t much, it was better than none… 

“So far, you seem to be on the road of recovering… slow, but I am sure we can get there eventually, there has been a minimal increase in your plasma counts, and platelets, but not much to say you can return to handling sharp objects… I am hoping you’re not, Master Jiaoqiu, and you have no signs of Lycanthropy so that rules out any further conclusion of you becoming a borisin.” You explained, all while scribbling on his patient forms that would be sent back to Cauldron master Lingsha, and further approval by Head Alchemist on the Yaoqing, Yingyue. “With this, I would like you to be placed on a higher dose of anti-inflammatories, to help reduce the swelling in your wounds. That, or need I remind you that you are not to ingest spicy foods, Master Jiaoqiu.” You slowly raised a brow at him as he turned to you, pulling out his fan that was underneath his alchemy commission uniform that he had removed so you could treat his injuries. He delicately fanned himself a few times, before hiding his lips behind the coloured feathers. 

“I would never betray the doctors’ words, no knives or spicy food here. Are you insinuating that your patient ingested spicy foods? Y/N you wound me… I would never,” He stated with a cunning smile pulling at his lips behind that fan, his tail swaying behind him as he took in the results of his examination. “But is it really my fault that Moze had hotpot, I couldn’t turn down such a request, even Feixiao was there.” He soon added, nodding his head innocently as his ears twitched in your direction. 

“So you did have Spicy food, is that what you're telling me?” You pressed, raising a brow as he kept fanning himself, concealing his smile. 

“I never said that, I just said that Moze might have offered it to me. But as such a good patient, I never touched a drop. I instead had to sit and watch my so-called friends enjoy a hotpot in front of me, it was quite cruel, really…” His fluffy ears drooped down, as he dramatically acted as if it had taken a toll on him that he couldn’t have some. Your expression fell into a deadpanned glare as he kept innocently fanning himself, humming all innocently, you knew that this sly foxian had made the hotpot himself and threw the blame at Moze to get off any kind of lecture. You feigned a sigh in defeat as you allowed him to win at his little game, “Alright, whatever the patient says… but know your slight increase of white blood cells, and redness on your laceration tells me otherwise,” You simply pointed out as you began working on removing the now loosened bandages around his shoulders and chest, you had seen your fair share of injuries and wounds, but the deep claw marks along his chest with lingering parts of decaying flesh seemed to leave a deep pang in your heart… reading about his injuries were bad enough, but seeing them in person was just as bad. 

The audacity he had as he simply hummed in reply and with a nonchalant shrug, “I have no idea what you’re insinuating here, doctor,” He added, placing his fan down to reveal that sly fox-like grin, as he lifted his head proudly, more so that you could work on his wounds better. But upon sensing your concern with his wounds, Jiaoqiu slowly fell into silence as he turned away, “This is nothing. I can handle this, there is no need to look at me with… pity.” 

You felt an all-familiar annoyance stir inside you as if small flicking flames lapped at the insides of your chest as your movements slowed down, “It isn’t pity… it was concern Jiaoqiu when the incident reports were handed to us, it was worrying… especially when there was no news or context from the Luofu. I knew something was covered up, and it involved Hoolay, something for sure went wrong… it may not be my place to ask what happened, but… You shouldn’t bare yourself to a wolf's fangs… and ingest Tumbleweed… even if you had a plan.” you whispered, gripping the bundle of bandages in your hands that you had removed, “You could have died, then what-” 

“I would have died fulfilled and content, Y/N.” He cut her off, a heavy sigh ruminating from his chest as he still refused to face you entirely, his brow furrowing in annoyance as he refused to accept your concern for him. 

“Would you really say that?” You pressed, your shoulders slouching as you continued to remove the last of the bandages to fully observe the wound in its entirety. Yet unlike before, you weren’t phased, instead, your heart simply felt like it was crumbling at his words. However, Jiaoqiu remained silent when you pressed him, his ears folding back a tad, it was a sign that you were right in some way. Despite the deafening silence, you continued to work on him, applying the Pathovore Bugs onto the rotting parts of his wounds, all while she delicately ran her scalpel over the unhealthy flesh to promote excess skin growth. Jiaoqiu grunted softly, leaning back onto his arms as he tried to push himself through the uncomfortable sensation, he didn’t want to be seen as weak or vulnerable, even though he was the one knocking on death's door. Yet his stubbornness to admit anything or the fact that for once he required treatment was unyielding, even when he was in pain. 

