#rumple commands it!

[martianbugsbunny]

"Your fave would want you to stay hydrated" is a fun sentiment until you imagine Rumplestiltskin popping up behind you and hissing "drink your water, dearie" and you just about spit it all over your keyboard

[izzieedraws]

sleepy codywan

[kateschi]

a language only you speak

synopsis: wife privileges with bakugou katsuki are very much real.

pairing: timeskip!bakugou katsuki x f!reader

the agency is bustling with its usual chaos—sidekicks rushing from desk to desk, phones ringing nonstop, and the occasional explosion from the training hall shaking the walls.

in the center of it all, katsuki katsuki sits at his desk, arms crossed, scowling at the stack of paperwork he’s been putting off all morning.

his brows twitch in irritation, but before he can push the papers off his desk and call it quits, the door swings open with a force that makes a few nearby interns jump.

“katsuki!”

your voice slices through the noise, effortlessly commanding attention.

sidekicks freeze mid-step. pro heroes pause in their conversations. even kirishima, who’s used to your entrances by now, watches with barely contained amusement.

the only person who doesn’t seem at all surprised is katsuki himself.

he exhales through his nose, tipping his chair back just enough to get a good look at you as you stomp toward his desk. his scowl softens—just a little.

“the hell are you doing here?”

“you forgot your lunch,” you say, placing a neatly packed bento box in front of him with a pointed glare. “again.”

there’s a beat of silence.

katsuki clicks his tongue, eyes flicking from you to the box. his fingers tap against the desk like he’s debating whether to take it, but the hesitation is brief.

with a grumble, he snatches it up, pulling it toward him like it’s a classified mission briefing.

you cross your arms and watch him open it, waiting for his reaction. it’s all his favorites—seasoned rice, grilled fish, a few side dishes you made just the way he likes.

he doesn’t say thank you, but you know him well enough to recognize the way his eyes linger on the food, the almost imperceptible shift in his posture.

he’s pleased.

you reach over, brushing your fingers against his collar, smoothing out the slightly rumpled fabric.

the agency watches in stunned silence, waiting for the inevitable explosion, but it never comes. katsuki lets you fuss over him without so much as a grunt of complaint.

that’s when kirishima, ever the instigator, speaks up.

“hey, dynamight,” he calls from across the room, arms crossed with a grin. “how come you let her do that, but if I even breathe near you, you tell me to ‘fuck off’?”

kaminari jumps in immediately, pointing an accusatory finger. “yeah! I tried to fix your mask that one time, and you nearly murdered me.”

katsuki pauses mid-bite, eyes flicking up. the office is dead silent, waiting for his response. his expression is unreadable for a moment before he speaks, voice low and deliberate.

“is your name y/n?”

kirishima and kaminari exchange glances. “uh…no?” kirishima ventures.

“are you my wife?”

kaminari snorts. “pretty sure we’d know if we were.”

“then shut the fuck up.”

the office settles into a stunned silence after katsuki’s blunt response, eyes darting between him and you like they’re watching a rare phenomenon unfold.

kirishima leans back slightly, arms crossed, brows raised in something close to admiration. “huh.”

kaminari tilts his head. “so that’s just...how it is?”

katsuki doesn’t answer immediately.

he focuses on his food, chewing deliberately, as if debating whether this conversation is even worth his time. you know he hears them, though.

you can always tell when he’s listening, no matter how much he pretends not to.

kirishima rubs his chin thoughtfully. “that’s so manly, bakubro.”

katsuki scoffs, finally looking up, crimson eyes sharp.

kirishima waves him off, unfazed.

“nah, I mean it. I always thought you just had rules about personal space, but it’s not that. it’s just—you let her do whatever because she’s her.”

a pause.

katsuki clicks his tongue, shoving another bite of rice into his mouth, but his silence says more than words ever could.

you smile, resting a hand on his forearm. “he’s a little soft, but only for me.”

he glares at you. “I’ll kill you.”

“you won’t.”

his jaw ticks. you’ve won this argument before it even begins.

kaminari shakes his head like he’s watching something unfathomable. “man…you’ve got it bad.”

“I don’t ‘got’ anything,” katsuki grumbles, shoving his chopsticks into the rice with unnecessary force. “i just don’t see why you extras are actin’ so damn surprised.”

“you literally detest people touching you,” sero points out.

“yeah, people,” katsuki snaps. “she’s not ‘people.’ she’s my wife.”

and that’s the thing.

to them, it’s unusual. to them, it’s something to gawk at, something to be shocked by. but to katsuki, it’s just natural. it’s not about ‘privileges’ or exceptions—it’s just the way things are.

he’s never even thought to explain it, because there’s nothing to explain.

he doesn’t let anyone mess with his uniform, but you can straighten his collar.

he doesn’t let anyone borrow his things, but you can use his shampoo.

he doesn’t let anyone get too close, but you can curl up beside him and steal his warmth like you belong there.

because you do.

katsuki quirks an eyebrow, setting his chopsticks down. “you done interrogating me now?”

the others exchange glances, like they’re debating whether they’ve gotten enough material to fuel their endless teasing for the next month.

kirishima seems to understand there’s a line he shouldn’t cross—not because katsuki would explode (though, let’s be real, that’s still a possibility), but because this is something real.

kaminari, on the other hand, is kaminari.

“so, like…” he leans on the nearest desk, a slow grin spreading across his face. “if y/n asked you to wear, I dunno, a stupid matching sweater or something, you’d do it?”

katsuki barely spares him a glance. “no.”

kaminari looks at you. “he’s lying, right?”

you tilt your head, pretending to think. “hmm. well, he did wear that ridiculous apron I bought him last week.”

the entire office perks up.

katsuki’s expression darkens. “you said you wouldn’t tell anyone.”

“I said I wouldn’t tell anyone why you wore it.”

and the office rises in roars.

kofi — navigation — masterlist

do not copy, translate, or plagarize

[vividxpages]

slow bliss

summary: Bucky and you in a bathtub. (18+)

🩰 ‧₊˚ ⋅*୨ৎ ‧₊ 🌸

in the steam and quietness floating around the dimly lit bathroom, Bucky’s and your breath mingled, the space between your lips non-existent as you devoured each other.

you were seated snugly in his lap, the book you had read together earlier forgotten and a little rumpled on the edge of the tub and Bucky was so deep inside of you, you were sure you could taste him up in your throat.

“you feel so good around me, doll…” he muttered into your collarbone, his lips brushing over your wet skin as his hands helped your hips move underneath the surface of the warm water. his praise rolled through you like a thunderstorm in summer, electrifying yet soothing and you whimpered, your drenched pussy sensitively tightening around him. “fuck, you’re squeezing me so tight, pretty girl.”

someday, he was going to be your undoing.

every time you thought you couldn’t love James Buchanan Barnes more, your helpless heart proved you otherwise. you watched him closely through half-lidded eyes, breathing out heavily as you felt his long, curved cock brush against your sweet spot just right.

“Bucky…” you whispered blissed-out, your head falling forward onto his strong shoulder as you rocked down on him, your puffy clit deliciously brushing against his hard abdomen and sending small shocks through your entire body. his metal hand stroked your back, its coolness letting your skin erupt in pleasant shudders as he combed through your wet hair and pushed it over your shoulder.

“’doing so, so good for me.” Bucky praised, his deep voice sending you further towards your orgasm, your desperate moans breathed against his chest, his jaw, his cheek. “look at me, doll. i need your eyes on me when i fuck you, alright?”

even if you wanted to, you were too fucked-out to object, your eyes finding his darkly-glinting ones immediately. he licked his lips at your sight, your sweat and some water droplets decorating your chest like a pearl necklace, adorned by the red hickeys he had kissed and sucked into your skin while his fingers had played with your pretty pussy in the water.

he didn't look away from you as his hands tightened their hold on your hips, carefully pushing you down until your toes were curling his pleasure and you threw your head back, kiss-bruised mouth shaped in a beautiful o. bucky grunted as he felt you contract wildly around him, the gentle waves of the water now becoming wilder as he fucked up into you, something in him snapping as he drew you against him and kissed you desperately.

whining into his mouth, all you could do was hold on to him as he drove the both of you to ecstasy, all thoughts disappearing from your mind as he fucked you good like this. you kissed him back just as hard, needing to melt into one with him, to be swallowed up by him and never seen again.

you were his. fuck the rest of the world outside these four walls.

"i'm so close." you whimpered and he growled in response, not breaking your kiss as he slid one arm around you and reached down between your spread legs with the other, expertly finding your clit and thumbing it in sync with his thrusts. your sensitive nubs brushed against his chest and the circles he drew on you were driving you insane with lust.

"that's it, come around my cock, baby, c'mon." he purred and at his gentle command you shattered just like that, your body slumping against his as you came and lost yourself in him. a few blissful tears escaped your closed eyes, your lips trembling against his neck as he held you through it, his own release making him bite down on the side of your neck, nearly sending you into an unexpected second release.

with the feeling of his come painting your walls, you went boneless, sated and so freaking exhausted as Bucky held you close to his chest. not willing to seperate just yet, you hugged him tight and let out a little satisfied huff, causing Bucky to laugh quietly as he panted and recovered with you.

"i love you so much." you mumbled tiredly, exhaustion laying itself over you like a thick blanket as Bucky gently bedded your head on his shoulder and sank deeper into the water with you. you were warm, fuzzy and happy and on the brink of falling asleep, but there was one more universal thing on your mind. "your dick is pretty great, Bucky..."

his chuckle in your ear was the sweetest lullaby you could ever ask for. "thanks, doll. i love you too." with a loving kiss pressed to your temple, you drifted into sleep, knowing you were safe in his arms...

‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.

[comatosebunny09]

carpe noctem [ falling action ] | sylus

— summary: he kissed you. you pretend it didn’t mean anything. sylus tries to show you it meant everything. — cw: reader is not mc, language, sexual tension, self-loathing, mutual pining, jealousy, blood & violence, self-deprecating thoughts, profanity, misunderstandings, romance, self-indulgent, wild caleb sighting, mdni — notes: thank you @subliminalwish for inspiring this part! and thank you all for reading! [ pt. 1 | pt. 2 | pt. 3 | pt. 4 | pt. 5 | pt. 7 ] — now playing: fuel to fire - agnes obel btbt - b.i

Their timing couldn’t be more impeccable—the twins. Your saving grace.

Sylus is a tempest. A storm ravaging the rickety foundation of your boat. He kisses greedy. Commanding, sipping from you like a fountain amid a desert. Swallowing the gruff little keens you make. You burn hot wherever he touches. His hands are like branding irons on your skin, amplified by the thin taffeta of your dress as they smooth up and down the curvature of your waist.

You’re dizzy when he snatches away, a growl in his throat. His lips are kiss-swollen. Burn a pretty red, stained by your lipstick. His eyes smolder like embers through the living room’s haze. Catch in the moonlight, gleaming a potent shade of scarlet. He reminds you of something beastly. Predatory. 

You did this to him?

In contrast, you’re sludge in his hands, swimming, blinking, drunk, and trying to remember how to breathe. For a moment, he appears hesitant. Gaze flits between your eyes and mouth as he holds you by your hips. Rubs reassuring circles into your hip bones with his thumbs. He’s so pretty like this. Inebriated by passion, silken white hair mussed from your greedy fingers. Expensive, pleated shirt all rumpled, bow tie loosened, composure thrown to hell.

But his phone keeps ringing. An obnoxious chime that makes your lips quirk despite the vertigo sweeping over you. It cuts through the wispy film of the night. Cleaves through the nebulous cloud of desire hanging between you, and with a bitten-off sound, he finally tugs his cell free of his pocket. 

He watches you as he brings it to his ear. Cups your cheek, brushing over your bottom lip with the worn pad of his thumb. Tugs it down, entranced by its elasticity. Its fullness. Your fingers clasp around his wrist. You nuzzle into the safety of his palm. Turn your mouth inward, blistering it with a kiss. Affection intermingled with amusement colors your eyes. He’s like a spoiled child, snatched off the playground before he was ready to leave.

“What,” he clips into the mic. 

A hesitant voice peers through the low static. Luke. “Mission accomplished, bossman.” You imagine Kieran peeking over his brother’s shoulder in the background, wariness hidden behind that gaudy bird mask. “All cleaned up over here.”

Sylus sighs something weighted. Shaky. Relieved. His shoulders drop with it, then tense again. The agitation doesn’t leave his face. Something’s on his mind. Something more pressing than a few ornery goons trying to hunt you down. You nip at his fingertips to assuage the divot forming between his brows. The taut pull of his lips. 

He hangs up without another word, shoving his phone back into his pocket. Draws you close, preparing to kiss you breathless once more. 

But it seems fate is a cruel, mischievous mistress, intervening when she deems it fit.

Because, this time, your phone rings. 

You stiffen. Sylus glowers at your—his—coat pocket. Studies you. He’s conflicted. Looks as if the world is descending into hell around him. Like he wants to take your phone and shatter it on the wall. You offer him a placating smile. Smooth a hand over his cheek before tugging your cell out. It’s only fair you leave him as on edge as he left you. 

He doesn’t let it deter him, pulling you impossibly closer. Peppers your neck with kisses, drawing a soft huff of laughter from your chest. Your head falls back, and he cradles it with his fingers, baring your throat to him. Groans something appreciative, writing the most beautiful compliments of all against your skin with his lips. 

You’re not thinking when you answer, too swept up in the moment. Dizzy from the needy drag of his lips over your carotid. Don’t think until a familiar lilt touches your ear, and a cold thrill shoots down your spine.

Little. Ms. Hunter. 

Fuck. 

Reality trickles in like the slow creep of a rainstorm, mooring you to the spot. You shove against Sylus’ chest. He ingests you with pinched brows, heavy lids, an open mouth. ‘What’s wrong?’ his expression reads. He’s desperate. Needy. Like you’re his lifeline, an IV drip.

You push against him again, chest so very hard and so wonderfully defined against the heel of your palm. You need space. You can’t breathe, but for an entirely different reason now. 

His hands reluctantly drop from your waist, falling listlessly at his sides. He turns away, rubbing the scruff of his neck with a sigh.

“What’s up?” you bite. Try to mask the waver of your voice, your quivering tendons. 

“Hey, how ya doin’?” She’s infuriatingly chipper. Happy for someone halfway across the world, as if she knows you’re up to no good. 

You don’t bother with pleasantries. You’re caught between wanting to laugh and cry. Damn the universe for spoiling your fun. “What do you need?”

The hunter’s hesitant for a beat. You envision her shifting her weight between her feet. Fiddling with her nails, her gaze cast to the floor. It’s not often you’re terse with her, at least not these days. You worked through those kinks of your relationship months back. But forgive you for being a little impatient. A little snippy when you finally satiated the ache between your teeth. 

“Sooo, I’m back earlier than expected. My ride cancelled on me. Would you mind picking me up from the airport? I’ll pay you back! Promise!” 

“You can’t catch a cab?” You push back your hair. Peer over your shoulder, hand cupped around the mic as if you’re whispering a secret. Sylus is behind you a little ways off, hand on hip; silhouette suffused in amber as he examines some picture frames on the sofa table, pretending not to eavesdrop.  

“Yeah, but it’s late! I don’t wanna get kidnapped, ya know?”

You suppress a frustrated sound, disbelieving. Not just of her, but the timing of everything. The reminder of what you’ve done and what you still want to do. One day, you’ll learn not to answer your phone. And one day, you’ll learn to tell your conscience to fuck right the hell off.

“Fine. Yeah, sure. Just…gimme a minute.”

“You’re the best! I don’t care what the twins say about you!” 

The call ends, and you sigh, leaning into your palm, propped against the frost-bitten windowpane. It grounds you in a way, its crispness a welcome contrast to your fevered skin. 

You jolt when Sylus emerges behind you in the form of artful hands melding to your waist. In the form of warm breath kissing the sensitive space behind your ear. His lips graze the shell of it. You snatch away as if scorched by fire, turning, spine acquainting itself with the window. Space. You need space. 

He gives you no time to breathe, spilling over you like liquid fire. Cages you in with his arms. Angles closer, swaddling you in the dangerous warmth of his body. Bathes you in the bewitching scent he carries, in the lazy, lust-laden stir of his eyes. You shirk away from his touch when his fingertips graze your cheek. He bristles.

Your heart pinches at the wounded look on his face. At how his fingers twitch before curling into a loose fist and falling back to his side. You duck away from him, a nervous smile dragging itself across your face. 

“She’s back,” you state plainly. It tastes bitter, acknowledging it aloud. Your belly swoops. You think you might be sick. “Asked if I could pick her up.”

His expression slackens. Gaze descends to the floor. “This late?”

You nod solemnly. 

Shouldn’t he be happy his Aphrodite has returned?

It’s unnervingly quiet between you now, making way for the whisper of the wind threading through the leaves outside where the sticky click of your lips and labored breaths once lived. 

Your throat clicks when you swallow. You want nothing more than to pull him against you again, to be wrapped in the possessive circle of his arms. To pick up where you left off before morality leaked in. But that call served as your reality check, and you’re both grateful and resentful it came when it did.

Sylus beholds you with beseeching eyes. Looks as if he might protest, lips quivering around an excuse to draw you back in. But he drops it. Instead, he opts for, “I’ll bring the car around,” sounding so uncharacteristically somber that you wince. 

He brushes past you through the front door, swallowed by the dust-speckled night. Leaves you to nurse the violent thrum of your heart and battle the maelstrom in your head. 

She’s back. Things will return to normal. This moment never happened. This night never happened. 

Still, your lips burn with the remnants of the kiss. You unconsciously touch the trembling, distended things, deciding to tuck the memory into the furthest hulls of your mind. 

He’s not yours, remember? Never will be. Never could be.

—

The ride to the airport was uncomfortably tense. 

Sylus tried vainly to reignite the flames sparked by the night—little displays of affection, possession. Spindly fingers curling around your thigh, a peek at you through the corner of his vision, knuckles deftly brushing your cheek to bring you back to the present. 

You inched away from his touch despite every synapse in your brain screaming for you to let it happen. He gave up after the third try. Gripped the gear stick, white-knuckled and radiating a silent dejectedness. 

You forced out a shaky breath when the overwhelmingly bright, fluorescent airport signs panned into view. 

“Heya!” chirped Ms. Hunter, pulling you into a tight hug once you dismounted the car. “You look all fancy. What have you been up to?”

You were stiff in her embrace, a tight smile pulling at your lips. She smelled of stale perfume and wet earth. Long hair tickled your neck. She radiated a warmth you envied as you rigidly returned the hug.

“Oh, you know. Nefarious things and all that.”

Ms. Hunter drew back, hands roosted on your shoulders. Her smile faltered when she got a good look at you. When the driver’s door slammed shut, and Sylus rounded the car to stand behind you, hands stuffed in his pockets. Her honey-dipped eyes flit over your face. She sensed something was up. Of course, she did. Anyone within a 50-mile radius could see the tension dangling off your shoulders. She looked like she wanted to interrogate you, but—

“Welcome back,” said Sylus, his tone easy. You were thankful for the save. Didn’t have to look back to know he was wearing that familiar cant to his lips. A look he, until tonight, only wore for her. “I take it your mission went well, given how early you returned.” 

You would've tasted the faint notes of indignation there had you not been so swept up in your head. 

“You have no idea,” she laughed, exhaustion lancing through her words. You pat her head, fondly ruffling her hair. 

He helped her put her suitcase in the trunk as she animatedly regaled the details of her mission. He smirked and nodded, listening intently. You tuned everything out in favor of listening to your pulse drum beneath your skin. 

Sylus held the passenger door open, watching you expectantly. Signaled for you to get in with his eyes as Ms. Hunter stood awkwardly behind you. The tension was tangible. Obvious. It made you sick.

He frowned when you forwent the passenger seat, sliding into the back. The front seat was always her place. You were merely squatting there, keeping the leather warm in her absence. You caught sight of the tense set of his jaw when he shut the door behind her. Your heart sank to your feet. 

As Sylus eased the car onto the highway, they filled the stiff, blue-light-tinged air with small talk. Their conversation was seamless as if no time had lapsed between them. You propped an elbow on the door, watching the scenery fly by in a blur beyond your window. 

And you shut your eyes against those scarlet irises occasionally observing you in the rearview mirror, a silent question brewing beneath bowed lashes.

‘Have I done something wrong?’

No. Never. It’s you who’s royally fucked up.

—

“Listen, sweetheart. You both seem like nice girls. But I ain’t budgin’.”

You roll your eyes for the umpteenth time. Scoff, a rigid set between your teeth. You’ve been like this for what feels like hours, propped against a wall, arms crossed, mind tumultuous. 

A few days after the hunter returned, Sylus sent his two gems to reclaim some of his property. Thelma and Louis at it again. 

You should be thrilled. You’ve been itching for a distraction since that night. When you let your emotions overwhelm you, and you gave into your selfish little whims. You can’t focus on much else, the pressure of Sylus’ lips still ingrained in your mind. The texture of his shirt sleeves between your fingers, the sound of his voice as he rasped his satisfaction into your skin. It replays like torn film reels in your mind, refusing to release you from its flimsy clutches. 

Since that night, he’s been uncharacteristically attentive. Filling the space with errant touches and lingering gazes. Rare quirks of his lips, an affectionate, secretive undernote to his timbre whenever he speaks to you. And his eyes. They bear more emotion than what you’re accustomed to seeing. 

It’s all been so very confusing, this new attitude of his. You don’t like it when things aren’t clear-cut and dry. Hate to beat around the bush.

You figured his attention would shift with the center of his universe back in rotation. 

To your chagrin and surprise, you’re wrong. You assume he’s only being so disarming because he needs you. Not just as his pretty little violent marionette. His honeypot. When Ms. Hunter inevitably leaves again—the life of a hunter must be so taxing—he’ll need someone to fall back on. A failsafe to keep his loneliness at bay. You just so happen to fit the bill.

The notion makes you scowl. The butcher’s voice isn’t helping curb your vexation, his laughter obnoxious and filled with phlegm. His fat ass isn’t taking either of you seriously. Of course, if you were him, you wouldn’t, either. 

Ms. Hunter’s been at this for a while, playing good cop to your bad. Trying to nice her way into getting him to sign the deed to his property back to Sylus. Really, it belongs to the latter man. He was just allowing the butcher to squat here while he carried out his work for Onychinus, slaughtering its opposition and packaging up their remains like fresh meat, shipping them off to anyone who dared utter the organization’s name in vain.

His use has run its course. He’s grown sloppy. Complacent. Disloyal. Been letting other faction leads buy him off, selling his knack of butchering to the highest bidder. He should be so lucky you’re not here to slit his throat.

Inwardly, you wonder if someday, you’ll suffer the same fate. If Ms. Hunter will be sent to snuff you out—your successor wiping you off the map like a blip on the radar. 

Until then, you’ll make yourself as indispensable as possible. Prove your worth. 

You push off the wall with a huff, face set with determination as adrenaline spumes through you. You close the distance between you and the hunter in four brisk strides. Snatch her pistol from the holster at her waist, barring her sentence in her throat. It’s weighted. Loaded. Good. 

You rack a round. Release the safety. The butcher barely has time to register anything before you aim. Inhale. Exhale. Pull the trigger at the lowest lull of your breath. And it’s so gratifying, the sound of a bullet whizzing past his ear and embedding itself in the plaster behind him. 

He’s petrified with fright behind his desk, mouth hinged open. Ms. Hunter blurs into focus beyond the front sight, turning incredulous eyes on you before narrowing them. The barrel’s still smoking, a satisfying, wispy cloud furling skyward. The leather grip squeaks in your hand, you’re holding it so tight. 

“Was that really necessary?” she berates. She’s doing that whisper-yelling thing. You’re in for an earful later. 

You shrug half-heartedly, reholstering her weapon. Push past, tugging the sleeves of your blazer up. “I’ve had enough of this,” you grate, snatching your leather gloves from your pocket and slipping them on with practiced precision. 

Neither of them knows what’s coming until you step behind the butcher. Until you’ve taken a fistful of sweaty, grease-slicked hair and acquainted his face with the bubbling finish of his desk with a loud thwack!

Ms. Hunter watches the scene unfold with horror twisting up her features. She’s rooted to the spot. Something plops on the desk. Evolves into a steady, sticky drip. Blood. Corrupted speckles of red staining the deed you’re meant to get signed. 

You lock eyes with your partner, bending at the waist over the butcher’s shoulder, grip unyielding on his hair. A show of power. Dominance, meant to convey, ‘This is how it’s done.’

A smirk twitches onto your lips. Your mouth brushes the outer shell of his ear, voice coming out deceptively doting. “Sign the fucking paper, or I’ll string you up like one of your little pigs and turn you into dog shit.”

His voice is wet. Strained, unflattering streaks of crimson leaking from his nose to puddle on the desk. “But—”

The hunter winces when you slam his face down again. He’s disoriented now. Swaying. If not for your iron grip on his hair, he’d fall into the arms of unconsciousness. 

“Okay, okay!” he relents, garbled and wet. 

You release his hair, shoving at his head none-too-gently, a facsimile of a smile rounding your lips. Perch a hand on his shoulder, squeezing with enough coercion to remind him of your potency. “Pleasure doing business with you, old man.”

The air thickens with fear. It’s quiet, save for the scratch of the butcher’s pen, as he shakily scrawls his signature on the deed, relinquishing his shop back to Sylus. You scrutinize the blood-flecked paper, satisfied. 

“I’ll give you until midnight to get the fuck out of here,” you casually say, snatching off your gloves to smooth out the lapels of your blazer. “Otherwise, I can’t guarantee your safety after.”

You leave the butcher to nurse a broken nose and a nasty headache, pushing past Ms. Hunter with a cocksure grin. 

“What the hell was that?!” she squeaks, rushing to keep pace with you as you step into the warm atmosphere outside, walking towards the sleek outline of your SUV.

“Business.”

“Yeah, but…did you have to threaten him like that? I mean, you could’ve killed the guy!”

With a scowl, you snatch the passenger door open for her to get in. “If you have a problem with how I do things, maybe you’re not cut out for this life, sweetheart.”

She scoffs disbelievingly. Haughty as she plops down on the passenger seat, crossing her arms. You’re being more venomous than usual. More pushy. You’re too far gone. You’ll apologize for making her your punching bag later. 

“What’s up with you?” she pressures once you’ve settled on the driver's side, discarding your gloves in the center console. Leans closer, squinting. You ease back. “You’ve been more bitchy than usual. You and Sylus have been acting weird.” 

She’s closer now, bursting your metaphorical bubble. Dangerously perceptive. You avoid eye contact as if doing so will reveal all the contents of your mind. Not that you have to. She’s alarmingly observant for someone who acts so naive. 

“Did something happen between you?”

You side-eye her as you start the engine, unknowingly confirming her suspicions. She quirks a brow, catching onto your game. Falls back against the leather of her seat to sulk over folded arms. “I knew it. Unbelievable. Didn’t I tell you to play nice while I was gone?!” 

“I’m always nice,” you counter under your breath, glaring at the console screen as you back up the SUV. 

The steering wheel scrubs between your hands after you shift to Drive, and as you slide the vehicle into the steady stream of traffic, you catch sight of the blood mottling the cuff of your sleeve, begging to differ. 

Maybe you’re being more ornery than you think.     

— 

The base is a network of paneled walls and glittering floors. Had you not been well-versed with its layout, you would surely get lost. But you’ve been here too many times. Once slept between these walls, laughed with the twins, and shared a glass of wine or two with your boss. 

Sometimes, he’d let you lie in his bed when your head was too fuzzy, and you couldn’t stop smiling after the wine left you tenuous and dazed. Nothing ever happened, much to your dismay. He was a gentleman through and through. And you never questioned him on why it was always his bed.

Things changed once Ms. Hunter entered the scene. 

This place used to be your asylum. Your respite from a world so vapid. For a moment, you could pretend the blood caked beneath your nails didn’t exist. And you could pretend you weren’t a weapon to be used at your employer’s disposal. But these days, you’ve avoided his mansion like a sickness, instead retreating to your own place in the city. You’re impeding. These walls no longer welcome you. 

You feel like a specter with unresolved conflict as you round the hall where Sylus’ study sits at its center. Your heart hurls itself against your rib cage. You’ve been distant since that night, shying away from his attempts to disarm you. All half-hearted ventures to keep you dangling on a frayed string until he next needs you to fill the void the hunter inevitably leaves. 

You tamp down your anxiety when the cool steel of the door handle bites into your palm. The voice inside is muffled. Deep. Resonant. Sylus is talking business. Orchestrating things that don’t concern you until he makes them your problem. You’ll be quick. Don’t want to stick around longer than necessary.  

Pushing open the heavy mahogany wood, you’re greeted by a shock of white nestled behind his desk. He’s on the phone. Looks up upon your entry, scarlet eyes narrowing, then softening with recognition. Your throat thickens.

You try to ignore how his look makes your stomach somersault. How every crevice of his office smells like him—bourbon, raw energy, and all things safe. You’re thrown back into the memory of that dusky night. The seal of his lips to yours, his fingers easing over the contours of your body like points on a star map.

Ignoring your thoughts, you conquer the distance between the door and his desk in measured strides, looking everywhere but at him. It’s too risky to maintain eye contact. He has a hold on you without trying. Without the straggly pull of his Evol, without the smoky compulsion of his voice. 

You plant the deed on the desk’s center with a muted thunk. His fingertips brush your knuckles, over the clutch of your hand. Static radiates between you. You reel back quicker than you mean to, bereft of the roughened slide of his fingers. Clear your throat, straighten your jacket. There’s a pinch between his brows, but it’s gone as quickly as it came. 

Sylus peers down at the paper, an inquisitive brow lifting at the oxidized brown dappling it. You give him a half-hearted shrug. You did your part. How you got there is a story for another day.

You don’t wait for him to dismiss you, wordlessly stepping away with a curt nod. He continues his conversation over your shoulder, and your body swells with relief. It’s short-lived when Ms. Hunter brushes past you on your way out of the door, tight-lipped and side-eyeing you with all the vexation of the world. 

Before you leave, you wait for the door to click shut behind you, catching wind of the hunter’s ire before thick layers of wood distort it. 

“Hang up the phone. We need to talk. Now.”

—

It’s a pleasure to dance. To forget yourself. 

Lux is lively tonight. Colored with mirth and strobing lights. Pounding music. You feel it in your chest as you move, a seductive, rehearsed smile crooking your lips. You rake your fingers through your hair. Drag your hands down the sweep of your waist, swiveling your hips, playing up your allure. You don’t have to do much to garner attention—it’s your job, remember?

You peacock about in the white metal birdcage you're housed in. Grab the bars, grinning down at the writhing crowd. It was your idea to give Lux a little umph, sweet-talking Sylus into having massive bird cages mounted from the ceiling. Fitting, given his obsession with pretty caged things.

Lux’s theme is ever-changing, courtesy of your eccentric mind. It keeps people coming in droves. Forces his enemies to rear their hideous mugs, lured to the nightclub by the promise of pretty women. 

The air between you was still dense. Rife with pheromones and unbidden feelings. But you were back donning your playful, arrogant mask as if the night you shared never existed. Back to flirting and giving Sylus the piss. 

The large faux wings you wear are surprisingly light. Stark, like the beautiful white tiger lounging on one side of the cage. The Bengal tiger yawns wide, giving you a show of pointed teeth. Teeth that could easily rip you asunder, yet he’s as docile as a house cat when you bend to pet through soft tufts of white. 