The silence continued to hover between them, once playful banter turned to a darkened cloud of tension, but, Jiaoqiu managed to face Y/N once more, parting his lips as he tried to find the words to say something, “Why do you care so much. Don’t they say laying your life out on the path of the hunt is a blessing…?” He managed to whisper out, his voice almost weak and one could even say vulnerable. Y/N glanced up, but unlike the look of annoyance or a frown, she offered him a compassionate gaze, “We are both healers, different kinds sure, but in the end, we are here to help those in need. I know you have lost many patients, as have I… I may not have been through or seen what you have on the Front Lines… but we share the same burdens of what we do is the right thing…” Your voice was soft, yet anyone could hear the way your words seemed to break through the ragged breaths you took in as you tried to formulate each word with sincerity, “But… we… no, you shouldn’t allow yourself to go through such measures… General Feixiao is already strong on her own, and your patient can only go as far as they can if their healer is also healthy, I have seen too many people die over nothing to claim they did so in the name of The Hunt… but it felt like they were throwing themselves away.” 

You gently removed the bugs, placing them in a glass beaker as you kept talking, “As I said… I don’t know what happened on the Luofu… but I know, you shouldn’t have risked yourself at such a high stake. There is always an alternative, another way to do things, picking the dangerous path isn’t always the right way.” You whispered, head now falling downwards as your ears drooped once more. You had seen so many soldiers come back from the battlefields injured and proclaiming proudly that if they died, they did so for The Aeon Lan, but, it more so felt like they were throwing themselves at the denizens of Abundance without another thought of a better strategy. Y/N slowly bit on her bottom lip as she continued with the treatment by applying liberal amounts of the ointment onto his wounds, before securely wrapping them up in bandages. 

During the quiet moment as Y/N worked, Jiaoqiu found himself sighing once more, shaking his head as his expression softened slightly to that of contentment. “You might have been right, I could have found another way… but I made it, did I not?” He replied in a lighter tone, even if you swatted his side with the flick of your fluffy tail, “You’re just as reckless as the Merlin’s Claw, she is rubbing off on you. You know… there would be a lot of people upset if you had died… I am sure even Moze would be upset in his way… you may have been fulfilled as you say, but what about the others that care for you?” you added, making sure that each one of his wounds was fully covered, before you soon sat back in your chair, your mind also wanted to add ‘what about me?’ yet, you didn’t. The Foxian offered you a sad smile, as he turned to the direction of the pot plant, “You’re not wrong, Y/N.” He reluctantly whispered, his voice holding a sense of vulnerability yet again, each word spoken like a prayer, with an ear twitch he turned back to you, this time with a more genuine smile.

“I am sure you would have been deeply hurt. To think during your training you said you hated me and my spicy food you could smell from a mile away…” His demeanour shifted to his usual self, sly and jabbing, which seemed to stir you up, evident as your tail swished around in annoyance as you finished up with his wounds, giving him the space he needed to change back into his clothes. “Stop being snarky… you seriously need to take better care of yourself.” You huffed as you turned to clean your instruments, all while he resumed fanning his delicate face once more, his soft pink hair flowing with each motion of his fan as he continued that same mocking smile. “I know. I can’t promise anything.” He hummed, for once he spoke truthfully, “But, I will do my best, I have no guarantees.” 

“That's all I wanted to hear, Jiaoqiu.” Your shoulders eased up and relaxed at his words, her heart feeling ever so lighter. 

“You know, you dropped the formalities halfway, this is quite intimate, Y/N, I am almost flattered, after many years and now you call me by my name and not Master Jiaoqiu,” As usual he tried his best to get under your skin, still calmly fanning himself. He expected you to retaliate or shoot back another snarky comment, yet you did something that surprised him… You gently hugged him, wrapping your arms around his lower torso to avoid touching his wound, as much as he wanted to open his eyes in surprise, the Foxian instead felt his expression melt into a soft fondness, one that wasn’t all that often seen. “You were that worried?” He finally admitted, moving one of his hands to delicately brush against your back soothingly. 

“Just promise me you will be more careful next time,” you whispered faintly, near one of his long ears that twitched at your words, his tail swaying side-to-side. 

“I can’t guarantee anything… but, if I get hugged like this, I might consider it.” He purred, still fanning the two of you with his fan, blissfully unaware of the edge of the fan catching a lit with the sizzling of fire lapping at the tips. Jiaoqiu quickly moved the fan to stop the fire from continuing with a silent huff of annoyance, “Maybe we could even go for some hotpot sometime?” 

You wanted to say he wasn’t allowed spicy food, but you were content from his words, you simply hoped that one day, he would take your words to heart, if not for your own sake, but maybe for those that were close to him…