He slow-blinks at you, his gorgeous eyes shining like emeralds uncovered in a cave. You smile as you smooth your thumb over his nose. A pink tongue darts out to lick your palm. He reminds you of yourself—capable of extreme violence, yet docile in patient hands.

Your skin prickles. You notice you’re being watched, but not in a way you’re used to. A way that typically exudes desire. 

You turn to ingest a set of galaxy-infused eyes watching you intently through the throng of people. Youthful pockets of fat hang beneath his lower lids. A dark sweep of hair, thick brows. He towers over the crowd, a distinct cutout of virility and shrouded intentions. You don’t recall ever seeing him before. 

When your gazes intermingle, he smiles something corrupted. It doesn’t reach his eyes. You’re all too familiar with that look—one of a predator scoping out its next meal. Prey it intends to take its time eviscerating, licking its bones clean.

You smile all the more wider, and you smooth your hands over your body, maintaining eye contact as you play up the theatrics. It’s ritualistic in a way, how you move. Like you’re provoking him. You don’t know who this man is, but he’s ballsy, stepping into your den, challenging you.  

You tear your eyes away when the door to your cage swings open behind you, rocking it slightly on its hinges. A sizable hand peers in. You glance out, met with a riotous mop of white. Sylus. Gaze half-slit, relaxed. 

“Take five,” he says above the thumping music. 

You peer over your shoulder while taking his hand. The stranger you earlier locked eyes with has vanished, almost as if he were never there. You don’t pursue it. Not now at least. You allow Sylus to coax you down from the cage via hands at your waist. Stumble into him once on the ground, the air siphoned from your lungs. You're dizzy and breathless, being so close. He’s warm, smells divine, and you feel safe. Your palms press against his chest, his fingers wrapped about the crooks of your elbows to steady you.

He studies you with a reverent gleam to his irises as if he intends to kiss you, uncaring of any witnesses. Any questions. You shake away the thought, remembering yourself—your stance in his life. You offer him half a smile before retreating past him to the private bar for a drink. Something to ease your nerves, to cool your fevered skin.

Sylus’ expression hardens behind you as he scrutinizes the space you once stared at yourself. You don’t see the tenebrous threads of his Evol pouring from his body, licking the air. Don’t feel his aura bleeding a quieted malice, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. 

— tags: @unknown-ends, @viqlume, @nicohii, @beewilko, @lunebulous, @subliminalwish, @emneedshelp, @inkonparchment, @snowfall-jess, @bingbongchu, @greeenbeean, @shiorihoshino, @sillyfreakfanparty, @glamouroki, @midiplier, @kiri-tuk, @delulusimps, @moonlight-inthe-sea

climax 2.0 | masterlist | resolution

[xnalux]

I don't know if you're taking orders, but it doesn't hurt to try.

I was wondering what it would be like if the reader and (young) Violet were caught in the middle of making out (nothing too extreme, they're teenagers) by Vander/Silco and the two pull them into THAT awkward conversation. (I can imagine this so easily, it would be embarrassing and funny at the same time!!)

- that's it, a kiss on the ass

warnings: teens making out, fem!reader

an: this request was so cute I had to write it at soon as I got it. not entirely satisfied about this but I hope you like it ♡

In the warm, slightly messy confines of Violet's bedroom, the afternoon sun painted a playful pattern of light and shadow across the floor. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and the faint hint of cherry, a scent that clung to Violet from her favorite shampoo. The room was a testament to the tumultuous energy of adolescence: The walls were adorned with a mismatched collage of boxing posters featuring both legendary fighters and multiple polaroids featurings vi with her colest friends, some of them picturing vi and powder together.

The floor, a battleground of discarded textbooks, a few stray pieces of gym gear, and an ever-growing mountain of laundry that she always swore to tackle "later."

A worn-out punching bag hung defiantly in one corner, a testament to the countless hours she's spent working off her angst and energy. A rumpled bed in the corner with half-read comic books spilling onto the floor, and the faint smell of snack foods that had been hastily stowed away.

Violet, with her short hair sticking up in a halo of defiance, grinned mischievously as she danced around the room, throwing feigned punches at the air.

"Come on, cupcake" she goaded,

"I'll show you how to throw a real hook. You've got to keep your guard up, though."

You didn't know exactly how your sparring session started, one moment you and vi were bickering about who the best hero was in the last comic book you read and the next violet was circling you, fist raised in front of her face as she challenged you to ''show her what you've got''

Your eyes sparkled with both excitement and a touch of apprehension, as you mimicked Violet's stance, your hands held up in an awkward guard. you'd always admired Violet's strength and the way she could command a room, the way she'd stand up for anyone she thought was being bullied. You'd been inseparable since you were kids, but lately, you had been noticing something more, a spark of attraction that you hadn't quite known how to navigate.

Your playful sparring grew more intense, the air crackling with something electric and unspoken between you. Violet's movements grew bolder, and she began to enjoy the sight of you trying to keep up, your cheeks flushing a delightful shade of pink with every near-miss. As you circled, your foot slipped on a stray sock, and with a playful laugh, violet reached out, catching your wrist to stop you from falling.

In that moment, the space between you two seemed to shrink, the air growing thick with an unspoken tension. Violet looked into your eyes and saw something there she hadn't noticed before: a flicker of curiosity, a hint of desire. Her own heart began to race, and without thinking, she took a step closer.

The next few moments were a blur of movement as Vi playfully pinned you to the bed, your laughter echoing off the walls. your eyes went wide, but not with fear, with surprise and a thrill that you didn't quite understand. your body went tense for a brief second before you melted into the mattress, you hands fluttering to her sides, gripping slightly the fabric of her worn out t-shirt, like a butterfly unsure where to land.

Violet hovered over you, her grin turning soft and gentle as she looked down into your eyes. "You okay?" she asked, her voice barely more than a whisper.

you nodded, the nod turning into a shy smile.

"Yeah," you murmured, "I'm okay."

The room grew quiet, save for your panting breaths and the distant hum of zaun streets outside. Then, as if pulled by some invisible force, Violet leaned down, her lips brushing against yours in a soft, tentative kiss. It was a moment of discovery, a moment where the lines between friendship and something more began to blur. Your eyes closed, and you felt your inexperience show as your clenched hands hovered by her sides, unsure of where to go. The kiss grew deeper, more urgent, as you both gave in to the feelings that had been bubbling beneath the surface.

Your bodies pressed together, fitting in a way that felt so natural it was almost surprising.Your hearts hammering against your ribs like they were trying to escape.

She pulled back slightly, breaking the kiss to look down at you, her gaze searching for any sign of regret or discomfort.

''Truce?''

She asked, her slightly sweaty fingertips, a mirror of her own inexperience, caressing the skin of your wrists still pinned to the side of your head. You swallowed hard, feeling your heart pound in your chest.

"Truce," you echoed back, your voice trembling slightly with excitement and nerves.

Vi's smile grew, and she leaned back in, her eyes fluttering closed. Your hands, which had been frozen in place, started to move of their own accord, sliding up her arms to rest tentatively on her shoulders. Her skin was warm and soft beneath your touch, and you felt the muscles beneath. The kiss grew deeper as you both lost yourselves in the moment, the gentle pressure of her lips against yours making your head spin.

Your own hands grew more confident, moving up to tangle in her hair, which was sticky with sweat but still smelled faintly of cherries. You felt the softness of her strands between your fingers, the way they curled around your knuckles. Violet's grip on your wrists tightened slightly, a silent message of reciprocation and encouragement.

Her tongue brushed against your lower lip, and you gasped, feeling a thrill of excitement shoot through you. Without thinking, you parted your lips, and she took the invitation, deepening the kiss even further. Your tongues met, clumsily at first, but quickly finding a rhythm that matched the rest of your movements. She tasted of sour gummies, ''her favorites'' you tought, and iron due to her split upper lip.

In an instant, the heat of the moment froze as the door burst open. The sound of the door handle jolted you out of your daze, and your eyes went wide with shock. You saw Vander's surprised expression just before you had the sense to pull away from Violet. In your haste, you misjudged the distance and ended up headbutting her with a painful thud, making her yelp and clutch her nose.

''ouch'' violet groaned as your panicked gaze glanced between her pained face and vander amused one.

"Thy drugs are…are quick. Thus with…''

you squeaked high pitched as your tried to remember the lines from romeo and juliet you recently studied at school.

Vi looked at you, a bewildered gaze that screamed ''what the fuck are you doing'' scrunching her features.

''w-with a kiss I die."

you finished in a dramatic way trying to ignore the weight of the stare of vander still standing in the doorframe.

Vander glanced between the two of you crossing his arms on his chest, his right eyebrow slightly arched

''What's going on here?"

Before violet could utter a word you quickly shot up from the bed, your hand gesturing hastily in front of you.

''we were just…practicing…uh…drama for school!"

you looked at violet pleading her with your eyes to play along

"Yeah, for the school play''

she mumbled still holding her nose with a pained expression

''You know, the one about those two idiots who kill themselves by accident''

you glared at violet because she didn't sound convincing at all.

''romeo and juliet''

you hissed

Vander nodded slowly but it was clear in his eyes that he was reading through your ridicolous attempt at making excuses

"I didn't know you were in drama club?"

he said with a teasing tone

''I'm not'' violet responded

''it's for losers'' and you almost felt the physical need to headbutt her again because she was not being helpful at all.

you brushed your fingers over the dorsum of your nose trying to come up with something.

''yeah, we are not but…'' you said

"It's… it's just a new extracurricular we're thinking of joining,"

you blurted out, hoping that the desperation in your voice didn't give you away.

"You know, to… to expand our cultural horizons!"

Vander's eyes darted back and forth between you and Violet, the amusement in his gaze growing with each awkwardly constructed sentence.

The room felt as though it had suddenly shrunk, the air thick with the scent of embarrassment and the awkwardness of the situation. The punching bag in the corner of the room looked almost sympathetic as it swayed gently from your earlier playful exchanges.

"Oh, really?" he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

"And here I thought you were just… I don't know, wrestling for fun or something."

Violet's cheeks turned a deeper shade of red as she shot you a look that was both apologetic and slightly exasperated.

"Well," vi began, trying to keep her voice steady, "it's like… a new form of sparring, to mix shit up. It's all about… emotional expression and… uh… trust?"

Vander's eyebrow quirked upwards, clearly unconvinced.

"And this… 'sparring' requires kissing?"

Violet's eyes grew wide with panic.

"It's a… it's a trust exercise," she blurted out, her voice nasally from her still-pinched nose. "We read about it in a book. It's supposed to… to make us more… emotionally connected?"

the silence that followed was as palpable as the awkwardness. You could hear the clock on the wall ticking away, each second feeling like an eternity. Vander looked at the two of you, his arms still crossed over his chest, his biceps flexing under the fabric of his shirt.

Finally, he spoke up again, his tone softer now,

"Look, girls, I know you're growing up, and you're gonna have… feelings for each other, but maybe you could save the… extracurriculars for when I'm not around, yeah?"

You both nodded vigorously, relieved that he wasn't as upset as you had feared.

''and you know'' vander cleared his throat a little awkward not expecting to do the talk to violet today ''if you need to talk about you know...kids your age...and hormones''

he started suddendly feeling awkward.

"Vander!" Violet's voice was a mix of embarrassment and annoyance, her hand shooting up to cover her face. "We're not doing that!"

She was blushing furiously now, her eyes pleading at him to drop it.

Vander looked at you both trying to find the right words

"you know the birds and bees...''

He paused, looking between you two before continuing,

"or a bee and tanother bee" he gestured awkwardly towards the bed, "ok maybe not the best example but you know two blossoming young girls like you two"

Violet's hand dropped from her face as she finally shot up from the bed hastily walking to vander pushing on his chest.

"oh my god please stop"

"It's all about the…uh…pollination of life,"

he continued, his cheeks growing redder by the second.

"And how it's a beautiful, natural process that happens between…uh…people who really care about each other."

Violet groaned, her movements stiff as she tried to compose herself.

"we get it all right...just leave us alone" she asked, pleading as her cheeks grew redder by the seconds

Vander's finally raised hi hands in front of his chest as violet tried to push him again out of her room

"all right all right, just wanted to let you know I picked up dinner. It's in the kitchen. Don't eat it all before I get a chance, okay?"

As he left, shutting the door behind him, Violet and you shared a look of relief and awkwardness. She winced as she touched her nose gently, checking if it was still bleeding.

you rushed over to grab a tissue from her nightstand and handed it to her. "Sorry," you whispered, feeling guilty for causing her pain.

"I didn't mean to…"

"It's fine," she said, taking the tissue and dabbing at her nose. She looked at you, her eyes searching. "So… that was… weird, huh?"

you nodded, trying to keep your voice steady. "Yeah, but… I liked it," you admitted, your heart racing.

Violet's eyes widened, and she looked away, her cheeks flushing a deeper shade of red.

“I… I liked it too," she murmured.

for a moment, you just stood there, the silence stretching out between u like a tightrope you weren't sure you could both walk on. Then she looked back up at you, a tentative smile playing on her lips. "Want to… try again?"

[andypantsx3]

contents: general bakugou x princess reader; 1.1k, fem reader. lowkey dedicated to the loml @ofmermaidstories even tho there's e2l undertones.

thinking about being a princess forced into a political marriage. your father is ailing and with no sons in his lineage, your country risks dissolution and open war if you do not marry.

already several of the more prominent families are forming factions; those with eligible sons are desperately trying to engineer opportunities for themselves, those without are amassing foot soldiers and weapons.

you cannot stand any of the pompous, greedy, egocentric princelings put forth by the noble families; men who care nothing for the country or its people, men with no thought for policy or justice—men who would gorge themselves on wine and women as the country crumbled at their feet.

even with a husband, there is no guarantee against a coup, not unless your husband is formidable enough to suppress one.

there is only one man you can stomach the thought of assuming the throne, one man with a head for strategy, a sense of duty, and a reputation strong enough to suppress the growing threat of political discord.

you find general bakugou katsuki in his quarters in the small hours of the morning, unable to sleep for your nerves.

"princess," he rasps, opening the door in nothing but his breeches. your face burns as you're confronted with the sight of a man's naked chest, miles of bare skin, golden in the glow of the torch lights.

"general," you say, resolutely raising your eyes to his face. there is no time to dance around the issue. "i need you to marry me."

bakugou's blonde hair is bed-rumpled, his manner sleep-soft, though his gaze is sharp. he watches you for a long moment before answering.

"'s an awful unromantic proposal," he says, an eyebrow raising.

despite his honorability, he's always had a way of grating on your nerves, and he knows it. you can't stop the reflexive scowl that paints your mouth, nor the irritability that seeps into your tone.

"i am being serious," you say, crossing your arms.

bakugou's eyes follow the movement. you are suddenly all too aware that you've marched through the castle halls in nothing but your night rail, too overcome with the thought of what must be done to pay the appropriate attention to your wardrobe.

"what, you lookin' to consummate it now?" he asks, gaze almost burning through the thin cotton of your shift.

your ears go hot. "can you stop being the most obnoxious man on earth for one moment."

bakugou leans an arm against his open door, bicep flexing with the movement. you try valiantly not to notice the way the shadows pool in the divots of his muscle, the way his trousers sit against the plane of his toned stomach.

"if you want me to say yes, you're gonna need to be a little nicer, princess," he says, mouth flicking into an awful little smirk.

"general—bakugou," you hiss. "do you want to watch the country you've spent years defending dissolve into nothing at the hands of these narcissistic, coddled fools?"

"rich words for a princess," bakugou says, his voice nearly a growl in the dim.

you are aware that you are sheltered as a royal. you are aware you are soft and naive. but you are educated, you are strong-willed, and you care. you may not be a son to your father, but you know you know have studied harder than any man on your father's court. you want to do your best for this country.

"do not mock me," you command.

bakugou's scarlet gaze trails over you, hot and liquid in the flickering torchlight.

"no? then what d'you want me to do to you?" he asks.

you fight down the furious flush of humiliation. "i want you," you repeat through gritted teeth, "to marry me."

bakugou's golden eyelashes dip as his gaze slides back over your crossed arms, then lower, all the way down to your bare toes. you feel horribly vulnerable under his scrutiny, even more knowing you are already at his mercy.

"you're serious," he rasps, eyes cutting back to yours.

"unfortunately," you grit out.

that draws another flicker of a smirk out of him. "and y'came running down here at midnight in your little nightdress because you were too scared you'd chicken out, is that it?"

that is absolutely it, and you hate that he knows it.

"will you marry me or not?" you demand, even your nose feeling hot now. "i don't know what my nightdress has to do with the question!"

"your nightdress is gonna have a lot to do with it if i say yes, angel," bakugou says.

you hate him. maybe it's better to just let the country fall to ruin, let some jumped up coalition of families amass power and overwhelm bakugou and his soldiers. with any luck maybe they will stab him.

you'll have to come up with another plan.

"fine," you hiss, turning on your heel. "message received."

but a hot hand closes on your arm before you can take another step, yanking you back to him. you stumble, barely catching yourself before bashing your nose into his chest.

"you know what you're asking for?" bakugou demands, leaning in to look into your face. "you know this wouldn't be easy."

"i know," you say begrudgingly. "but you are the country's best option—my best option. none of the men put forth are acceptable."

"don't like pretty boys, princess?" bakugou asks.

"you're plenty pretty," you bite out before you can think. horror overwhelms you when bakugou's smirk grows wider, a sharp white knife in the dark.

"think i'm pretty huh?" he says, his tone gloating.

"i think that you are awful and maybe i'd rather take my chances with a coup," you growl, trying to pry your arm from his grip.

but bakugou's hold tightens for a moment, and he leans down, close enough that his breath ghosts over the collar of your night rail.

"then if you're sure this is what you want, princess, you can have it," bakugou says. his thumb smoothes over the skin of your arm for just a moment, soft and feather light before he lets you go.

you step out of his reach, skin tingling, face flaming. there's no reason to delay, then. "fine, we're agreed. i'll see you in the morning. we'll announce it then."

you spin on your heel, bakugou's grunt of acceptance following you as turn back down the hall.

"see you in the morning, angel," he drawls, suddenly all agreement.

he may be the general between the two of you, but you know when it's time for a strategic retreat. you ignore his response and flee—your ears burning all the way to your chambers.

[tinyshyteacup]

• Words of Command •

Tw: Cussing, angst, mentions of blood and grime.

Words of Command - Part 1

The lobby of Stark Tower gleamed with too much glass and not enough warmth for your taste. Sunlight pooled through the towering windows, hitting the polished marble floors and refracting off the chrome detailing of the modern decor.

You sat behind the main reception desk, perched on a tall stool with your legs swinging slightly.

The desk itself was a sleek black curve, embedded with holographic displays and a touchpad that still didn’t always respond when you tapped it with freshly moisturized fingers.

A nameplate identified you only by your first name, the letters tastefully etched in a clean serif font.

At the moment, you were staring at the printer behind you like it had personally offended you. It made a soft whirring noise—then stopped.

A flicker of smoke puffed up from the feeder tray. You yelped.

“J.A.R.V.I.S., I swear, I didn’t even touch it this time!”

"Miss, respectfully, you did attempt to print a double-sided image from an incompatible file format.”

You scowled at the ceiling. “You’re not even here physically. How would you know?”

“I am connected to over 2,000 sensors in this room. Shall I list the ones currently monitoring your error?”

“Rude,” you muttered, grabbing the paper that had jammed mid-print.

You shook it like it was a bad dog chewing your shoes. “This is sabotage. You're trying to make me look bad in front of Mr Stark.”

“Rest assured, Mr. Stark has been made aware of your printer challenges. He found it... 'endearing.’”

Your cheeks flushed.

The sarcasm was biting, but the thought that Tony Stark had discussed you at all—even mockingly—made your stomach flutter in a way you weren’t proud of.

The lobby doors hissed open with that smooth mechanical slide, and you looked up automatically.

When Captain Rogers walked into a room, it was like watching someone pull the '40s into the present. He was tall, and looked slightly rumpled in civilian clothes—a dark blue hoodie stretched over broad shoulders and a plain T-shirt underneath.

He wore jeans like he didn't know what to do with them.

“Hey,” he greeted, voice gentle but somehow carrying in the echoey lobby. “You’re the receptionist, right, the wizz with phones ?”

You nodded quickly and smiled. “Y-Yes, Captain Rogers. Morning.”

He returned the smile, slower, steadier, as if trying to ease your nervous energy. “Please, call me Steve.”

Right. Like that would help.

You stood, still barely reaching his chest, and smoothed down the front of your cardigan. “What can I help you with?”

He stepped up to the desk, pulled something from the pocket of his jeans, and placed it on the counter. A Stark-Phone. One of the newer ones Stark had issued.

You tilted your head, eyebrows lifting.

“I, uh…” Steve scratched the back of his neck, clearly sheepish. “I pressed something and now it’s speaking Korean. I think.”

You gently picked up the phone and pressed the home button. “Oh. You activated the language cycle shortcut. Happens if you triple tap the lock screen.”

You tapped through the settings with practiced ease. “There. Back to English.”

Steve watched you like you were performing magic. “I don’t know how any of you keep up with this tech.”

You smiled softly, meeting his gaze with more courage this time. “Honestly? I mostly argue with the printer. J.A.R.V.I.S. does everything else.”

Steve chuckled, a warm, earnest sound that made your heart thump faster. “Well, you seem to be holding your own.”

As he turned to leave, he paused. “I like your necklace, by the way. It suits you.”

You looked down, brushing a finger across the tiny pendant resting at your collarbone. “Oh. Thank you. It was my grandmother’s.”

He nodded like that meant something to him.

“Thanks,” he says, when you’re done. Then adds, almost sheepishly, “It’s nice to talk to someone who doesn’t look at me like I’m going to throw a shield at them.”

You laugh nervously. “You’re... not that scary.”

His grin is warm, boyish. You find yourself smiling back, unexpectedly grounded.

The elevator dings, and in breezes Tony Stark like a whirlwind in thousand-dollar shoes.

He’s on a call, two steps ahead of his own thoughts, sunglasses on indoors because of course they are.

"Yeah, just tell Fury he can bite me. In Morse code. Bye."

Phone snapped off, sunglasses up, and he zeroes in on you. “Sweetheart. You jammed the printer again.”

“I did not jam the printer,” you say quickly. “Jarvis is just being dramatic.”

“Jarvis is always dramatic, but in this case? He’s right.”

Tony leans on the desk, eyes squinting slightly. “Do you intentionally make the tech hate you? Is this like your rebellion arc Thumbelina? First it's the printer, then you’re reprogramming him to swear in Gaelic.”

“I wouldn’t do that,” you murmur, looking down. Then pause. “Wait... JARVIS can swear?”

Tony smirks. “Atta girl. Knew there was a fire in there somewhere.”

He straightens up, hands in pockets, a half-laugh escaping him as he walks toward the elevator. “Keep her, Rogers!” he shouts over his shoulder. “She’s the only one who’s not afraid to talk back to Jarvis.”

You blink.

Captain Rogers is still standing a few feet away, watching the exchange with something between amusement and... curiosity.

Maybe even admiration.

The city never sleeps, but it sighs in the early hours of morning—hushed traffic, glimmering reflections on wet pavement, a lull between the pulse of nightlife and the rise of commuters.

Neon lights flicker overhead, buzzing faintly, casting long shadows that cling to him like a second skin.

He moves like he’s not sure he’s real.

Each footfall is heavy but hesitant, like the ground might reject him. His hair is a tangled mess, matted and unwashed, sticking to his face and jaw.

The stubble on his cheeks is rough, uneven, and clings to him like dirt. His clothes are soaked in sweat, grime, and old blood—some of it his, some of it not.

His left arm is bare and gleaming beneath a tattered coat sleeve, metal fingers twitching involuntarily, as though searching for a rifle that isn’t there.

He doesn’t remember where he’s been.

Only fragments, screams, commands in harsh syllables, red flashing lights. A corridor. Restraints. Cold.

Oh God that biting cold.

He walks past windows and glass doors, catching glimpses of himself in reflections—a shadow, a haunted smear of what used to be a man.

He doesn’t know his name.

Not truly.

Not right now.

But somewhere, deep under the static in his brain, there’s something.

Maybe he had a name.

And then he looks up.

It rises above him like a monument, gleaming even in the grey blue of pre-dawn. STARK in large, defiant letters. The light at the top pulses. He stops walking, just… stands there.

His breath fogs the cold air, erratic.

His chest heaves, ribs visible through the threadbare shirt beneath the jacket. His boots are worn to the sole.

Everything about him screams survival, but there’s a flicker in his eyes now—recognition.

Stark.

Mission report.

Howard.

December.

Blood.

Sixteen.

Comply.

1991.

Zimniy Soldat.

Soldat.

The words slam into him like gunfire, and he stumbles forward, metal hand clenching hard enough to groan under its own pressure.

He doesn’t know what he’s doing here. He only knows the building is important.

And maybe... maybe someone inside can make the noise stop.

The automatic doors whisper open, parting slowly to let him step into the warmth of Stark Tower’s front lobby. Inside, the polished floors shine, reflecting the subtle glow of the early-morning lighting.

The scent of fresh polish, faint coffee, and recycled air fills the space. It’s clean. Too clean. Sterile like a medical wing, like some place where experiments happened.

He hesitates in the doorway.

The light overhead flickers slightly, casting a quick stutter of shadow across his face—an echo of something dark beneath the skin.

You stand behind the front desk, holding your phone in one hand, uncertain. His body is massive in the entrance, his shoulders squared like a soldier preparing for a threat. That left arm, slick and inhuman, gleams under the overhead light, fingers twitching like they have a mind of their own.

He takes two steps forward.

You don’t move, but your fingers close slowly around the base of your mug—some deep instinct reaching for something solid, something real.

"Hi… I—I don’t think you’re supposed to be in here," you say softly, trying not to let the nervous quiver in your voice show.

He tilts his head.

Not sharply. Not mechanically. Like a man trying to understand.

His lips part. You can tell it’s painful. His throat works around something—speech, maybe, or just the ghost of it. His voice comes like gravel, dry and shredded.

“Pomohgeet-yeh…"  Help.

Your brows knit. You don’t understand the words. But the way he says them makes your chest hurt.

He tries again.

“Gde… eta?"  Where… is this?

The effort it takes him to speak is visible.

He trembles.

Not with fear, but exhaustion. His whole body is strung tight like a stretched wire, ready to snap. One wrong move and he could bolt. Or lash out. Or break down.

You hold both hands up in that gentle, universal please-don’t-run gesture. “I—I don’t know what you’re saying. But I want to help. I can call someone. Or—I can get Mr. Stark if you want, or—”

At the name, something sharp flickers behind his eyes.

Stark.

He flinches like you’ve slapped him.

Suddenly, he shifts—too fast. That metal arm raises slightly, just a fraction. You freeze. Not because you think he’s going to hurt you—but because for a moment, he doesn’t look like a man anymore.

He looks like a ghost wrapped in combat training, forged in violence.

His eyes dart around the lobby—scanning exits, angles, security cameras.

His stance changes subtly, weight shifting onto the balls of his feet, as though he’s ready to take someone down.

And you—you’re just standing there.

He opens his mouth again, lips cracked and barely moving.

“Ne khochu… drat’sya." I don’t want… to fight.

You still don’t understand the words.

But you understand the tone.

Soft. Strained. Pleading.

“uh-huh,” you whisper.

You take a slow step around the desk. Not too close. But enough that he can see your hands, see your face.

You keep your voice low. “You look like you need help. Food? Water?”

He doesn’t answer. But his eyes track your hand as you slowly lift your bottle and offer it to him.

He reaches for it with his metal hand—but stops. There’s shame in the hesitation.

Holy Shit, is that metal ?

The faintest flicker of emotion across his dirt-streaked face. He switches to his right hand and takes it.

He drinks.

Not quickly. Like every swallow might be a mistake. Like he doesn’t trust it not to hurt.

As he drinks, you take him in quietly.

He looks... wrong in this space. The marble floor, the sleek design, the soft hum of Jarvis’ systems in the walls—it makes him look like something out of time. Like a soldier in a museum.

And then it hits you.

There’s something familiar about him. Not just the metal arm. Not just the way he looked at the building. But something in the jawline. The eyes.

You move slowly back to your desk, heart thudding as you open a file of security images.

"Who are you?" you whisper to yourself.

He doesn't answer.

He just watches you.

You move quietly to the comm panel, still keeping one eye on the man sitting stiffly in the chair near the lobby’s edge.

Tony had given you a comms piece to use in emergencies, is this a emergency ?

Stranger, built like a fridge, with a metal arm ?

Definitely.

The stranger in question hasn’t spoken since you gave him the bottle of water. His fingers—bare and bruised on one hand, cold steel on the other—grip it like it might disappear. He hasn’t drunk again. Just stares at the wall like he's trying to make sense of what a wall is.

Your voice is hushed as you speak into the receiver.

“Captain Rogers? I—I’m sorry to bother you. But there’s someone in the lobby. A man. I don’t know who he is, but I think… I think you should come down ... please.”

You don’t say that he’s filthy, trembling, starved.

You don’t say you’re afraid of how quiet he is.

You don’t say that even Jarvis, hasn’t spoken a word since he arrived.

As though the building itself is holding its breath.

You hear him before you see him—the heavy, purposeful footfalls of combat boots against tile. The automatic doors open with a whoosh, and Captain Steve Rogers steps into the lobby like a storm arriving with restraint.

He stops dead in his tracks.

You watch the expression on his face collapse.

From soldier to friend.

From Avenger to broken-hearted brother.

“...Bucky?” he breathes.

The name falls into the room like a thunderclap.

But the man in the chair doesn’t flinch.

Doesn’t even look up.

“Bucky,” Steve tries again, stepping forward slowly, cautiously, as though any sudden movement might spook him.

The man’s eyes track Steve—but only briefly. Recognition doesn’t register.

No emotion flickers. Just calculation.

The Winter Soldier, watches Steve Rogers like he’s a possible threat. Like a target.

You step back instinctively, not out of fear, but because the air has changed. Thickened.

Like the moment before a fight. Or before someone remembers something too painful to hold.

Steve is trying. You can see it.

“Bucky, it’s me. It’s Steve. Steve Rogers. Brooklyn. 40s. We grew up together.” His voice cracks.

But there’s nothing behind those eyes. Not the kind of nothing that comes from confusion.

The kind that’s been scraped clean.

Programmed.

Buried.

The man’s body tenses. A tic in the jaw. A breath held too long.

His fingers flex on the water bottle, crack—plastic gives under his grip.

Then, that guttural voice “Ne znayu tebya." I don’t know you.

Steve flinches. Not physically. Not visibly.

But you feel the break.

He kneels in front of him, ignoring the metal arm, the set jaw, the violence in his posture. His voice lowers to a whisper, so raw and aching it doesn't feel meant for anyone else to hear.

“I thought I lost you. I never stopped looking.”

The soldier’s gaze doesn’t soften.

His eyes scan Steve like he’s a file to be decrypted. A puzzle, not a person.

He shifts in the chair.

Not toward Steve—but away. Just a few inches. Enough to feel like a rejection.

The lobby is quiet again. Bucky? Or The soldier?—or the shell of him—sits in the corner like a statue draped in rags. His posture stiff, eyes half-lidded but never soft.

Like a soldier awaiting deployment, tension simmering beneath his skin.

Steve touches your arm gently and gestures toward the hallway off the reception desk. His voice is low, heavy with something that feels like grief soaked in guilt.

“That’s Bucky,” he says. “James Barnes. We grew up together. He enlisted before me.”

You blink up at him, trying to marry the image of the blank, cold-eyed man in the lobby with the idea of someone’s best friend.

Steve swallows hard. “But… that’s not who he is now. Hydra got to him. They—”

He stops. The words taste wrong in his mouth.

“They erased him. Broke him down and rebuilt him into something else. A ghost with a gun. They called him ‘The Winter Soldier.’”

A pause. His jaw tightens.

“They didn’t use his name. They called him Soldat." Steve whispers, making sure only you hear.

You murmur the word aloud without thinking, testing it, you feel disgust claw at your spine at the idea of someone being stripped so bare.

“Soldat…?”

The sound barely leaves your lips. Just a sound.

But across the lobby—the man moves.

Fast.

Sudden.

Mechanical.

The chair clatters backwards as he rises in one sharp, fluid motion. Spine straight, feet planted.

His metal arm clenches, whirring softly. His eyes, once clouded with the fog of confusion, snap into unnatural focus.

Like a trigger has been pulled.

His gaze lands on you.

Not Steve.

You.

Then, in that same guttural, rasping Russian:

“Gotov k vypolneniyu." Ready to comply.

Your heart lurches. You don’t know what he said—but the tone tells you enough.

Cold.

Obedient.

Trained.

Steve steps forward sharply, hand raised. “Bucky—no! She’s not—”

But Bucky isn’t listening. His head turns ever so slightly toward you, chin dipped in rigid respect, but eyes locked like a weapon sighting a command post.

Then, another word in Russian.

“Rukovoditel’" Handler.

Shit. SHIT

You freeze, mouth slightly open, eyes wide as you stare at the man before you.

He’s taller than you by what feels like a foot, broad-shouldered and imposing, hair tangled, blood on his temple not yet dried. But it’s not his appearance that terrifies you.

It’s how still he is now. How controlled. How conditioned.

Like someone flipped a switch inside him.

Steve’s hand is on your shoulder suddenly, protective, grounding.

“He thinks you’re his handler,” Steve says softly. His voice is tight, like he’s struggling to remain calm. “Hydra trained him to respond to words 'Soldat' must have triggered it.”

You glance at the Soldier—and feel a cold chill crawl down your spine.

But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just waits.

As if he’s expecting you to give him an order.

You whisper, almost afraid of your own voice, “What do I do?”

Steve shakes his head. “Don’t give him commands. Don’t say anything that sounds like one. We’ll get Bruce or Tony down here, maybe they can—”

The sound of polished leather shoes and the hiss of elevator doors heralds Tony Stark’s arrival.

He strides into the lobby like he owns every inch of it—which, of course, he does. A tailored charcoal suit, sunglasses he doesn’t need indoors, and a cup of coffee he’s already bored with. His tone, dry as ever.

“Well, well, if it isn’t the Tin Man himself.”

Tony stops a few paces from the soldier, surveying him like a potential weapon. Or worse, a ticking bomb.

“You gonna sing ‘If I Only Had a Brain,’ or…?”

No response.

The Soldier—still as a statue—doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. Just stands in that unnatural way. Tense. Straight-backed. Alert. His metal hand twitches faintly at his side, barely noticeable unless you’re watching for it.

And you definitely are now.

You stand just behind Steve, hands clasped nervously in front of you like you’re trying to shrink into the floor. But you feel the weight of his stare. Not Tony’s. Not Steve’s.

His.

The Soldier.

His eyes, dark and unreadable, are pinned on you.

Tony raises an eyebrow and leans toward Steve. “So this is the guy you were willing to punch me in the face over?” He eyes the torn tactical gear and matted hair. “Charming.”

Steve doesn’t rise to the bait. His voice is firm but quiet. “He’s not well. Hydra programmed him. We think he… believes she's his handler”

Tony turns toward you, glancing you up and down, not rudely, just… curious. “She gets winded carrying a bag of flour.”

You open your mouth to protest, but then The Soldier moves.

Not toward Tony.

Not toward Steve.

Just… a slight shift. He angles his body protectively between you and Stark.

And then he speaks. Russian again.

“Rukovoditel"

His voice is hoarse, barely a growl.

Tony snorts. “Let me guess. That means ‘fearless leader’?”

Steve sighs. “It means ‘handler.’ I told you Tony, he thinks she’s his handler.”

Tony takes off his sunglasses, eyes narrowing. “Oh, great. We’ve got a murder machine who’s latched onto Thumbelina.”

He turns back to The Soldier, then tries his best Stark-brand sarcasm. “Hey, RoboCop. You like shawarma? Puppies? The Bee Gees?”

The Soldier doesn’t react.

His gaze stays locked on you. Like Stark isn’t even in the room.

“Gotov k vypolneniyu" Ready to comply.

Tony paces a bit, muttering to himself.

“Okay, okay… Steve brings in a half-feral Hydra brain bomb who only listens to the human equivalent of a cupcake, and I’m just supposed to—what—build him a bunkbed?”

Steve steps between them, voice low and serious. “He’s not dangerous to her. You saw that.”

“Oh yeah, I saw it,” Tony shoots back. “Saw him zero in on her like a guided missile with a crush. Only she’s not trained. She doesn’t even speak Russian. What happens if she says the wrong thing?”

You flinch a little at that, the weight of it finally settling in your chest.

Tony softens for a half-second. Just a breath. His eyes flick to you. “No offense. I’m sure you’re a lovely hostage.”

Then, toward The Soldier again. “You got anything else in that scrambled brain of yours? English? Stark tech? The weather?”

The Soldier’s only movement is the subtle tightening of his jaw. The slight widening of his stance—defensive. Watching Tony too closely now. Like he’s assessing threat levels.

But then… his eyes return to you.

You whisper, half to yourself, “He’s waiting.”

Tony raises a brow. “For what?”

You shrug helplessly. “An order. I think.”

The lobby feels heavier. Like a suspended moment, stretched too tight.

Tony watches the two of you, something calculative slipping into his expression.

“This is a problem,” he murmurs. “Because if she’s his focus, and we can’t get through to him otherwise—he’s not just broken. He’s tethered.”

Steve crosses his arms. “Then we don’t break the tether. We use it. Let her anchor him.”

Tony scoffs. “Oh, sure. Let’s just traumatize a receptionist, make her the sole translator for Hydra’s favorite murder puppet. What could go wrong?”

But even he can’t ignore the truth, the Winter Soldier isn’t reacting to threats, or commands, or charm.

Only you.

Fuck.

[jinxingout]

pillow princess (literally)

inspired by this fanart!! it’s literally perfect

content: nsfw - pillow humping, praise kink, sub jinx, dom fem! reader, slight power play

jinx had been acting needy all day — her touches lingering a second too long on your skin, or stretching an extra inch so her already cropped top would show more skin. she thought she was being subtle, but you could feel the want radiating off her in waves. you decided to toy with her a little first.

while perched on your lap on the couch, she leaned in, smirking as if she had you wrapped around your finger (she did). you leaned back, denying her the kiss she so blatantly wanted. "such an eager little thing today, aren’t you?" you said, your voice taking on a slightly patronizing tone.

jinx’s grin faltered as her face flushed beet red. "i...i don't know what you mean," she said defiantly, but her flushed skin and the way she squirmed in your lap betrayed her real feelings. "’m just happy to see you."

"or just eager to please, is that it?" you asked, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of your mouth. "then prove it. strip for me. let’s see what a good girl you can be."

jinx glared at you as she hesitated for a second before unzipping her pants, wiggling them down her long legs. she then peeled off her top, revealing her pert tits, nipples already stiffening in the cool air.

you point at the pillow on the other side of the couch. "get yourself off. I want to see you put your back into it."

jinx’s cheeks flushed a deeper shade of red, but she obeyed and crawled over onto the pillow. she hesitated for a moment before starting to slowly grind her hips in small circles, the pillow beginning to dampen from her arousal.

you watched as jinx reluctantly ground her naked body against the pillow, her soft, stifled whimpers filling the room. "see? i’m—ngggh—g-good…” she whined under her breath, her moans escaping. her hips began to move with more urgency, the pillow now damp and rumpled underneath her.

"that’s it, baby," you encouraged, your voice low and commanding. "grind that needy pussy against the pillow. show me how bad you want it."

jinx bit her plump lower lip, a breathy moan escaping her as she obeyed, her movements becoming more enthusiastic, her pink folds glistening and swollen. she squeezed her eyes shut, cheeks flushing and chest heaving.

"oh fuck- ahh!” jinx gasped, her hips bucking faster, grinding her aching clit against the fabric. her thighs trembled, grip tightening on the pillow. she gasped and arched her back, pressing her ass higher in the air. she was so close.

"that’s my good girl," you praised.

jinx couldn't hold back any longer. your words and the relentless stimulation pushed her over the edge. "’m—’m comingg!" jinx screamed, her hips bucking wildly against the pillow as she came hard. her inner walls clenched and fluttered, gushing her release onto the fabric. her eyes rolled back as she rode out each intense wave of pleasure.

when the aftershock subsided, she collapsed forward, draping herself over the pillow, panting harshly. her skin glistened with a sheen of sweat, chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath. she peered at you with hazy, lust-filled eyes. “please…” she whined, reaching out for you. she was putty in your hands, pliant and needy, and you couldn't hold your hands back from touching her anymore.

[littlelamy]

title: rafe's personal playboy bunny

warnings: 18+, smut

background: before moving to obx with your best friend, you were featured in a small playboy spread. when rafe found out about your past gig, he decided he needed to take some photos of his own.

the first purchase was a camera. top of the line, mirrorless, sleek in his hands like it belonged there. he spent too long in the store testing lenses, zooming in and out, asking questions he already knew the answers to. but it wasn’t just about the camera—it was about the setup, the lighting, the fucking vision he had in his head of you spread out and glistening under a spotlight, looking like something out of a magazine, but better. raw. real.

then came the tripods, the softboxes, the LED panels. he wanted precision, control over every shadow and highlight. you weren’t just a girl in front of his camera. you were a masterpiece he was going to create, frame by fucking frame. he tested angles in his room before even bringing you into it, adjusting the height, the placement, imagining the way the light would kiss your skin, the way the shadows would carve out every perfect line of you.

by the time he called you in, the room was transformed. not just a bedroom anymore, but a set. the walls lined with blackout curtains, the bed pushed to the center like a stage, soft sheets rumpled just enough to look inviting. and then, there was the table—laid out with more than just camera equipment. a collection of toys, sleek and glistening under the studio lights, each one carefully chosen. he wanted to see you use them, wanted to capture everything.

“strip,” he said, adjusting the focus, not even looking at you yet. the camera clicked as you peeled away your clothes, the sound sending a jolt of heat straight through you. his voice was low, measured, but you could hear the edge to it, the hunger buried beneath control. “slow. take your time.”

he guided you, not with touch, but with words. told you where to sit, how to arch, where to let your hands wander. the camera clicked with every motion, freezing you in time, making you immortal in pixels. and then, his voice dipped lower, dark amusement curling around each word. “pick one.”

your eyes flicked to the table. so many choices. some familiar, some new. you hesitated, and he caught it, a smirk tugging at his lips as he zoomed in, the lens capturing every little flicker of anticipation across your face. “don’t be shy now. you posed for strangers before, didn’t you? this is just for me.”

heat coiled in your stomach as you reached out, fingers grazing over the cool surface of a toy before wrapping around it. the moment you held it up, the camera clicked again, a satisfied hum escaping him. “good girl,” he murmured, stepping closer, adjusting the angle. “now show me how you use it.”

his voice guided you, steady, unwavering, the authority in it making your breath hitch. “start slow,” he instructed, eyes never leaving the viewfinder. “press it to your skin first. tease yourself.”

you obeyed, trailing it over your thighs, over the soft dip of your stomach, your lips parting when you felt the first shiver of pleasure. the camera clicked. “yeah, just like that. drag it lower.”

his breath was audible, heavy through the silence, the sound of the camera shutter filling the space between you. “spread your legs wider. let me see everything.”

your pulse pounded as you followed his orders, your fingers trembling slightly as you brought the toy exactly where he wanted it. the moment it pressed against you, a sharp inhale echoed from behind the lens. “fuck, that’s beautiful. turn it on.”

the vibration jolted through you, and the camera caught the exact second your mouth fell open, your eyes fluttering shut. “keep them open,” he reminded you. “look right at me. let me see what it does to you.”

his commands were precise. “circle it. slower. now press it in—yeah, just like that, princess.” the camera clicked with every change in your expression, capturing the way your brows knitted, the way your lips trembled. “use your other hand,” he murmured. “play with your tits. make it pretty for me.”

heat coiled tight in your stomach as you did exactly as he said, teasing and touching as he dictated, the pleasure intensifying with each passing second. the room was nothing but the sounds of the toy, your own soft gasps, and the rhythmic snap of the shutter as he immortalized every filthy moment.

“push it deeper,” he ordered, voice thick. “fuck yourself on it.”

you whimpered at the words, legs shaking as you moved the toy in and out, every motion perfectly timed to his direction. “yeah, just like that,” he praised, the camera still clicking. “God, you’re gorgeous honey.”

he didn’t stop until he had everything he wanted. until you were spent, trembling, and completely undone beneath the heat of his lens, captured forever in a way only he would ever see.

tags: @rafesbabygirlx @namelesslosers @drewsephrry @maybanksangel @averyoceanblvd @iknowdatsrightbih @rafesheaven @anamiad00msday @ivysprophecy @wearemadeofstardust0 @rafesangelita @rafedaddy01 @bakugouswaif @skywalker0809 @vanessa-rafesgirl @evermorx89 @outerhills @ditzyzombiesblog @slavicangelmuah @alivinggirl @rafesgreasycurtainbangs @lil-sparklqueen @rafessweetgirl

[ceilidho]

fear of god

prompt: There's someone outside the spacecraft. You don't remember them being part of the crew. Part 1 masterlist

-

In the end, gazing out of the ship's portholes into the dark vastness of space proves to be less comforting than the architects must have originally anticipated. You can attest to this more than most.

Every morning, you get up an hour earlier than the rest of your crew and make your way to the galley to make your morning cup of coffee. A pack of instant crystals into your favorite mug and hot recycled water from the kettle. Sometimes you stay to have breakfast, but often you take your coffee with you to the main viewing deck for your morning sojourn. 

There, you sit curled up in the navigator’s chair and stare out of the flight deck window until your breathing levels out. Early morning meditations. With the sun only visible through the rear porthole, the Milky Way stretches out before you, immeasurably vast. Ancient cosmic entities, some already long dead. 

Stars fill your field of vision like an intricate latticework of varying brightness. The watery glass warps at the edges, bending the far off light. All things with their propensity for brightness and decay.

A deep, steady hum fills the room. It’s cathartic to be alone. Sometimes, when you look out into the depths of space, you imagine yourself as a cartographer of old, labeling everything beyond this point: “here there be dragons.” 

Farah is the first person to join you, the ship’s maintenance technician already washed and dressed, floral cumberbund cinched around her midriff and her headwrap pinned in place. She greets you with a firm nod upon her entry, never one to mince words. In the months since your ship set off on its course for Jupiter, you’ve exchanged all of ten words, most of your conversation one-sided. 

She glides in like she’s been up for hours, likely running through her routine maintenance checklist. Monitoring propulsion, life support, and all critical systems. You wouldn’t doubt if she had been, descending into the bowels of the ship and cataloging every minute difference from the day before. Nothing if not thorough. 

Graves sweeps in not twenty minutes later, his uniform pressed and ironed. When he glances your way, you shrink under his gaze, self-conscious about something unidentifiable. He is every bit the commander you met briefly back on Earth, never a hair out of place. If he were less intimidating, he’d be insufferable. 

“Morning,” you murmur, the mug still close to your lips making your voice reverberate. He doesn’t respond. You wonder if he even heard you greet him. It likely wouldn't matter.

Medic has a different connotation this far from Earth. Hierarchy out in space is typically determined by way of one’s importance to the ship, and the scope of your role does not, unfortunately, include maintaining the ship. What that means, unofficially, is that you speak when spoken to, and not for any other reason. 

In the months to come, there may be moments or days when your usefulness is acknowledged, usually much to your colleagues’ chagrin. Though it’s not likely that any of the crew will encounter foreign pathogens while on a hermetically sealed ship in the middle of space, they’re all still susceptible to falls and cuts and worse. Nikolai, the chief engineer on board, had sprained his wrist during the first week of the mission, lending you immediate purpose and validation. 

You make way for the second officer when he finally deigns to make an appearance, sliding quietly out of his seat and stepping to the back of the cockpit, back pressed to the wall closest to the door. 

“Morning, everyone,” he greets, peppier than the three of you despite his rumpled appearance. His thick mustache twitches with the force of his smile. “Ready to seize another day?”

“Jesus Christ, Keller, let’s tone it down ‘til about ten o’clock, alright?” Graves sighs. He pinches the bridge of his nose as if to ward off a headache.  

“Our clocks are off, commander,” Alex jokes, coming over to give him a little shake by the shoulder. It would be insubordination from anyone else. “I’m about ready to eat lunch.” 

“Let’s just get through formation and then you can go fill up the bottomless pit you call a stomach.”

The morning briefing never takes up too much time. It’s as much of an excuse to have coffee together as it is to go through the day’s schedule. Graves spends most of the time reviewing the flight course, charting where the ship will be by day’s end. 

“Almost through the belt,” Alex remarks, staring down at the monitor in front of him. It’s an incomprehensible jumble when you try to peer over his shoulder, but he must be able to make sense of it. 

The crew had been on high alert since entering the torus-shaped region between Mars and Jupiter a month back. For the most part, they needn’t have been so on edge—the average distance of the asteroids in the circumstellar disc between the two planets tended to be quite substantial—but a collision the previous day had reinstated their earlier anxiety. 

“Can we switch from manual yet, Farah?” Graves asks from his seat at the helm of the ship. 

She shakes her head, lips tightening with frustration. “I still have to figure out what’s going on with cruise control—it’s not responding correctly.”

“Was that from that little ding the other day?” you ask, blurting out the question without thinking.

Farah’s expression is flat when she glances over at you. “That ‘little ding’ nearly took out our communications system altogether.” 

You wince at that, staring down at your feet instead. Better to just shut your mouth than make a fool of yourself. Had you not blurted out the question, you might have even surmised the nature of the situation given the comm specialist’s notable absence from the cockpit. 

When Nikolai eventually ambles in with a thermos of coffee and deep troughs under his eyes, Farah looks up and frowns. “Where’s Hadir?”

The man shrugs, nonplussed. “Cargo?” he grunts, rolling the toothpick between his teeth around the words. 

She sighs. “I’ll go find him.”

No one says anything when she leaves, the double doors sliding open and shut automatically at her approach, and she doesn’t bother saying goodbye. 

“Dismissed, I guess,” Graves sighs, collapsing into his chair and spinning around to face the stars proliferating in front of him. 

The informality digs at you sometimes because you know you can’t indulge in it. The times you’ve attempted to, you’ve been rebuffed. Sometimes unintentionally, but often to remind you of your place.

This isn’t a crew you’ve ever worked with before. From conversations you’ve overheard, you’ve gleaned that they’ve all worked together in different capacities before, years of familiarity breeding an easy trust and companionship between them. Two of them might even be lovers—though Farah maintains a neutral facade at all times, the same can’t be said for Alex, the man always hovering nearby, eyes going soft at the sight of her. 

You’re the only odd man out. The newcomer. And though you sit with them in the mess for meals and partake in conversation and pass jokes like small stones from hand to hand, you know deep down, in the dark well of your heart, that you are not one of them. You are a passenger that they picked up along the way. A straggler. 

This wasn’t supposed to be the case. When you signed on to the mission months ago, the circumstances were wholly different. A newer ship, a different crew, some of which you’d worked with before. Then ownership changed hands and budgets were cut. Slashed to ribbons even. You had a chance to tour the ship before the launch date, and even down on Earth with all the glitz and glam available to trick the eye, you hadn’t been convinced of the vessel’s ability to withstand the extreme conditions of space.  

But by then, you were locked into a contract so iron-clad that the consequences of breaking it seemed worse than simply seeing the mission through. 

Most days, you feel like you’re waiting for something to give. You pass through halls that echo with low creaks and a deep, rhythmic thrum. Sometimes the walls of the ship groan so loud that you wait with baited breath for the hull to implode around you, to feel the metal crush the delicate eggshell of your body beneath its weight. 

It’s not any better to just stay in your room, your quarters too cramped to nurture anything other than claustrophobia. A recent, unfortunate side effect of spending months on such a small ship. You’ve become accustomed to crews numbering in the tens and hundreds, ships so colossal in size that even months spent aboard weren’t enough to explore all of its nooks and crannies. Cargo holds with excavators and backhoes for excavations on Mars and humvees for getting around the rough terrain. 

This ship barely holds six people and the payload you’ve been hauling to Europa. Pipes hiss in the corridors. Once a week, the radiator splutters or the intercom overhead crackles, kicking your heart into hyperdrive. 

You leave formation more out of sorts than ever. Vaguely aimless. With nothing to do, you grab breakfast in the galley and eat at the counter, too uncomfortable to venture over to the mess. Your days consist mainly of hovering around the ship or sitting quietly in the medbay, waiting for something to happen. A morbid preoccupation. 

The stairs clunk under your feet as you make your way down towards the medbay. You’ve long grown used to the sharp sound of your boots against the metal floor. 

Rationally, you know they don’t dislike you. You might even venture to say that you get along with the majority of them, particularly the chief engineer and Farah’s brother. The big man likes that it only takes a single drink to get you plastered, often howls with laughter when you stumble out of the mess after drinking with the crew, always the first to turn in for the night. Farah herself is only frosty because she works twice as hard as anyone else, burning the midnight oil on the regular. 

You swallow half-truths like stones to help settle your stomach. 

It doesn’t replace real companionship though; it approximates, but doesn’t quite replicate it. You feel its absence most acutely in the sidelong glances you sometimes get of real affection: Alex grazing his pinkie across Farah’s when he thinks no one is looking; Farah’s eyes softening at the sight of her brother; Graves and Nikolai reminiscing about something a decade past, hardly even aware of your presence in the room. 

It’s something you’ve endured before, but never for such an extended period of time. Prolonged isolation prickles at the mind, feathering the edges. It purples space; passes through the vents. The crew rarely goes on spacewalks (hardly any need for it), but sometimes you swear the ship’s oxygen has a faint sulfuric undertone, like rotten eggs. It permeates the air wherever you go. 

Someone knocks at the window just as you walk by.

You pause mid-sip, the mug raised to your lips and just pressing into your bottom lip, not yet tilted. 

“Hello,” you hear through the thick-paned glass, the voice muffled through the layers of glass and plastic partitions. “Could you let me in, please?”

Though your reflex is to look up, you don’t for some reason. The muscles in your neck stay locked instead. Shoulders stiff, weighed down by an unnatural force. 

The thing outside the ship knocks again. “Love? Can you hear me?”

Your head turns towards the porthole, the hand holding your mug drifting away from your mouth. It tips in your hand and a drop leaks down the side. Your lips tingle, almost numb. 

There’s a man outside the porthole, clear as day. He hovers outside the window, a hand raised in a friendly wave and full lips splitting to reveal perfect, white teeth when he smiles. He’s dressed in a spacesuit, no different than any of the crew on a spacewalk. Through the helmet, you can make out dark eyes and dimples. A close cropped beard.

It’s not a face you’ve ever seen before though. You think you might’ve remembered someone so handsome working on the ship with you.

Something needles inside of you though. A sickening feeling, like something you’ve forgotten but you desperately need to remember. 

“Hi there,” the man says, voice as charming as you’ve ever heard, so velvety rich that you feel the blood heat your cheeks. “Glad you were passing by. Mind letting me in?”

[lottiesdolly]

antler queen privileges

♡ lottie matthews x reader

You knew something was wrong with Lottie the moment she looked at you, really looked. Like watched you for a good while, looked. Not the kind of glance people gave in passing, but the kind that stripped layers you didn’t know you were wearing.

“You’re cute when you blush,” she said once, voice low and syrup-sweet, like she knew the effect she had on you.

You were helping her gather wildflowers for some ritual she claimed “the wilderness demanded it.” You didn’t ask questions. You never did. Lottie liked that about you; obedient, soft-spoken, easy to mold. She said so herself once, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear with fingers that lingered too long. You hadn't forgotten the way her fingers felt, the way you wanted them to linger longer.

“You trust me, don’t you?” she asked, crouching beside you, her eyes glittering with something unreadable. “You wouldn’t lie to me?”

You shook your head, honest as ever. “Of course not.”

She smiled like a predator who’d just heard the trap snap shut.

“Good,” she whispered, lips ghosting over your cheek. “Because I don’t like secrets. Not between us.”

She crouched behind you, silent as a shadow, until her fingers slipped beneath your chin, tilting your face up toward her. Her touch was too warm, too intimate.

“You shouldn’t wander off,” she murmured, her breath tickling your ear. “Bad things live in the woods.”

You watched her with focused eyes, like your gaze couldn't leave her if it wanted to.

You started to speak, but she pressed a finger to your lips, soft and commanding.

“No excuses. You belong where I can see you.” Her smile was laced with something dangerous. “Where I can protect you.”

She smelled like dirt and pine and something faintly sweet, berries maybe, or blood. Her dress was rumpled, hanging off one shoulder, revealing too much sun-kissed skin. You looked away.

“Oh, don’t get shy now,” she purred. “You’re always blushing around me. I think it’s adorable.”

Lottie leaned closer, her voice dipping low, velvet and sin.

“Do you know what the wilderness does to girls like you?” Her fingers trailed along your collarbone, feather-light. “It strips you down. Peels away all that good-girl nonsense until you’re raw. Real. Mine.”

Your heart pounded so loud, you were sure she could hear it.

She laughed, soft and delighted. “The woods listen, you know. They see. And they want you with me. The signs are everywhere. You feel it, don’t you?”

You didn’t answer, but she didn’t need you to. She saw it in your eyes, the fear and the confusion.

"I want to show you something, sweet girl." She whispered, standing and offering her hand.

You allowed her to take your hand and began guiding you into the thicker part of the woods, away from everyone else.

The deeper into the woods Lottie took you, the quieter everything became. The birds stopped singing. The wind didn’t dare rustle the trees. All that was left was the crunch of your footsteps behind hers and the pounding of your heart in your ears.

She led you to a place she said “the others don’t know about,” tucked behind a curtain of moss and low-hanging branches. A strange symbol, carved into the bark of an old tree, marked the spot. You hesitated. Lottie didn’t.

She turned to face you, her hands sliding over your arms, thumbs pressing just a little too hard into your skin.

“See?” she whispered, eyes burning into yours. “It’s just us now. No distractions. No noise. Just you… and me.”

Her voice was soft, and she stepped in close, close enough that your backs brushed the trees. Her fingers trailed down your side...playful, possessive, and when you shivered, she smiled like you’d just passed a test.

“You always let me touch you,” she said, tilting her head. “Even when you’re trembling like a little lamb.”

She leaned in, lips brushing your ear, her breath warm. “Do you like when I do that? When I call you mine?”

You couldn’t speak. You didn’t need to. Your silence only fed her more. You attempted to step forward but Lottie stopped you. She circled behind you, dragging a fingertip along your spine. You froze. Her breath kissed the back of your neck, as she gently landed soft, wet kisses against your skin.

“I’ve been so patient,” she whispered. “Watching you. Waiting for you to figure it out. That you’re mine.”

Her hands slid around your waist, fingers splaying, possessive. “The wilderness doesn’t lie. It wants us. The spirits whisper about you every night.”

"Lottie-" You shivered, whether from the wind or her words, you weren’t sure.

“You feel it too,” she said, and her voice was like honey over poison. “That pull. That ache. I know you dream about me. I know you wonder what I’d do if we were alone like this.”

Her hand moved lower, so low that your breath hitched.

“Say it,” she murmured, lips ghosting your jaw. “Say you want me.”

"I want you Lottie." You admit. Whether out of need or survival, you weren't sure. Besides, Lottie was antler queen.

Lottie’s hand slid up to your throat, not squeezing, just holding. Just claiming. Her thumb brushed the hollow there, like she was feeling your pulse pound against her skin.

She tilted your face up, her eyes locked on yours...wild, unblinking, starved. Her grip on you tightened just enough to remind you: you weren’t going anywhere.

And then she kissed you.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t sweet. It was fire and hunger and something dark curling beneath your ribs. Her mouth crashed against yours with a desperation that stole your breath. She kissed like she was trying to taste the secrets off your tongue, like she needed to ruin you a little just to prove she could.

Your hands went to her shoulders, desperate to pull her closer, the closest human connection you've had even before the crash.

Her fingers tangled in your hair, pulling you deeper into her kiss, lips parting yours with practiced ease.

When she finally pulled back, your lips were swollen, your head spinning. She was grinning, something wicked...something victorious.

“I knew you’d taste like that,” she murmured, voice thick. “So fucking innocent. Like something I shouldn’t touch.”

Her eyes flicked over you, lazy and lingering. “But I’m going to. Again. And again. Until you don’t even remember who you were before me.”

[internetdaddy98]

Day One 

Previous | Next [Series Masterlist] Pairing: Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x F!SeniorResident!Reader Summary: You arrive to your first day of your fourth year as an Emergency Medicine resident. As you and your fellow fourth-years prepare to guide the new interns, Dr. Robby, the enigmatic and commanding attending physician, delivers his signature no-nonsense orientation speech.

Word Count: 1.4 K Content Warning: Medical procedures, will most likely be medically inaccurate at times, unresolved tension.

The first shift of your fourth year didn’t begin with fanfare. It began with an overripe banana in your navy jacket and three missed alarms. You had made it in with five minutes to spare. The green-and-white badge clipped to your chest felt heavier today. Senior Resident. You adjusted it twice before walking through the double doors of the ER, like the weight of it might suddenly feel natural if you just wore it right.

It didn’t. Not yet.

The Emergency Department was already alive with its usual symphony around you, the dull buzz of fluorescents, overhead calls, distant beeping, and the hum of organized chaos. The moment you walked towards the nurses' station, you were met with a familiar voice.

“Well, look who decided to show up. Fourth year already, huh? Damn. I’m getting old.” Dana stood behind the desk with a cup of lukewarm coffee and a sideways grin. A blonde strand of hair was tucked behind her ear, and her badge swung as she leaned over the counter.

You smiled, grateful for her warmth.

Dana Evans had been here longer than anyone. She loved her team fiercely and fought for them like a lioness, a mix of cool-headed authority and maternal instinct. And she had always looked out for you. Quietly. Unfailingly.

“You’ll do good Sheri,” she added, more softly, her eyes meeting yours. “You always do.”

You nodded, swallowing the knot in your throat. “Thanks, Dana.”

As you looked around the department, the ER started to infiltrate your senses. The ER smelled like coffee, antiseptic, and nervous sweat, which could only mean one thing.

Intern orientation.

You stood just to the side of the hub, clutching your travel mug like a lifeline while Santos balanced a doughnut box in her hand. The buzz of conversation was still light, nurses going back and forth with gossip between sips of lukewarm coffee, and your fellow fourth-years faking the confidence that came with a new badge.

Santos strutted over to you, box in one hand, sass in the other. “Happy Fourth Year to us,” she announced. “Time to abuse power and emotionally scar the interns. I’ve been dreaming of this.”

Whittaker followed a beat later, immediately dropping his stethoscope and fumbling with his badge. “Hi. I’m fine,” he said to no one in particular, crouching to pick them up.

You couldn’t help the small smile. 

Then came Mel, quiet as ever, earbuds still half in, with a pen tucked behind her ear and a notepad already in hand. She offered a little wave and a shy smile before taking stand next to you.

Together, the four of you made up the new senior class. Three years of trenches, trauma codes, midnight breakdowns, and vending machine dinners had formed a bond that was messy but strong. You knew their rhythms now, the cadence of their stress, how Trinity snapped gum when anxious, how Dennis narrated to himself under pressure, how Mel stilled completely when she was deep in thought.

And you — you were the quiet one. The calm. The unshakable center.

“Why do they always look like baby ducks?” Santos muttered beside you, watching the incoming class file in through the double doors.

“Because they’re about to be emotionally drowned,” you said, monotone.

“God, I missed your sunshine.”

A sharp, familiar voice cut across the room. “Alright, listen up.”

Everyone stilled.

Dr. Robinavitch, attending physician and gravitational center of the ER, stood at the head of the small cluster of residents and nurses. His hoodie was rumpled, his sleeves rolled up, and a stethoscope hung around his neck like it had been there since the Cold War.

“Huddle up,” he said. “Five minutes. Don’t make me herd you.”

The interns scurried closer, wide-eyed. You and the rest of your senior class, took your places near the back. Dana leaned against the counter with her arms crossed, watching like a hawk with a smile.

Dr. Robby scanned the group, voice steady and clipped. “For those of you who don’t know me, I’m Dr. Robinavitch. I’m the chief attending. You can call me Dr. Robby, or sir, or in the case of one intern last year ‘dad.’” His expression remained dry, though a ripple of laughter moved through the group.

“That intern was never seen again,” Dana added helpfully.

Dr. Robby ignored her. “You’ve officially survived med school. Congratulations. Now the real fun starts. This is the Emergency Department,  high acuity, high volume, and we do not tolerate egos. You mess up? Own it. You don’t know something? Ask. We protect each other here, and you’ll be expected to do the same.”

He paused, eyes sweeping the room until they landed on you.

“And your senior residents will be your lifelines. Listen to them. Learn from them. Especially Dr. Sheridan.”

A few heads turned toward you. You kept your expression neutral, even as something flickered behind your ribs at the sound of your name in his mouth.

“She’s quiet,” he continued, “but she’s one of the best we’ve had through this program.”

Santos leaned in close and whispered, “He likes you.”

You elbowed her without looking.

Dr. Robby gestured toward your group. “Drs. Santos, King, Whittaker, and Sheridan are fourth years, which make them your senior residents. They’ll be running most of your shifts. Any questions, take it to them first. If they can’t help, escalate to me, Dr. Collins or Dr. Langdon.”

At his mention, Dr. Langdon gave a short wave from the side of the room, easygoing and ever observant. He was the counterbalance to Robby’s steel. You always liked him for that.

“Any questions before we start rounds?” Robby asked.

An intern raised a tentative hand. “Uh… where’s the bathroom?”

“Follow the smell of crushed dreams,” Santos said.

Dana pointed toward the east hallway. “Second left, kiddo.”

With a short nod, Dr. Robby dismissed the group. “Alright. Fourth years, divide and conquer. Interns, stick close. You’ll be drowning in charting by noon. Welcome to the Pitt, let’s go save some lives.”

As the team dispersed, you stepped back beside Dana, feeling the weight of the moment settle in. Fourth year. This was it.

“You good, Sheri?” she asked you softly, using the nickname only she and Robby used.

You nodded. “Feels…weird. Like I’m supposed to know what I’m doing now.”

Dana’s eyes twinkled. “Fake it till you make it kid. That’s what we all did. Except Robby. He was born already carrying a cric kit and a superiority complex.”

“I heard that,” Robby muttered as he passed, eyes cutting sideways toward you. “Dr. Sheridan, you’re with me for Trauma 1. Let’s see how rusty you are after your vacation.”

“You gave me two days off.” you scoffed.

“And it shows.”

You followed him into the hallway, interns trailing behind like ducklings, and tried to ignore the way your pulse stuttered at the proximity. Three years of working under him had taught you nearly everything you knew about emergency medicine, and everything you didn’t want to know about longing in silence.

Something had changed last year. Quietly. Without permission.

He didn’t hover anymore, didn’t micromanage. You didn’t defer as much. You challenged him. And, more than once, he’d smiled at that. Not a condescending smirk, but something warmer, like he’d been waiting for you to push back.

There had been a moment, late one night during a consult, where your hands had brushed over the same EKG printout. You’d both paused. Neither moved.

The air had shifted.

And since then, a quiet game of restraint.

You shook the memory loose.

Robby glanced over his shoulder. “Sheri. You listening?”

You blinked. “Always.”

He quirked a brow. “Good. Don’t make me regret this.”

He didn’t.

Not yet.

And as you moved into Trauma 1 with the interns on your heels, Dana watching from the counter, and the ER waking into its usual barely-contained chaos, you felt it.

The beginning of something.

The fourth year had officially begun. Later, when a septic patient coded and the room exploded into motion, you found yourselves working side by side again. The rhythm was familiar, practiced. He intubated while you ran compressions. You handed him a syringe without being asked. He moved left as you moved right, and for a moment, it felt like breathing.

No one watching would guess that beneath the sterile efficiency was something frayed and quietly electric. No one but maybe Dana, who raised an eyebrow at you as she passed.

By noon, your scrubs were stained, your coffee was cold, and the new interns had already started whispering about “Dr. Sheridan” with a mixture of awe and confusion. She’s the small one who’s scary calm, you overheard one say near the supply closet.

You took it as a compliment.

The hours blurred. One trauma, two admissions, a consult from psych. Somewhere in between, you caught Dr. Collins entering from the physician lounge, tall, poised, still perfect even in blood-spattered scrubs. Her eyes flicked toward Robby as she passed him near the nurses’ station.

He didn’t react.

You did.

[gildedwillow]

obedience to you - emily prentiss - 18+

.

emily prentiss might be in control at work, but behind closed doors, she’s yours to tease, use, and ruin. after a night of public teasing that leaves her painfully hard, you take her home and make her watch as you strip, denying her every touch.

.

g!p emily prentiss x fem!reader

.

requested - emily prentiss taglist - masterlist

The music’s a slow, pulsing throb under your skin, bass vibrating through the velvet walls of the VIP lounge. You’re in Emily’s lap, straddling her, arms draped lazily around her neck like this is just another dance — except your hips are moving slow, deliberate, your mouth grazing her ear as you whisper things no one else can hear.

She’s trying so hard to behave. Hands gripping the armrests like they’re her lifeline, knuckles white. Her dark eyes are locked on your face — jaw clenched, lips parted just enough for you to see the shaky exhale she can’t quite suppress. Her suit jacket’s rumpled now, tie loosened from the heat, from you. And god, you can feel it. The way she’s hard beneath you, cock straining against her slacks as you roll your hips, again and again, pretending like you're just enjoying the beat.

“You’re doing so well, baby,” you purr, voice dipped in honey as you grind down just a little harder, enough to make her flinch. “Not touching me, even though I know how badly you want to.”

Emily’s breath stutters. Her fingers twitch on the armrests, just once, and you reward her restraint with a kiss to the underside of her jaw. She moans softly, barely audible over the music — but you hear it. You feel it. Her cock is throbbing against you now, thick and hot, and she’s probably aching from the way you’ve been teasing her all night. Leaning in too close at the bar, slipping your hand into her lap under the table, whispering dirty little promises while she tried to keep it together in public.

“You’re dripping down your thigh, aren’t you?” you murmur, dragging your lips over her cheek as she shudders. “Bet your cock’s so sensitive it hurts. Poor thing.”

She whimpers, head falling back just slightly, exposing her throat in a silent, desperate plea. It’s too easy to smile, smug and cruel in the best way, as you press your hand between your bodies and cup her through her pants. She bucks instinctively and you tsk.

“No. You don’t get to touch anything tonight unless I say so. Hands stay right there. You understand?”

Emily nods fast, frantic. “Yes, ma’am,” she breathes, voice cracked open, pupils blown wide with lust and submission.

“Good girl.”

You don’t even turn on the lights when you get home — you want her squirming in the dark, want her focused only on how you touch her, how you command her. The door slams shut behind you, and Emily’s already fumbling with her jacket like she’s on the edge of breaking, but you press her back with one firm palm to her chest.

"Strip. Everything. But don’t you fucking touch your cock."

Her breath catches in her throat — a high, shaky sound that’s almost a moan — but she obeys. Her hands tremble as she works off the layers, her slacks hitting the floor with a soft sound, boxers right after, and there it is. Her cock, flushed and thick and so hard it’s bobbing slightly with each tiny movement, veins prominent, the head wet and shiny with precum. She’s dripping — like she’s been leaking for hours — and maybe she has, considering how much teasing you put her through at the club.

You let her sit on the edge of the bed, legs spread just enough to make room for you as you sink to your knees between them, still fully clothed. You rest your hands on her thighs and look up at her.

"Look at you," you murmur, voice sultry and low. "So hard it hurts, huh? I can see your cock twitching, baby. You gonna beg for it?"

Emily’s already panting, her fists clenched into the sheets behind her. “Please,” she whispers, hips twitching forward despite herself. "I—I need it so bad, I can’t—fuck, I can’t think—"

"Oh, poor thing," you coo, leaning forward, letting your lips barely brush her inner thigh. "You gonna come just from my mouth?"

She whimpers. “Please, yes—need your mouth, I can’t take it—please, I’ll be good, I’ll be so fucking good—”

That’s all you need.

You wrap one hand around the base of her cock, squeezing just enough to make her gasp, then slowly lick from the underside up to the head, tasting the precum already smeared there. She bucks slightly, immediately apologizing, breathless — “Sorry, sorry, I’ll stay still—” —and it makes you smile as you swirl your tongue around the head, teasing the slit.

"Good girl," you purr, before taking her in deeper, lips wrapping around her thick cock as she groans, ragged and raw.

She’s big. Long and heavy on your tongue, thick enough to stretch your lips wide as you slide down her length, your hand stroking what your mouth can’t reach. Her cock pulses against your tongue, the taste of her precum salty and addictive. You hollow your cheeks, suck hard — and she cries out, a soft, broken sound like she’s trying not to sob.

You know you look like sin. Your cleavage is on full display, breasts pushed up tight in your top, your pussy soaked through your panties and pressed against the floor as you rock your hips for a little friction. But it’s all for her — every moan you let out as you suck her, every time you drag your tongue along that sensitive vein on the underside of her cock, is to undo her completely.

Emily’s shaking now, thighs trembling on either side of you. “I—I can’t—fuck, I’m gonna come, please—let me, please, I need to—”

You pull off just long enough to growl, “Not until I say.” Then you take her deep again, swallowing around her as you bob your head faster, jerking the base of her cock in rhythm with your mouth. Her hips jump — she’s holding herself back with everything she’s got.

“Please—pleasepleaseplease—” she’s sobbing now, barely coherent, voice wrecked. “Let me come, let me, I can’t hold it—”

You pull back just enough to tease her tip with your tongue and whisper, “Come in my mouth.”

She shatters.

With a strangled cry, her cock jerks in your hand and she spills hot and thick down your throat. You moan around her, swallowing greedily, loving the way she whimpers as the orgasm crashes through her — hips twitching, whole body shaking under your control. You don’t stop until she’s given you every last drop, licking her clean as her thighs twitch helplessly.

When you finally look up, her eyes are glassy, lips parted, cheeks flushed deep red. She looks utterly wrecked. And you?

You just smile, wiping your mouth slowly with the back of your hand.

"Good girl. Now lie back. I'm not nearly done with you yet."

She’s still trembling when you rise to your feet, her chest heaving, cock softening slightly between her thighs but still slick, flushed, needy. You don’t speak. Not yet. You just start moving — slow, deliberate — your fingers sliding to the hem of your top as you hold her gaze.

Emily’s wide-eyed, helpless, wrecked — and starving for you.

You peel your shirt up inch by inch, giving her a slow reveal of bare skin, your stomach flexing as you stretch, then your lacy bra coming into view. Her breath catches audibly.

“God, you’re—fuck,” she whispers, eyes raking over you like she’s trying to memorize everything. “You’re so beautiful…”

You smirk as you drop the top and move your hands to the waistband of your skirt, taking your time unzipping it, hips rolling gently side to side like you’re dancing just for her. The fabric falls to the floor, leaving you in nothing but your panties and bra — both black, both sheer enough to leave little to the imagination.

Emily’s eyes darken. She leans forward instinctively, hand lifting toward your waist like she can’t help herself. You slap it away — not hard, but sharp enough to make her jolt.

“Nuh-uh,” you warn. “You don’t touch until I say. You want my body? You watch it first.”

She groans — head falling back a second, teeth clenched like she’s holding herself together by a thread. You reach behind your back and unclip your bra, letting it fall off your arms. Her eyes drop to your chest instantly, pupils blown wide.

“Fuck… your tits—” she whimpers, breathless. “You know how much I—please, I wanna touch, I wanna taste them so bad…”

You cup them in your own hands, rolling your nipples slowly between your fingers, moaning just a little as your body reacts — nipples tightening, pussy clenching in anticipation. You see the way Emily twitches — her cock starting to swell again, helpless to your show.

“You’ll get your chance,” you murmur. “But I’m going to ride you first.”

You hook your fingers into the waistband of your panties and peel them down slow, letting her see the wet string of arousal sticking to the fabric. You’re soaked — your thighs glistening, your pussy visibly aching for her — and she makes a desperate, strangled sound as she watches you step out of them and climb back into her lap.

Her cock is rock hard again, flushed dark red and slick with her own release, twitching eagerly beneath you. You position yourself over her, rubbing your folds along her shaft, spreading wetness from tip to base, teasing you both with the promise.

“Can I touch you?” she begs again, voice cracked and reverent. “Please, I’ll be so gentle, I’ll—fuck, please let me hold your tits while you ride me—”

You lean in close, your lips ghosting over hers but never kissing. “You love my tits that much?”

“Yes,” she gasps. “So fucking much—”

You take her cock in one hand and line yourself up, and as you sink down onto her, you grab her wrists and guide her palms to your chest.

“Then touch. Show me how much.”

Emily moans like she’s been given salvation. Her hands come up to cup your breasts reverently, fingers splaying across your soft skin, thumbs brushing over your aching nipples. You start to ride her slow — grinding your hips, letting her feel every tight, wet inch of you envelop her cock.

“Fuck, you feel amazing,” she gasps, head falling back against the mattress as her hands knead your tits. “So tight, so wet—so fucking perfect—”

You bounce on her cock with increasing rhythm, your thighs slapping against hers, your pussy clenching around her thick length as she fills you again and again. You brace your hands on her chest, back arching as you ride her deeper, harder, your breasts bouncing into her eager palms.

“Touch me like that,” you pant, “and I might let you come inside me.”

That’s all it takes. Emily’s hips start to jerk, her cock throbbing deep inside you as she grips your breasts harder, rubbing and squeezing like they’re the only thing keeping her tethered to reality. You clench around her, moaning as you feel her swelling inside you, every vein dragging along your walls perfectly.

“I’m gonna come—please, I’m gonna come inside, let me—please, please—”

You ride her faster, leaning down to kiss her finally, your lips crashing onto hers just as her cock pulses hard inside you — thick, hot ropes of cum spilling deep into your pussy. You grind through it, milking her, moaning as her body shudders beneath you, her grip on your breasts tightening just shy of painful.

You don’t stop until you’ve wrung every drop out of her, until you feel her twitching, overstimulated, whimpering against your mouth as you finally slow.

When you sit up again, her cum is dripping out of you, thick and warm between your thighs, and her cock is still buried deep inside.

She looks up at you like she’s seen heaven.

And maybe she has.

She’s still hard inside you.

Barely. Sensitive. Twitching. But hard — and that’s all you need.

You grin, slow and wicked, as you lift your hips and let her half-soft cock slide out of your cum-dripping pussy with a filthy wet sound. You don’t give her a moment to recover. You just shift, press her back flat against the bed, and straddle her chest, your soaked cunt hovering just above her face.

“Did I say you could come?” you ask, voice low, taunting. Her eyes widen — she knows it was allowed — but you’re already smirking, grinding your wet pussy along her chest, smearing her own cum across her skin.

“I—I thought—” she starts, but you reach down and slap her cock lightly — just enough to make her whimper and twitch.

“You thought wrong, baby. I said maybe. You came like a desperate little bitch anyway. So now you’re going to make it up to me.”

You grab her by the hair and drag her face between your thighs, not gentle in the slightest. She gasps at first, but her mouth opens fast, eager, tongue darting out to lap at your folds like she’s starving for you — and maybe she is. You ride her face with no hesitation, grinding your pussy against her mouth, your slick lips parting over her nose, her chin. She moans against you like it’s a gift, and you pull her hair harder.

“Don’t just lick — eat me, Emily.”

And she does.

Tongue plunging between your folds, sloppy and desperate, licking into your dripping pussy with a devotion that’s almost pathetic. She sucks your clit when you grind down harder, and you reward her with a deep moan, grabbing the headboard with one hand while the other stays tangled in her hair, riding her face with ruthless rhythm.

She’s so fucking good like this — mouth stuffed with your cunt, cock twitching uselessly against her stomach, eyes half-lidded with overwhelmed need. You fuck yourself on her tongue until your legs start to tremble, until you're soaked and throbbing and overstimulated — then you pull away, dripping onto her lips and watching her chase your pussy with a broken whimper.

“Mm-mm,” you hum, crawling back down her body until you’re hovering over her cock again. “You don’t come again until I say. You don’t move unless I tell you. Understand?”

“Y-yes,” she pants, breathless, her lips shining with your slick. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Good girl.”

You line her back up and sink down hard — all at once — taking her back into your pussy while she sobs, back arching like her body can’t handle the overstimulation. Her cock’s still overly sensitive, still slick with her last release and your arousal, but it slides in deep, stretching you open again, filling you in one tight, brutal thrust.

Her thighs shake. Her hands clench the sheets.

You ride her without mercy.

Fast, punishing, wet. Skin slapping, bodies colliding, your pussy sucking her back in every time she tries to squirm from the intensity. Her cock throbs with every stroke — already on the edge again, just barely holding on. You lean down and press your tits to her chest, grinding harder, your breath hot against her ear.

“Your cock’s mine,” you whisper. “This tight, aching little thing? It belongs to me. I’ll fuck you until you cry, and you’ll say thank you, won’t you?”

She nods frantically, barely able to breathe. “Thank you, thank you—fuck, I love your pussy—I love how it feels, please don’t stop—”

You grab her throat — not to choke, just to hold her still — and ride her faster. Your breasts bounce against her chest, your soaked cunt clenching, milking her cock like you want her to break.

“Touch me,” you pant finally, and she doesn’t even hesitate — her hands come up to your chest like they belong there, fingers cupping your tits, thumbs flicking your nipples as you ride her deeper.

She’s losing it. You can feel it — her cock twitching wildly inside you, her breath ragged, your name falling from her lips like a prayer.

“I’m gonna—fuck, I can’t hold it—”

You dig your nails into her chest. “You will. You’ll beg for it.”

“Please,” she sobs, “please, I need to come in you again, let me, I’ll be good, I’ll do anything—”

You clench hard around her, grinding down to take her as deep as she’ll go.

“Come for me, baby.”

She breaks again.

With a long, broken cry, her cock pulses inside you, hot cum shooting deep into your pussy, again and again, as you moan and ride through it, wringing her dry. Her hands clutch at your tits like they’re the only thing keeping her grounded, her body twitching beneath you as she fills you all over again — your slick mixed with hers dripping down her thighs.

You don’t slow until she’s begging you to stop, completely spent and wrecked beneath you.

And even then… you consider going one more round.

[kiyawritesforf1]

Mob Boss Doing Groceries?

Pairing: Mob Boss!Lando Norris x Wife!Reader

Summary : Feared mafia boss Lando Norris would do anything for his wife—even begrudgingly run errands. No matter how powerful he was, she always had the upper hand

Lando Norris was a feared mafia boss to everyone else, but to you, he was just your overly devoted, occasionally ridiculous husband. He sat across from you in his luxurious office, his sharp black suit slightly rumpled, his tie loosened as he leaned forward, hanging onto every word you said like it was a divine command.

“Lando, can you pick up some groceries on the way home?” you asked casually, knowing exactly how he’d react.

His brows furrowed, and he leaned back dramatically in his chair. “Groceries? Love, I handle multi-million-dollar deals, I make people disappear—”

“And you’ll also pick up the milk,” you interrupted, giving him a knowing look.

He groaned, running a hand through his hair before pulling out a sleek black notebook and flipping it open. “Fine. What else?” he asked, his voice dripping with exaggerated suffering.

You grinned. “Maybe some flowers?”

“For you? Always.” He scribbled it down like it was a high-priority mission, then narrowed his eyes. “But if the store clerk so much as looks at me funny, he might need to take an extended vacation.”

You rolled your eyes and tossed a cushion at him. “Lando!”

He caught it easily, smirking as he leaned forward again. “You know I’d do anything for you, darling. Even… grocery shopping.” His tone was serious, but the twinkle in his eyes betrayed his amusement.

Shaking your head, you stood up, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “That’s my good little mafia husband.”

Lando huffed. “I have an empire to run, you know.”

“And yet, you’re still going to bring me chocolate, right?”

He sighed, defeated but utterly in love. “Of course, my queen.

[moon-ttokki-x]

Hi ttokki!! I love the way you write the members being soft and caring for reader :) wanted to request 9th member where she is similar age to chan, so noona to most of the guys, being maybe like his second in command in caring for everyone, cooking, teaching choreo and stuff. Where they realise she's not been taking good care of herself for a while, like skipping meals or sleep bc she feels responsible like she doesnt deserve it. Just soft and gently, you are so skilled at that

hiyo~ thank you sm, love. i liked this request, i tend to do the same for people around me and it's easy to forget yourself sometimes >< hope this hits the spot . . .

rest easy - ot8!skz x exhausted!reader

pairing: ot8!skz x exhausted noona!reader

summary: taking care of skz can be a lot of work, but you tend to forget yourself in the process...

genre: lil bit angsty, idol!au, tired minho with a headache, overexcited skz (what's new), mentions of skipping meals, slight mention of blood (a small injury), mentions of overwork, fatigue, and exhaustion, mentions of food and eating, sulky maknaes, slight allude to reader x chan

a/n: reader pretty much replaces minho for the role of skz mom (sorry min), divider by @kodaswrld

skz masterlist

"Jisung, take that out of your mouth- Seungmin, no, don't give it back to him... You two, stop fighting-"

You smile and lean your head on your hand, watch Chan attempt to wrangle the members, most of which have had far too much sugar to be at a controllable level. You're sitting at the hotel table, and most of the other members are messing about in the lounge area. Everyone but for Minho, who went to lie down earlier, complaining of a headache.

Speaking of, you should probably go check on him.

Getting up and putting your empty glass in the sink, you make your way past the group and down the hallway of bedrooms, entering the second-left door. You're greeted with darkness and a faint groan from within the heap of rumpled sheets on the bed.

"Minho?" You call softly, pulling the door half-shut so as not to disturb him with the hallway light. You walk up to the bed, quiet as a mouse. "How are you feeling?"

He just groans in response as you gently pull back the sheets, checking his temperature just in case he's fallen ill. "Noona..."

"Shh," you quiet him gently, soothing. "Does it hurt much?"

He shakes his head, his hair splayed against the pillow. Likely he's just tired from the day's events. You sit on the end of the bed and stroke his hair for a while, lulling him to sleep. He's already had medicine, and you kiss his forehead gently before getting up to leave.

Shutting the door, you're met with Jeongin and Seungmin, who cling to either one of your arms, sulking. You chuckle and sit down on the lounge couch, both of them burying their faces in your neck.

"What's wrong, you two?" You ask, ruffling Seungmin's hair.

"Chan-hyung told us off," Jeongin whines.

You mock-frown at the leader, who is standing in baggy black clothes, a disapproving expression on his face. He face-palms and you stick your tongue out at him. He scoffs, though you can detect a hint of affection behind it, and claps his hands.

"Alright, you drama kings. Bed."

.

"Hyunjin, take it easy," you say, concerned as he runs through the choreo for a fifth time. "Take a break."

He seems to not have heard, because he keeps dancing with even greater fervour. Sighing, you take his ear and drag him to the side, ignoring his protests. Tossing him a towel and giving him a bottle of water, you place a hand on his leg. You know he's been pushing himself lately, to the point where you had to lock the hotel room door so he wouldn't sneak out at night to practice.

You're all outside at the concert venue, doing soundchecks a few hours before the event commences, and it's cloudy, the wind blowing a breeze through everyone's hair. Chan comes over, frazzled, papers flying behind him, his cap half-falling off, and his fingers covered in bandaids from several clumsy, hastened tasks he had to do.

"I forgot to do the song breaks," he gasps, his hair disheveled. Hyunjin side-eyes him through a sip of water.

You adjust his cap, smoothing down the little duck tail curls at his nape. "Don't worry. I did them already. What did you do to your hands- Mmhff-"

You're cut off as he squeezes you in a hug, a relieved exhale leaving his frame, taking some of the tension with it. "Thank you, Y/nnie. What would I do without you?"

The sentence reverberates through your head; would things be worse without you there?

This means I need to do more, you think. I can help out as much as possible.

You mull this over and wave a momentary goodbye to Hyunjin, walking backstage with Chan. Felix, Changbin, and Jisung are busy being fitted for outfits and they immediately pummel you for attention, calling out as soon as you enter the room.

"NOONA LOOK AT MY SPARKLY TOP-"

"NOONA DO YOU LIKE THE COLOUR OF THESE GLOVES-"

"NOONA DO I LOOK COOL-"

You wave your hands. "Very cool and sparkly, I do like the colour, you all look great!"

It seems to satisfy them for the time being, and you watch them dissipate to their respective stylists. Passing through the room, you sit down in a chair in the corner and keep an eye on all of the boys. Chan is stressed enough right now; the least you can do is keep an eye on the members while he finalises things for the concert.

Your stomach rumbles and you think about quickly leaving to get food from one of the cafes across the street from the stadium, but you can't risk leaving the members unsupervised. Guaranteed, one of them will come looking, and then everything will fall to pieces. Crossing your arms over your stomach, you sigh and unscrew a bottle of water instead. That should keep you full for a while.

At least you hope it does.

.

You laugh and hug a sweaty Jisung, cheering. The concert went off without a hitch, and you're all backstage, congratulating each other on the performances and enjoying the moment of togetherness. Except you can't enjoy it as much, because your head is beginning to hurt, and it's starting to get difficult to see. You probably should have eaten something earlier, but you can last until you all get back to the hotel.

You all file out of the venue and pile into cars. Your foot almost missed the car threshold and you bump your shin, hissing as you collapse into the seat next to Chan.

"You okay?" He asks. He has his headphones in, his makeup smudging a little at the corners of his eyes.

You nod, sighing. "Long day. Good work on the performance."

He smiles and you reach up to gently clean up the messy makeup with a thumb, his gaze fixed on you. Jeongin and Seungmin are looking over the back of the seats in disgust.

"Noona," Hyunjin groans from behind. "Stop hitting on leader-hyung."

You roll your eyes and look out the window as Chan turns to tell him off. Your thoughts wander and you rub a hand against your shin, trying to soothe the ache. Your fingers come away lightly stained in red.

Panicking, and then glancing at Chan to check he hasn't seen, you inspect your leg. There's a few spots of red where the blood has soaked through the fabric of your pants, and you cross your legs quickly so as to hide the stain.

You think for a moment; you could ask someone if they have a bandaid, maybe... after all, there are always first aid kits in the cars, but you can't be weak and ask for help. Your job is to be there when other people ask for help, not the other way round.

Sighing, you try your best to hide your pain as you filter out of the car after the others. Your stomach rumbles, more insistently this time, and you quickly uncap your water bottle, trying to quell the dull, growing ache in your stomach. Your head hurts too, but you don't have time to think about it as you enter the hotel room, mind already whirring with things that need to be done.

You go to your room and quickly slap a bandaid on the cut on your shin, washing your hands of the blood and then changing into comfier clothes. Rolling your sleeves up, you enter the kitchen and begin cutting up ingredients, throwing spices into a pan and seasoning meat. The guys have had a long, tiring day, not to mention a whole concert, so they deserve a good, home-cooked meal away from home.

.

"Noona, this is so good," Felix groans, heaping in another mouthful of cheesy tteokbokki. There's silence around the table; everyone is so invested in stuffing their faces. Hyunjin has even tied his hair back so he can eat without dipping his hair in the soup, and Changbin has stolen two of your hairclips to keep his bangs back for the same reason.

You sit next to Chan as per usual, holding a cup of a hot herbal drink; you didn't feel like eating is what you told the boys when they insisted you take your share of the massive spread you cooked for them.

In reality, you're starving, but it doesn't seem fair for you to be eating when they've been working so much harder. They deserve it more. After all, you're just the second-in-command, Chan's right hand person and a manager for the boys. You don't work nearly twice as hard as they do on a good day.

You set the mug down on the table, standing up. The pain in your head aches and throbs sharply with the movement and you fight not to fall over. "I'm going to bed."

Some of the guys nod with mouths full of meat and rice, and you retire to your room, shutting the door. You collapse on the bed and close your eyes, trying to will the headache away.

That doesn't work, unfortunately.

The door opens then, and it's Minho who comes in, peeking around the corner. "Noona?"

"Mmm."

"Do you have a headache like I did?"

You nod and sit up, rubbing your eyes, and give him a tired smile. "Nothing I can't handle. Did you need something?"

He shakes his head, and then shyly comes into the room, holding a bowl of soup. "I saw you weren't eating earlier... Chan-hyung wondered if we should bring you something to eat..."

You let him place the soup on the bedside. "Thank you, Minho. I might just sleep, but I'll eat after-"

"No," he says firmly, with the absolute ferocity of a tiny, fluffy kitten.

"What?"

Jisung pokes his head in at the doorway. "You have to eat now."

You swing your legs off the bed. "Why?"

"Because," Chan says, appearing behind the two, Jeongin holding his leader's sleeve, "You need to take care of yourself and not just us."

"But I am."

The four boys suddenly tumblr into the room as Changbin and Hyunjin stick their noses into the conversation too.

"Noona, you hurt your leg earlier and you didn't tell us," Hyunjin whines. "And you told me to take a break from dancing but you didn't take a break the whole day-"

"Yeah, and then you went to your room and pretended to sleep so you wouldn't have to eat," Changbin pouts.

Chan gestures to the still-cooling soup on the bedside that Minho had brought for you earlier. "Please, Y/n."

You sigh. "Okay, okay. It just felt wrong to be eating as well, since I don't work even half as hard as you guys do-"

You're interrupted by a crowd of indignant protests and it's so loud that you immediately raise the soup bowl to your mouth. All of the boys watch as you take a mouthful of the rich, meaty broth. It fills your stomach on the first go. Your headache slowly begins to fade.

The boys filter into the room and hang around you while you eat, bickering and play-fighting. None of them make you feel self-conscious or inferior, just bringing with them a sort of peace.

You eventually fall asleep curled between two of the boys, surrounded by serenity, warmth, and the still-lingering scent of soup hanging faintly in the air.

a/n: i was gonna name this one 'soup' but i already have a jisung fic about soup soooo